CATHERINE COULTER THE SHERBROOKE SERIES NOVELS 6-10

THE SCOTTISH BRIDE

PENDRAGON

THE SHERBROOKE TWINS

LYON’S GATE

WIZARD’S DAUGHTER

CATHERINE COULTER

Table of Contents

The Scottish Bride

Pendragon

The Sherbrooke Twins

Lyon’s Gate

Wizard’s Daughter

Don’t miss Catherine Coulter’s Sherbrooke Series

The Sherbrooke Bride

The Hellion Bride

The Heiress Bride

Mad Jack

The Courtship

The Scottish Bride

Pendragon

The Sherbrooke Twins

Lyon’s Gate

Wizard’s Daughter

The Valcourt Heiress

The Prince of Ravenscar

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

The Scottish Bride

A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author

All rights reserved.

Copyright © 2001 by Catherine Coulter

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ISBN: 978-1-1012-1436-7

A JOVE BOOK®

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First edition (electronic): July 2001

To Anton,

who’s a cracker.

—C. C.

Table of Contents

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3

4

5

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7

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10

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12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

Epilogue

1

Northcliffe Hall

August 15, 1815

TYSEN SHERBROOKE GAZED out the wide windows onto the east lawn of Northcliffe, his brow furrowed thoughtfully. “As a matter of fact,” he said, “I did know that I was in line for the title, Douglas, but I was so far down on the list of rightful heirs that I never imagined it could actually happen. Indeed, I haven’t even thought of it for a good decade. The last grandson, Ian, he’s really dead?”

“Yes, just six months before the old man died. It seems he fell off a cliff into the North Sea. The solicitor seems to think Ian’s death is what shoved Old Tyronne into the grave. Of course, he was eighty-seven, so he probably didn’t need much of a push. That means that you, Tysen, are now Baron Barthwick. It’s an old barony, dating back to the early fifteenth century, when men of importance were barons. Earls were later additions, upstarts for a very long time.”

“I remember Kildrummy Castle, of course,” Tysen said. “It’s right on the coast, below Stonehaven, overlooking the North Sea. It’s a beautiful place, Douglas, not immensely tall with no windows like the old medieval Scottish castles, but newer, built in the late seventeenth century, I believe. I remember being told that the original castle was destroyed in one of their interminable clan fights. The new one, it’s got gables and chimney stacks—a good dozen of them—and four round angle-turrets. The lower floor of the castle is closed off by the building itself and attached to a curtain wall that encloses a very large inner courtyard.” Tysen paused a moment, seeing everything from a younger perspective, and his eyes glistened a bit as he said, “Ah, but the countryside, Douglas, it is untamed and wild, as if God gazed down upon it, decided against our modern buildings and roads, and left it untouched. There are more crags than you can begin to count, and deep-rutted paths, just one narrow, winding road, really, that leads to the castle. There’s a steep, rocky hill that goes down to a beach, and wildflowers, Douglas, wildflowers everywhere.”

This was quite a poetic outpouring from his staid, very serious and literal brother. Douglas was pleased that Tysen not only remembered Barthwick so well but also appeared to admire it immensely. He said, “I remember your going there with Father when you were—what? About ten years old?”

“That’s right. It was one of the best times of my life.”

Douglas wasn’t at all surprised. It was unusual that any of them had ever had their father completely to themselves. Whenever Douglas had his father’s full attention, he’d felt blessed by the Almighty. He still missed the former earl, an honorable man who had loved his children and managed to tolerate his difficult wife with a wry smile and a shrug of his shoulders. Douglas sighed. So much change. “Since you are now the holder of an ancient medieval barony, I suppose I shall have to let you sit above the salt.”

Tysen didn’t laugh, but perhaps he did smile, just a bit. He hadn’t laughed much since he’d decided to become a man of God when he was seventeen. Douglas remembered their brother Ryder telling Tysen that of all the men placed on this benighted earth, it was a vicar who should have the greatest sense of humor, since God obviously did. Just look at all the absurdities that surrounded us. Hadn’t Tysen ever observed the mating ritual of peacocks, for example? And just look at their buffoon of a prince regent, who was so fat he had to be hoisted in and out of his bathtub? Ah, but Tysen was serious, his sermons high-minded, stark in their message that God was a stern taskmaster and not apt to easily overlook a man’s lapses. Tysen was now thirty-one years old. He certainly had the look of the Sherbrookes—tall, well built, brown hair streaked with blond, and Sherbrooke eyes the color of a summer sky. Douglas was the changeling, with his jet-black hair and dark eyes.

But Tysen didn’t have his siblings’ love of life, their seemingly inborn boundless joy, their belief that the world was a very fine place indeed.

“Sitting above the salt—I haven’t heard that phrase in a very long time,” Tysen said. “I suppose I must travel to Scotland and see what’s what.” He sighed. “There is always so much that demands my time here, but Great Uncle Tyronne deserves an heir who will at least see that the estate is run properly—not that I have much experience in that area.”

“You know I will assist you, Tysen. You need but ask. Would you like me to accompany you to Barthwick?”

Tysen shook his head. “No, Douglas, but I thank you. It is something that is my responsibility. I have an efficient curate who can assume my duties for a while. You remember Samuel Pritchert, don’t you?”

Oh, yes, no way to forget that dour prig. Douglas merely nodded.

“No, I will go by myself. All the heirs dead. Douglas, I remember all the cousins. So many boys. All of them are really dead?”

“Yes, a great shame. Disease, accidents, duels, a case of too much revelry. As I said, the last heir, Ian Barthwick, evidently fell off a cliff into the North Sea. The solicitor wasn’t specific about exactly how it happened.”

“There must have been six boys to inherit, all of them before me. And that’s why, as I remember, Great Uncle Tyronne set me up as an heir. It amused him to see it done legally—to place an English boy in line for an ancient Scottish barony. Naturally he never expected that it would come about.”

“And now it’s yours, Tysen. His jest came back to hit him in the face. The castle, the rich grazing lands, more sheep than you can count even when you’re trying to fall asleep—all of it belongs to an Englishman. And many of the crofters and tenants are fishermen, so that means that even during bad times, no one starves. It isn’t a wealthy holding, but it is substantial. I understand that Great Uncle Tyronne didn’t believe in clearances. None of that has ever been done on Barthwick land.”

“Good for him,” Tysen said. “It’s a pernicious practice, Douglas, dragging people off land that they’ve farmed or raised sheep on for hundreds of years.” He paused a moment, then said, “I suppose that my son Max is now the heir to the Barony of Barthwick. I do wonder what he will have to say to that.”

He would probably quote some Latin, Douglas thought. His brother’s elder boy was very intelligent, quiet, a scholar, perhaps even more serious than his father had been at his age. He had been named after their grandfather, the only scholar in the entire line of Sherbrookes, so far as Douglas knew.

“When you leave, Tysen, bring the children here, and Alex and I will look after them. Your Meggie can whip not only her brothers into shape but her cousins as well. Heathens, the both of them.”

Tysen did smile then, a slow, calm smile. “She is amazing, isn’t she, Douglas?”

“Just like Sinjun at her age. Meggie will rule your household, Tysen, if you’re not careful.”

Tysen looked appalled. “No, really, not at all like Sinjun, Douglas. Perhaps she looks like Sinjun, but a hoyden like Sinjun? Oh, no. I remember Sinjun could drive you to Bedlam with her antics. Oh, no, Meggie is much more restrained, much more a little lady than Sinjun ever was.”

Douglas said, “Do you remember how Father threw up his hands when Sinjun kicked Tommy Maitland in his backside and he went flying off a cliff? Thank God he didn’t break his neck.”

Tysen said, “And that time she sewed all your trouser legs together? I can still hear you yelling, Douglas. No, Meggie isn’t like Sinjun was. She’s very obedient. I’ve never had a day’s worry with her.” Suddenly a slight furrow appeared between his brows. “Well, perhaps she does have our two servants at her beck and call. Perhaps also the boys do obey her quickly, usually without fuss. Then there’s Cook, who actually bakes dishes just for Meggie. But it is her sweetness, her patience, that gains her the love and obedience of all those at the vicarage, even her brothers.”

It was difficult to restrain himself, but Douglas didn’t roll his eyes. Was his brother completely blind? Evidently so. Meggie was careful around her father, the chit was that smart. He said, “I remember I boxed Sinjun’s ears so many times I lost count.”

Tysen said, “I did that once. As I remember, I was thirteen and she was nine and she had tied the tail of my favorite kite around Corkscrew’s neck—you remember Corkscrew, don’t you, Douglas? What a dog! He was the very best. In any case, then Sinjun throws a stick and off goes Corkscrew, and believe it or not, that kite lifted off the ground, before it got tangled up in one of Mother’s rosebushes and got ruined. I smacked her before she managed to run and hide from me.” Then, very suddenly, Tysen managed a very big smile. “I hadn’t realized—I will see Sinjun and Colin. It’s been too long.” He rose and stretched. “Well, I suppose there is no time like the present. Samuel Pritchert will take good care of all our people. Thank you for taking the children, Douglas. I believe I will leave on Wednesday. I daresay I can write a good dozen sermons in my head, it will take so long to get there.”

Meggie quickly ran down the long hallway when she heard her father moving toward the door of Uncle Douglas’s estate room. She ran right into her aunt Alex. “ Goodness, Meggie, are you all right?” Alex grasped her niece’s arms and eyed her closely. “You were listening, weren’t you? Oh dear, I did too at your age. Your aunt Sinjun still does. What is going on, Meggie?”

“Father is going to Scotland on Wednesday. He’s leaving the boys here.”

Alex raised a brow. “Oh, yes, the new title. It’s right that he should go. And what about you?”

“Oh,” Meggie said, giving her aunt a very wicked smile. “I’m going with him. He needs me, you know.”

“You think he will take you?”

“Oh, yes,” Meggie said. “Is there anything I can do for you, Aunt Alex?”

Alex Sherbrooke just stared down at her niece and lightly touched her fingertips to her lovely hair. Tysen didn’t have a chance, she thought. She sent Meggie up to the schoolroom to have luncheon with her brothers and cousins. They were evidently holding special races, using the tables and desks for obstacles, their tutor, Mr. Murphy, had told her as he’d mopped the sweat off his brow. Alex knew that Meggie could bring them back to order. She was still smiling when Tysen and Douglas came out of the library.

“Hollis just told me that luncheon is served,” she said.

“Indeed, my lord,” Hollis said, giving Tysen a rare smile. “The title and dignities will suit you well.”

“Thank you, Hollis.”

Alex said, “Is the new and very worthy Baron Barthwick ready for some of Cook’s thin-sliced ham?”

“How very odd that sounds,” Tysen said thoughtfully, then he added in a very serious voice, “And be sure that I am seated above the salt cellars, Alex. I am now that important.”

She laughed, as did Douglas, but Tysen didn’t. He merely acknowledged with a slight smile that he’d said something that could be construed as moderately witty, then asked about his nephews’ health.

“Their health is splendid,” Douglas said. “It’s their damned good looks that are driving me to the brink of madness. Both James and Jason will slay the women, Tysen. By God, they are only ten years old—the same age as little Meggie—and already all the local girls are showing up on our doorstep at all hours, presenting colorful bouquets of flowers wrapped up in pink ribbons for Alex, presenting me with homemade slippers, even plates of tarts that they claim they baked with their own small hands—anything to bring themselves to the twins’ attention. Most of the time, they have no idea which twin is which, so you can imagine how many pranks the boys play on them.” Douglas shook his head, then added, “Thank God, so far the boys take it in stride, but it’s nonetheless nauseating and portends bad things for the future.”

Tysen said as he seated himself at the small dining table, “I suppose they do greatly resemble your sister, Alex.” He added matter-of-factly, “It’s true that she is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. Isn’t it strange that the twins should look so much like her and not like you or Douglas?”

“Tony, damn his eyes, just laughs and laughs whenever that is pointed out,” Douglas said and handed Tysen a plate of Cook’s famous thin-sliced ham, sprinkled with her renowned Secret Recipe that always had badly crushed basil leaves in it. “At least Tony and Melissande’s children look like we could be their parents, so that’s something. Now, Tysen, let me tell you the rest of what Great Uncle Tyronne’s solicitor wrote.”

2

Eden Hill House, the Vicarage

Glenclose-on-Rowan

August 16, 1815

“NO, MEGGIE, AND that’s an end to it.”

But it wasn’t, of course. He realized suddenly that he was now seeing Meggie with Douglas’s eyes. Another Sinjun? Sinjun had driven him beyond sanity when he’d been young, and then he’d tried to ignore her because life had become serious for him and Sinjun was always mocking and teasing him. She laughed a lot, and she’d called him a prig when she was thirteen, which was probably true. He sighed and looked down at his daughter, waiting, but not for long.

“Please, Papa, it’s more than necessary.”

Ah, that serious little face, that intense voice. He felt himself weakening and stiffened his back.

“You need me. You know what a help I can be to you, truly. You won’t even know I am there. I’ll just help you all the time and then disappear.”

Reverend Tysen Sherbrooke, a devout man of God, a man who loved his children, who seldom ever had a cross word no matter how far off the path of righteousness a member of his congregation had strayed, said yet again, “Please, no more, Meggie. I will not tell you again. You will not come with me. You will go to Northcliffe Hall with your brothers. Don’t you understand? I’m going to Scotland. I do not know what to expect. I was there years ago and all I remember is rutted paths, sheep everywhere, and barren stretches that went on and on until you wanted to collapse. It is probably still barbaric, with outlaws lit-tering the roads—if there even are roads. I don’t remember any. I truly have no idea what I will find. I want you here, safe with your aunt and uncle.”

Meggie, as reasoned and calm as Sister Mary MacRae, the only Catholic nun in the area, said, “Aunt Sinjun lives in Scotland. It can’t be savage, Papa. If there weren’t any roads when you were there, there will be now. Aunt Sinjun would have had them built. We don’t need roads, anyway. We will ride. It will be wonderful. You need me.”

Tysen stared down at this child of his loins, at this wondrous creature who was, for the very first time, bringing back more memories of Sinjun, memories that he now realized had made him many times want to strangle her. Ah, when Sinjun had tied the tail of his kite around Corkscrew’s neck. He realized now as he looked down at his daughter that he’d rather exaggerated a bit to Douglas about Meggie’s placid self. Had he truly said she was obedient, gentle? Maybe not. If he’d ever really believed that, he’d been blind. He’d been a doting papa, not recognizing what was right under his nose. Actually, he realized in that instant that Meggie could be gentle and obedient or she could be utterly outrageous, like Sinjun.

He just didn’t want her to be like her mother, Melinda Beatrice. He immediately closed his eyes against such a wicked, disloyal thought. No, Melinda Beatrice had been a sainted woman, perhaps just a bit on the unctuous side, but that wasn’t something to bring despair, perhaps just an occasional sigh when a parishioner’s face tightened after she’d offered well-meant advice. He shook his head and looked down into his own Sherbrooke blue eyes, Sinjun’s Sherbrooke blue eyes as well, and touched his fingers gently to Meggie’s soft, Sherbrooke light hair. “Why, Meggie, do you believe I need you?”

She looked at him straight on and said, “You are far too nice, Papa. You are too good. You don’t see the wickedness in people. Sometimes you don’t really see people at all. Your thoughts are too elevated, perhaps too refined and aloof. You need me because I will keep bad people away from you. I will keep females away from you who would try to make you love them and marry them. I will—”

He laid his finger on her lips. He didn’t see wickedness? His thoughts were too elevated? Too refined? Was that truly what she believed? He supposed that when he’d asked her why he needed her he’d expected her to fold her tent somewhat, at least retreat to embrace another argument. He shook his head at her, bemused. He didn’t recognize wickedness? He was too nice? Blessed heaven, he was easy prey to females who would try to trap him into marriage? He said, with just a touch of irony in his voice, “I appreciate your belief in me, Meggie, although I do not know what I have done to make you believe me such a weakling. As for the ladies, I promise you that I am always on my guard.”

“But Miss Strapthorpe nearly nabbed you, I heard her talking of it to one of her friends. She said she was this close to having you. Just one kiss, she said, and you would feel bound to marry her. Then there was that time she trapped you in the vestry.”

“But I didn’t kiss Miss Strapthorpe, and I managed to escape the vestry with my clerical collar still around my neck.”

“Papa, was that a jest?”

“Certainly not, Meggie.”

“I didn’t think it could be, since you don’t waste your time in anything frivolous. Now, Papa, I know you didn’t kiss Miss Strapthorpe—if you had, she would be my stepmother now, and let me tell you, Papa, that would have made even Max turn green around his collar. As for Leo, I’ll wager he would have run away from home.”

“Enough about Miss Strapthorpe. I am a grown man, Meggie. I can see to myself. I promise not to bring back a stepmama to you and the boys.”

“But—”

He touched his finger to her mouth again. “Now, sweetheart, for the last time, you will not accompany me. You will remain here. I swear to you that I will be on the alert for wicked men and for females out to nab me. No, don’t say anything more. You will not strain my patience. It is not appropriate for a man of God to yell at his child. It would cause consternation if it got out.”

Meggie grabbed his hand. “Papa, take me with you, please. Wicked people do abound. One man alone cannot see all of them or hear them creeping up on him. And ladies in particular know how to creep, I—”

He marveled at her determination, her seemingly endless string of arguments.

Her small hand was now on his sleeve, tugging. A beautiful hand, he thought inconsequentially, long fingers, graceful. Sinjun’s hands, not her mother’s. “I haven’t seen Aunt Sinjun and Uncle Colin for three years, not since they came to London and we traveled there to visit them. I want to see Phillip and Dahling. I don’t really care about Jocelyn and Fletcher. They’re still just babies.”

Tysen just shook his head again, seamed his mouth tight so he wouldn’t say something that could hurt her feelings, and made for the door. He said over his shoulder, “Mrs. Priddie will help you and your brothers pack. You will leave in two days. I am leaving tomorrow morning, very early. Obey me, Meggie.”

He heard some grumbling as he closed the door behind him, but he couldn’t make out the words. Meggie was ten years old, perhaps on the verge of turning thirty. No, older than that. He was thirty-one, and surely she had passed that ripe age. He realized now that his brother Douglas was right. Meggie was just like Sinjun had been at her age—intense and carefree by turns, always smiling, always giving orders to her brothers, wanting to take care of everyone. And stubborn—so stubborn that she made up her mind and simply plowed ahead. And she could be demanding and unreasonable, and if she continued with this, then he would perhaps have to discipline her, but he didn’t want to.

He’d spanked her just once, last year, something he doubted he would ever forget, but Mrs. Priddie had told him that what Meggie had done deserved for her to be locked in her room on bread and water for a year. He’d been afraid to ask her, but Mrs. Priddie rolled it right out of her mouth without hesitation. “She tied the sexton’s bell rope to Molly the goat, Reverend Sherbrooke. Then she carefully placed half a dozen old boots all around that dratted goat—who wanted all of them, naturally, since she had also poured some porridge in each boot. The bell rang and rang because Molly had to have all that porridge. Oddly enough, it nearly made a melody. Sexton Peters nearly croaked of apoplexy on the spot.” Then Mrs. Priddie had lowered her voice. “I heard him, Reverend Sherbrooke. I heard him, and he cursed a blue streak. You must speak to him. It was not at all what a sexton should be saying.”

But Tysen imagined that his sexton’s ire had reached such heights that the bad words had erupted out of his mouth without his consent. Tysen had spanked his daughter, and she hadn’t cried, not a single tear. However, his guilt, when she had just looked up at him, her blue eyes shining with tears that wouldn’t ever overflow, had made him want to beg her forgiveness. He’d managed to get out of the room before he committed that act of folly, but it had been very close.

He walked now to his bedchamber and began to methodically pack his clothes in a valise. His valet, Throck-morton, had died the previous winter of just plain old age, a smile on his toothless mouth because the very young and pretty tweeny Marigold was stroking his gnarled old hand. Tysen hadn’t seen fit as yet to hire another man. He was a clergyman. It seemed rather ridiculous for a clergyman to have a valet. Mrs. Priddie did quite well with his clothes.

He was also a rich clergyman, but he usually didn’t pay much attention to that. Douglas dealt with most of the details, knowing Tysen had no interest in it. Now Tysen was a Scottish baron in addition to being a rich clergyman. He was now Baron Barthwick. It was enough to make him briefly question God’s mysterious ways.

He ate dinner alone in the small breakfast parlor that evening, spoke to his sexton who had cursed a blue streak, Mr. Peters, spent more hours than he cared to with Mr. Samuel Pritchert, his curate, a man with a long, thin nose and a dour disposition who could have a recluse talking to him within three minutes. It was amazing how people would almost instantly spill their innards to Samuel. He was competent, his sermons of the basic sin-and-punishment variety, and he would keep Tysen’s flock intact in his absence.

Then he went to his sons’ bedchamber. There was a light coming from beneath the door. He knocked lightly, then entered.

Max, nearly nine years old now, was reading—no surprise there—his long legs stretched out in front of him, his arms cradling a huge book, a candle burning right over his left shoulder. He was, Tysen thought, looking with pride at his elder son, more of a scholar than he himself had ever been. Max spoke Latin, read Latin, even cursed in Latin when his younger brother annoyed him, which was fairly often, when he didn’t think his papa was listening. Tysen didn’t understand a great deal of what he said, which was probably for the best.

Leo, named for Leopold Foxworth Sherbrooke, the third earl of Northcliffe and a gentleman who’d held honor above all else, even when it meant having his head severed from his body, was standing on his head, his stockinged feet against the wall. He looked like he was sleeping, his eyes closed, perfectly at his ease. He was probably thinking about his uncle Douglas’s horses, which he was allowed to ride at Northcliffe Hall. Tysen shook his head and cleared his throat. “Boys, I came to say good-bye to you. I am leaving very early in the morning.”

Max immediately lifted the great tome from his lap and laid it reverently on the carpet. Tysen saw that it was in Latin. As for Leo, he simply dropped his legs over his head and came up in a single graceful roll, grinning. “I want to ride Garth, Papa. He’s a mean brute.”

Tysen knew that Douglas would never allow Leo even to sit on that vicious stallion’s back, thank the good Lord.

“We know that we’re to go to Uncle Douglas,” Max said. “I have been wondering, Papa, if Leo and I will have a title now that you do. You know, James is Lord Hammersmith and Jason is an honorable. Perhaps as the elder son, I will now be Sir Something?”

“I’m sorry, Max, but you and Leo are still just the same. I suppose you will be able to say that you are Lord Barthwick’s very honorable sons, though.”

“We are already honorable, Papa,” Max said. “Uncle Ryder is always saying that honor is what men must embrace,” he paused, then added, “if you’re not embracing a woman that is. Er, that’s what Uncle Ryder says, Papa.”

“Yes,” Tysen said. “I am not surprised.”

“Besides,” Max said, shrugging, “who wants to be a Hammersmith? Silly name, doesn’t mean anything. James likes it, though.”

“Speak for yourself,” said Leo, who was straightening his trousers and pulling his socks in order. “I’m not even eight years old and I’m already a rat-faced little idiot.”

“Blessed Lord above,” Tysen said, startled. “Where did you ever hear such a thing, Leo? Rat-faced? That’s quite offensive; contrive to forget it immediately. The little idiot part as well.”

“That’s difficult to do, Papa, since Meggie called him that when she was angry with him. It was just yesterday that—”

Tysen closed his eyes. “Your sister called you a rat-faced little idiot?”

“Yes,” Leo said, then dropped his chin to his chest. “Perhaps I deserved it, Papa. Meggie’s face was very red, and for the longest time she couldn’t think of anything to say to me, and then that just popped out of her mouth. Then she shook her fist at me. But at least she didn’t smack me in the head or throw me in the bushes like she usually does. She just walked away and slammed a door.”

“May I inquire what you said to your sister to deserve such an epithet?”

Max said, “Leo cut a wide strip out of the back of her skirt and her petticoat. When she walked, you could see her drawers. Marigold finally realized what everyone was staring at and ran screaming after her before she could get too far outside the vicarage gate.”

Tysen thought, You are indeed a rat-faced little idiot, Leo, but naturally he didn’t say that. He said very quietly, “I am vastly disappointed in you, Leo. The good Lord can only imagine what your mother would have said.”

Max said matter-of-factly, “Mother would have shrieked, pounded the wall with her fists, and had hysterics for at least two hours. Leo prefers Meggie’s punishments. Why, just two days ago, she took Leo’s neck between her hands and nearly squeezed the life out of him.” Max was silent for a moment, then said, “About Mother and hysterics, that’s what Mrs. Priddie said Mother would do whenever one of us didn’t mind. I don’t remember, myself.”

Tysen didn’t remember the pounding fists, but he did remember the hysterics. He said, “I will not be here to enforce your punishment, Leo, but here it is. You will not stand on your head for six days. You will not do any flips down the corridors of Northcliffe Hall. You will not cut anything at all with your scissors. You will treat your sister like a royal princess. Do you understand me?”

Leo bowed his head. “Yes, Papa. I understand.”

Max looked perplexed for a moment, but the look was gone so quickly that Tysen wasn’t at all sure he’d even seen it. “You boys will obey your aunt and uncle. You will enjoy yourselves when it is allowed. You will not accept any gifts from young ladies who come to Northcliffe Hall to bestow them on your cousins or your aunt and uncle.” Then he hugged both of them and even patted Leo’s head.

He heard Leo say to Max as he closed the bedchamber door, “Papa didn’t say anything about me not standing on my head at night—he just said six days.”

“Leo,” Max said, “you will surely go to hell.”

“No, Papa wouldn’t allow that,” Leo said. “Why couldn’t Papa at least inherit a title that would make us lords? Surely there must be a dukedom lying about not being used. We’ll be just the same. Maybe Uncle Douglas has an extra title or two hidden away in some old book that he doesn’t need.”

“Uncle Douglas,” Max said in his lecturer’s voice that drove both Leo and Meggie right over the brink, “has only one extra title, and James has it. You know that. He’s a viscount—Lord Hammersmith—because Uncle Douglas is an earl and he doesn’t need it anymore. Well, no, actually, he’s also a baron of some sort. I don’t remember the name.”

Leo said, “Poor Jason. He’s nothing at all. He’s as bad off as we are.”

Tysen was smiling, he couldn’t help it, even though he knew he should give a token frown. He didn’t sleep well that night. He’d looked briefly into Meggie’s bedchamber, but all the lights were off and she was obviously asleep. He hated to disappoint her, but there wasn’t a place for a little girl on this trip. The good Lord only knew what awaited him in Scotland. He looked forward to seeing Sinjun and Colin and their children.

He left the following morning at dawn, his driver Rufus and a stable lad tiger as his to ride behind the carriage and pay all the tolls, both provided by his brother and both sharp at their positions. His own gelding, Big Blue, was tied to the back of the carriage under the watchful eye of the tiger, whose unlikely name, Rufus had told him, was Pride.

He didn’t realize that his tiger wasn’t really one of Douglas’s stable lads until they were in Edinburgh five and a half days later.

3

Taurum per cornua prehende.

Take the bull by the horns.

August 22, 1815

IT HAD BEEN a long journey. Tysen was riding Big Blue when at last they entered Edinburgh. He had written nine sermons in his head during those five and a half days, and he had to admit, in his more objective moments, that none of them was presentable enough for God’s hearing. They were, he thought, looking at the mighty castle soaring upward from its craggy ridge in the center of the city, rather—no, he didn’t want to say it. Oh, very well. Truth be told, they were boring. They nearly made him nod off to sleep. Talk of hell’s fires kept the congregation alert, but it never made him feel exalted when he was done, and thus he rarely threatened his flock with brimstone. But these nine sermons, they’d been bland, touching on this or that without much rhyme or reason to any of them. One of them did dwell perhaps overly much on the necessity for a woman’s obedience. He thought of Meggie and shook his head at that. Then he thought of Melinda Beatrice and felt guilty.

They had both been so very young, so very much in love with each other, and they saw only a life that was narrow, yet filled with hope and goodness and an endless desire to be of service to God. At least that was what he had wanted. He sighed.

Tysen heard a boy whistle and waved to him. He remembered Edinburgh, but now he saw it through a man’s eyes, not a child’s. The Castle, he thought, oh, how Meggie would have enjoyed the Castle. No, what he’d done was correct. For heaven’s sake, it had rained a full four days on the journey up here. Today, at least, it had ceased raining early in the morning. The sun now glistened overhead, and it was so clear he knew he would be able to see the smudged mountains on the horizon beyond the Lothian plain and the Firth of Forth if he were standing on the Castle ramparts. He clicked Big Blue around a crowd of people who looked to be surly for some reason, and waved his carriage behind him toward the road to New Town, north of the castle. Literally dredged from a malodorous swamp, New Town was a masterpiece, with all the magnificent gardens and squares surrounded by splendid Georgian buildings. He had no idea if Sinjun would be at their residence here in the city. Regardless, he knew Old Angus would let him spend the night. At the west end of George Street, they finally reached Charlotte Square. Another left turn, and they were in Abbotsford Crescent. Kinross House was located directly in the middle, opposite a small, very green park. It was a tall, skinny house, older than its neighbors, but it looked immaculate, flowers planted everywhere, the paint fresh, the shutters hanging straight and proud. There was a new slate roof, if he wasn’t mistaken. The rectangular lawn was freshly scythed, the walkway swept clean. Tysen was tired, but the sight of his sister’s lovely house made him smile.

Tysen remembered Meggie saying that her aunt Sinjun would have had roads built if needed. Well, she’d certainly made the Kinross town house a work of art. Its newer neighbors were lovely as well, but Kinross House had style—old style—and it was better. It was unique.

He hoped Old Angus was still in full possession of his wits and thus would recognize him and not shoot him with his blunderbuss—a very valuable weapon, Sinjun had said to him once, and laughed. To his utter surprise, he looked up at a shout from an upper window. Then Sinjun was sticking her head out and yelling down at him. “Tysen! Is it really you? Bloody hell, we just arrived yesterday. Dahling wanted to stroll down the Royal Mile and, well, I wanted to as well. Colin is up at the Castle, speaking to Lord Stallings. Dahling and Phillip are with him, doubtless roaming through all those drafty hallways, asking endless questions of all the poor soldiers. Oh, it is so wonderful to see you. Come in, oh, yes, do come in!”

Old Angus came out of the house, looking older than the Castle, his homespuns bagging at his knees, his white hair blown all over his head, and a big smile on his seamed face. “Och, ye be Master Tysen, her ladyship’s brother, nae doubt.”

“Aye,” Tysen said, savoring that lilting word on his tongue, and dismounted from Big Blue’s back.

“Well, now, ye hae yer man just come wi’ me and we’ll see to them nice horses ye got. Aye, who’s the little pullet riding up behind?”

“My tiger. His name is Pride.”

“Aye?”

Then Sinjun was there, throwing her arms around him, hugging him until he was kissing her hair and hugging her back, and then holding her loosely in his arms, he said, “You are looking quite fit, Sinjun. And it isn’t raining, thank the good Lord.”

“And you, Tysen, are as handsome as ever. Oh, goodness, I had no idea you were coming. And just look—why ever would you do this? It is surely the most unexpected thing you’ve ever done. But why is she riding on the back of your carriage? She looks fit to drop. What have you done? Oh, I see, she demanded to do it, and you allowed it. You spoil her, Tysen.”

It took Tysen only a moment of sorting his way through his sister’s words before he had the most awful foreboding. He turned slowly to stare at his tiger, Pride.

“Well, Meggie,” Sinjun said, “come down from there and give me a hug. I’m sure I will come to understand why you’ve become your father’s tiger. Was it a wager? No, naturally, your father never wagers. I’m not certain if that is because he believes wagering to be a sin or whether he believes he doesn’t have the Sherbrooke luck and doesn’t want to lose his fortune.”

Tysen looked at his daughter, who had just pulled off her disreputable woolen hat. Her once beautiful hair was matted and oily.

He closed his eyes, looked heavenward, and without another word, turned on his heel and walked into Sinjun’s house. Luckily, the front door was wide open. Standing right inside was Agnes, Old Angus’s wife, and she was wearing a huge apron wrapped around her large middle.

“And jest who be ye?” she demanded and crossed her massive arms over her equally massive bosom.

“I,” Tysen said, “am a man of God who is desperately trying to keep firm control of himself.”

“That’s right. Ye’re the reverend,” Agnes said and gave him a big smile from a mouth that held only three teeth.

There was no yelling to the ceiling, no foul curses, no bodily threats. No, Tysen merely regarded his filthy daughter, standing very close to her aunt Sinjun in the drawing room, and said finally, his voice low, controlled, very cold, “I am severely disappointed in you, Meggie.” Without pause he turned to his sister. “I have inherited the Barony of Barthwick from Great Uncle Tyronne and am now Baron Barthwick of Kildrummy Castle. My new castle and holding lie some seven miles south of Stonehaven. I am here in Scotland to see to my lands, determine what it is I will do, and spend some time with you and Colin. Also, I believe the Barthwick solicitor, a Mr. MacCray, is here in Edinburgh. I will need to speak with him.”

“Yes, Donald MacCray is here. He is very popular, particularly with the ladies.” Sinjun then just gave her head a slight shake and went down on her knees in front of Meggie. “You are a mess, dear heart. Why don’t you come with me upstairs and we will get you bathed and changed. Did you manage to bring clothes? No? It isn’t a problem. Dahling is quite the young lady now—all of fourteen—but surely she must have some older clothes still in her drawers.”

Meggie, looking over her shoulder at her father, who hadn’t moved from the same spot and who was giving her a very stern, emotionless look, dropped her shoulders and said just above a whisper, “I’m sorry, Papa, truly. But I had to come with you, to protect you, to take care of you.”

“Go with your aunt, Meggie,” Tysen said, and walked over to one of the lovely bow windows in the drawing room. He heard a sniffle, heard her leave the room with Sinjun. He closed his eyes, appalled at what she had done. For five and a half days, his little girl had ridden on the back of his carriage. Where had she slept at night? In the stables of the inns, naturally. He started shaking, just thinking of what could have happened to her. He prayed now, thanking God for keeping her safe, since he, her father, hadn’t done so. All that blasted rain—what if she became ill? What if she died in Scotland because he never gave his borrowed tiger a second glance? Sinjun had known it was her immediately. He was her father, and he was blind.

It was devastating.

Tysen was still utterly white when Sinjun came back into the drawing room. It had been on the tip of her tongue to remonstrate with him for his coldness, despite the fact that Meggie’s outrageous deception had nearly curled her own toes, but at the sight of him, all white about the gills, all she could think of doing was hugging him until he regained some of his color, which is what she did. “It’s all right, Tysen,” she said over and over against his cheek, holding him tightly against her. “It’s all right. Meggie is fine. Mary is with her, helping her bathe. She is all right, no bad aftereffects. Stop worrying.”

He heaved a very big breath, then slowly pulled away from her. “I never even noticed her, Sinjun, yet you knew it was her right away. So did Old Angus. But not her father. Bloody hell, what kind of a man am I?”

He’d said “bloody hell,” the favorite Sherbrooke curse. Sinjun just couldn’t believe it. She gave her brother a dazzling smile. “Parents see what they expect to see, it’s that simple. Stop feeling guilty. It doesn’t become you. Yes, that’s better, you’ve finally got some color. Now, what are you going to do?”

Tysen said slowly, “I would like to thrash my daughter for her appalling behavior, but I don’t think I’ll be able to bring myself to do it. I spanked her once last year, and the guilt nearly laid me low for a week. What do you suggest, Sinjun?”

“It’s difficult,” she said at last, after worrying her lower lip. “Let’s ask Colin, all right? He and Dahling and Phillip should be back shortly for luncheon.”

Tysen nodded. “May we stay with you for a couple of days, Sinjun? Then we will go to Kildrummy Castle and see what’s what.”

“I think that is a lovely idea. I could have Old Angus ride to Kinross and fetch Fletcher or Jocelyn. Would you like to see them?”

At the mention of his young niece and nephew, Tysen said, “Meggie said they were just babies and didn’t have much interest, but I disagree. I should like that, Sinjun.”

“Well, Jocelyn is only a little mite, just turned a year old. However, little Fletcher is three and won’t shut his mouth. Do you know he talks to horses? He listens to horses, and I swear to you that they communicate. He even changed two of their names, claimed they weren’t happy with the ones they had.”

“What were the names?”

“They were named Olmar and Grindel. Fletcher listened to them, nodded, and then changed them to Fireball and Thor. I swear to you their steps are higher now, they fling their manes and flick their tails just like they’re colts again, and they stamp their hooves whenever someone calls them by their new names. It’s amazing.”

Tysen gave her a small smile, but it still showed his very white Sherbrooke teeth. “I should like to introduce Fletcher to my horse. I wish him to see if Big Blue is satisfied with his name.”

Sinjun laughed merrily and took his hand. “Come and tell me all about this inheritance of yours. I remember about Great Uncle Tyronne, but goodness, weren’t there a good dozen boys to inherit before you?”

“Very nearly,” Tysen said. “It’s sad. They’re all dead. Ian, the last of the heirs and Old Tyronne’s last grandson, fell off a cliff into the North Sea not above six months ago. Then, I suppose, Great Uncle Tyronne just gave up. Although, as Douglas pointed out, the old man was eighty-seven years old. That left only the Englishman—namely, me. I doubt anyone is very happy about that.”

“But who is there to be unhappy?”

Tysen just shook his head. “Actually, I have no idea who is living at Kildrummy at the present time or if there are any relatives remaining. I will see Donald MacCray on the morrow. He will provide me with all the information I need. Now, Sinjun, before I face my daughter I should like to fortify myself with a cup of tea.”

4

August 24, 1815

THREE-YEAR-OLD FLETCHER KINROSS told his uncle Tysen that Big Blue was displeased with his name.

Tysen stared at the precocious little boy in his father’s arms and asked, “What is the name he would prefer, Fletcher?”

Fletcher put his thumb in his mouth, leaned toward Big Blue, who was looking back intently—actually looking at the little boy—Tysen was sure of it. “Papa, you must let me down,” Fletcher said. When released, he walked right up to the big gelding, and to Tysen’s surprise but no one else’s, the soon-to-be–former Big Blue lowered his head and lipped Fletcher’s hand, blew on it, and stomped his left front hoof several times.

“Don’t worry,” Sinjun said. “No animal would ever hurt him. Isn’t it amazing? Ah, yes, I believe Big Blue has spoken.”

Fletcher patted the horse’s neck, then turned back to his uncle Tysen and said in his clear child’s voice, “He tells me he is not blue. He tells me he doesn’t even like colors. He wants to be named Big Fellow.” The thumb went back in the mouth, then his small arms went up for his father to pick him up again, which he did. Colin Kinross said, “Well, Tysen, what do you think—can you bring yourself to call him Big Fellow?”

Meggie started laughing. “Oh, Aunt Sinjun, it is marvelous. Big Fellow—I like it.”

“If that’s what he wants,” Tysen said, and he sounded utterly bewildered.

Phillip Kinross, sixteen and quite a handsome young man with his father’s dark hair and wicked smile, just shook his head and said, “It isn’t bad, Uncle Tysen. Fletcher was mad at me when he renamed my horse. I can tell you I was worried with what he could come up with, but his name is now Edwin, which, actually, suits him just fine, and me as well.”

“What was his name before?”

Fletcher grinned at his very serious uncle, who’d always been very kind to him.

“It was Claymore,” Phillip said. “Fletcher said my horse was peace-loving and thus the name Claymore made him very nervous.”

And so the following morning, Big Fellow, with Tysen astride, rode beside the carriage that held one lone passenger—his ten-year-old daughter, who had been wise enough not to argue with her father about her displacement as his tiger. It was a beautiful day. Fleecy white clouds in wondrous shapes filled the sky, a slight breeze moved in from the sea to dry the sweat on Tysen’s brow, and the scent of wildflowers filled his nostrils. He saw clumps of heather ranging from deepest purple to snowy white, in the most unlikely places—poking out of crevices in black rocks, pushing through low-lying stone fences.

A day and a half of beautiful summer weather brought them to Kildrummy Castle. Tysen saw the ten or so chimney stacks rising high into the air, the round turrets curving outward on each corner of the huge square manor. It wasn’t at all like the older castles he’d seen—soaring stone buildings with slitted windows high above the ground, cold and stark against the Scottish skies. No, Kildrummy was newer, with its slate roof and light gray stone walls.

“What do you think, Meggie?” he asked, pulling Big Fellow next to where she was leaning out the carriage window to see.

“It’s sitting up on that barren stretch right over the sea like a big bird of prey,” Meggie said. “There’s that huge forest just off there to the left, but nothing close to the castle. Goodness, it’s all bare land and it looks like there are deep ditches all through it. We should fill in all those ditches. We should plant trees. It is too stark, too forbidding.” She licked her lips and frowned just a bit. “It’s scary,” she added. “And lonely. But the forest just beyond is lovely.”

Tysen, whose memory of Kildrummy was that of a ten-year-old boy, had agreed with Meggie. That stretch from the castle to the forest was an ugly piece of land. It was stark, and barren, what with all those strewn rocks and boulders. Those jagged ditches, or whatever they were, were dangerous. Walking or riding through that land would require a good deal of attention.

Now, as a man, however, he believed it magnificent. He wouldn’t have changed a thing. He would have made his way carefully through all the boulders and crevices and admired it. But if Meggie wanted trees, she would have them. If she wanted all those crevices filled in, so be it. He said, “I will inquire what trees would best survive here. We’ll have to examine all those ditches and see where we would get enough dirt to fill them. You, my girl, can find out about the flowers outside the castle walls.”

She beamed at him and he frowned. Oh, dear, she saw that he was still upset with her. She said in a very small voice, “I wonder if any of the round turrets are bedcham-bers. I would really like that.”

“We will see,” Tysen said, realizing he shouldn’t say yes to her immediately. He was still infinitely upset with her. He still awoke in the middle of the night, his belly cramping at the thought of his ten-year-old daughter hugging the back of the carriage, splattered with mud and rain, sleeping in the stables. He drew a deep breath. Had Douglas or Ryder been her father, he didn’t doubt for a moment that they would have thrashed her.

Sinjun had come up with no proper punishment by the time they’d left, and Tysen was still stymied.

Kildrummy Castle. It was his now. He was Lord Barthwick.

Late that night after the sun had finally dropped behind the hillocks in the west and the air was clear with just a touch of light left, Meggie sat on her narrow bed in the south turret that looked over the barren stretch to the forest—lush and green and covered with pine trees and the occasional sheep. She mentally began her planting, staring at the closed-in inner courtyard of the castle. But every time she thought of something colorful to plant she thought also of her father’s anger at her. Not that he ever acted angry. No, he acted disappointed, just looking at her, all aloof, with distress in his eyes, and that was much worse. Meggie sighed and slid deeper under the fat quilt that was older than her father, maybe even her grandfather.

At dinner her father had been polite, just as he’d been since Edinburgh, nothing more—surely no outward show of anger. She remembered the one time he’d actually raised his voice and spanked her. That had been when she’d tied the bells to the goat and he’d played a rather clever tune, if one attended to it carefully.

She wished he would yell again, maybe even thrash her. At least it might make him forgive her more quickly. She remembered once when Uncle Douglas had yelled at one of the twins—Jason—and smacked his bottom three times. Then Uncle Douglas had picked him up, scoured his head with his knuckles, told him he was an idiot, tucked him under his arm, and carried him to the stables. Uncle Douglas had probably let Jason be his tiger that day.

She had disobeyed her father, who was closer to God than anyone. Regardless, she had not been wrong to come. She knew, knew all the way to her bones, that her father would need her.

Mrs. MacFardle, in Meggie’s immediate estimation, hadn’t appeared at all pleased to have the new English lord here at Kildrummy Castle. Dark looks, she’d given Papa, beetled black eyebrows drawn nearly together over her forehead every time she had looked at Meggie.

Finally, she’d shown them about and reluctantly served them dinner. Meggie wished Mrs. MacFardle were more like that ancient old woman at the inn where they’d stopped for lunch in Clackmanshire, who’d patted Meggie on the head, her voice singsong and very soft, murmuring Scottish words that Meggie thought were endearments, like “a wee gowan,” which she was told later by dear Pouder meant “a little daisy.” As for her father, he was braw, and that, Pouder said, meant he was a handsome fellow. Meggie didn’t think that Mrs. MacFardle thought her papa was braw at all, not even after he’d said a very eloquent grace over their dinner, which, Meggie believed with all her heart, didn’t deserve any grace at all. The pile in the middle of her plate was called haggis, Mrs. MacFardle told them, a sneer in her voice. Every Scot, she said, ate haggis and thanked the good Lord for providing such a splendid edible. Meggie took one look at that sheep’s stomach with its runny brown ingredients stuffed inside, fastened her eyes on the dark blue carpet that covered the dining room floor, and ate four slices of rich rye bread smeared with thick yellow butter.

Her father took one bite, spoke quickly to Mrs. MacFardle of the huge luncheon he and Meggie had eaten at the Wild Goose Inn, then took one more small taste which meant that as an adult, it was his duty to be polite. There was no one more polite than her father. Even surrounded by sinners, he was polite. Even driven from his own parlor by ladies who pursued him shamelessly, he was polite. He needed her, badly, particularly here in this foreign land, and he would realize it, sooner or later.

It was at dinner that they learned that Mrs. MacFardle was also the cook. Just thinking about it made Meggie hungry. And now her stomach was growling, but she had no idea where to find the kitchen in this huge, rambling place that seemed older than Northcliffe Hall, even though it wasn’t.

She snuggled down, aware that the stone walls of her bedchamber were thicker than her leg. That was comfort-ing, because a storm was blowing in off the sea. It wasn’t too long before she heard the wind, swirling off the water, battering against the windowpanes. Then the rain came, hard and fast, striking the glass with a great deal of force. She wished she wasn’t alone. She wished she wasn’t so cold deep down inside where the thick warm quilt couldn’t reach. At three o’clock in the morning—she knew it was that late because a tremendous slash of white lightning lit up her turret bedchamber and she could read the old clock that leaned against the mantelpiece—she just couldn’t stand it. She was so cold and so scared that she knew her heart was going to burst out of her chest. She grabbed a blanket off the bed, wrapped it around herself, and left the bedchamber. She began the trek to the laird’s massive bedchamber that overlooked the angry sea.

She didn’t knock on the closed door, just slipped inside. Another bright streak of lightning and she saw her father’s outline in the middle of the massive bed. She eased next to him and wrapped her blanket around her. She was safe now. She could feel his warmth even through all the covers. She snuggled even closer to his back. Nothing could hurt her now. Meggie sighed and went immediately to sleep.

Early the next morning, Tysen awoke slowly, instantly aware that he was in Scotland, sleeping in the huge laird’s bed, and felt his child pressed against his back. He smiled. When the children had occasionally began to come into his bed, he’d learned soon enough to wear a nightshirt. He remembered that Melinda Beatrice had been relieved when he’d donned the nightshirts she’d made quickly for him, a good half dozen. She’d never said anything about his sleeping unclothed, since that was how he’d been raised, but Tysen had known that she was embarrassed when she sometimes saw him naked. He supposed that he too was relieved once he started wearing the nightshirts. He’d matched his wife, both of them covered from tip to toe with white batiste. He also knew that she hadn’t liked performing her marital obligations, for he’d once overheard her saying so to her mother. It had never occurred to him that she wouldn’t want him once they were married, since he’d been desperate to touch her, to kiss her, to come inside her. He’d always believed her reticence, her shyness, were fitting and proper but that she would change once it was deemed by God and the Church to be the thing to do. But no, she’d suffered him. That was the way he thought of it each time he needed a man’s relief. She’d suffered him. She was a lady. He supposed that was simply the way it was. But then he would think of his brothers and their wives and how they were always touching and laughing and kissing behind the door. No, he turned off those thoughts. They were worthless. They were probably ungodly as well, but he didn’t want to examine them closely enough to determine that. Life was life, and he was a very lucky man.

He saw the bright sunlight pouring through the series of eight narrow windows that gave onto the sea. The water was blue and calm. He heard seagulls shrieking as they dove for their breakfast. After the violent storm of the night before, even the air in his huge bedchamber seemed fresher, brighter, drawing in the sunlight. The beauty of it touched him. It was God’s gift after the violence of the night.

He gently moved himself away from Meggie, saw her curl up into a little ball, her sleep unbroken. He eased her under the covers and lightly kissed her forehead. The storm must have frightened her, and the strangeness. The lightning tearing into that turret room must have been a sight. He lightly touched his fingertips to her cheek. So soft she was, and she was his. Even when she disobeyed him he loved her, loved her and her brothers so much that it humbled him, the completeness of it, the infinite richness of it.

He straightened. Kildrummy Castle. It was now his. He was now the laird. He said the words aloud, feeling them roll on his tongue, sing their magic into his mind. “ Kildrummy Castle.” It was his responsibility, no one else’s. It hadn’t really sunk in until this very moment, as he stood there looking out over the North Sea. This would be his home until he died, and then it would pass to Max. He wondered if the harsh beauty of the place would move Max to his soul, or if his scholarly son would just return to Euripides without a second thought and perhaps quote some offhand Latin.

Tysen bathed and dressed behind a screen in case Meggie woke up, then took himself downstairs. The wide front doors were flung open to the enclosed inner courtyard. The morning sun burst through into the castle, filling the vast entryway. Tysen could see dancing motes of dust in that brilliant sunlight.

Pouder, so very ancient that he seemed propped up, was seated in the old high-backed chair right by the large front doors. The old man blinked, scratched his hand, and Tysen wondered if he ever left that chair, even to sleep. He bade him good morning. Pouder gave him a nearly toothless smile that was singularly sweet and said, “Och, my lord, it’s good to have ye here. No valet, I see. I always wanted to be a gentleman’s valet, but Lord Barthwick said I was too old to learn.”

Tysen, who wasn’t stupid, and thought the old man was grand, said quickly, “If you would like to see to the placement of my clothes in the laird’s bedchamber, I would be very appreciative.”

“May I even fold yer cravats, my lord?”

“My cravats need to be arranged as well, Pouder. I thank you.”

“Ah, at last I will be a valet-in-training,” Pouder said, sighed softly, and let his head fall forward to his chest. His white hair settled gently onto his shoulders. He was asleep.

“Aye, a valet-in-training,” Tysen said quietly, savoring the taste and feel of that strange term on his tongue. He went quietly out the front doors, careful not to disturb Kildrummy’s butler.

He stepped outside to see MacNee, a handsome young man who looked after the stables. Rufus was with him, ready, Tysen thought, for his breakfast. But MacNee wanted to chat a bit. “Big Fellow is happy,” MacNee said. “All settled in, ate his oats, drank all his water. Aye, ye slept well in the laird’s bed, my lord?”

“Aye,” Tysen said. He was a “my lord” now. It felt very odd.

“Aye, that bed draws a body down and soothes his brow. Och, me brain’s not pulling its weight, my lord. Mrs. MacFardle has asked me to take all the eggs she collected to Barthwick Village, just down a ways from here, and sell them to the local folks. Too many eggs we have now, ye see, since the chickens squawk and twitter during storms and jest lay and lay. Ye need to go back inside, my lord, and have yer breakfast.”

Tysen was smiling as he went once again into the grand entrance hall, dominated by Pouder, sleeping quietly in his chair. MacNee and Rufus went to the kitchen and Tysen went into the small breakfast room with its impossibly old dark paneling and ancient portraits of dead animals strung up on lines in sixteenth-century kitchens. He would remove all the painted gore from the walls and make them white. The dark old carpet would come up and he’d have the lovely wood floor polished until it sparkled. He blinked at himself. It was the first time he had ever thought like this. He’d always, he supposed, simply accepted his surroundings as they were. Besides, Melinda Beatrice had seen to the vicarage. He didn’t recall if he’d even been asked if he liked this carpet or that piece of furniture. But now, here at Kildrummy Castle—it was all his. Yes, those floors would be polished until he could see his reflection in the wide, thick boards. He also wanted to meet everyone, hire every worker available to clean his house. He wanted to tour his lands, count the sheep, learn what kind of fish the men caught. He rubbed his hands together. England was a long way from Kildrummy Castle. He felt light and happy.

He felt infinitely blessed.

He ate porridge that Mrs. MacFardle begrudgingly served him, found it excellent, and decided his first visit would be to Barthwick Village.

[You are] the veriest varlet that ever chewed with a tooth.

—Shakespeare, King Henry IV

Mary Rose stood in the shadow of the thick pine trees and watched the new Baron Barthwick stride out through the gate of Kildrummy Castle, wearing buff riding britches and a dark brown jacket. He looked very fine, very much an English gentleman, not that she was all that certain, for she’d only seen a few in her twenty-four years. He was young, but that wasn’t a surprise. She’d overheard Uncle Lyon telling about the Fall of Barthwick, now in the hands of a demned Englishman, one too young to know what he was about. Then he cursed Tyronne Barthwick for not ensuring an heir—half a dozen boys weren’t enough and then the old coot had the gall to die when he’d only reached his eighty-seventh year. And then her cousin, Donnatella, had laughed at her father and told him not to worry, she would see to things. Mary Rose knew what that meant: if the English baron was at all to her liking, Donnatella would marry him. At least that was possible. The Edinburgh solicitor Donald MacCray had told them that the new baron was a widower. How sad, she thought, that such a young man had already lost his wife.

The baron appeared tall and lean from Mary Rose’s vantage point, and he had light, thick hair that a slight morning breeze was ruffling on his brow. He was leading a big bay gelding. She watched him swing ever so gracefully onto his horse’s back, straighten in the saddle, and look around him. Then he threw back his head and breathed in very deeply. She heard him say something to his horse, like “Big Fellow,” which was surely an odd name.

She wished she could see him up close, but of course she couldn’t. Nor would he wish to see her anywhere near him, since she was the Local Embarrassment. She watched him ride toward Barthwick Village, just to the south, watched him until he rounded Bleaker’s Bluff, which rose up a good fifty feet, and was lost to her sight.

She turned and began her trek through the pine forest back toward Vallance Manor. She had just cleared the trees when she heard horse’s hooves coming toward her. She ducked behind a particularly fat pine tree.

But she wasn’t fast enough. The horse stopped close by. She heard it blowing, heard a man say, “Easy now, Barker.” There was no help for it. She wasn’t a coward. She wasn’t about to race back into the forest and hide among the trees.

Mary Rose straightened her skirts and came out from behind the pine tree. The sun was bright overhead, everything shone, the greens were utterly green, the wild grass lush, thick, vivid. The storm from the previous night had washed everything to a high shine.

“Ah,” he said, striding toward her, “I thought I saw you come this way, Mary Rose. You always liked watching from the forest, hiding away so you could see but not be seen.”

“Hello, Erickson,” she said, fear and dislike blending to make her voice very cold. “I just saw the new Baron Barthwick ride from the manor.”

“Of course he didn’t see you, did he?”

“I can’t imagine that he would be interested in seeing me,” she said, and took a step sideways.

He frowned down at her, tapping his riding crop against his boot, and patted Barker’s neck when he shied a bit. “No, don’t try to run away from me, Mary Rose. Don’t be afraid. I just want to talk to you.”

“How is your mother?” Mary Rose asked.

He frowned, hit his riding crop again against his boot. “She is as she always is. I don’t want to talk about my mother, Mary Rose.”

“Do you think the new baron will have a party?”

“I don’t care about the bloody new baron. I want to talk to you.” But he only looked at her, didn’t say a thing. Before she could draw another breath, he’d grabbed her, pulled her tightly against him, and kissed her—her ear, her cheek, then grabbed a fistful of her hair and pulled her head back so he could have her mouth. She struggled, but it didn’t matter. Erickson was much larger than she, and he was holding her much too tightly. She finally managed to stomp hard on his right foot. She felt his jerk of pain, but then his mouth was on hers again, and he was trying to thrust his tongue between her lips. “No,” she said, and then his tongue was inside. She bit him hard.

His head jerked up and he cursed, then shook her. “Why did you do that? Damn you, why?”

His hold loosened, and she managed to jerk free of him. She didn’t pause an instant, just raised her skirts above her knees and ran as fast as she could. She heard him mount his horse, knew he could ride her down in just seconds. No choice. She ran back into the forest, deeper and deeper, zigzagging left to right, then into the heaviest undergrowth to where his horse would have to pick his way very slowly. She heard Erickson cursing, felt his anger thicken the very air around her. She paused, breathing hard, a stitch in her side. She was safe. At least until the next time.

She lowered her head in her hands. She didn’t cry, there was no purpose to it. Tears did nothing except make her eyes itch and her nose red. She waited, then waited some more. She finally walked due east, knowing that if Erickson MacPhail wanted to wait for her, he would be there, between the forest and Kildrummy Castle. There was a stretch of two hundred yards, ancient barren land cluttered with boulders and strewn with sharp-edged rocks, and farther on, the land had been gouged out by some clawing primeval fingers, leaving gashing crevices in the earth, some of them quite deep. On horseback, he would have to take care. He wouldn’t be able to catch her easily.

She drew in her breath when she reached the end of the trees, looked toward Kildrummy Castle. She didn’t see Erickson MacPhail. She drew a deep breath, picked up her skirts again, and ran as fast as she could.

When she heard hoofbeats just off to her right, she turned quickly to see how close he was. She tripped over a clump of black rocks and went flying into one of the narrow crevices that scored the earth.

5

TYSEN JUMPED OFF Big Fellow’s back and ran to the girl who was lying half in and half out of a narrow, jagged cut in the hard earth. He saw that she wasn’t unconscious from her wild fall, as he’d feared. She was lying on her stomach, breathing hard, not moving. Finally she pressed herself up on her hands and looked at him.

“You’re the new baron,” she said, her voice filled with relief. She took a deep, shuddering breath, then said more calmly, “I watched you ride away. Why did you come back? Not that it matters, but I am very grateful that you did, sir.”

Tysen cocked his head to one side as he came down on his haunches beside her. “I came back because I realized that I wanted my daughter with me. I left her because I wished her to understand that I am still distressed with her, but I am her father and I love her dearly and can no longer hold out. I wanted her to see the village with me, meet the villagers who bought our extra eggs, smell the fish, meet the fishermen.” He appeared surprised that he’d spoken at such length, but then he just shook his head and smiled. “Let me help you. Do you think you are hurt?”

“I don’t know yet. Let me just lie here a few more minutes. What did she do to distress you?”

“She dressed as a boy and rode behind my carriage as my tiger all the way from southern England to Edinburgh.”

“Oh, my, what a grand adventure! I would never have had enough courage to do that. How old is she?”

“Only ten.”

“She’s a very brave girl.”

“What she is, is too young and foolish, and ignorant as a clod of dirt,” Tysen said. It occurred to him that he was speaking about family matters to an unknown female lying half in a ditch. It both surprised him and appalled him. At the very least, it was very unlike him to spill his innards to a stranger. And here he was, chatting with her, smiling even. It wasn’t like him at all. He said, “I believe I should get you out of that hole in the ground now. Do you know now if you’re hurt anywhere?”

“Maybe, I still don’t know for sure.”

“I will go as easily as I can.” Tysen reached out to clasp her under her arms. To his astonishment, she tried to scoot away from him. She moaned and grabbed her left ankle.

Tysen found himself again surprised. He cocked his head at her, making absolutely no move to touch her. “Are you trying to hurt yourself more? What is wrong with you? I don’t believe this—you’re afraid of me, aren’t you?”

“I don’t know,” Mary Rose said slowly, looking up at him.

“You don’t know what? If you’re afraid of me?”

“Yes, that’s it. I don’t know you. I think you are probably too handsome for your own good. It must be difficult to be a good person looking the way you do. You’re a baron now, too. Perhaps that gives you all the permission you need to be wicked.”

Tysen said, all stiff and formal, “My brother is an earl. He isn’t wicked. Well, he is, but not in the way you mean.”

“You mean to say that your brother would rescue a lass in distress and would not attempt to take advantage of her?”

“Yes, that’s exactly what I mean,” Tysen said. “His name is Douglas and he is a fine man.”

“One never knows about Englishmen,” Mary Rose said, sounding all sorts of doubtful. “You brag about your brother, but what about you, my lord?”

She began rubbing her ankle now. “Oh, dear, I believe my ankle is swelling. This isn’t good at all.”

“I am not too handsome for my own good,” Tysen said, and he began gently massaging her ankle for her. “I am just myself. It is my brothers who are handsome.” Where had that errant nonsense come from?

“If your brothers are more handsome than you, then I fear for the sanity of ladies everywhere.”

He blew out his breath, then stopped cold. He looked at his hand, now lightly curved around her ankle. He jerked it away as if she’d burned him. “I’m sorry. That was badly done of me. No wonder you would question my character.”

“No,” she said, “not at all.”

“Whatever that means,” he said.

“Perhaps you made my ankle feel a bit better.”

He said nothing, just frowned at his hand that had been not only touching her ankle but massaging it. He had to get himself together. He was a man of God, and he must consider her as one of his flock and help her, not think of her in the way a man would perhaps think of a woman. Yes, he would help her. “Now, if you will contrive to trust me, I will get you out of that ditch.”

“It’s not a ditch, it’s a crevice. There are a good dozen in this stretch. All the crofters call them sheep killers. Sheep are stupid, you see, and they just wander right up to them and step in and die.”

“Just like you were so smart that you fell in.”

She actually smiled up at him. “You do have a point there.”

He blinked at her, then eased his hands beneath her arms and gently pulled her out. He leaned her against a rock and looked down at her. Her face was very white. She was obviously in pain. “If you will continue to trust me, I’ll try to get that boot off your foot before your ankle is so swelled I’ll have to cut it off.”

He helped her sit atop a boulder, then stooped in front of her. It was difficult, but he finally managed to work the boot off her foot. He held that thick old boot, looking up at her to see if she was all right. She was crying, but she wasn’t making a sound. The tears just gathered and ran down her cheeks. She scrubbed her fisted hand over her cheeks and gulped.

He said, “I’m sorry, but now it’s off.” He lightly touched his fingers to her ankle. It was appropriate that he do so. He said, more concerned now, “It feels hot and swollen. I fear you won’t be doing much walking for a while.”

He rose and reached into his pocket for a handkerchief. He didn’t hand it to her, but rather dabbed it against her cheeks. Then he drew back, frowning. “It is odd of me,” he said, “and I did realize that quite clearly even as I patted your face. I suppose you could say that I am a private man, in the usual course of things, not given to talking so much with people I don’t know or people I do know, for that matter, or patting the tears from a girl’s face, or assuring a stranger that neither I nor my brother is profligate. Does your ankle hurt still?”

She only nodded, then looked around. “I don’t know what to do. I walked from Vallance Manor. It’s nearly two miles from Kildrummy Castle, up the coast.”

“Don’t worry about anything. I’m going to take you back to the castle. Mrs. MacFardle surely has some ancient recipe to make you instantly better. Why were you running? Did something frighten you in the forest?”

“Just a man,” she said. “Just a man who is profligate.”

“You heard Big Fellow coming and you thought it was this man chasing you down?”

She nodded. Her ankle pulsed and throbbed, and she wanted to cry with the pain of it. But she’d already wet his handkerchief and knotted it, and what did tears matter anyway?

“Come along,” Tysen said. He didn’t think about it, he simply picked her up in his arms and carried her to Big Fellow, who was trying to worry a strange-looking plant from between two small rocks.

“No, boy,” Mary Rose said, waving her hand at his horse. “Don’t eat that. It’ll make your belly swell up just like my ankle.”

“What is it?”

“Damslip weed. It’s not terribly common around here, but still you must be vigilant. One of the goats died just last year from eating damslip weed.”

Tysen shoved Big Fellow back from the scraggy brown plant and said to him, “Now, you will be a gentleman. You will hold still, Big Fellow.” And the horse stood there, polite as could be, blowing quietly as Tysen swung his leg over the saddle. He’d never before carried a female, not even Melinda Beatrice, had never before imagined climbing aboard his horse with a female in his arms, one with a painful ankle who was making a valiant effort not to cry again. “We made it,” he said, settling her across his legs. “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” Mary Rose said.

“Hold on to me.”

She wrapped her arms around his back and buried her cheek against his shoulder.

“This is very strange,” Tysen said as he clicked Big Fellow forward. “I don’t know your name.”

“Mary Rose Fordyce.”

He felt a pooling of pleasure at the sound. “A musical name,” he said. “This man you thought was chasing you, who is he?”

“Erickson MacPhail, a man who used to be my friend,” she sighed. “My uncle wouldn’t like it were he to know that I do not like Erickson now and I had told someone that he was profligate.” Another sigh. She said, “Here I am sitting on a man’s lap on top of his horse with my arms wrapped around him. I’ve never done this before.”

“I have never before held a woman on my lap atop my horse either,” Tysen said, looking right between Big Fellow’s ears, ignoring the feel of her hair against his chin. “We shall both have to overlook it as a brief, necessary confusion. Who is this Erickson MacPhail? Why does your uncle like him?”

“He’s a neighbor. Whenever I am out walking I must pay constant attention. This time he came along by chance, but in the past I know he’s waited for me. Perhaps he was waiting for me this time as well. I do wish he would just leave me alone.”

“Why hasn’t your father or your uncle warned him off if you do not wish to be in his company?”

“I don’t have a father. My mother and I live with my uncle and his family. I think my uncle wishes he was Erickson’s father. Uncle Lyon admires him, thinks he’s brave and braw—that means ‘handsome,’ you know—and ever so charming. He does not understand that I don’t want to be mauled by him, which is what he does, given the least opportunity.”

“I’m sorry about your father. I lost my father when I was a lad of eighteen. I still miss him. The one and only time I was ever here at Kildrummy Castle, he brought me, just the two of us. It was a fine thing, having him all to myself.” Again—he’d done it again. Spoken freely, just opened his mouth and let words fall out that hadn’t been approved by his brain.

She said nothing, just nestled closer and rested her cheek against his shoulder.

“That’s right, we’re nearly there. Just lie quietly. There’s Oglivie opening the gates.”

“Laird, what is the matter?” Oglivie called out.

The Scottish title gave him a bit of a start, but there was no way around it—he was a laird and a baron now. “The young lady took a fall.”

Tysen thought Oglivie said something, but he couldn’t make out the words. He said against her hair, “Just a few more minutes and you’ll be more comfortable.” Her hair was soft, smelled of the sea and the pine forest and something else he couldn’t identify. Roses, perhaps?

As Big Fellow passed through the wide wooden gates into the enclosed courtyard, he said, “You don’t have any brothers?”

She shook her head against his jacket. “Just my uncle.” He left it, but it wasn’t right. He imagined a man bothering Meggie in five or so years, and a surge of intense rage roared through him. It made his heart pound, made him blink several times. Rage was something he’d never really visited before. It was something dark and vibrant, with a life of its own, all black and ugly. It pulsed violently inside him and made him cold.

He looked up to see the housekeeper standing on the top step to the castle. “Mrs. MacFardle,” he said, “I am glad you’re here. We have a young lady in need of some care. She hurt her ankle.”

He tossed Big Fellow’s reins to MacNee and very carefully eased out of the saddle, trying not to touch the painful ankle. “Perhaps,” he said, “we should fetch a doctor to see to it.”

“Mary Rose, och, is it you? What is this about, my girl?”

“I fell into one of the sheep killers.”

“Ye must take a care with those blasted cuts in the ground. Well, bring yerself into the castle and I will see what ye need. My lord, just set her down and I will help her. No need for a doctor.”

Tysen ignored her and carried Mary Rose into the main drawing room, a nice room that, despite its size, felt welcoming and cozy. But like the dining room, it was too dark. He would ask Sinjun for advice on wallpaper. Perhaps a pale cream and green stripe. No, that wouldn’t work because the wooden walls were covered with countless paintings of long-dead Barthwicks and a series of beautifully worked tapestries showing Mary, Queen of Scots, from a child married to a French prince to the woman leaning down about to have her head severed from her body.

Perhaps he would ask Mary Rose. He laid her on one of the long, soft, gold brocade sofas and stood back. Mrs. MacFardle moved in. “Well, now,” she said, “at least ye got yer boot off.” She leaned over Mary Rose, clasped the ankle between her two big hands, and pulled.

Mary Rose yelled and lurched off the sofa.

Tysen was appalled at what the housekeeper had done. He said as he elbowed Mrs. MacFardle out of the way, “I have a way with sprains. If you will fetch some ice, ma’am, we will wrap it in towels around her foot. Ah, is there ice to be had in August?”

“Perhaps a bit,” Mrs. MacFardle said and got to her feet, panting a bit. “Ye come to the kitchen with me, my girl, and I’ll tie a wee bit of ice around yer ankle. Then ye can be off, back to Vallance Manor. Och, look here, it’s the little miss, is it?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Meggie said, walking into the drawing room. “Papa, what’s wrong? Who is this lady with her foot without its shoe? Oh, I see, she’s hurt. Goodness, your poor ankle. I know exactly what to do. Don’t worry, I won’t hurt you. Leo is always scraping himself and straining this and that. Bring the ice, Mrs. MacFardle, immediately.”

Mrs. MacFardle harrumphed, gave Mary Rose a long look, and took herself off.

Tysen stood back and watched his daughter sit down beside Mary Rose. With the lightest touch imaginable, she lifted Mary Rose’s foot onto her lap. “This is very impressive,” Meggie said, leaning down to eye the swelling. “Leo would be envious. Oh, Leo is my brother. Your name is Mary Rose? That is quite lovely. I’m Meggie. Margaret, really, but that sounds like a saint, which Papa says I will never be even if I begin a strict regimen of good deeds at this very moment, which, I must tell you, isn’t at all likely to happen.”

“Meggie, we don’t have saints in the Church of England, so it is irrelevant.”

“Yes, Papa, I know. I was speaking metaphorically.”

Mary Rose stared over at Meggie. “How ever do you know that word?”

“Papa uses many metaphors in his sermons. Some people in the congregation come up to me after services and ask me what they mean. Now, isn’t that better? Your poor ankle, all swelled, and the colors are already coming. A very bright purple, I think.”

Sermons? Mary Rose didn’t understand any of this. Maybe she was hearing strange words because her ankle hurt so badly.

Tysen didn’t know how Meggie had done it, but Mary Rose was sitting back against several pillows, her foot on Meggie’s lap, her stocking magically off and folded neatly beside Meggie. Tysen stared at that small white foot, then cleared his throat. “I shouldn’t be here. I will see both of you later.”

“Papa, wait a moment. I believe Mary Rose should have a small glass of brandy. When I wrap her ankle, it will hurt.”

Tysen walked to the large dark mahogany sideboard and poured a bit of brandy into a snifter that he wiped clean on his sleeve.

He held out the glass to Mary Rose. She hesitated, drawing back a bit. “The last time I drank brandy I was fourteen and wanted to be wicked with my cousin, Donnatella. She was only ten, and yet she was the one who decided we would drink the brandy. I was so sick I wanted to die.”

“Just a few sips,” Tysen said. “I once tried brandy when I was a boy. My brothers, Douglas and Ryder, dared me to drink it, as I recall. Then they laughed themselves silly when I vomited on my mother’s rosebushes.”

“Papa, truly, you did that? Uncle Douglas and Uncle Ryder were that wicked?”

“We were boys, Meggie. It wasn’t edifying. You do not have to try it yourself. If Max and Leo try to taunt you into doing it, don’t. Please believe me, it is awful stuff.”

Meggie said thoughtfully, “Perhaps I shall taunt them into doing it.”

And in that way, watching the father and the daughter, Mary Rose drank enough brandy to warm her belly and ease her mind so when at last Meggie wrapped towels filled with small chunks of ice around her ankle, she turned white, but she didn’t cry out.

“You have magic hands,” Mary Rose said to her. “I feel much better already.”

Meggie looked up to see Mrs. MacFardle standing in the doorway, her arms crossed over her bosom. “I shall ask Oglivie to drive you back to Vallance Manor, Mary Rose.”

“That would be fine, Mrs. MacFardle,” Mary Rose said. “I don’t believe I could walk there in a week.”

“First you will stay for luncheon,” Tysen said, walking around Mrs. MacFardle. “Then we will see.”

“Papa?”

“Yes, Meggie?”

“You will have to carry Mary Rose to the dining room.”

“Oh, yes, certainly. You’re right.”

“Oh, no, surely I can walk,” Mary Rose said, seeing him hesitate. He didn’t want to get near her. She tried to stand up.

Tysen shook his head, frowned, and leaned down to pick her up. Then he found that he was no longer frowning. Actually, he was smiling down at her.

He heard Mrs. MacFardle harrumph behind him. He wanted to tell her that he was being as careful as he could, but then he remembered how she had grabbed Mary Rose’s foot and pulled on it. He didn’t understand.

“Did I hurt you?”

“No, not at all.”

Meggie followed behind her father to the dining room, where Mrs. MacFardle had laid out their luncheon. She was standing behind the laird’s chair, her arms crossed over her bosom, a pose she seemed to favor. She looked disapproving. Nothing new there. Maybe this time she was concerned about Mary Rose. Meggie wanted to assure her that her papa was a saintly man, that he wouldn’t dream of going beyond the line with any lady, particularly one who was hurt.

Tysen carefully eased Mary Rose down on a chair that Meggie held out, then slowly pushed it close to the table.

After he seated himself, he said grace. Meggie said matter-of-factly to Mary Rose, “Papa’s a vicar, you know. He is more properly known as Reverend Sherbrooke. He is an orator of renown, recognized far and wide for his scholarship. My brother Max, though, he reads Latin better than Papa.”

A vicar? Ah, a vicar gave sermons.

Mary Rose looked at the beautiful man who sat at the head of the long dining table. She’d only met two vicars in her entire life, both of them ancient relics, one of them smelling of nutmeg and the other of cedar. This man smelled of fresh air and warmth.

“My daughter exaggerates,” Tysen said calmly. Then he smiled at her. “Ah, Meggie,” he added, “you forgot to mention the richness of my metaphors, so rich, evidently, that many of my congregation don’t understand what I said. I shall have to think about that.”

Meggie giggled. “Papa is known widely for his metaphors as well. It’s only a few people who will admit to not understanding your oratory, Papa.”

Tysen said to Mary Rose as he handed her a bowl, “Would you care for some soup? I have no notion of what it could be, but it smells quite good.”

“Cock-a-leekie soup,” Mary Rose said, still staring at him, and she breathed in deeply. “You are truly a vicar?”

He nodded and watched as Mrs. MacFardle ladled some cock-a-leekie soup into her bowl. “It is made with chicken and leeks and a lot of pepper. You may sneeze, but then you will smile with pleasure.”

She had practically accused him of being profligate, like Erickson MacPhail. “I am so very sorry,” she said aloud as she watched Mrs. MacFardle ladle the soup into his bowl then Meggie’s.

“Why ever for?” Meggie asked Mary Rose as she took a small taste of her soup.

“I was somewhat rude to your father,” Mary Rose said. “I thought he might be another bad man.”

“Papa?” Meggie looked down the table at her father and smiled. “How could you ever believe Papa to be a bad man? Goodness, the problem is that Papa is too good, much too straight and proper, and—”

“Meggie,” Tysen said, pointing his spoon at her, “that is quite enough. Try the dish Mrs. MacFardle is holding out to you.”

Mary Rose grinned. “Those are very English—potatoes boiled until they are mush, with butter running through them.”

“Aye,” said Mrs. MacFardle, “a lot of butter. My granny said that Englishmen thrived on plain, solid food. We want ye to thrive, my lord. Too many young Barthwick men dead. Don’t want ye to be amongst them, because if ye do croak it, then what will become of us here in the castle?”

“Thank you, Mrs. MacFardle. I should just as soon not join them either. The luncheon is delicious.”

Mrs. MacFardle turned to Mary Rose. Where there was only disapproval aimed toward Tysen, toward Mary Rose there was downright dislike. “Ye’ve eaten quite enough, my girl. Oglivie will drive ye back to Vallance Manor.”

Tysen was appalled at his housekeeper’s rudeness. He opened his mouth, only to be forestalled by Mary Rose, who said calmly, “I am ready to leave, Mrs. MacFardle.”

6

TYSEN WAS SITTING in a large cushioned chair behind the battered oak desk in the musty, dark library that was filled with so many books he was struck dumb with pleasure at the sight of all of them. Then he’d discovered that most of them had yet to have their pages cut. The Barthwicks weren’t, evidently, much for reading. Ah, but now they were his books. He’d rubbed his hands together as he took down Homer’s Iliad, a dark-red book so old the leather was cracked and peeling. He would have to have someone go through the books very carefully and oil them. He couldn’t wait to see the look on Max’s face when he walked into this room. Max would want to be the one to restore this magnificent, gloomy library. He could also see his son carefully cutting each of the pages, smoothing them down, pausing to read every few pages, unable to stop himself. Tysen rose slowly when he saw his daughter peering around the door.

“What is it, Meggie?” he asked, smiling at her, wondering why she was just lingering there and not dancing through the room right up to his desk.

“You’re smiling, Papa. It’s very nice. I don’t mean to bother you, but I want to know why Mrs. MacFardle was so mean to Mary Rose.”

“That is an excellent question. I don’t know. She just shook her head and pursed her lips when I upbraided her. At least we saw Mary Rose off in the dogcart with her foot resting on three pillows. Oglivie told me he took her right to the front steps of Vallance Manor.”

“She has a lot of curly red hair, just like Aunt Alex.”

“Yes, she does.” Her hair had smelled of roses, he thought, and unconsciously drew another deep breath, but this time there was only the musty odor of a room left closed up for far too long. Tysen shook his head. “These wretched accounts. I will need help with them. I know Mr. MacCray told me about an estate manager, but I don’t remember his name. Where is the man?”

“His name is Miles MacNeily. His mother died and he had to go to Inverness to see to things. He will be back in three or four days.”

“Meggie, how do you know this?”

“I was out in the stables, making certain that Big Fellow was being taken care of properly, and I overheard MacNee and Ardle speaking of it. You know that servants know everything, Papa. When I offered them both some almond sweetmeats that Aunt Sinjun gave me, they told me how the old laird wanted to burn down Kildrummy Castle after Ian died, but none of the servants would let him do it. Pouder, they told me, flung himself on top of the old laird and pinned him down on the floor until the other servants dashed in to help him.”

“Pouder? It is hard to imagine that. I can’t see Pouder even able to flatten a fly. Of course, Old Tyronne was eighty-seven, but Pouder can’t be more than a decade younger.”

“I shall ask Pouder about it,” Meggie said, grinning. “It must have been quite a sight.”

Tysen said, “Old Tyronne’s melancholy is understandable. Every one of his heirs was dead. Still, it is a pity that he died so embittered.”

“Oh, no, he wasn’t sad about that, Papa, at least according to MacNee and Ardle. They said he was angry at Miss Donnatella Vallance because she wouldn’t marry him. Ranted that he could get another boy child off her and it was all her fault for being so selfish. Not his fault, never his. He’d done his best, but now he claimed he didn’t care, and that was why he wanted to burn Kildrummy Castle. He wanted to burn it to the ground, make it hot enough so the devil would accept it in hell.”

“Donnatella is Mary Rose’s cousin, I believe.”

“Evidently she is also a handful, at least according to MacNee, who is quite a handsome man, and I think perhaps he would like to flirt with her himself.”

“Meggie, you will not delve into those particular matters, all right?”

“I was just listening, Papa.”

Tysen let that go. He said, “I remember Old Tyronne as quite amiable. Of course, that was at a time when he had more heirs than any man I’ve ever known of.” He wanted to know what else she’d learned, but he was her father, a vicar, and he didn’t believe in gossip, really he didn’t. And then his sweet daughter said, “Mary Rose and her mother live with Donnatella. Mary Rose’s mother is mad, has been for nearly forever. Evidently Donnatella is very lively and terribly beautiful. She is spoiled, but she is so beautiful that no one minds too much when she throws a tantrum.”

Tysen stared, mesmerized. Meggie’s sources of information never ceased to amaze him. She’d learned all this just by distributing almond sweetmeats?

“Donnatella is younger than Mary Rose,” he said slowly. “The old man was well into his eighties, and he actually expected a young girl to marry him?”

“That’s right,” Meggie said, and sidled farther into the room, sniffing the air. “Ardle said that Lord Barthwick believed Donnatella had the finest pair of hips in all of Scotland and was sure that birthing more heirs would be no problem for her. He also said that Lord Barthwick had more self-confidence than a man with two brains. Papa, I think we should open those windows. It is dreadfully close in here.”

“You’re right,” Tysen said, knowing he should say something to Meggie about speaking of a woman’s hips and childbirth, but he just wasn’t up to it. Instead, he walked to the bank of heavy velvet draperies and jerked them open. Dust billowed into the air, setting him to sneezing. It took him a while to get the latch to open on the large glass doors. Finally, with a creak and a groan, the doors flew open, and father and daughter stood side by side looking out into a small garden, no more than the size of the library. It was completely overgrown—wild rose bushes, yew bushes, ivy, daffodils, and bright-red rhododendron bushes were all tangled together, choking each other to gain the bit of available sunlight.

“I had thought the entire manor formed a large square, what with the enclosed inner courtyard,” Tysen said as he walked slowly out onto moss-covered stones outside the library. He turned and looked back. “Oh, I see. The library was simply cut in half to make this garden. Because it is facing the sea, it isn’t obvious that it’s here. A pity it has been let run wild. I wonder how many years since those glass doors have even been opened? Probably longer than you’ve been on this earth,” he added, smiling down at her.

As for Meggie, his smile meant that he was no longer upset with her. It was a vast relief. He had, she thought, smiled more since they’d arrived here at Kildrummy than he had during than the entire past month in England. She said as she studied the tangled vines and branches, “There are many flowers buried under here, Papa. I’ll be able to clean them up and then replant them around the castle. What do you think?”

“I think you are much like your aunt Alex. When she walks around the Northcliffe gardens, the bushes, plants, and flowers all come to attention. Douglas says the plants stand taller than his troops ever did when they were on parade.”

Meggie was already rubbing her hands together. “I will begin this afternoon. I will write to Aunt Alex and ask her advice. Oh, yes, Papa, MacNee also told me about Lord Barthwick’s cousin, Mrs. Griffin. She sounds rather frightening. She and her husband live in Edinburgh, but they were here much of the time, toward the end. MacNee said she was a real tartar and an old besom. What does that mean?”

“She isn’t amiable,” Tysen said and thought, Please, Lord, please keep the dear woman away.

“Well, MacNee said everyone prayed she wouldn’t come back for at least ten years.”

Tysen immediately joined in the prayers. “Donald MacCray didn’t say anything about her,” Tysen said. “I wonder why not?”

Meggie just shrugged, then said, “Oh, yes, Mrs. MacFardle wanted me to tell you that there is a message from Sir Lyon Vallance. He and his family will visit us here tomorrow afternoon at precisely three o’clock.”

Tysen was pleased. He planned to speak to the man about protecting his niece from the likes of Erickson MacPhail.

Tysen nodded in greeting to Sir Lyon Vallance, a tall man with reddened cheeks, probably from too much drink. He’d once been a handsome man, but now he was running to fat. He was a bit beyond his middle years, but seemed bluff and good-natured. He pumped Tysen’s hand up and down in a hearty grip. He was bald except for a very thin gray circle around his head. He beamed a long look around the drawing room and made a small sound of pleasure. Tysen nearly smiled at that. He didn’t blame Sir Lyon. It was a cozy room, and he liked it despite its need to have new wallpaper and perhaps some new furniture and draperies as well. He would take care of that soon enough.

As for Sir Lyon’s wife, Lady Margaret, she was a handsome woman, deep-bosomed, beautifully gowned, nearly as tall as her spouse, more than a glint of intelligence in her dark eyes. She was also quite a bit younger than her husband. Oddly, she was giving the room a rather proprietary look. As for their only child, Donnatella, Tysen realized that she was eyeing him more than was proper. Something of a cynic—a man of God couldn’t escape a measure of cynicism, what with the indignity of human nature—he imagined that the lovely girl was expecting him to sigh over her hand, perhaps hold that delicate hand overlong, perhaps give her a dazed look to show her he was sufficiently bowled over by her charm. Just like Melissande, Alex’s sister, who was, in truth, much more beautiful than Donnatella Vallance. After what Meggie had told him about her, he doubted he’d be bowled over even if he found her utterly charming. He merely nodded to her as he had to her father and mother. He girded his mental loins, and when everyone had a cup of tea in hand, he said pleasantly, “I am pleased to meet my neighbors. I trust Mary Rose’s ankle isn’t paining her too badly today?”

Lady Margaret arched a sleek black brow. “Her what, my lord?”

“Mary Rose’s ankle, my lady,” Tysen said, then took a sip of his tea.

“Oh, yes,” Donnatella said, sitting forward in her chair, offering him an excellent display of her cleavage that was, indeed, quite lovely, almost as lovely as Mrs. Drake-more’s, a widow in his congregation who displayed herself to him each and every chance she got. Truth be told, he’d been treated to many displays of feminine ingenuity since Melinda Beatrice had died six years before. Donnatella continued, giving Tysen another smile that surely invited intimacies, “Don’t you recall, Mama? Mary Rose said something about falling into one of the sheep killers. She sprained it.”

Lady Margaret obviously didn’t recollect Mary Rose’s accident. “She should take more care,” she said, then looked long at Tysen. “You will be delighted to come to Vallance Manor for dinner, my lord. Perhaps Friday evening? Just you and the family. We can become better acquainted.”

“I should be delighted,” Tysen said.

“I shall give you a tour of the area tomorrow morning, my lord,” Donnatella said. “I will come at nine o’clock.”

“I have ridden both south and west,” Tysen said. “I should be delighted to tour the north, perhaps to Stonehaven. I visited the town when I was here before as a boy.”

He handed around a platter of Mrs. MacFardle’s clootie dumplings, his first sight of them but an hour before. He saw Meggie cramming one into her mouth.

“Barthwick has been too long without a mistress,” Lady Margaret said, her voice proprietary enough for a deaf man to hear. “Far too long.”

“From what I have been told,” Tysen said easily, “there has been no mistress here for more decades than I’ve been on this earth.”

Sir Lyon guffawed in his tea. “A bit of wit, m’dear. Charming, don’t you think?”

“Wit is only charming when it doesn’t impede or otherwise obstruct the conversational direction I am taking,” said Lady Margaret. “The furnishings—they are old and out-of-date. It is time a lady saw to things. A lady who has, perhaps, another, more experienced lady, to advise her—in short, her mother.”

Tysen was afraid of that. Evidently Lady Margaret, after only ten minutes in his company, was ready to offer her daughter as his future spouse. But why him? Certainly Barthwick was a nice holding, but surely Donnatella could have her pick of gentlemen in these parts.

He had no intention of embroiling himself with any young lady. He did not want or need a wife, his children did not want or need a stepmama. His flock would perhaps appreciate a vicar’s wife who would have their interests at heart. But if truth be told, even his congregation had appeared more content after Melinda Beatrice was gone. No, not content exactly. After all, Melinda Beatrice had always had their interests at heart; indeed, she was always telling him who needed to be fixed and how. It was just that when their interests hadn’t coincided exactly with hers, then she had ground them under. He shook his head. Such thoughts were disloyal, unworthy of him, certainly more than unworthy of a man of God. He forced himself back to the platter of clootie dumplings and selected one. His nostrils quivered, they smelled so good.

Not ten minutes after the Vallance family had taken their leave, Meggie sidled out the front door to stand beside him.

“Mrs. MacFardle says that Donnatella Vallance is the most beautiful girl ever produced in these parts.”

“You make her sound like a sausage,” Tysen said, turning to face his daughter. “She is fine-looking, I suppose.” Then he shrugged. Perhaps he would have the opportunity to speak to Sir Lyon about Erickson MacPhail Friday evening when he went to Vallance Manor for dinner. He hoped Mary Rose’s ankle would be sufficiently healed by then.

That evening, Tysen and Meggie stood together on the edge of Bleaker’s Bluff, looking out over the sea, watching the porpoises dive and play, their honking noises filling the evening air. Oystercatchers spun and wheeled overhead, looking for schools of herring the porpoises churned up. The beach below was covered with large, rounded pebbles. Tysen couldn’t begin to imagine how many centuries of tides sweeping over the beach had been required to smooth the pebbles to such perfect roundness. They covered the beach, making it dangerous to walk there. Seaweed wrapped around driftwood lay scattered over the pebbles, the wet green of the seaweed looking nearly black in the fading sunlight.

“Do you wish to sleep in my bedchamber again tonight, Meggie?”

She shook her head, her eyes on a baby porpoise that was diving madly around its mother. “I’ll be all right, Papa. I am sorry to admit it, but that storm rattled me. But it’s peaceful now, so I won’t get scared.”

Tysen nodded, breathed in the sweet, warm evening air. It was incredible here. He hadn’t thought once about writing a sermon, which was odd of him.

It was then that Tysen looked up to see a man on horseback coming toward them. Another neighbor?

But when the man was close enough, Tysen felt himself drawing up. It was Erickson MacPhail, he knew it, not a single doubt. The confidence and arrogance in his very posture indicated a man who took what he wanted and damned the consequences and the wishes of anyone who chanced to cross him. Tysen took Meggie’s hand and they waited, father and daughter standing side by side, until the man dismounted and left his horse to graze on the clusters of knicker weed sticking out of clumps of black rocks.

“I heard the castle had a fine new Englishman in residence,” the man called out, striding toward them, tapping his riding crop against his Hessian boot. Then he noticed Meggie. “I had not heard,” he added slowly, his voice thoughtful now, not so belligerent, “that the Englishman had a daughter.”

“I am Lord Barthwick,” Tysen said, surprised at himself for the show of formality, the touch of arrogance in his own voice. “This is my daughter, Meggie.”

“I am Erickson MacPhail, Laird MacPhail, of Hyson’s Manor. I am pleased to meet you, my lord, and you, little miss.” He bowed to both of them, then straightened and looked out over the water. He breathed in deeply, his chest expanding. “This has long been one of my favorite look-outs. So many porpoises. As a boy I swam with them.”

“Really?” Meggie stepped away from her father, stepped toward this unknown man. “You really swam with them? What happened? Did they hold you underwater? Flatten you?”

Erickson MacPhail smiled down at her, and it was a charming smile, open and friendly. “Oh, no. Porpoises are some of God’s friendliest creatures. They welcome you, nudge you to play, stay with you.”

“Oh, Papa,” Meggie said, turning back to her father, her eyes shining, “I should love to do that. May we? To-morrow, perhaps, if it is warm and sunny?”

“The water is always cold,” Erickson said, grinning from her to Tysen. “You cannot stay in for very long or you will turn blue.”

“Ten minutes, Papa? You taught me how to swim. It can’t be colder than the Channel, can it?”

“Possibly,” Tysen said, and felt something quite fresh and spontaneous blossom inside him. “Swimming with porpoises,” he said. “I think I should like that as well.”

“I saw you standing here and supposed you must be the new baron.”

“Yes,” Tysen said easily, eyeing the man who was constantly trying to catch Mary Rose alone and maul her. What sort of a man swam with porpoises, then tried to ravish a young lady? He was well made, fine-looking, he thought objectively. And dishonorable? He would know soon enough. “Meggie, why don’t you go down to the beach and stick your fingers in the water? See how cold it is.”

Meggie, excitement in every skipping step, was off.

“Pay attention to the path,” Erickson MacPhail called after her. “It’s an easy winding downward, but there are some sharp points.”

Meggie waved but didn’t slow. “If she takes a spill,” he said, “she won’t be hurt, just scratched a bit. You are an Englishman. Everyone has heard about it, but I wished to see for myself.”

Tysen was watching Meggie’s descent. He saw her skirt catch on a rock, pull her over, then he heard her laughter, sweet and clear in the evening air.

“I am just a man,” Tysen said finally, looking back at the man who was probably several years younger than he was. Yes, Erickson MacPhail was handsome, also very well dressed. But there was dissatisfaction written around his well-shaped mouth, Tysen saw. Frustration, perhaps. Resentment? But why? “I hail from southern England, near Eastbourne in a small town called Glenclose-on-Rowan.”

“I have been all over England. I found Brighton a lovely place, Eastbourne as well. You are part of the Sherbrooke family. Your eldest brother is the earl of Northcliffe?”

“That’s right.”

“I remember walking over the land where the Battle of Hastings was fought. It was moving, that spot, perhaps even atmospheric, but it is not Scotland. There is no land more beautiful, more filled with glorious memories than Scotland.”

“It is quite magnificent here,” Tysen agreed. “I met Mary Rose Fordyce yesterday.”

“Oh? I saw her yesterday as well. She was coming out of the pine forest. She’d wondered about you and had been watching you leave the castle. That’s what she told me. She likes to watch people going about their business. She is fanciful. She makes up stories about them, based on her observations of them.”

“She hurt herself.”

The man stiffened, his eyes darkened with concern. This was interesting, Tysen thought.

“Is she all right? What happened?”

“She sprained her ankle. Actually, she mistook me for you, chasing her down. She was running as fast as she could away from you. She tripped and fell into a sheep killer.”

“There is no reason for Mary Rose to fear me,” said Erickson MacPhail, and there was anger in his voice, and frustration as well. “I had already left her. There was no discord between us. I think it more likely that you misunderstood, my lord.”

“Not likely,” Tysen said. “She told me that you tried to maul her, that you even wait for her to come out and then you attack her. You have done this many times. I asked her why her father doesn’t protect her, but evidently her father is dead. I have met her uncle, Sir Lyon Vallance.”

“He is much admired in these parts. He used to be quite the sportsman in his younger years. But when it comes right down to it, he stamps his big feet and bellows to the rafters, but there is no heat in him. If something needs to be done, he wants others to do it for him. I mean no harm to Mary Rose. I never have.”

“She believes that you do.”

There was contempt in the young man’s voice as he said, “So she asked you, a stranger, an Englishman, to warn me away?”

“No, I have taken it upon myself to warn you off. She is a young lady. She should not have to worry about men waylaying her.” Tysen wasn’t used to this, but he said it, his voice clear and cold, “Is it rape you have in mind, sir?”

“Very strong words, my lord. Very strong, indeed. You are a stranger here. You are not a Scot. You know nothing. However, I choose not to take offense. I shouldn’t want to bloody your face with your daughter nearby. You mistake the entire matter.” He laughed. “Mary Rose, a lady?” Erickson MacPhail threw back his handsome head and laughed again, laughed louder than the squawking seagulls overhead. Then he waved to Meggie, turned to his horse and mounted in a single graceful movement. “Soon, my lord,” he called, and wheeled his big gray gelding away. Tysen stood watching until he disappeared over a small hillock to the west.

The sun had set. It was chilly now, wind beginning to whip up from the sea. He called to Meggie, watched her wave back and begin her climb up the hill path to where he stood. It had rained the past two nights. Meggie didn’t think it would storm tonight. Perhaps she’d given some almond sweetmeats to a local seer and been told it would be clear. He wouldn’t be too surprised if that was the case.

Tysen sighed. He didn’t understand this business between Mary Rose and Erickson MacPhail. He knew he shouldn’t involve himself in local difficulties, but he’d been there, actually seen her fear. He didn’t have a choice. Why had MacPhail really ridden this way?

7

DONNATELLA VALLANCE ARRIVED at the exact same moment as an old carriage rolled into the inner courtyard through the gates of the castle.

Tysen heard Oglivie’s voice, overwhelmed by a woman’s imperious voice, then Donnatella said, “Oh, dear, it is Mr. and Mrs. Griffin, here from Edinburgh. I had hoped they would not descend on you quite so quickly. Mrs. Griffin was not pleased when it was announced that you were the heir. Oh, dear. She is a witch. Good luck.”

“What about Mr. Griffin?” Tysen asked.

“Mr. Griffin has never expressed an opinion, as far as I know.”

“What do you know about Mr. Griffin, I ask you, you impertinent chit? Sir, I am Mrs. Griffin. My lord, you will speak to me.”

He stared at the lady who was striding toward him, like a major in the king’s army, garbed in severe, unrelieved black, swinging a black cane with a golden griffin on its head, her voice as deep and sharp as a man’s.

He said easily, “I am Tysen Sherbrooke, ma’am, Lord Barthwick. You were first cousin to the former Lord Barthwick? Have I got it right? Is it possible that we are related?”

She had a thin black mustache atop her upper lip and masses of black hair, all twisted in coils on top of her head. Medusa had perhaps resembled Mrs. Griffin. The mustache quivered a bit as she shouted at him, “Related to you, sir? Good Gad, no! No paltry English blood in these veins. Well, no more than a dollop of English blood. I would allow no more. No, sir, I am a Scotswoman, through and through, very nearly.

“You are not a Scotsman. It is more than just a pity. It is more than a disaster, but God has cursed us for some heretofore unpunished sin and consigned all the worthwhile heirs underground. What are you doing here, Donnatella?”

“I am here to take his lordship on a tour, ma’am. I arrived just before you did.” Donnatella then turned to Tysen and gave him a very warm smile. “Good day, my lord, it is ever so pleasant to see you again. Are you ready to leave?”

The black mustache quivered again, just a bit, over Mrs. Griffin’s upper lip. Tysen wondered if Mrs. Griffin had a first name, but he didn’t ask because then the lady laughed, a perfectly dreadful sound, all deep and hoarse, and said, “Ha! I’ll wager one of my last groats that a tour isn’t your objective at all, Donnatella. You are here to begin your flirtations with the poor man, who isn’t poor at all since he now owns Kildrummy Castle, which the good Lord knows he doesn’t deserve.”

Well, that was the truth, he thought.

Mrs. Griffin turned back to Tysen, gave him a look that clearly told him he was grossly lacking, and said, “You probably do not have a chance, my lord. Donnatella is young, but she is wise in the ways of women, and thus, as a man, you haven’t a chance. Hmmm. Donnatella is a Scotswoman, however, and that is probably the only good thing to come out of this debacle. I would have married old Tyronne myself, but I was too old to give birth to another heir, and also, alas, there is Mr. Griffin to consider. A pity, but we will see.”

Tysen looked beyond Mrs. Griffin to see a very tall, very thin gentleman, nattily dressed, his hair snow-white, thick and full, leaning against the door of the carriage.

“Sir,” Tysen said, giving him a slight bow.

Mr. Griffin nodded, returned with a quick, jerking bow, and nodded once again. He walked up to stand just behind his wife. “My lord. We are here. We have returned, just as we promised ourselves we would. You have met my charming wife, I see.”

“Yes, he has, Mr. Griffin. I am still standing outside, and I don’t want to be here. Now, where is Mrs. MacFardle?”

Tysen couldn’t think of a single thing to say. He merely stood there gazing after the very tall lady who was old enough to be his mother and was probably even more vicious than his mother, who excelled at her craft. He prayed that neither Mr. nor Mrs. Griffin would remain for very long. He continued looking after her until she passed through the front door, Mrs. MacFardle now by her side. Mr. Griffin trailed gracefully behind his wife. She continued to swing her griffin-headed black cane back and forth.

“She is quite obsessed with Kildrummy,” Donnatella said calmly, straightening the charming little riding hat she wore. A dark-blue ostrich plume curved around one cheek. “Do not have an apoplexy, my lord, for neither Mrs. Griffin nor Mr. Griffin lives here, thank the gracious Lord. Evidently she decided to see the new master of Kildrummy Castle for herself. She probably will not remain long. She detests the sea air. She says it makes her nose swell. I believe that her nose swells because she drinks so much smuggled French brandy. Mr. Griffin doesn’t drink anything at all. He just stands there, all skinny and blank-looking, well dressed, his arms crossed, and stares at everyone. You have my profound sympathy, my lord.”

Donnatella lightly laid her fingers on his arm. “Would you like to leave now?”

Tysen looked after the couple, Mr. Griffin still right on Mrs. Griffin’s bootheels, nearly inside the castle now, and he wondered what his obligations were in that particular direction.

Donnatella laughed. “Don’t concern yourself, my lord, truly, she will do just as she pleases without a by-your-leave. For the most part, she is harmless.”

“And for all the other parts?”

“Whatever is involved, I doubt you will like it. She will boss everyone about. You will see that she and Mrs. MacFardle are quite the bosom bows—like to like, as my mother says. Also, Mrs. Griffin is quite rich, for Mr. Griffin owns a huge iron foundry outside of Edinburgh.”

And so Tysen elected not to concern himself, at least not until he returned from his tour.

Donnatella took him all over the countryside. They visited Stonehaven, not at all changed from his boy’s memory, all the houses still dark and dreary, hunkered down between a low, meandering cliff and the sea.

Tysen was beginning to believe that he had ridden by every single hillock, seen every tree, remarked upon every crofter’s cottage by the time she stopped at a jagged outcropping of a cliff that hung dramatically over the sea about two miles northeast of Vallance Manor. She dismounted, walked to the edge, and stared down. She looked over her shoulder and called out, “Come, my lord. This is where Ian fell to his death. He broke his neck when he hit the rocks below. See there, since it is nearing high tide, you can barely see the tops of them sticking out of the water. There are no paths leading down to the water here. It was very difficult to bring Ian back up to bury him. Old Tyronne supervised the entire venture.”

Tysen walked slowly toward her. He remembered Ian so clearly in that moment—so very young and strong, his white teeth gleaming when he smiled. He’d smiled so much as a boy, and he was filled with mischief. And then he had died before he reached his thirtieth year. The last heir. He’d been old Tyronne’s last hope, his last grandson. Mr. and Mrs. Griffin’s last hope as well, Tysen supposed.

As far as Tysen could tell, Donnatella Vallance hadn’t flirted with him at all, thankfully. She’d just tried to ride him into the ground. Big Fellow was snorting, tossing his head. He was tired.

Tysen said, looking at those sharp black rocks with the frothy white waves whipping around them, “Donald MacCray, the solicitor in Edinburgh, wrote that Ian was drunk when he fell.”

“That is what was said,” Donnatella said, then shrugged. “Do you remember him from your only visit here? He was younger than you, wasn’t he? Perhaps about two years younger?”

“Yes, I was ten at the time, and I believe Ian was around eight. I liked him. It is a pity that it happened.”

Donnatella’s chin went into the air, she drew in a deep breath of salty sea air and said, “He changed. At one time he was my hero—when he was twenty and I was only nine. I would have done anything for him. But then he changed, became sullen and withdrawn. I remember hearing of wickedness, of too much wildness in bad places in Edinburgh. Then, last year, when I decided to marry him, he was perhaps happy for a while, but evidently he drank too much one night and stumbled over this cliff. I doubt I will ever forgive him for that.”

“I’m sorry, Miss Vallance. I did not know that you were his fiancée at the time of his death.”

She turned and smiled at him, shrugged. “My father and mother wished me to be mistress of Kildrummy Castle. I did not love him, but I finally agreed to marry him.” She paused then and gave him a sloe-eyed smile designed to make a man’s knees go weak, a smile so beguiling it was superior even to those embarrassingly intimate smiles that Mrs. Delaney, the widow of a local draper, frequently sent his way. She was an extraordinarily confident lady who had made it her goal last year to get him into her bed. He would never forget what she’d whispered in his ear one evening after a town meeting regarding the bridge to be built over the river Rowen: “I want to bed you, Vicar, not wed you. Can you begin to imagine how I will make you feel?”

He’d had to admit to her that no, he couldn’t begin to imagine. He had escaped without rudeness, surely a remarkable feat, given the lady’s perseverance.

“Miss Vallance—”

“My lord, since we are neighbors perhaps you should call me Donnatella.”

He said, “Very well, Donnatella. I am still very sorry about Ian. In the course of things he would be Lord Barthwick now, not I, and you would be his wife. It was a tragedy.”

“But now you are here, my lord.”

“Yes, now things have changed utterly, and I am here. To be honest, I had forgotten all about Kildrummy. I am a widower, ma’am. Perhaps you did not know that I am also a vicar. I am Reverend Sherbrooke of Glenclose-on-Rowan.”

She gaped at him. It was particularly charming since it make her look silly, rather dull-witted, and thus quite human. “You are a vicar?” He’d never heard such incredulity in his life. He smiled at her and said, “Yes, Miss Vallance, I am a vicar.”

She was looking at him, studying his face, still uncertain, still questioning. “But how is such a thing possible? Goodness, sir, I have seen paintings of John Knox, and let me tell you that he looked like what he was supposed to look like. But you do not. You, a vicar? No, it isn’t possible. You are teasing me because you do not wish to engage at present in a harmless flirtation and thus you are trying to put me off.”

He cocked his head at her. “Why isn’t it possible, Miss Vallance?”

She looked at him as if he’d lost his remaining wits. She shook her head at him. “Because you are very handsome. You are also rich.”

His Sherbrooke looks again. Well, there was nothing he could do about the way he looked or about the money that filled his coffers. Now that he thought about it, he himself had seen renderings of John Knox. The man’s face made him shiver a bit. A fanatic in Presbyterian’s clothing. He said, a smile in his voice, “You wish to see handsome gentlemen, you should meet my brothers.”

“Well,” she said slowly, looking even more closely at him now, trying perhaps to see if there was some sort of sign on his face that fit what a man of God should look like, at least in her view. “Thank heaven that you are not a priest, my lord,” she then said, and touched her fingertips to his sleeve. “You are a widower. Do accept my condolences. We will have a late luncheon at Vallance Manor. My father requested that you come.” She cocked her head to one side, the ostrich feather curling around her cheek, and said, “You may say grace to bless our food. It is rarely done. I cannot wait to see Papa’s face.”

Vallance Manor was an upstart, Donnatella told him as they reined in their mounts in front of a compact gray-granite house that looked more English than Scottish and wasn’t old enough to have enjoyed a single soldier pouring boiling oil down on an enemy. It was a neat property, surrounded by pine trees, a graveled drive in front of it, beech trees lined up along the sides. It was inland from the sea, a good half-mile, but Tysen could still smell the sea air, and he liked that.

Donnatella tossed her mare’s reins to a young boy who was missing his front tooth and was gazing at her with naked adoration.

She ignored him, waiting until Tysen dismounted and handed the boy Big Fellow’s reins as well.

He realized he would soon see Mary Rose. Odd that he didn’t think of her as Miss Fordyce. No, she had been Mary Rose from the moment he’d heard her name. He couldn’t very well call her Miss Fordyce now. He would feel like a complete fool. He said, “I trust Mary Rose’s ankle is healed today?”

Donnatella shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“I will soon see for myself,” Tysen said.

“You are very kind to be concerned about her.”

“She took a very bad fall. I was worried she had done herself a lasting injury.”

“She didn’t. She is fine.”

He wanted to tell her that since she’d admitted that she didn’t even know, how could she say with such certainty that Mary Rose was fine? Because no one had called for a physician?

He was met and briefly entertained by both Sir Lyon and Lady Margaret in the drawing room, a very modern room filled with furnishings to reflect the contemporary craze for all things Egyptian, from sofas with scrolled arms to chairs with clawed feet.

“How is Mary Rose?” he asked when there was finally a brief lull in the conversation. He was surprised that she wasn’t here to greet him, a bit put out as well. He had saved her, after all, and yet she didn’t care enough to thank him, or at least to acknowledge his presence.

Lady Margaret said, “Mary Rose, my lord, is fine. She naturally will not be dining with us.”

“I don’t understand,” Tysen said slowly. “If she is fine, then why won’t she be dining with us?” A look passed between Sir Lyon and his wife.

“Ah, of course the girl will eat with us,” Sir Lyon said. “My lady was thinking that she had a prior appointment, but I do not believe it is so. Donnatella, my dear, why don’t you fetch your cousin? Then we will have our luncheon.”

Donnatella smiled at Tysen. “I think you will be quite relieved, my lord. You will see that she is fine now.” And she left the drawing room, lifting off her charming riding hat as she went.

Sir Lyon, his voice all bluff and full of bonhomie, said, “Well, did my little beauty take you everywhere, my lord?”

“Yes, sir,” Tysen said and thought of the dozen streams they had crossed, the ancient circle of stones they had seen, the ruins of a very old Scottish castle. “I believe I saw everything.” He then asked about the history of Vallance Manor.

“It was said that Mary, Queen of Scots once stayed here,” said Lady Margaret. “The manor was newly built then. I believe the year was 1570.”

The door opened and in walked Mary Rose, no limp, thank the good Lord.

For a moment, Mary Rose and Donnatella were standing side by side. Mary Rose was tall, very slender, her dark red hair ruthlessly snagged back and rolled into a tight bun at the base of her neck. Her gown was an indeterminate gray from many washings, at least ten years old, he thought. But her eyes—they were the color of rich green moss, moss just rained upon, moss hidden from the sunlight, left in shadows to hold secrets and look mysterious. They’d been clouded with pain when he had seen her the first time, but not now. This was ridiculous—eyes the color of moss hidden from sunlight? He was suffering a flight of fancy that simply wasn’t proper or appropriate. Had he ever even been visited by a flight of fancy before? Perhaps he felt a bit proprietary because he’d saved her. Yes, that was it. He turned purposely to Donnatella, who was smaller than her cousin, her figure lovely and rounded, her hair a rich, deep black, no red in it, her skin as white as a fresh snowfall. They looked absolutely nothing alike.

Mary Rose was—was what? Tysen frowned. She was a woman, not a girl like Donnatella. She also had a very strange look on her face. Those mysterious eyes of hers were narrowed, intent. She wasn’t looking at him, she was looking at Lady Margaret.

He rose quickly and walked to her. “Hello, Mary Rose,” he said and took her hand in his for a moment. He studied her face. “Your ankle is fit again?”

“Yes, my lord. I am perfectly fine now.”

He dropped her hand, and she looked up at him now, full face, and wondered if he had already fallen in love with Donnatella. She knew well enough that she looked like a peasant next to her cousin—a maypole, a scarecrow stuck on a stick to frighten away birds in the fields. She was wearing an old woolen gown that had belonged to her mother when she’d been young. It was too short, far short of her ankles. Not that it mattered. She was nothing. Well, she didn’t want to be anything, particularly to this Englishman—to any man, actually.

“Excellent,” Tysen said, then took a step back. There was dead silence. Finally, Sir Lyon hefted himself to his feet. “Eh, my lord? Luncheon? I know it is late, but my beauty here wanted you to see everything before she brought you back.”

“Yes,” Tysen said. “Yes, luncheon would be very nice.”

Without thinking, he offered his arm to Mary Rose. Donnatella laughed.

Over forfar bridies—sausage in pastry coats, tossed with onions—Donnatella said to the table at large, “I showed his lordship where poor Ian fell.”

Mary Rose’s fork fell from her fingers and clattered to the tabletop. But she didn’t say anything.

Tysen said, “It is a tragedy. I remember Ian from the one time I was here so very long ago. I understand that he was to marry Miss Vallance. My profound sympathies to you all.”

Everyone thanked him. Mary Rose picked up her fork, kept her head down, and continued eating something that Lady Margaret called finnan haddies, which, Donnatella told him, laughing, was simply haddock smoked over a peat fire. But the name was so quaint, didn’t he agree? Yes, it was a very old Scottish dish that was much beloved.

“Would you care for some damson jam, my lord? It’s delicious on Cook’s scones.”

“Thank you, Lady Margaret,” Tysen said. He continued smoothly to Mary Rose, “I was standing with Meggie on Bleaker’s Bluff last evening when we had a visitor. It was Erickson MacPhail.”

Fear emptied all expression on her face. He’d scared her because he had decided it was time to bring MacPhail’s dishonorable behavior into the open. But it wasn’t well done of him. Before she looked down at her plate again, he saw something else in those very green eyes of hers. They held no secrets, no mysteries now. It was helplessness, he saw. She looked utterly helpless. If he hadn’t been seated, he would have kicked himself.

Mary Rose calmly picked up her fork and cut up an overcooked carrot. She wouldn’t be so surprised again that she dropped her fork. She had control of herself now. But why had Erickson sought him out? What had he said to Tysen? And why, she wondered as she looked over at him, her face perfectly blank now, had he brought Erickson’s name up, here at luncheon?

Sir Lyon said, oblivious of the swirling undercurrents at his table, “Erickson MacPhail, a fine young man. His father was an excellent friend. Many of us were very distressed when he fell into one of those ridiculous sheep killers and broke his neck in a demned footrace with one of his crofters. Erickson is now the MacPhail laird.” He gave a proud look toward his daughter. “He has been just one of many of our local boys to crowd upon my doorstep, all of them lapdogs for my dearest Donnatella. The day she turned seventeen, by gad, I thought I should have to keep my brace of pistols close about to scatter all those smitten young dogs.”

“I have told Erickson no, Papa,” Donnatella said calmly and took a bite of small boiled potatoes. “I told you that.”

“But now Ian is dead, Donnatella,” Lady Margaret said. “Perhaps you should reconsider Erickson’s suit. Hyson’s Manor is a fine holding. Except for Erickson’s mother, who is a rather dreadful woman, it would be an excellent place to reside. The good Lord provides, however. If you married Erickson, she would doubtless have the good manners to die soon, don’t you think?”

“It would benefit everyone,” Donnatella said. Then she looked directly at Tysen. “We will see. Yes, we will just have to see, won’t we?”

Tysen felt like a grouse on the run from hunters. He wondered where Sir Lyon kept his brace of pistols. He said, “MacPhail said he used to swim with the porpoises when he was a boy.”

“Splendid young fellow,” Sir Lyon said, and drank down his glass of wine in one long gulp. “Absolutely splendid.” He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, motioning immediately for the man standing just off to his left, probably the butler, Tysen thought, to pour him another glass, which he did. “Thank you, Gillis. I cannot understand, myself, how diving in and out of the water with bloody fish would be much fun, but to each his own.”

Donnatella laughed behind her napkin.

“Mary Rose,” Tysen said, turning to her, “you are acquainted with Erickson MacPhail.” The moment the words were out of his mouth, Tysen wanted to shoot himself. Why in the dear Lord’s name had he shoved her into the open like that? He held himself silent, waiting to see what she would say. Perhaps she would throw her jam pastry at him. Actually he knew very well why he’d done it. Tysen had never been content to sit about when something needed to be resolved. He wanted this situation faced and Sir Lyon properly informed so he would protect his niece. He was clumsy in his approach, but he would see her safe.

Mary Rose said after a long moment, “When I was a little girl, I swam with Erickson and the porpoises. They are mammals, Uncle Lyon, just like us. Not fish. Erickson taught me how to swim. He taught me that the porpoises wouldn’t hurt me, that they loved to play and dive and plunge around.”

“Surely you are wrong,” Sir Lyon said. “They live in the water. Only fish live in the water.”

“But you have seen Erickson recently, haven’t you, Mary Rose?” Donnatella asked, her voice cool, a thread of something Tysen didn’t understand running through it. “Not that I mind, of course,” Donnatella added in a bright voice. “After all, I did turn him down, didn’t I?”

“Yes, I see him often,” Mary Rose said. “Too often.”

Enough, Tysen thought. Very well, he would speak privately to Sir Lyon. He was Mary Rose’s uncle. It was his responsibility to protect her. It didn’t matter if he wanted Erickson MacPhail for a son-in-law, but even then, Tysen didn’t want to see Donnatella taken in either. One thing was certain, he would never allow Erickson MacPhail to become Sir Lyon’s nephew-in-law. Surely the news that MacPhail was trying to accost Mary Rose would make Sir Lyon reassess his opinion that the man was an excellent fellow.

Lady Margaret rose gracefully from her lovely Louis XVI chair. “Donnatella, you and Mary Rose come with me,” she said, and swept out of the small dining room before the two remaining male persons had time to put down their forks.

When they were alone, Sir Lyon eyed the young man on his right and said, “Is there some sort of problem here, my lord? You need my assistance perhaps in some estate matter?”

8

TYSEN SAID SLOWLY, relieved that Sir Lyon hadn’t drunk any more wine, “No, sir. There is no estate problem. It is much more serious. You see, the reason Mary Rose hurt her ankle was because she was running from MacPhail and tripped into a sheep killer. I believe he at-tempts to get her alone. He will probably rape her if he isn’t stopped. You are her uncle; it is your responsibility to warn him off. It was imperative that you knew what was happening. I wish Mary Rose had told you, but since she did not, I have.”

Sir Lyon looked at him for a very long time, no expression at all on his face. He rubbed his knuckles over his cheek. He drank more wine. He said finally, “And just what would your point be, my lord?”

Tysen could only stare at the man. “My point is that you are her uncle, sir.”

“Listen, my boy,” Sir Lyon said, sitting forward, his hands clasped beneath his chin. “You do not understand the way of things. I know you are a man of God. That particular calling perhaps sharpens your sensibilities, makes you question, perhaps, the means necessary to gain a needful end. Aye, Donnatella whispered to her mother that you were a vicar, and my Margaret whispered it to me right before we came in to luncheon. I am sorry that I forgot to have you invoke God’s blessing upon our meal. The haddock was on the dry side. Perhaps a prayer from a vicar would have made it more tender. Now, my lord, you do not understand the situation here. You believe Erickson to be dishonorable. You wish, because you are a vicar, to question his motives, to deplore his actions, perhaps to flay him as a sinner.”

“As a man of God, certainly I question his motives and condemn his actions. He is unnatural. His behavior is beyond the line. As a man, I also find that I would like to flatten him if he bothers her again. I am, however, no blood relation to her. You, on the other hand, are her uncle, her only male relative. It is your duty to stop him. She is very afraid of him.”

Sir Lyon frowned into his remaining wine. “I know that he wants her, he has told me so. I don’t know why, but he does. She is, after all, nothing compared to her cousin. What’s more, she carries The Taint and it will always be there. Yes, Erickson will rape her if he must, but only if he must. He has assured me of that. He wants her. I have given him my permission. He can have her. She’ll get no better offer.”

Tysen felt as if he was listening to a language he had never heard before. He simply didn’t understand. He rose slowly and placed his palms on the tablecloth. “I will not allow this man to rape an innocent young lady.”

“I told you that he would rape her only if he were forced to. I have knowledge of this. I don’t approve of it, but Mary Rose is very stubborn. She doesn’t appear to accept what she is. Well, she does, I suppose, in a sense, but she has this stubborn pride that is completely misplaced. She gives herself airs. She believes herself to be above Erickson, which is utter nonsense. She won’t listen to him. She won’t accept him. She insists that she will not have him. She must be made to realize that Erickson MacPhail represents a tremendous triumph for her. Even her mother—when her wits are unclouded, which isn’t often nowadays—hasn’t said anything against Erickson.

“Perhaps you can assist us, my lord. Mary Rose must be made to see that if she weds him, mouths will be closed. All talk of what she is will stop. Erickson, as her husband, would ensure that all talk would end. If the lad has to force her, why, then, that is what will happen, and the consequences—namely, her marriage to him—will, by far, outweigh the rough-and-tumble methods.”

“Of course I will not assist in this. She doesn’t want to marry him. Trust her, she isn’t being coy. I tell you, she is terrified of him. Do you really want your innocent niece to be raped? To be forced into a union she fears?”

“You grow melodramatic, my lord. Erickson wants to marry her. It is a wondrous thing for her to wed with him. To gain that end, I approve whatever it is he must do.” Sir Lyon cocked his big head to one side, frowning until the light dawned. “My God,” he said, blinking at Tysen, “you don’t fully understand her situation, do you?”

Tysen was as baffled as he was angry. His voice was as cold as his brother’s when he donned his magistrate’s robes. “Understand what? This entire business should be distasteful to any civilized man.”

Sir Lyon threw back his head and laughed and laughed. He took a sip of wine and spewed it out, and still he laughed. Finally he managed to say, “I apologize for not realizing that you are new here and thus do not understand. Ah, it is amusing. Of course Mary Rose is my niece, but here is where you labor under a severe misapprehension, my lord.

“Mary Rose isn’t a lady. She is as far from a lady as it is possible to be.” Sir Lyon just shook his head at the young man’s obtuseness.

“Mary Rose is a bastard, my lord. She is an embarrassment. She has no worth, no value. She is not a lady, she can never be a lady. For reasons unfathomed by either myself or her aunt, Erickson MacPhail is willing to marry her. Since she refuses to have him, I have told him he may do what he must to bring her to the altar. If she does not wed him, she will never have anything, never be anyone, never have respect or recognition or even a civil nod from the local gentry. Nothing. Don’t you understand? She is and always will be a bastard.”

“She will have her mother and her good name.”

“She never had a good name.”

“Of course she does. Just because her parents were not man and wife, she isn’t to blame. Why can’t you leave her be? Let her do what she wishes to do? Respect her for the good and honest person she is? Perhaps, if her situation is so very dreadful here, and will grow only worse as she grows older, then she and her mother could live elsewhere, where no one would ever know about her being a bastard.”

Sir Lyon looked at Tysen with pity. “You are an optimistic man, my lord. You have high ideals. You believe the best of your fellow man. I, however, am not so sanguine. In my experience, some rare men are truly worthy, even selfless upon occasion, but usually men are weak and greedy and brimming with ill will toward those more vulnerable than they are.

“Ladies, too, aren’t all that benevolent, my lord. They are malicious, they will shred the reputation of any female who strays outside the rules they themselves have set. It would not matter where Gweneth and Mary Rose chose to live. She would become known soon enough for what she is.

“Leave be, my lord. Let Erickson have her. All will be well. She will not be abused. He will treat her kindly—why should he not? He is a good man, I swear it to you. He will also be sympathetic to her mother, see that she has nurses, and surely you must agree that this is something to admire in him. Her mother, Gweneth Fordyce, you see, is quite mad, has been for years. She is my wife’s younger sister, and she has lived with us since before Mary Rose was born. Leave off. Let the situation resolve itself in the way that it should. It is not your affair. Keep out of it, sir.”

Tysen looked Sir Lyon right in his very sincere face and said, “Why did Donnatella say that MacPhail wished to marry her? That makes no sense.”

“Ah, my little beauty,” said Sir Lyon, now at ease again, twirling the lovely crystal wineglass between his fingers. “She told me that she turned Erickson down. It was then, she told me, that he went on to Mary Rose. So Mary Rose is his second choice. Perhaps that is why she is teasing him so. She is upset that she is second in his affections. But it has always been so. Donnatella is very beautiful, and even as a child her beauty drew the boys from all around. Now, about Erickson. I suppose it must gall Donnatella, just a bit, you understand, to have the young man so very quickly change the, er, recipient of his affection. My little beauty has hinted to me that perhaps Erickson wants to be close to her, and thus his willingness to wed Mary Rose. Well, let Donnatella believe what she will. Erickson is very fond of Mary Rose. Now, do not worry about her, there is no need. It is a play with a happy ending. Let it work itself out.” And Sir Lyon smiled, replete with his lunch and with his wine, and more than pleased that he had so admirably performed his duty.

Tysen said, drawing himself straight and tall, “I will not allow this, Sir Lyon. If she doesn’t wish to wed him, why, that is the end to it. If you will not speak to the man, then I will. I will not allow Erickson MacPhail to rape her.”

Meggie was lying in her bed, the covers pulled up to her chin, for she had one of the long narrow windows open a bit and the evening air was cool. She said to her papa, “You are upset, Papa, and it is no longer about my sins.”

Tysen forced his attention back to his very precocious daughter. “It is an adult sort of problem, Meggie. It is about Mary Rose and the man you met last night—Erickson MacPhail. I must deal with a problem that involves the two of them.”

“Mrs. MacFardle said Mary Rose was a bastard. I overheard her talking about Mary Rose to Mr. and Mrs. Griffin when they were at luncheon. I asked Mrs. MacFardle later what that meant, and she said that Mary Rose’s mama hadn’t been married to her papa, that no one even knew who her papa was. Is that why there is a problem? Because Mary Rose doesn’t have a father?”

“Yes, that is part of it. What do you think of Mr. and Mrs. Griffin? I was sorry that they weren’t well enough to dine with us this evening.”

“Mr. Griffin doesn’t say much, just stands around looking at you, all disapproving, his mouth tight. Mrs. Griffin called me into the drawing room and told me to stand like a little soldier while she questioned me. She said I wasn’t to speak too softly or too quickly. I answered a great many questions, Papa. She has a mustache, just like Mr. Clint’s, in the village.”

“What were some of these questions?” He was irritated, but he supposed that since he’d gone on Donnatella’s tour, Meggie had been left to her own devices. Next time he would take Meggie with him. Her presence would keep Donnatella behaving properly if she was inclined toward flirtation.

“She asked me all about our family. She was particularly interested in Uncle Douglas. She said it would have been less repulsive if he were the new Baron Barthwick because he already had a title, was a peer of the realm, and at least knew what was what. As for you, she said that a so-called man of God would find himself sauced up really fast here.”

“She has a point there,” Tysen said, wondering if he were sauced up, if it meant he would be laid low. He leaned down and kissed Meggie’s nose.

“Did Mr. Griffin ask you any questions?”

Meggie shook her head. “No. Oh, yes, Mrs. Griffin wanted to know all about Mama.”

Tysen stiffened. Beyond the line, he thought, that was well beyond the line.

“I told her that Mama died a very long time ago. I also told her that you didn’t want a wife, so Donnatella wouldn’t be able to seduce you.”

He jerked back as if he’d been slapped. “Meggie, I am your father. I am a vicar. You are ten years old. Do not use that word again.”

He eyed her. Meggie was smart, she was endlessly curious. “All right,” he said, “where did you hear it this time?”

“I overheard Aunt Alex speaking to Aunt Sophie about a man named Spenser Heatherington and how Helen had probably seduced him without a by-your-leave. They laughed a whole lot then, Papa.”

It was too much or not enough, Tysen was thinking, staring now beyond his ten-year-old daughter to the rumbling sea, which was loud this evening, waves crashing against the black, pitted rocks covered with the white bird droppings at the base of the Kildrummy cliff.

He drew a deep breath. Helen Mayberry and Spenser Heatherington, Lord Beecham. Actually, from what he’d heard about them, it was very likely to have happened just that way. Helen was a unique woman, Douglas had said, and laughed his wicked satyr’s laugh. It was obvious to Tysen that Douglas admired the woman very much. Actually, Spenser and Helen had been married nearly four years now. They were, according to his brother, happy as loons, and they had two children.

Tysen cleared his throat. “Mrs. Griffin—did she say how long she and Mr. Griffin would remain here at Kildrummy?”

Meggie said matter-of-factly, “She said she was staying until Mr. Griffin was satisfied that you wouldn’t run everything into the ground. But she said that Mr. Griffin didn’t hold much hope that this debacle would end well, even when Miles MacNeily returns. Papa, what’s a debacle?”

“That old bat,” Tysen said, finally feeling a bit of irritation bubbling inside his belly. He rose to pace beside his daughter’s bed, to calm himself. The room was chilly now, and he closed the window, latching it securely. He’d come to Scotland to become the Barthwick laird, a my lord, for heaven’s sake, and now here he was, a debacle. It was time to beard the lioness, he thought, not the lion. The lion had no teeth. He was only a cipher. He said to his daughter, “I believe I will myself get to know our guests,” gave her a nod, and left the room. “Strange how the both of them refused to come to dinner.”

Meggie slipped on her wrapper, pulled on a pair of Max’s socks that came to her knees, and slipped out after her father. Unfortunately, she came face-to-face with Mrs. MacFardle at the base of the grand central staircase.

“I wanted some milk,” Meggie said without hesitation. She could always lie better than either of her brothers. She’d tried to teach them the trick—always look the person straight in the eye when you lied. Otherwise you looked shifty and it was all over.

“Harrumph,” said Mrs. MacFardle and led the way to the kitchen. Meggie looked back over her shoulder toward the closed drawing room door. Evidently her papa had found the Griffins.

The door was partially open, and she heard him say in his calm, deep voice, “I trust you are recovered from the malady that kept you from the dinner table?”

“If that is your roundabout way of asking if I am feeling fit now, the answer is yes. I am here in the drawing room, aren’t I? I have allowed you to enter. I am even speaking to you, although it is difficult—”

Tysen cut her off. His irritation was building. “And has Mr. Griffin also regained his good health?”

“Mr. Griffin, I believe, is determining how long it will take you to destroy all the Kildrummy property. I, naturally, have asked him to do this.”

He ignored that and forged ahead. “I would appreciate it, ma’am, if you would ask questions of me rather than of my daughter. If you wish to know about my family, ask me, and I will decide what you need to know.”

“Why? She’s a smart little gel,” said Mrs. Griffin, dressed in the same stiff pervasive black, spread over nearly the entire sofa. She was holding that black cane, waving it just a bit. It looked like a weapon in her large hand. “She told me everything I wanted to know, whereas you would likely have perseverated. Besides, you went off with Donnatella and were not available to me. Now, to be blunt about all this—I quite despair of Kildrummy ever recovering.”

“I don’t,” Tysen said. “However, ma’am, I think despair would be an excellent trait for you to cultivate.”

“I have no idea what you mean by that, and thus it is very likely irrelevant. Now, isn’t Donnatella a lovely little chit? And you were with her for a very long time, weren’t you? Alone.” She gave him an arch, leering look that made him want to throw an old leather hassock at her.

“Aye,” she continued, her leer even more pronounced as she looked him up and down, “if you weren’t a vicar, I would believe that you had yourself a very fine time indeed. On the other hand,” she added, the thin black mustache over her upper lip mesmerizing him, “it’s possible that since you’re an English vicar, you have no notion of what real sin is or isn’t.”

And even-tempered Tysen Sherbrooke, a man of cool detachment and sound judgment, leapt off the edge. He said, his voice utterly clipped and cold in his fury, “You are a malicious old woman. I do not wish you to remain here any longer, ma’am. You and Mr. Griffin will leave in the morning. Have I made myself clear?”

The black mustache quivered in outrage. Mrs. Griffin roared to her feet in a welter of black skirts and a great deal of energy. She swung up her black cane and aimed it at him, as if it were a blunderbuss. “You are a vicar, sir. You have insulted me, you have insulted my dear Mr. Griffin in absentia. You will beg our pardon.”

And Tysen, still furious to his toes, said in a voice as rigid as his father’s was whenever he’d been angry with his mother—not an unusual occurrence at all, “I apologize, ma’am. You and Mr. Griffin will still leave in the morning. I bid you good night and a pleasant journey back to Edinburgh.”

“We’ll just see what Donald MacCray has to say about this, my lord,” she shouted after him. “He is the Barthwick solicitor, a man of singular and impressive standing, and he will pin back your wretched little English ears for your horrid behavior to me! Vicar—ha, I say! A plague on you, sir.”

It was a fine parting shot, but he didn’t turn back to the miserable old besom. He just walked out of the drawing room, nearly knocking over his daughter, who had obviously been plastered against the door. He saw a glass of milk on the floor beside her.

“If I could send you away as well, Meggie, I would,” said Tysen and took the stairs two at a time, not looking back.

Two hours later, Reverend Sherbrooke was praying to God to forgive him for his illogical and highly odd anger, his unusual and passionately felt display of temper, his unquestioned rudeness in the face of rudeness that had, for whatever reason, driven him right over the brink. He’d landed facedown in an emotional quagmire. He’d wallowed in it, shamed his calling, riddled holes in his name. But, surely, what had come out of that dreadful woman’s mouth still was of sufficient weight to justify what he had said to the old bat.

He realized in that moment that he was trying to justify himself to God. It appalled him that he had sunk so low, had let himself fall off a righteous path so easily. God was an integral part of his life, His presence and strength filled Tysen’s very being. He was graced by God’s love and it gave him endless joy. And yet he had left Him in a ditch somewhere in this wretched country and continued on alone. Look what had happened to him.

He finally said, his soul stripped of false pride, of pretense, “God, the fact is, I have sinned royally. I lost my temper, and there is no defense that is at all worthy. I was an ass. I brayed, loudly. I will try very hard not to do it again.” There, he could think of nothing else to say. He was no longer angry at Mrs. Griffin, no longer wanted to swat Meggie’s bottom. Well, maybe a bit.

No. He had to exercise better control of himself. He realized then that he was out of his element, far away from what he knew and understood, from everything familiar to him, all of it lying many miles to the south. He’d been tossed into an utterly different pocket of the world, where, to this moment, nothing was what it seemed. He felt like a blind man on a narrow path.

He finally opened his eyes, blinked, and saw that darkness had fallen in this land so very far north that it had to be nearly ten o’clock at night before the light finally faded away and the land was blanketed in blackness.

He felt at peace. He still had no intention of asking Mr. Griffin or Mrs. Griffin to remain. He wasn’t a coward, though. He would show himself to them when they left. He would keep his mouth closed, no matter the provocation.

Mary Rose Fordyce was another matter entirely. She was a bastard. But that wasn’t relevant. Saying that marrying Erickson would be a triumph for her made his belly twist and cramp with the unfairness of it. Evidently, though, it was of primary importance to everyone else hereabouts. No, he would not allow Erickson MacPhail to force himself on her.

He had come to a decision, and he meant it. He also realized, just before he fell asleep that night, that he would be pleased to have the old bat and her silent, disapproving husband gone from Kildrummy. Actually, he wondered what she would say to him when he stood there, perhaps giving a farewell nod and a little smile as their carriage passed out of the inner courtyard. He would, perhaps, even wave both of them happily on their way.

He smiled into the darkness. When the scream came, jerking him out of a deep sleep, he nearly fell out of his bed.

9

Tutene? Atque cuius exercitus?

You? And whose army?

TYSEN DIDN’T EVEN think of his dressing gown. He ran out of his huge bedchamber into the long corridor, his nightshirt flapping against his ankles. It was near dawn, the light dim and gray.

Another scream.

It wasn’t coming from Meggie’s bedchamber. It was coming from the guest chamber at the far end of the corridor. It was Mrs. Griffin, and she was yelling her head off.

Maybe Mr. Griffin, pushed beyond reason, was strangling the old witch.

Not a proper thought, he told himself as he ran down that corridor, wincing with each footfall since the floor was very cold. Not even a remotely acceptable thought for a vicar.

He threw open the door and dashed into a very dark room, with all the draperies closed, and he stubbed his toe. He drew up short, gritting his teeth at the shock of the pain, when he suddenly saw a candle flickering in the darkness, just a small circle of light, and in the center of that small circle of light was Mrs. Griffin’s face. White as new snow; the mustache that topped her upper lip as black as a man’s funeral armband. Her hair was tied in rags. It was a terrifying sight.

His toe still hurt. He called out, “What is wrong, Mrs. Griffin? I heard you scream. What is the matter? Where is Mr. Griffin?”

“Oh, it’s you, Vicar,” she said, gasping for breath. “I saw her. For the first time since I have been in this accursed castle, I finally saw her. Just last year I wanted to see her, I actually spoke into the empty room, asking her to show herself, but she did not come. She had to wait until I was furious and under great duress because I wanted to smack you in the head for ordering me to leave. I did not want to see her. I was not prepared to see her. Yes, she waited until I would be terrified into the grave with my fear. Mr. Griffin is right here, beside me, probably still asleep.”

“Who came, Mrs. Griffin?”

“Why, the bloody Kildrummy ghost, of course,” she yelled at him, her harsh, churning breath making her candle flicker. “She is right over there, in the corner, sitting there on top of the bloody commode.” She shone the candle toward the corner. There was nothing there. “No, don’t tell me that I am quite mad, sir. You know nothing at all. She was there, sitting right on the edge of the bowl, swinging her leg back and forth, just looking at me. I think she was whistling. I heard her whistling, surely a strange sound in the middle of the night, and so I lit the candle. And there she was. She kept whistling and now she’s gone.”

“I say, Mrs. Griffin, what is going on here? Why is the vicar standing in our bedchamber in his nightshirt? By all the bloody saints, man, I will not let you seduce my wife! How dare you, sir! And you call yourself a vicar? You have gall, sir! I will kill you with my bare hands!”

Mrs. Griffin never turned to look at her husband, just raised her hand and hit him in the head. “Calm yourself, Mr. Griffin. In this case the man isn’t trying to gain my corporal affections. He’s too far away from me to succeed in any case.”

Mr. Griffin said, “You told me he was a paltry fellow. Are you quite sure there is no attempted seduction on his part, Mrs. Griffin?”

“Yes, Mr. Griffin. You will see that he is keeping his distance. He has stepped only one foot inside our bedchamber. I believe he must have hurt himself—he was holding his foot for a while.”

“My foot is fine now, Mrs. Griffin. Actually, it is my toe that hurts.” Tysen shook his head at himself. He wasn’t making any sense of this.

Seduce Mrs. Griffin?

He nearly fell to his knees with that blow. He cleared his throat, but didn’t go any closer to Mrs. Griffin’s bed. Mr. Griffin’s face was now vaguely illuminated just beside his wife’s. Tysen said slowly, “You believe you saw the Kildrummy ghost, ma’am? Who is this ghost?”

But Mrs. Griffin was now staring over at the commode with its large, flowered ceramic basin set on top, a water pitcher next to it. He followed her line of vision, but there was still nothing there, nothing at all.

“She is gone,” Mrs. Griffin said, furious now that she was no longer afraid. She threw back the bedcovers and jumped out of the bed. She was wearing a dark wool nightgown that covered her from chin to heels. She seemed suddenly to remember that he was there, a man wearing naught but his own nightshirt, a man her husband feared was there to seduce her, and she yelled, “Begone, sir, begone! It is not proper for you to stare at a lady in dishabille. It is enough to raise the beast in any man, vicar or no.”

And she flapped her hand at him. She needed but her griffin-headed cane.

“You heard her, sir,” Mr. Griffin yelled, “begone before I rise out of my bed and thrash you within an inch of your life! Staring at my wife when she is wearing naught but her nightgown. You are not a gentleman, sir.”

“But—”

Mrs. Griffin was looking again toward the commode. “She is no longer here. Ah, but her presence—I can still feel it. It is a moldy essence, and far too old. Can you not smell it? Mr. Griffin, do you not feel the mold crawling on your limbs? She doubtless came because the Englishman has taken over. She is upset, and she found her way into the wrong bedchamber. Do you hear that, ghost? If you want him to leave Kildrummy, you must secure proper directions to his bedchamber.

“Ah, but it is cold in here, like the grave she must spend some time in when she is not here, scaring me. Mr. Griffin and I are leaving this wretched place, right this minute. We will not remain in this room with this long-dead Lady Barthwick watching me from the commode.”

It sounded like a fine idea to Tysen.

And so at dawn, not even an hour later, Tysen, now dressed and shaved, his toe no longer hurting inside his boot, stood on the steps of Kildrummy Castle to watch Mr. and Mrs. Griffin’s carriage drive through the outer gate. He did manage a smile and a little wave. He could hear the driver muttering curses as he pulled the collar up to his ears. He saw Mr. Griffin’s pale face glaring at him from the window. It was a chill morning with fog lying heavy just above the ground.

He walked back into the huge entry hall, shaking his head. Life since his arrival at Kildrummy Castle had not been boring.

“Are they gone, Papa?”

“Assuredly they are, Meggie. I don’t understand it. I don’t believe in ghosts, never did, despite what everyone says about the Virgin Bride at Northcliffe Hall. I never saw her.”

“Uncle Douglas did, several times. He just won’t admit it. He thinks he will be called weak in the head if he does say that he saw her. He says only the ladies claim to see her, and that’s because they thrive on the supernatural, that they gain attention from their claims, that they are, in short, weak in the head.”

“Be that as it may,” Tysen said, his voice testy, “I have never believed in the Virgin Bride or in any other ghost, not even when I was sleeping in that room once and—no, forget that. Whatever, Mrs. Griffin believed she saw a ghost in her bedchamber, and it quite terrified her. She informed Mr. Griffin that they were going back to Edinburgh.”

Now that he thought about that strange sequence of events, he saw the humor in it and smiled, shaking his head. Seduce Mrs. Griffin?

Suddenly, with no assistance whatever from a spirit, Tysen realized quite clearly what had happened. He turned to carefully study his daughter’s face. It did not require a great intelligence to understand what she had done. She was smirking, her eyes brimming with her triumph. He saw it before she could wipe it away.

“Meggie,” he said slowly, “you have grown up with tales about the Virgin Bride at Northcliffe Hall and Pearlin’ Jane at Vere Castle, who supposedly appears with great regularity to watch over your aunt Sinjun.” He stroked his chin, never looking away from his daughter. “I will ask you only one time, Meggie. Were you the ghost in the Griffins’ bedchamber? Were you sitting atop the commode? Whistling, perhaps? Swinging your leg?”

“Papa, it is time for breakfast. Would you like to have some porridge?”

“Meggie?” His voice was very, very quiet. Meggie gulped, then stared down at her feet.

She gulped again and said in a paper-thin voice, “Yes, Papa. I’m sorry, but I had to do it. I was afraid they wouldn’t leave. She is so very dreadful, and he just stands behind her and nods and looks like he’s not even there, and then last night I overheard Mrs. MacFardle tell Agnes that Mrs. Griffin always did exactly as she pleased, that Mr. Griffin never gainsaid her, and there was simply no way she would allow an English vicar who just happens now to be the laird of Kildrummy Castle to dictate to her. Why, this was as much her home as her other home where she lived whenever she wasn’t visiting here. Mrs. MacFardle went on and on, Papa, about Mrs. Griffin’s philosophy of life—she believes she deserves to govern. I was worried she would go head-to-head with you. I didn’t want you to have to lose your temper. I didn’t want you to feel guilty over losing your temper. I was protecting you, Papa.”

Meggie came to a halt, out of breath.

“Ah,” Tysen said in an awful voice, one he reserved for members of his flock who had grievously sinned and weren’t repentant, “so Mrs. Griffin is one of those bad people I am too stupid to deal with, perhaps too dull-witted to recognize even when I’m looking them right in the eye?”

“You’re not stupid, Papa, or really unaware, it’s just that you’re too good.”

“Meggie, I myself ordered them to leave. I recognized Mrs. Griffin for what she was. She was leaving this morning, her spouse with her. Your performance only advanced their departure by an hour or two.”

Meggie didn’t say a single thing.

He became very still, then said slowly, “You believe I am weak? You believe that she could have succeeded in staying even though I ordered her to leave?”

“You are so very good, Papa,” she said, barely above a whisper.

She had no faith in him at all. Tysen felt the blow hard and deep. Did she see him as good or as simply ineffectual? As a man who dealt in the spiritual realm and had little understanding of the real world?

Meggie said, her chin going up now, “Aunt Sinjun said a female always has to be prepared to act. She said that gentlemen many times don’t have the fortitude to do what is necessary. She told me about the time she was willing to kill one of Uncle Colin’s enemies. She didn’t kill him, as it turned out, and that was good since the man hadn’t been guilty after all, but she said to act, Papa. She said that a lady should never dither.”

Tysen thought he would surely choke at the strange combination of irritation, bemusement, and despair mingling in his throat. He hiccuped, cleared his throat. “I am going back to bed.” He began to walk back up the stairs, paused, then turned to see Meggie standing exactly where’d he left her, staring after him. “Did you really swing your leg at her?”

“Yes, Papa.”

“Dear heavens,” he said. “You must have whistled loudly to wake her up. What did you whistle?”

“A song Aunt Alex taught me about how women will one day rule the world and all men will become butlers.”

Tysen could only shake his head. It was laughter rather than self-doubt that got the better of him just before he fell asleep again.

Vallance Manor

Mary Rose brushed her mother’s thick dark-red hair that was still untouched by gray. It was long and smooth, perfectly straight, unlike her own hair, which curled and twisted, dancing about her head to some unknown but merry tune.

“It will be a beautiful day, Mama. No rain in the sky.”

“Tell me about the new laird.”

Mary Rose started at the sound of her mother’s soft voice. As a rule, Gweneth Fordyce didn’t speak all that much, but when she did, it sounded like lilting music. “He is very nice, Mama. He is an Englishman, a vicar, and he is also very handsome. Perhaps too handsome, but nevertheless, he is very kind. An honest man, to be admired.”

Her mother said nothing more, just nodded, her eyes focused on the beech trees outside her bedchamber windows.

“His name is Tysen Sherbrooke, and his family is powerful in England. His brother is the earl of Northcliffe. Tysen is a widower. His little girl, Meggie, is here with him. She is precious, Mama. She helped me when I sprained my ankle.”

“Donnatella will want him.”

So soft her mother’s voice, so gentle, like a whispering breeze through her hair. “Well, yes, she probably does. But I don’t think he is at all interested—well, I don’t know what he will do. She is very beautiful.”

“Donnatella is just like her mother. She is a bitch wrapped in lovely packaging.”

Mary Rose blinked at that. “Mama? You really don’t like Donnatella? But you rarely even see her.”

“I remember that the first word she ever spoke was ‘mine.’ What does that tell you? You know that everyone talks about everyone, Mary Rose. You know that. I hear everything. I even hear you speaking Latin to yourself when you’re upset, or in a stubborn mood, or you’re reading aloud one of those ancient books. I believe Ovid is your favorite.”

Mary Rose gulped a bit. She did enjoy reading Ovid. It was terribly wicked, at least the parts she liked to read. She said, “Reverend Morley taught me Latin. I like it very much.”

“I know. You can say anything you like about anyone and get away with it, since no one can understand you. Now, Mary Rose, you must take care, because Donnatella is still very angry at you about Ian.”

It seemed to Mary Rose that her mother, quite suddenly and without warning, had fully recovered her wits. Perhaps her fragile mind, like a wheel that had gotten stuck in a ditch, was now back on its track. She’d prayed nearly every day of her life for that to happen. She said calmly, as if her mother really was with her completely, “There is no reason for her to be angry with me about Ian. The poor man is dead. I liked him very much, Mama. He was a good man.”

“He was a gambler, Mary Rose. Perhaps it wasn’t yet a vice, but I believe he would have become more ensnared as he got older.”

“Well, it is a moot point. He is gone, all his virtues and vices with him.”

“There is still Erickson. Like Ian, he turned from Donnatella to you. Keep your distance from him, Mary Rose, he is not to be trusted. Why does he no longer want Donnatella? Also, he is much too close to your uncle. I have seen them speaking quietly together, all alone. Whenever your uncle deals with another in that low, quiet voice of his, he is up to no good. Take care.”

“I will take care, Mama.”

Her mother jerked suddenly, and Mary Rose realized that she’d pulled the brush too hard through her hair. “I’m so sorry, Mama. Oh dear, are you all right?”

“Braid my hair for me, Mary Rose, on top of my head. I think I would like to go downstairs today, perhaps out in the garden.”

“That would be wonderful,” Mary Rose said, and crossed her fingers. Please, she prayed, let her come back to me. Don’t let her mind cloud up again. “I want to work on my roses. You can give me advice.”

Her mother was silent for a very long time. Then she said, “The English are untrustworthy. Not as untrustworthy as your uncle, but you still should never put your faith in one of them, even a vicar, Mary Rose, or you will be sorely disappointed.”

“If you are thinking of the new Lord Barthwick, it’s true he is an Englishman and a vicar, Mama, but he is utterly trustworthy. I would wager my last groat on that.” Mary Rose paused a moment and smiled at the smooth braid she was plaiting. “I should have said that since I don’t have a last groat—or a first groat for that matter—my belief in him will have to suffice.”

“Does Donnatella still claim that Ian was going to wed with her, that he was her betrothed?”

“Yes, but it would have mattered only if Ian had lived. It doesn’t matter now. Let her say what she will. She was very fond of him too.”

“No, she wasn’t. She just wanted him because he would be the new Lord Barthwick, and because he wanted you. She is dangerous, Mary Rose.”

Mary Rose had nothing to say to that. She helped her mother dress in a lovely pale-yellow muslin gown that was many years out-of-date, but it didn’t matter because her mother was beautiful and so was the gown. She found some yellow ribbons to weave into her mother’s thick braids. “I wish Miles would soon return,” her mother said.

“I do too. He is such a nice man, always so very polite to me. I very much like the way he’s always come over here to visit with us.”

“Oh, yes,” said her mother.

Mary Rose dressed herself quickly and walked carefully beside her mother downstairs.

She saw Tysen standing in the entrance hall, looking up at them. Sir Lyon was at his side, looking up as well.

Her mother raised her hand in a small wave, looked at him for a very long time, and then she said to her daughter, “Do not trust an Englishman. He is far too handsome. When a man is that handsome there is inevitably sin in his nature.”

“No, Mama, really, it’s not true,” Mary Rose said in a low voice, hoping Tysen hadn’t heard her.

“I was told,” Tysen said clearly, his vicar’s deep voice carrying easily to every corner of the grand entrance hall, “never to trust a Scotsman.”

Sir Lyon threw back his head and laughed.

Donnatella came out of the breakfast room. She said, looking for just a moment over her shoulder at Gweneth and Mary Rose, “Ignore her, my lord. She is only Mary Rose’s mother, and she is quite mad.”

Gweneth Fordyce said, her fingers tightly clutched to Mary Rose’s arm, “I am mad when it suits me to be mad, Donnatella. You, however, are a bitch whether you wish to be or not.”

Perhaps, Mary Rose thought suddenly—a revelation, really—that was the truth of things. Her mother purposely chose to live in a world of her own creation. Gweneth broke away from Mary Rose and walked gracefully down the stairs, her head back, looking like a queen. “I wish to have breakfast now, daughter. Bring the new Barthwick laird and I will question him.”

“Yes, Mama.”

Tysen gave her a brief bow. “I should be delighted, ma’am.”

It had been a strange hour, Tysen thought later, riding beside Mary Rose. Because he had hours and years of experience dealing successfully with people of vastly diverse manners and behaviors and levels of impertinence, dealing with Gweneth Fordyce hadn’t overtaxed him. She had, however, embarrassed her daughter very badly in front of him, and he was sorry for that. She shouldn’t have kept harking to Mary Rose’s blind faith, particularly in men, when everyone knew that men were created by the devil to ruin women.

Tysen had chuckled and said, “Sometimes I have held that opinion myself, Mrs. Fordyce.”

“I am a spinster, Vicar.”

“Yes, ma’am. Indeed you are.”

“And perforce, my dearest daughter is a bastard.”

“An appellation that perhaps fits the facts, ma’am, but not her character.”

Mary Rose had stared at him, then abruptly choked on her tea.

When Mary Rose pulled her old mare, Primrose, to a halt beside a rushing stream, she said, “This is one of my very favorite places. Would you like to rest for a moment?”

He left their horses loose. Big Fellow had no interest at all in Primrose, probably because she was a gnarly old mare with a mean eye, so there were no problems there. Tysen sat beside Mary Rose on the bank of the stream, the sound of the roaring water like a low, continuous drumbeat. He raised his voice a bit to be heard over it. “Your mother did not seem at all mad to me, Mary Rose.”

Mary Rose pulled up several water reeds and appeared to study them closely. “I believe now that she has chosen her madness, that she prefers it to dealing with what is real.” She shook her head, a spasm of regret, of hurt, in her eyes. “I realize, too, that her madness is a wonderful justification for saying exactly what she pleases.”

“I am sorry, but you are probably right.” A mother who wallowed in madness, leaving her child to fend for herself. Gweneth Fordyce was a beautiful woman, seemingly harmless, but he didn’t think that was true. He didn’t like the looks of her soul. She was selfish. She had locked herself away. No, she wasn’t mad, he was very certain of that. He said, “Why does she dislike Donnatella so very much?”

“Because Donnatella is the daughter of the house and I am The Embarrassment. Mama also heartily dislikes her own sister, Lady Margaret. Now you’re asking yourself why is it that we live at Vallance Manor if there is such discord.”

“Yes, but I don’t mean to pry if it distresses you.”

Mary Rose merely shrugged. “The truth of the matter is that we have no place else to go. I am a bastard. There is no money. My mother has never told a soul my father’s name. I look like her, so there are no physical clues.”

“Your father was probably married—not an uncommon occurrence. It is a pity, though, that he provided no support for your mother. I imagine also that he was local. There have been no clues of any sort?”

“I have thought of that, but Mama is of no help at all. She has always just given me a blank stare whenever I have inquired into it in the past. You’re right, of course. If he is still alive, his wife must be as well, else he would marry my mother, wouldn’t he?”

“One would hope so.”

“But who knows? It was twenty-five years ago, after all.” She paused a moment, looking out over that rushing water. She turned to him and said with a half smile, “Ah, Tysen, it is a strange life, is it not? And no matter how strange life becomes, we still must deal with it.”

“Yes,” he said, “we must.” He very much liked the sound of his name when she said it. That soft lilt lightly whispering against his flesh, warming him. That was ridiculous, like the ravings of a bad poet. Melodramatic enough for the likes of Lord Byron, the nincompoop.

“Your uncle has no idea who your father could be?”

She shook her head, sending a thick tress of red hair curling about her cheek. “No. If my uncle knew who my father was, then the whole of Scotland would know. My uncle isn’t discreet. I am sorry that my mother insulted you.”

“She did it with a good deal of heat and skill,” Tysen said, and picked his own water reed. It was slippery between his fingers, but smelled strangely sweet. “It is hard not to admire that. It did not hurt me, Mary Rose. Dinna fache yerself.”

She grinned at him. “That sounded very Scottish, my lord.”

“Aye, I am trying,” he said.

“How are you dealing with Mrs. Griffin?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Griffin, my one-day guests, insulted me until I had no choice but to order them to leave. Meggie, who should be thrashed, doubted they would obey me and thus she took it upon herself to get them out of Kildrummy Castle at the crack of dawn.”

“Goodness, how ever did she manage that?”

“She played a ghost and terrified the old besom.”

“I should like to hear all about that. Meggie seems very resourceful. Mrs. Griffin has been about Kildrummy Castle forever. Mr. Griffin, I have heard, was quite the rake in his younger years. Irresistible, he was, I’ve heard it said. But you see, it is now Mrs. Griffin who holds the reins of power. She has for as long as I remember. No one knows how it came about. Is his deference to her merely an act? I don’t know.” She paused and smiled. “She’s never paid me any attention at all, since I am a bastard. I wasn’t even invited to have tea with her. Just Donnatella was.”

“Mary Rose, do you want to marry Erickson MacPhail?”

She nearly slid into the stream, she jerked about so suddenly.

He grabbed her arm to steady her. “I’m sorry, but I had to ask you that. You see, your uncle believes you will come around once Erickson has the chance to really speak to you. Your uncle is certain Erickson can talk you into it.”

“I would sooner be sent to Botany Bay than marry him,” she said, that stubborn jaw locked, and he believed her.

She added, “He looks like such a charming young man, but he isn’t. Actually, he isn’t really a young man at all. He is nearly thirty.”

Suddenly Tysen saw a pain in her eyes that came from something that had happened long ago, perhaps an awful memory. He said, “What, Mary Rose? What are you seeing, remembering?”

She slowly turned to face him. “Once, about ten years ago, I saw him accost my mother.”

10

TYSEN SAT AT the laird’s very old, scarred desk in the airless library, Miles MacNeily beside him. He had expected the estate manager to be a wizened old man with tufts of gray hair encircling his head, but he wasn’t. He was older, certainly, but not over forty-five. He was tall and lean, very smart and quite fine-looking, his hair the burnished red so common to Scotsmen and his eyes very blue. He dressed well. Tysen wondered why he had never wed.

“Yes, my lord, you understand this all very well. It is because you come from great landholdings in England. All of this, well, it must seem paltry in comparison.”

Tysen merely smiled at that intelligent face and shook his head. He would miss Miles MacNeily. He had learned a great deal from him in just the past day. It appeared that MacNeily’s mother had left him all her holdings near Inverness. Mr. MacNeily would, unfortunately, be leaving within the month. He would be his own master. Tysen thought he would do very nicely as his own master.

“Actually, Miles,” Tysen said, “it is my brother who is the earl, the lord of all he surveys. Don’t forget, I am a vicar, I have always been a vicar. Anything I know I suppose I have simply absorbed over the years.”

Miles gave him a charming smile. “Perhaps, but you have a fine brain, my lord. I have no doubt that I am leaving Kildrummy in good hands.”

“Thank you. Even a vicar enjoys hearing such things said about him. Did you work well with the former Lord Barthwick?”

“Ah, Tyronne, the old laird, he could yell like no man I have heard in my life. I learned to move away from him quickly when I knew he was working himself up to a fury. I didn’t wish to lose my hearing. It never took much to have him screeching his head off. Yes, my lord, we worked well together. It did not take him more than a dozen years to come to trust me. Kildrummy has been my home nearly all of my adult life. I have been happy here. I will miss it.”

They worked for another hour, reviewing the situation of all the Kildrummy tenants, the problems they either faced now or would probably face in the near future. They spoke of all the Kildrummy holdings in the village, the number of flocks of sheep and herds of cows, improve-ments to be made. And on and on it went. It wasn’t an immense task, but there were many details that Tysen knew he would have to commit to memory if he were to run Kildrummy well. He remembered then that he would be returning to England, to his home and his church, to his life that seemed so very far away at this point. What would happen to Kildrummy when he was no longer here to watch over things?

Meggie knocked and peered around the door an hour later. She grinned at her father and ducked a sweet curtsy to Miles. “I am here to fetch you to tea.”

Miles, Tysen quickly realized, wasn’t immune to his little hussy of a daughter, who was flirting shamelessly with him. Since she was ten years old, her twinkling eyes and smiles were given to a man she was ready to accept as a favored uncle. This appeared to delight Miles. Tysen just shook his head at her.

It was while Tysen was sipping his tea that he realized he had the solution to his estate problem; it was staring him in the nose. “Oliver,” he said aloud.

Meggie turned to him, her head to one side. “What about Oliver, Papa?”

“Your uncle Douglas wants him to assist in the running of Northcliffe. I, however, believe it’s Scotland where Oliver will make his way. I think Oliver might be just the man to run Kildrummy.” Tysen rubbed his hands together, then told Miles exactly who Oliver was. “. . . so you see, my brother Ryder Sherbrooke has always taken in abused children—loved them, cared for them, and ensured that they were placed with excellent families or given the skills for the trade they wished. Oliver Dalrymple was one of his first children. He is now—is he twenty yet, Meggie?”

“Oliver is twenty-one, Papa. He just came down from Oxford in early June.” She said to Miles, “Do you like his name? Dalrymple?”

“It sounds quite noble,” Miles said. “There have been several Dalrymples who have figured prominently in the government.”

“Yes, that is what Uncle Ryder told him. My uncle Ryder selected it for him, you see. Oliver didn’t know who his papa was; then his mother died—it was due to something called blue ruin, Uncle Ryder said. I don’t know what that is, but it killed her. All he knew when Uncle Ryder found him was that his name was Oliver. Now he sounds ever so elegant.” She frowned a moment, then added, “And complete. Oliver is now complete.”

“He is a very lucky young man,” Miles said. “Just imagine, finding abused children and taking them in. It is an excellent thing your brother does, my lord.”

“All of my uncle Ryder’s Beloved Ones are lucky,” Meggie said and poured him another cup of tea, beautifully executed because of the lessons her aunt Alex had given her.

Tysen was rubbing his hands together again. “I must write a letter. Miles, I will join you later. Meggie, keep out of trouble.”

Tysen wrote a letter to Oliver and one to Douglas, and dispatched Ardle, one of his stable lads, with the packet to Edinburgh. Now, he thought, striding to the stables, it was time to beard the MacPhail laird in his den.

He found the MacPhail manor house without difficulty. It was about the same size of Sir Lyon’s holdings, but Erickson’s holding wasn’t as nicely kept up. The lawn in front of the manor house needed a half a dozen men with sharp scythes, walls needed paint, stone needed to be replaced.

Erickson MacPhail wasn’t at his manor house. The laird was riding, he was told by a pinch-mouthed housekeeper whose sleeves and hands were dirty.

Where would he be?

It was late in the afternoon. Mary Rose had ridden back to the rushing stream. When Erickson came some ten minutes later, she knew he’d seen her and followed her. “Marry me,” he said.

“I don’t want to marry you, Erickson.” Mary Rose spoke calmly, her voice slow and patient, although her heart was beating so fiercely in her chest she thought it would surely burst out of her.

“You have told me that, Mary Rose,” he said, his voice just as calm as hers, perhaps a bit patronizing because he believed her to be toying with him, and he thought it naught more than a silly woman’s game, and he’d tired of it. He’d more than tired of it the day she’d raced back into the forest and he’d lost her.

She really was quite lovely, he thought now, knowing he would get his way because regardless of what she wanted, what she felt, he would have her. Aye, she wasn’t at all plain. Her hair was rich, thick, a brilliant mix of colors, from the brightest red to a deep auburn. He raised his hand to touch it, then thought better of it.

And those eyes of hers, that soft green color. She had her mother’s eyes. He remembered how Gweneth was so very beautiful and hot in her passion. Mary Rose’s nose was narrow, her brows nicely arched. Her mouth—he did like that mouth of hers. He wanted to kiss her again, to feel whether her lips were as soft as he remembered. There was a line of light freckles over her nose.

She was looking at him, and the look wasn’t promising. Why didn’t she want him? No, it had to be a ridiculous woman’s game. He was getting impatient with her. He had planned to go slowly, to woo her, but she wasn’t cooperating. Damn her, she should be on her knees, kissing his hands, grateful to him for rescuing her, but no, she was shaking her head at him, that damned chin of hers up.

“Please believe me, Erickson. I’m not toying with you. This is no teasing game. I have never learned how to play those sorts of games. Listen to me now. I truly do not wish to marry you.”

In that moment he finally believed her, and she saw that he did. Then, because he couldn’t begin to comprehend why she wouldn’t want him, he knew it had to be because she had given her affection to someone else. He asked, his voice rough in his growing anger, “Then who is the man you want?”

“There is no other man.” Even as she spoke, he saw something in her eyes, something that betrayed her. But there was no other man about for her to—“By God, it’s that damned vicar, isn’t it? You’ve known the man for a week. Just because he is a vicar, a man pledged to God, you, you silly girl, believe he has to be kind, gentle, a soft creature who will always treat you like a bolt of silk. Given who and what he is, well then, that’s probably true. He probably is soft and gentle. Damnation, he isn’t the sort of man a woman needs.”

She jumped to her feet. “Shut up, Erickson. How dare you insult him? I know him and you don’t.”

“I’ll wager the pretty fellow wouldn’t know what to do with a woman even if she were to stand naked before him.”

“That is absurd. He has three children!”

“His wife must have guided him, told him how to accomplish his manly duty.”

“Be quiet.”

Erickson realized he wouldn’t gain anything by continuing on this track. He still wanted to reason with her, gain her compliance. He said more calmly, with a bit of compassion in his voice, “You’re being foolish, Mary Rose, shortsighted. He is the new Lord Barthwick. He comes from a noble English family. He won’t marry you. But even beyond that, I honestly doubt he even comprehends what it is like to feel affection or lust for a woman. He’s a vicar, for God’s sake, he sleeps with his Bible, clasps his hands in prayer when he sees a man who would harm him.”

He saw that her face had turned red, the freckles were standing out against her white skin. “Oh, leave go, Mary Rose. You’re a bastard, for God’s sake. Neither are you anymore a young girl. I’m the only one who wants to marry you.”

“No.”

“Very well,” he said, his eyes on her breasts. She knew there was no hope for it, not with that gleam of pleasure in his eyes, that gleam that bespoke a man’s victory over a woman. Yes, Erickson was looking forward to this no matter her protestations. She shook her head, beyond words now. She knew he would try no more arguments to win her compliance.

“I have no money. A man with your responsibilities does not wed when there is no gain. It makes no sense. It would be very stupid of you. Your mother would not like it. She would forbid it.”

“It doesn’t matter. I will have all that I want. Trust me, Mary Rose. I can give you pleasure.”

“No.”

“Then it will be a bit rough for you. Perhaps you will not fight me overly much once I have given you a taste of lovemaking.” He took a step toward her.

He was twice her size. Mary Rose had no choice. She took a deep breath and jumped into the stream.

She shrieked as she went under. She hadn’t realized how numbingly cold the water would be. It knocked the breath out of her, froze her lungs, numbed her arms and legs instantly. She fought her way to the surface. The current had already swept her a good dozen feet away from him. She saw him standing on the edge of the stream, heard him yelling, and prayed he wouldn’t jump in after her. He looked like he would, then he didn’t. Only a fool would willingly leap into obviously frigid water.

At least the water wasn’t over her head. The rocks were sharp and plentiful, however, the current so strong that she was hurled against every wretched rock in her path. She felt the shock and pain of it to her bones. She prayed that her only punishment for this outlandish action would be bruises, and not a broken neck.

The rocks were shredding her clothing and her flesh, the water freezing her, the ferocious current tossing her about like a rag doll. But at least she wouldn’t drown, not unless she hurt herself so badly on the rocks that she was knocked unconscious.

She knew too that she had to get out of the water or she would die from the cold. Her poor mare, Primrose, was back where she had jumped in. She hoped that Erickson wouldn’t take her with him when he left. Surely he had left by now. She realized then that he could simply ride beside the creek, dry and laughing, until finally, somehow, she managed to get herself out, and he would be right there, grinning down at her.

She saw that there were trees lining the stream along this stretch. He wouldn’t get close enough to see her. She had to get out of the water now to have a chance of escaping him. If he caught her, she would be so weak she wouldn’t even be able to kick at him.

She was swept directly beneath an oak tree branch that was bobbing up and down in the water. She managed to wrap her arms around the thin branch, praying it would hold her weight. Thankfully, it was still attached to the tree. She was sodden and cold, her fingers nearly numb, her body aching, but she wasn’t about to let go of that branch. She took a deep breath and pulled herself slowly, every inch she gained sending waves of pain through her body, up out of the churning water. It frothed around her, pulling, pulling. She didn’t know if she could do it. She saw Erickson in her mind, pulling her legs apart, looking at her, and she gripped the branch with all her strength. In the next instant, she was free of the water, her legs up and wrapped around the branch. Then she managed to pull herself onto the branch. It was bending dangerously low, nearly touching the water. Please, don’t break, don’t break. She pulled herself along the length of it for at least six feet. She nearly fell, flattened herself on the branch, then pulled herself along again. She made it. At last, she was hugging herself against the tree, taking huge breaths, thankful that she was alive and that Erickson likely wasn’t close by. By now surely he had ridden farther down to where the trees fell away to reveal the myriad waterfalls, all of them at least a dozen feet high. She was grateful she hadn’t had to go over them.

She was shivering violently as she climbed down the tree, going from branch to branch, her feet numb now inside her boots. Her gown kept tangling between her legs, making her slip, making her knees buckle with the weight. She was a mess. Her hair was hanging in her face, sodden and heavy. She pushed it back and kept moving slowly down the tree.

How far downstream had she been swept? A mile, perhaps more? She prayed it was much less. She was so tired and cold she was shaking now, her teeth chattering.

She panted for breath. When she felt the ground beneath her feet, she hugged the tree trunk for a moment. She was exhausted. She was also stupid. She couldn’t believe she had jumped into that raging stream. Actually, truth be told, she would have jumped off the top of Ben Nevis to get away from Erickson MacPhail. Anything was better than being raped by him.

She began to walk back to where she’d left Primrose. Suddenly she heard Erickson yelling, heard his horse pounding through the underbrush. She froze in her tracks. No, he wasn’t close. He was a goodly distance away, thank God. All she had to do now was find Primrose and get away from this place.

But where would she go?

She wondered if her uncle would allow Erickson in the house now when she told him what he had threatened to do to her.

Her head ached ferociously. Finally she found Primrose, lazily chewing on some slimy water reeds. She led her mare away into the thickness of the pine trees. She waited there, even though she knew she risked becoming ill. She couldn’t risk running into Erickson.

Finally, when she felt like a pillar of ice, she mounted Primrose. When she neared Vallance Manor, the first thing she saw was Erickson MacPhail’s horse being held by one of her uncle’s stable lads in front of the manor.

She knew then, all the way to her bones, that she was no longer safe here in her own home. No, she thought, it wasn’t her home, it was her uncle Lyon’s home. He wouldn’t protect her.

She didn’t know what to do, but then it didn’t matter. She turned Primrose south, toward Kildrummy Castle.

11

Nunc, vero inter saxum et locum durum sum.

Now, I really am between a rock and a hard place.

“GOODNESS, MARY ROSE, what are you doing out here? You are all wet and shivering. What happened? Did your mare throw you? Oh, my, look at all those cuts on your hands and face! Let me get Papa.”

Mary Rose grabbed Meggie’s arm as she slid off Primrose’s back. “No, no, Meggie. No, please, I don’t want to involve your papa in any of this . . . well, I guess it’s a muddle. Nothing is good right now. I didn’t know where to go. I can’t see your papa, don’t you see? He doesn’t deserve any of this and—”

She knew she wasn’t making sense. Meggie was only ten years old, she shouldn’t be involved in this mess either, but now it was too late. She realized in a flash that this child was probably the only one who could help her. She got a hold on herself and said, “Listen, Meggie, I’m not hurt all that badly, just cut up and bruised a bit. But this isn’t good. I’ve got to hide. Can you help me?”

Meggie didn’t hesitate. She clasped Mary Rose’s hand between hers and said, leaning close, “Yes, of course. First, let’s take your horse to the stable. I will tell MacNee and Ardle to keep their tongues between their teeth. But why don’t you want Papa to help you? At home he is involved in everything. All his parishioners call him whenever they have problems. He’s really quite good at fixing things, even when a wife wants to hit her husband over the head with a board.”

Mary Rose nearly laughed at that, but the hopelessness of her situation was sitting heavy as a board on her own head.

“Actually, Mrs. Crow did hit her husband on his head, and he lost his memory for a while. Papa thought he was just pretending, but it got Mr. Crow a lot of sympathy from his wife.”

“I cannot, Meggie, trust me.” She wasn’t going to spit out that it would compromise him, place him between her uncle and Erickson MacPhail, or perhaps place him against the two of them. No, surely her uncle didn’t know what Erickson had planned to do. Surely he hadn’t given him permission to do what he had to do to gain her agreement to marry him. She just didn’t know, and not knowing, she couldn’t take the chance that her uncle would simply give Erickson the key to her bedchamber and tell him to do what he wanted. Her voice wobbled a bit as she said, “I just need to hide for a little while, until everything calms down. Your papa doesn’t need to know I am even here.”

“All right, Mary Rose. We’ll figure all this out,” Meggie said.

Mary Rose watched her hand over Primrose to Ardle, who just nodded, never stopped staring at her, which wasn’t surprising, since he’d known her forever, and she knew she must look like a madwoman, all frowsy and wet. “Thank you,” she said to him. “Really, Ardle, thank you.”

“I’ll take foin care of ol’ Primrose, Mary Rose. Dinna ye fache yerself now, lass.”

She was very grateful to him. She smiled, remembering Tysen saying the same thing to her in his starchy, clipped English accent. No soft lilt to his voice. “Thank you,” she said again and lightly touched her fingers to Ardle’s brown woolen coat.

Meggie whispered, clasping Mary Rose’s hand, “Come, Mary Rose, you’re terribly wet and cold. I know just where to hide you. You are beyond cold, aren’t you? You’re freezing. I don’t want you to become ill. Hurry.”

Meggie led her up the servants’ back stairs, pausing at each landing to see if anyone was around. They heard Mrs. MacFardle humming a goodly distance away. “That sounds pretty,” Meggie whispered. “I didn’t know any sound she made could sound that nice. I’m glad we didn’t see Pouder. He usually sits right by the front door but you can never be certain. I suppose you already know that.”

“Oh, yes. Pouder has occupied that spot since before I was born.”

“I have nearly tripped over him several times. He is Papa’s valet-in-training, something he says he always wanted to be.”

“I have always liked Pouder. He was always kind to me. He was very old even when I was a small child.”

She wanted to giggle at the thought of Pouder seeing her, clutching his meager chest in shock, and expiring right there in his chair. She was becoming hysterical. It wasn’t a good sign. She drew a very deep breath, trying to calm herself. She realized, of course, that what she really wanted to do was sink into oblivion, simply lie down in some corner and fade into the wainscoting. But she did neither. She docilely followed Meggie Sherbrooke to her bedchamber in the north tower. It was one of Mary Rose’s favorite rooms. As a child she had spent many happy hours playing in this wonderful room. It had been Ian’s bedchamber, but she didn’t tell Meggie that.

“Take off your clothes, quickly, Mary Rose, and climb into my bed to get warm. I’ll find more blankets. Goodness, I don’t think I have anything you can wear. You’re a bit larger than I am.”

“Yes,” Mary Rose said, managing a slight smile. “Yes, I am a bit bigger than you.” She was stripping off her clammy clothes even as she spoke. Within two minutes her boots were on the floor beside all her wet clothes, and she was in the bed, shivering under all the blankets Meggie was piling on top of her. Meggie said, after she gently laid her palm against Mary Rose’s cheek, “I’ll find some clothes for you, don’t worry. Yes, I will figure something out. You just stay there and I will fetch some hot tea. Hot tea is many times the best mediator. That’s what Papa says. I don’t know exactly what that means, but I think he’s right. He usually is.”

Meggie slipped out of the bedchamber, closed the door quietly behind her. Mary Rose lay curled up, trying to get warm, but the cold was very deep. Even her blood was cold, the very marrow in her bones was freezing her from the inside. She tried to take deep, slow breaths. She tried to calm herself. She was out of that stream, she was safe, Erickson was nowhere about. Breathe slowly, yes, breathe very slowly. You can do it, Mary Rose. You’re safe now. Breathe.

It seemed like forever until, finally, she began to warm. She realized then that her old riding hat was still atop her head, the plume tangled in her hair. She must look ridiculous. She reached a hand out from under the mound of covers and pulled it off. Then she tried to spread out her hair over the pillow. It required both hands to draw most of the tangles out, and then she was cold again, so cold that she pulled the covers to her nose. Once she was warm, she quickly realized that every inch of her body hurt, fiercely. Well, it wasn’t unexpected. The rushing water had slammed her against every boulder, every rock, every pebble in that wretched stream. She wondered if there’d been some fish she hadn’t seen who’d taken a nip of her when the water had ripped her past them. She hoped none of the cuts or scrapes was bleeding. She didn’t want blood on Meggie’s bedclothes.

Her brain stopped when she heard footsteps outside the bedchamber.

Meggie, she thought. Please, it had to be Meggie. But of course it wasn’t. It was boots, a man’s boots, coming closer, coming to this bedchamber. There was a light tap on the door. Then Tysen’s voice, and her heart nearly stopped along with her brain. “Meggie, are you there?”

Oh, God, what to do?

Then she heard Meggie say, her voice all delighted, so falsely full of pleasure that surely no one would be fooled by it, “Papa! Whatever are you doing here? Did you need me? Is there something you want me to do for you?”

Tysen hoisted an eyebrow and looked down at his daughter. “Actually I wanted to see if you would like to play a game of chess with me before dinner.”

Absolutely nothing came out of his daughter’s mouth, which was so unusual that, so far as he could recall, it had never happened before. Tysen said slowly, eyeing that tea tray, “Well, now, why do you have a tray with tea on it? Are you having a party in your bedchamber?”

“Yes, Papa, I would love to play chess with you.”

“Meggie—”

“Oh, the tea tray. Well, you see, I was trying to write a song and decided that my throat was too dry to sing.”

There was a moment of silence, and Mary Rose, whose brain was still frozen, wondered if Tysen would believe that nonsense. Naturally he didn’t.

“Meggie, what is going on here? No more of your storytelling. The truth, if you please.”

Mary Rose knew she’d spill her innards if he asked her anything at all in that calm, utterly gentle tone of voice. She was getting cold again at the power of that voice. She held her breath, knowing that he would stride in at any moment and see her, and ask himself why the devil he had ever come to Scotland in the first place. If she’d had the strength, she would have slithered out of the bed and crawled under it. But she didn’t have the strength. She just lay there, the covers now nearly to her eyelids, staring at that bedchamber door.

Silence, far too much silence, then a very small voice, Meggie’s voice, saying, “Papa, don’t make me tell you, all right? It’s a promise I made to someone, a secret, and my soul will surely be damned to that bad place far below my feet if I tell anyone, even you.”

More silence, then Tysen said, a hint of approval in his voice, “I suppose you will eventually let me know what you are up to?”

“As soon as I can, Papa. I swear.”

He believes it is something inconsequential, Mary Rose thought, a little girl’s whim, and she nearly yelled with the relief of it. She still didn’t move, and evidently neither did Meggie, not until Tysen’s footfalls had faded away down the long corridor.

Meggie was flushed to her eyebrows when she came back into the bedchamber. Mary Rose watched her turn the large key in the lock, then carry the tray over to set it on the small table beside the bed.

“Thank you, Meggie. I’m very sorry.”

“I didn’t have to lie to him,” Meggie said, slowly pouring the very hot tea into a large, heavy mug, “and that’s a relief. I hate to lie to Papa because he feels it so very much when I do, do you know what I mean?”

“Yes. His disappointment makes you want to sink into the ground, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” Meggie said, handing her the mug, “it does. One would think that if you lied enough, you would not feel it so much, but it doesn’t change. Oh, my goodness, Mary Rose, look at your poor hand, and your face. There are scratches all over you.”

“Yes, I know, but they’re not that bad.” Actually Mary Rose didn’t want to look. She just wanted to down every drop of that delicious, scalding tea in the chipped mug that Meggie had doubtless filched from a kitchen cupboard. She didn’t say a word, just poured it down her throat. When she finished, she lay her head against the pillow again and sighed. “That was delicious, Meggie. I believe you have saved my life. You see, I jumped into a very fast-running stream and got swept over rocks. I got some cuts and scratches here and there, nothing to worry you.”

Meggie poured her another cup of tea. She didn’t say anything, just watched Mary Rose sip slowly. “It’s Mrs. MacFardle’s favorite mug. It’s the biggest one.” Meggie saw that Mary Rose’s awful pallor was lessening and breathed a sigh of relief. “How long were you in the water?”

“Not more than ten minutes,” Mary Rose said. “Too long, but I managed to catch onto a tree branch and pull myself out. Everything is all right now. Don’t worry, it would have been difficult to drown, the stream isn’t deep enough, even now when the banks are nearly overflowing.” Surely Erickson realized that, surely he would never have left if he’d feared she could drown.

“But you couldn’t go home?”

“I rode immediately to Vallance Manor. Then I realized I couldn’t go inside.”

She saw that Meggie was frowning. Obviously she wanted to know what was going on, she wanted to know why Mary Rose couldn’t stay at Vallance Manor. How to explain to a little girl that this man would have raped her if she hadn’t jumped into the stream? That he was there at Vallance Manor when she’d ridden there, and she didn’t know why? She closed her eyes. “I don’t feel very well, Meggie. Do you think I could just lie here for a little while, perhaps sleep a bit?”

“Yes, Mary Rose. I will go play chess with Papa. Perhaps it will distract him. Perhaps he will forget that I am keeping something from him.”

“You know he won’t,” Mary Rose said, never opening her eyes. “I will leave just as soon as I am able,” she added, and wondered if she would have to walk out of Kildrummy Castle stark naked. Her clothes were shredded and Meggie was ten years old. She sighed. She would worry about it once she’d rested. Yes, an hour, perhaps, to let her body warm and regain strength. An hour . . .

Meggie realized Mary Rose was asleep. She appeared to be breathing easily. But she was so very pale. Meggie stood over her, wondering what was going on, knowing it must be one of those adult sorts of things that they believed a young person, even a very smart one, wouldn’t understand.

She gently touched her fingertips to Mary Rose’s cheek and patted it. She had to leave now, find her papa and distract him. She looked one more time at Mary Rose before she let herself out of the bedchamber.

Meggie ate her dinner very slowly, gathering the peas one by one onto her fork, wondering all the while how she was going to get food to Mary Rose. Her father said, “You’re learning quickly, Meggie. When you moved your queen, checking me, I must admit that I was worried for a moment.” He hadn’t been, but this was one of those untruths that made a child smile and try all the harder.

“Really, Papa?”

“Really. Now, after dinner I must leave you for just a little while. I must ride to see Erickson MacPhail. There are matters I need to discuss with him. He wasn’t there earlier. I won’t be long.”

“Is it about Mary Rose, Papa?”

Tysen started to shake his head, but then he realized there was a thread of fear in his daughter’s voice. What could she possibly know about this mess? He said, “Yes, Meggie, it is about Mary Rose. But don’t worry, all right? I will make certain he understands the, er, situation.”

Tysen sat back then, waiting for her to beg him to take her with him. To his surprise, she didn’t say another word. She was studying the buttered potatoes in the center of her plate. Now this was strange, he thought, and he was soon frowning. Something was going on here. But what?

It was then that Mrs. MacFardle said from the doorway, “Excuse me, my lord, but Sir Lyon is here. He insists that he must speak to you. He won’t be put off—not that I would, naturally, even if you were in your bed, sleeping.”

“Thank you, Mrs. MacFardle. Tell Sir Lyon that I will be right along.” Tysen tossed his napkin beside his plate and rose. He’d taken two steps when he realized that Meggie wasn’t right on his heels. He was surprised to see her wrapping several slices of bread in a napkin.

He didn’t say anything, but he planned to get to the bottom of whatever this was later. He strode out of the dining room. Sir Lyon was waiting for him in the entrance hall. Pouder was sitting in his chair beside the front door, his head down, nearly reaching his chest, apparently asleep.

“Sir,” Tysen said. “Is there a problem?”

“Where is she, my lord?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Mary Rose. She is gone. She never came home from her ride. She has disappeared.”

He felt instant, corroding fear. He hoped it didn’t show on his face. “And you believe she is here?”

“There is no place else she would go. Of course, her aunt claims that she would never come here, that she would be too embarrassed at her behavior, but I disagree.

“Come now, where is she, my lord? You must tell her that she is to come to me, at once.”

“I’m sorry,” Tysen said slowly, staring at Sir Lyon, whose face was becoming alarmingly red, “but I am afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about. Why would Mary Rose disappear? What has happened?”

“I do not know,” Sir Lyon said.

Tysen said, “You do not lie well, sir. Come into the drawing room and tell me why Mary Rose felt she had to leave your home.”

Sir Lyon bellowed at the top of his lungs, not moving an inch, “Damnation, there is nothing at all to tell, particularly to you, a bloody English vicar! She is my niece, in my care, curse her eyes, and I want her! Now.”

Pouder jerked upright, blinking his rheumy old eyes, then shaking his head.

“She isn’t here,” Tysen said calmly.

“Aye,” said Pouder. “Mary Rose isn’t here. I haven’t left my post for the past three hours and then it was just for a moment or two when I was needed to fold his lordship’s cravats.”

Tysen smiled at the old man, then said again, “Mary Rose isn’t here.”

Sir Lyon knew when most men were lying. And he knew to his bones that this damned young man, who was also a vicar, wasn’t lying. His eyes were clear of deceit, and a man who deceived as well as Sir Lyon did certainly knew deceit when he saw it. No, the young man’s voice was firm and unexcited. Sir Lyon also understood choler, knew what it felt like, what it sounded like. No, the damned young man, the cursed English vicar who was also the new Lord Barthwick, wasn’t lying, damn his eyes. “Then where is she?”

Tysen said very slowly, his fear for Mary Rose rising with his level of anger at this man, “What in God’s name have you done, man?”

“Nothing, I tell you. Nothing at all. The girl—no, she’s not a girl at all anymore, curse her, she’s a damned woman. She is flighty, too flighty for a spinster of her advanced years, and she is stubborn, more stubborn than her madwoman of a damned mother. She turned him down flat, and naturally he didn’t like it.”

Tysen felt his anger turn to rage. It was pouring through him, making his pulse pound, sending his blood roaring, ringing in his brain, making his eyes red. “MacPhail tried to rape her, didn’t he?”

“No! Bloody hell, I don’t know! She jumped in the bloody stream and was quickly swept away from him. He couldn’t find her.”

“Are you telling me that MacPhail just left and came running to you?”

“No, certainly not. He looked for her quite thoroughly, then rode back to where she had jumped in. Her mare was gone. Obviously she’d come back and taken her mare. Besides, even overflowing like that stream is now, it isn’t deep enough to drown a goat, much less a person. But, curse her eyes, she didn’t come home.” Sir Lyon cursed long and low under his breath. Then, oddly, he looked as if he would burst into tears. “I just don’t know where she has gone. Are you certain she isn’t here? Perhaps hiding from you?”

“She isn’t here,” Tysen said, and then, of course, he knew that she was. He waited until Sir Lyon, his ire bursting loose, had ranted even more, until his face was so red that Tysen feared the man would collapse with apoplexy in his entrance hall. Pouder never moved in his chair, never said another word, just kept his eyes on Sir Lyon, no expression at all on his seamed face.

“You will keep me informed,” Tysen said as he nearly shoved Sir Lyon out the front door.

“You will tell me if she comes here?”

“Very probably not,” Tysen said. He didn’t say anything more, just waited at the top of the steps until Sir Lyon had mounted his horse and was gone out the front gates. He turned slowly and walked back to the dining room, saying over his shoulder, “Don’t worry, Pouder. Sir Lyon will calm down.”

“He be a mangy one, m’lord,” Pouder said, and still didn’t move. “He may be old now, but ye have a care wi’ him. Always a sneak he was, always.”

Meggie wasn’t in the dining room, not that he expected her to be.

What in the name of his beneficent God was he going to do? He took the stairs two at a time, then three at a time. She’d jumped into the bloody stream to escape MacPhail. He pictured that swirling, maddened water in his mind closing over Mary Rose’s head, and his blood turned cold. At least, thank God, he knew she hadn’t drowned. He was running by the time he reached Meggie’s bedchamber. He didn’t knock, just turned the handle. The door was locked.

He was a calm man, a man of judgment, of unclouded reason. He yelled at the top of his lungs, “Meggie, open this bloody door now!”

To his utter surprise, in but a moment the bedchamber door opened. His daughter stood there, staring up at him, calm as a nun. “Yes, Papa?”

“Where is she, Meggie?”

But he didn’t wait for her to say anything at all, he picked her up beneath her arms and set her aside. He strode into the bedchamber and came to a dead stop. The room was empty. Mary Rose obviously wasn’t here. The bed was made, the counterpane not the least bit mussed. There was no sign of anyone at all.

He turned slowly. “Where is she?”

12

“WHO ARE YOU talking about, Papa?”

“I’m talking about Mary Rose, the person you were delivering tea to just a couple of hours ago. Listen to me. She’s in trouble, Meggie, very deep trouble. Tell me where she is.”

But Meggie didn’t say a word. She swallowed convulsively, then she walked to her father and clasped her arms around his waist and buried her face against him. “Papa, I’m so scared. I was going to come to you. She’s very sick, shaking all over, and Papa, she’s all cut up, and bruised everywhere, and it looks bad. But she’s got a fever and I’m so scared. I don’t want her to die, please don’t let her die.”

Tysen put his arms around his daughter, kissed the top of her head. “It will be all right, sweetheart. I won’t let anything happen to Mary Rose. You can trust me on this. Where did you take her?”

“I helped her into your bedchamber, Papa. I heard Sir Lyon carrying on and yelling and so I ran back up here and got her out. I knew Pouder wasn’t in your bedchamber since he was seated next to the front door. I guess he finished rearranging all your cravats.”

“Evidently so. He is still at the front door, snoozing again.” He grasped her shoulders in his large hands. “You took her to my bedchamber? Why there, Meggie?”

“I knew Sir Lyon wouldn’t demand to look in the laird’s bedchamber, Papa.”

Tysen felt her shudder and just pulled her more tightly against him until he felt her ease again.

“I wouldn’t have allowed Sir Lyon to look anywhere, Meggie, but it’s all right. Now, listen to me, here’s what I want you to do.”

Two minutes later, Tysen quietly opened the door to his bedchamber. The room was warm, a cozy fire built up. Meggie’s doing, he supposed. The child had worked quickly. He walked quietly to the bed and looked down at Mary Rose. Her hair was fanned out about her head, still damp, tangled, looking red as blood against the white pillow. Her face was flushed. Meggie was right, she had the fever. He closed his eyes a moment, picturing her thrashing around in the rushing water of that nearly overflowing stream. And the rocks, he thought, so many of them, jagged, sharp, no way to avoid them. There was no hope for it. He sat down beside her and lightly slapped her bruised cheeks. Her skin was hot to the touch. She didn’t move. He slapped her again. “Mary Rose,” he said, “come, now, wake up. Talk to me. You’re safe now. I won’t let anyone hurt you. Come on, Mary Rose, open your eyes.”

She moaned then, a soft animal sound deep in her throat. He pulled the covers down to her waist, and smiled. She was wearing one of his nightshirts. He supposed that Meggie had put it on her. He laid his palm against her heart. It was beating slowly, but it was steady, thank the good Lord. He leaned close to her and listened. Yes, steady and slow.

He straightened, saw her hands then, bruised and scraped, some of the cuts fairly deep, several of them oozing just a bit of blood. Well, there was no hope for it, there was no one else to help her. He pulled the nightshirt down to her waist, and sucked in his breath. She was covered with bruises, bright green, yellow, a bit of purple, streaking her ribs, her belly, her shoulders. And the cuts, myriad small slashes, none of them very deep, but ugly, all of them. Tysen was a man of God, but as he looked at her, pictured in his mind that stream and her struggling in it, he knew deep, corroding fear, actually both fear and anger at the damned man who’d driven her to jump in the water.

What to do? Mrs. MacFardle had some medicinal cream he could apply after Mary Rose was bathed. No, he wouldn’t say anything about her to Mrs. MacFardle. He didn’t want her to know that Mary Rose was here. Further, she obviously didn’t approve of a bastard being treated like a person of value. He cupped his hand against her breast again, pressing more firmly to feel the beat of her heart. And he couldn’t help himself. He looked at her in those few moments as a man looks at a woman, and he saw that she was nicely made, so very white, her flesh smooth and her breasts wonderfully shaped. His fingers flexed against her flesh, then he grunted at himself and quickly jerked his hand away. He closed his eyes for a moment. He couldn’t think like this, couldn’t allow himself to see her as a man who wanted her. She was very ill. He heard a soft knock on the door. He pulled the nightshirt back up and covered her again.

Meggie was there, holding a basin of hot water, several cloths over her arm, and a bottle of ointment clutched in her hand. “Excellent, Meggie. How did you ever get that ointment from Mrs. MacFardle?”

“I had to lie to her, Papa. Since she doesn’t know me as well as you do, she believed me when I told her that you had cut your hand.”

“You did well. Now, I want you to go back to your bedchamber.”

“Papa, please let me help you. Mary Rose is—”

“Mary Rose is what?”

Meggie frowned toward the young woman lying in the middle of her father’s bed. She struggled to find the words. “It’s just that she’s very alone, even though she lives in a houseful of people. I don’t think there’s anyone for her. Not even her mother. She needs me.”

Just as I need you, Tysen thought, and smiled down at his precious daughter. He cradled her cheek in his hand. “I promise I’ll take good care of her. No one is to know yet that she’s here. If anyone asks about me, just tell them that I am not feeling well and am here in my bedchamber. Now, I don’t want you to stay, sweetheart. Go now.”

“You will call me if she worsens?”

“I most certainly will. I promise.” Tysen waited until Meggie had slipped out of his bedchamber.

He locked the door, then walked back to the bed. Tysen hadn’t ever taken intimate care of another person, except his children, of course, after their mother had died. He’d rocked them endlessly when monsters had invaded their dreams, wiped their foreheads when they’d been downed by fevers, held them when they vomited, rubbed their stomachs when they had belly cramps. But Mary Rose wasn’t a child. She was a grown woman, and she wasn’t his wife.

There was no choice. It was either that or ask Mrs. MacFardle to see to her, and that he couldn’t, wouldn’t, do. He remembered how she had purposely hurt Mary Rose’s ankle just because she hadn’t believed she belonged here at Kildrummy Castle, in the drawing room, in the same company with her betters.

“All right, Mary Rose,” he said, staring down at her. “I’m all you’ve got.”

He stripped her down, examined every inch of her, bathed her, rubbed the ointment that smelled like pine and lavender mixed together into every scratch, abrasion, and cut on her white body. No, he wouldn’t think of her as having a white body, as having soft white flesh. He realized that she was shivering and quickly put her into his nightshirt again. He took his well-worn dark-green brocade dressing gown and wrapped that around her as well. He pulled the covers to her chin and smoothed her hair, only a bit damp now, from around her face. Her face was as badly bruised as her body. He lightly pressed his palms to her forehead, her cheeks. She was now cool to the touch.

He prayed she would stay that way.

He built up the fire, then pulled a very large leather wing chair at least two centuries old up beside the bed. He lit another branch of candles, picked up the book he’d been reading, and settled himself in to wait.

“I don’t understand why you want to do this. You wanted Donnatella. Why me? Why now?”

He nearly dropped his book, Shakespeare’s King Henry IV, Part I, one of his favorite plays.

“Mary Rose? Are you back with me?”

She wasn’t. She twisted a bit, but the covers were heavy and she couldn’t throw them off. “I don’t want to wed, don’t you understand? I would never marry you, you were fondling my own mother. How could you do that? She is my mother!”

“I know,” he said, smoothing her hair, touching her face, to calm her. “Erickson MacPhail won’t ever again be close enough to frighten you, Mary Rose. You must trust me on that.”

“She’s my mother!”

“Yes, she is. It’s all right, I’m here now.”

She started crying, deep, gulping sobs that seemed to be torn out of her chest, and tears, streaming down her face. He couldn’t bear it. He sat beside her and pulled her up against his chest. He rocked her, speaking nonsense to her, holding her, stroking her back, his breath warm on her flesh, so that perhaps on some level, she would know she was safe. He remembered how he’d just stared at her when she’d told him about Erickson and her mother, crying quietly as she’d told him how even now she still wasn’t entirely certain that her mother hadn’t encouraged, hadn’t, in fact, been his lover. Her mother had never said anything to her about it—understandable, Tysen supposed. He’d wanted to hold her then, comfort her, but he hadn’t.

Nor had he been shocked. As a vicar, he believed that he had witnessed just about everything perverse, vicious, and brutal that anyone could possibly do. But he’d hated the fact that Mary Rose had seen the two of them, and had been so terribly hurt. Then, of course, she’d been embarrassed that she’d told him.

He leaned over and kissed her temple. He then nearly leapt off the bed at what he’d done, at what he’d felt at the touch of his mouth against her skin. He didn’t let her go, he couldn’t. He’d kissed her, a woman who wasn’t his wife, a young woman who was defenseless, without protection. He closed his eyes. He’d had to take care of her, but that kiss, that wasn’t well done of him. He touched his mouth to her cheek, tasted the salty tears, but this time he didn’t kiss her, just held her close and closer still, and tasted her tears.

She calmed, her face against his shoulder, her breathing evening out. If she was still awake, he prayed that she wasn’t still locked inside herself. “Mary Rose?” His voice was just a whisper against her cheek.

She was asleep. He gently eased her onto her back, pulled the covers up. He rose slowly, looking down at her. He hadn’t even known she existed until—was it even a week ago? Less? He couldn’t seem to remember a day when she hadn’t been there. No, that was ridiculous. He hadn’t been interested in another female, not in this way, since three months after he and Melinda Beatrice had wed. He had to stop it, he was being disloyal, disremembering. Only he knew he wasn’t, and he didn’t like himself very much for admitting it. But it was true. There’d simply been no one else after Melinda Beatrice had died. He had long ago disciplined himself to master his own body and its demands upon him. And that control had been inviolable, until Mary Rose, a Scotswoman who was also a bastard.

Tysen wasn’t a man given to curses, and so he didn’t curse. Instead, he walked quietly to the large, blackened fireplace and stood there, deep in thought, staring down into the flames, not ferociously high now but sinking slowly and inexorably into the wood until all that remained was embers that glowed a soft, bright orange.

Mary Rose. He loved the sound of her name, the feel of it, both in his mind and on his tongue. Dear Lord, what was he going to do?

She awoke in the dark of the night. She was cold, so very cold that she knew if she breathed too deeply, she would shatter, just as the beautiful vase that had fallen off the mantel in her bedchamber had shattered and was no more. She, too, would be no more. She held herself stiff, but not for long. She began to shiver, her teeth chattered, and she simply couldn’t stop it. The worse it became, the more fiercely the pain rippled through her. It dug deep, and she moaned with it.

“It’s all right, Mary Rose, I’m here.”

“Tysen,” she whispered. “Is it really you? Oh, my, I’m so glad it’s you. I don’t feel very well. I’m sorry.”

“You have a fever. I will deal with that, don’t worry.”

“I hurt—all the smacks and blows from those bloody boulders. I’m sorry.”

“I’ll deal with that, too. Now, I want you to lie as quietly as you can for just a moment, not more than three more minutes. Can you do that?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Stop saying that. Just try to breathe deeply. I’ll be right back.”

It was a bit longer than three minutes, but then he was beside her again, his sleeves rolled up. He’d lit a six-branch candelabra and set it near the bed. He was surrounded by shadows, but the lines of his face were strong and calm and intent.

“I’m going to wipe you down with cold water. My nanny did it to me several times when I was a boy. It knocked the fever right out of me. I’ve done it to my own children. First, here’s some laudanum to ease the pain.”

He lifted her, and she drank the water laced with laudanum. “Good, you drank it all.” He added as if to himself, “I must remember to keep you drinking.” He paused a moment, his hand on the covers to pull them back. When he’d examined her before, she’d been unconscious. But now she wasn’t. “Please just think of me as a physician, all right?”

“No, I can’t,” she said, and shuddered. “You’re Tysen. You’re something else entirely. This is very difficult.”

“I know, but I won’t hurt you, ever. Please trust me, Mary Rose.”

“I trust you,” she said, then closed her eyes. She didn’t move.

He’d felt people’s trust in him before, felt it as a burden or as a pleasure or as a simple obligation or duty.

It was not at all uncommon a thing, but those words coming from her mouth, words he knew she meant to her soul, made something shift deep inside of him, something that was warm and boundless, something that he hadn’t felt in a very long time. It should have scared him to his toes, but it didn’t. “All right, then,” he said, and pulled the covers off her. He carefully eased her out of his nightshirt. Then he turned her onto her stomach and began wiping the wet cloths down her back and hips, over her legs, even to her arched feet. One of her toes was crooked. She’d obviously broken it many years before. His fingers closed over that toe for a moment.

Over and over he swept the wet cloth down her, then up again, feeling it grow warm from the heat her body was giving off. He dipped it into the basin of cold water once, twice, more times than he could count. He had to keep it cold. When he turned her onto her back, her eyes were open. She was looking up at him, saying nothing, just looking at him. He saw no signs of pain on her face, no fear, just that limitless trust. He smiled at her, covered his hand with the cloth, and began rubbing it up and down her body. Over her breasts, her belly. He closed his eyes. She was ill. He was a man of mature years, not a randy boy. He could deal with this. He knew well the demands of control. He would not dishonor her, would not shame himself by allowing his body to harden with lust. But of course his body did just that. He wondered briefly why God wasn’t helping him here, but then he wanted to laugh at himself. Why would God concern Himself about a man’s simple and inevitable reaction to a woman’s body? Dear heavens, but she was beautiful. No, he wouldn’t think like that. He kept rubbing her down. Wiping back up her body, he found, was harder. He tried closing his eyes, but it just didn’t help.

The hair at the base of her belly was a deep red, just beautiful, a bit darker than the rich red hair on her head. He looked at her knees, very nice knees, then quickly brought the cold, wet cloth over them and rubbed them longer than necessary, staring at them, just at her knees, nothing either north or south of them.

He wasn’t in good shape. But he was a man, not an immature boy. He would deal with this. He continued rubbing her down until he touched his palm to her cheek and she was once again cool. Thank the good Lord. Then she turned her cheek into his palm and for a moment, just a brief moment, he held her there. He quickly fetched another nightshirt from the ancient armoire and put her in it, smoothing it down over her legs, over her white feet.

He rolled up the sleeves so her hands would be free, covered her to her nose, then rose. She was still looking at him.

“Do you feel better?” He was actually surprised she was still awake, what with all the laudanum he’d put in that glass of water. He took a step away from the bed and prayed that a woman couldn’t see the lust in a man’s mind.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice slightly slurred. “I’m sorry, Tysen.”

“Be quiet.”

He couldn’t believe the harshness of his voice, but she simply smiled at him. “That’s the first time you’ve ever shown impatience with me. Meggie told me that my uncle came here. She said you didn’t have to lie to him because you didn’t realize that I was indeed here, in Meggie’s bed, until she helped me into the laird’s bedchamber. She was afraid her bedchamber wasn’t private enough, that anyone felt free to walk in on a child, but not on you, the laird. That’s why I’m here. I’m s—”

Tysen just waved away her words. “Yes, Sir Lyon was extraordinarily upset that you weren’t here. He knows you didn’t drown, since Erickson searched until he saw that your mare was gone. He assured me that stream was too shallow to drown a goat. Did you ride home and see MacPhail there?”

“Yes. I saw his horse. I didn’t know where to go. I hadn’t intended to come here, truly, but then Primrose just galloped right to your gate. Meggie was out there and she brought me in. Up the back stairs so Pouder wouldn’t see us.” Suddenly she grinned. “I’ve always thought it remarkable that Pouder doesn’t collect dust, since he’s always there.”

“He was collecting dust at a great rate until he realized that I, the new laird, did not have a valet. Since he only has two teeth left in his mouth, his smile at this discovery rocked me back a bit. You see, he’s wanted to be a valet all his life, and now he had his opportunity.” Tysen shook his head. “Only when he said that, he didn’t say ‘valet,’ he said he’d always wanted to be a ‘varlet.’ It took me a while to figure all this out. Now I will find him at the oddest times in this bedchamber rearranging my cravats and straightening my razor and brushes.”

She wanted to laugh, but she was afraid it would hurt too much. “He’s a very nice old man.”

“Yes, he appears to be. He also appears to be very proud of himself. I have told him that we would take his varlet training slowly so as not to disrupt his other, more important duties.”

“You are very kind to him. Tysen, I know you don’t like it, but I am sorry for causing you difficulties. I was thinking that tomorrow morning I can leave and—”

“Oh? You wish to leave? May I inquire as to what you would wear? I chanced to see the remains of your clothes in Meggie’s bedchamber. Did you perchance intend to squeeze yourself into one of her gowns?”

“I will think of something,” she said, his light dose of sarcasm floating through her mind. Her chin went up, a hard thing to do since she was so tired. “It’s possible that Mrs. MacFardle would have something I could borrow. Oh dear, I feel so very tired.”

“No wonder. It’s about time. I gave you a goodly dose of laudanum.” He paused a moment, then the sarcasm was back. “All right, let us say that you are finely garbed in one of Mrs. MacFardle’s castoffs. Where will you go?”

Along with the sarcasm, his voice was sharp, sharper than he’d intended. He saw her fold down, saw the helplessness of her situation wash over her, and felt like a clod. He took one white hand in his and held it close. He said very gently, “Mary Rose, we will think of something. You aren’t yet well enough to think of wearing anything but my nightshirts. Go to sleep now and stop your mad squirreling about for a solution. I will think of something.”

“But—”

He touched a finger to her lips. “No, be quiet. Let go of things and go to sleep. You’ll feel better more quickly. Are you still in pain?”

“No, I don’t hurt anymore.” Two minutes later, her face was turned into the pillow. Her breathing was even. She was sound asleep.

Tysen tried to make himself comfortable in the wing chair. It wasn’t too bad, but still, he didn’t fall asleep for a very long time. When he awoke with a jerk, a moan coming out of his mouth, it was in the full darkness of the night. He realized he’d awakened from a dream of his own making, a dreadful dream that had him so scared he was struggling to find breath even as he lurched out of the chair and began pacing the bedchamber floor, his head still spinning from the terror of that damnable dream. When at last he managed to calm himself, he realized he was cold. He built up the fire, then lit one candle and walked to Mary Rose’s bedside. He laid his palm on her forehead. She was blessedly cool to the touch, thank God for that, and sleeping deeply.

What had that wretched dream meant? All he could remember was the woman yelling, then a man’s voice—slurred, weak, becoming indistinct, and then there was the feeling of death all around him, endless, irrevocable death, and he was there, a shadow, perhaps just a whisper of light, but he was part of it. Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, it was over.

He didn’t understand. The fear was still stark inside him. He walked back to the chair and eased himself down. He cupped his chin in his hand and spent the remainder of the night staring into the flames.

The man’s voice he’d heard—it was Ian, who had fallen off a cliff six months ago.

13

DR. HALSEY PATTED Mary Rose’s cheek. “Aye, lass, that’s it. Give me a smile. Then you can curse me for pouring this vile potion down your throat.”

Mary Rose did smile up at him. He’d brought her into the world, so her mother had told her. “Where is Tysen?”

“Who? Oh, I see, you mean Lord Barthwick. Tysen—not much of a Scottish name, is it? Oh, well, I suppose that’s to be expected since he’s an Englishman. He’s right here, standing not six feet behind me. I have this feeling his lordship will pound me into the floor if I cause you any more discomfort. How do you feel now, lass?”

Mary Rose consulted her body. “I feel battered.”

“She should,” Tysen said, stepping closer, taking her left hand between his two large ones. “As I told you, sir, she fell into that fast-moving stream and got knocked about until she managed to pull herself out with a tree branch.”

“You always were a strong girl. You’ve a black eye, Mary Rose. It makes you look raffish, like a little red-headed pirate. Now, his lordship can go stand by the door. I must check you over, see that nothing is broken or needs my bonnie stitches.”

Tysen said, “I have examined her, Dr. Halsey, and there are no nasty deep cuts that would need stitching. No broken bones, either. I have two boys of my own, and I know broken bones when I see and feel them. But she could be hurt internally.”

Dr. Halsey gave Tysen a rheumy look, then straightened. “Aye, but there are other things that can be wrong. Now, Mary Rose, the fever is down and your lungs sound clear. You have no pain in your belly or your chest? Here, let me know if I cause you any pain.”

He prodded her more gently than not, beginning with her head and moving slowly and methodically down to her toes. Then he smiled at her, and back at Tysen. “You will survive, lass. Now, you’ll drink my tonic and I will see you again if you worsen.”

Tysen saw the doctor out of the bedchamber. He heard Mrs. MacFardle’s strident voice echoing down the corridor, “Ach, Dr. Halsey, it’s a pitiful state of affairs we have here. Imagine, Mary Rose in the laird’s bed, and him taking care of her, of all things, and here he is an English vicar. Had he but told me, why, I would have said that he could not, it wasn’t proper. But he didn’t mutter a single word to me, so what was I to do? Nothing good can come of it, ye’ll see.”

Her voice finally began to fade as she moved down the long hallway, but unfortunately it was still crystal clear to his ears. “Aye, come down and have a cup of tea wi’ me and Mr. Pouder. I know he’s awake, I heard him snort at Ardle, who is holding yer horse for ye.”

Mary Rose, who was clutching the blankets to her chin, said, “You shouldn’t have asked the doctor to come. He will tell everyone in the area that I am here in your bed, with you standing far too close to the bed where I’m lying. Mrs. MacFardle is right. I shouldn’t be here.”

Tysen just shrugged. “I would rather suffer gossip than have you die on me because of my ignorance.” Then he smiled. “Don’t worry, Mary Rose. I am so relieved that you’re going to be just fine, I believe I’ll give you a cup of Mrs. MacFardle’s cider.”

When he returned with the cider not ten minutes later, having been snagged by Dr. Halsey for an inquisition on his opinion of the clearances, he saw that Mary Rose was asleep. He stood over her a moment. She did look a bit like a pirate, the black bruise circling her left eye like a pirate’s patch.

He gently touched her forehead and found it cool. He imagined that he had no more than two hours at the outside before Sir Lyon would be back here, demanding to take her home.

But it wasn’t Sir Lyon who arrived exactly one hour and forty minutes later. It was Erickson MacPhail.

You are a shallow cowardly hind, and you lie.

—Shakespeare, King Henry IV, Part I

Tysen walked slowly into the drawing room and closed the door quietly behind him. MacPhail stood by the fireplace, his arms crossed over his chest.

Tysen realized his own hands were fisted at his sides. Slowly, ever so slowly, he forced himself to ease. He was a vicar, and he believed firmly in God’s strength, in God’s compassion, but more than that, he was his father’s son and he was like his brothers. Neither Douglas nor Ryder would lose his head and erupt in senseless violence whenever it pleased him to do so. And neither would he.

Erickson stepped toward him and said without preamble, “Dr. Halsey has told us that Mary Rose is here. He said he attended her. He said that she will be all right, that she is merely bruised a bit from getting knocked about in that damned stream. I was excessively worried about her. I am here to fetch her home, to Vallance Manor.”

Tysen walked to one of the tatty old gold brocade set-tees and sat down, crossing one leg over the other. He wished his Hessians were polished more brightly. Old Angus had last polished them in Edinburgh. He eyed Mary Rose’s nemesis for a moment, then said mildly, “Actually, you have saved me a good deal of trouble. I was on my way over to your home again to speak to you. About Mary Rose.”

Erickson took a violent step forward. “Damn you, vicar, you will not put me off. Take me to her now, or vicar or no, I will beat you until you crawl to do my bidding.”

Tysen arched an eyebrow, smiled pleasantly at Erickson, whose face was becoming alarmingly red. When he was older, Tysen imagined, his face would slowly become that unbecoming shade of red that results from too much choler. He said on a shrug, “I suppose you could try.”

There was a marked sneer about Erickson’s mouth that Tysen thought was singularly unattractive. “You dare to bait me? To set yourself up against me? You, a man who isn’t really a man at all, but a gutless creature who exhorts real men from the pulpit? You threaten them with hellfire if they don’t swallow their righteous anger and choke on it? You order them to become as weak-willed and spineless as you are? You tell them they are cursed unless they grovel before you?”

Tysen rose slowly to his feet. His heart had speeded up, but—strangely perhaps—he felt quite calm. All this litany of insults he had heard before, a number of times, beginning when he was at Oxford.

It made little impact, really, for it was naught but ignorant words, cruel words, sparked by unreasoning anger. There was, he had learned, too much unreasoning anger in this world. He said, “Do you love Mary Rose Fordyce?”

Erickson stopped dead in his tracks, a sleek dark brow up a good inch. “Good God, man, I want to marry her!”

“I see. So to convince her of your sincere regard, of your lasting affection, you were going to rape her? To escape you, she had to jump into the stream?”

“Damn you, there was never a question of rape. You’re a vicar. You don’t understand how females behave, what lengths they will go to in order to make a man grovel at their dainty feet. Mary Rose is very much a female. She is coy, she teases, she pretends to become hysterical, all to get her way. All her denials, her small dramatic gesture of jumping into that ridiculous stream, it was just a simple performance, a show of melodrama. She wants to marry me, to give her status, to give her a real name, for God’s sake. She’s through with her fun. She will marry me now. I will speak to her and you will see that she has quite changed her mind.”

“All right, then,” Tysen said, rising. “I will take you to see her. However, I will remain to ensure that you do not try to coerce her or bully her. I would say, though, that her jump into that stream—although you prefer to believe it merely a girl’s teasing gesture—rather proves to me that she would do just about anything to escape you. No, you will not rant further. Be quiet and listen to me.

“She has been quite ill. You will not try to threaten her in any way, is that perfectly clear to you?”

Erickson stared at the far-too-handsome man, damn him, who was a bloody vicar, who was looking at him as if he was worth very little and full of naught save wind. He wanted to bash his face in, break that nose of his. Make him ugly. Yes, he wanted to beat him until he was so ugly Mary Rose wouldn’t want to ever look at him again.

Was that why Mary Rose didn’t want him? She wanted the bloody vicar who was also Lord Barthwick? He said slowly, “Why did she come here, to Kildrummy Castle?”

“To escape you yet again. Now, would you like to speak to her, to assure yourself that she indeed improves? I will give you five minutes, no more. She must rest. She is still very weak.”

Mary Rose wasn’t alone. Meggie was curled next to her on the bed, one of her small hands on Mary Rose’s arm, both of them fast asleep. At the sound of her father’s low voice, Meggie jerked up and blinked. She pushed her hair out of her face.

She shot a quick look at Mary Rose and whispered, “Papa, I wanted to guard Mary Rose, but I fell asleep. She is all right, isn’t she? Oh, my, isn’t that Mr. MacPhail with you? Why is he here?”

“He wants to speak to Mary Rose,” Tysen said, his voice as emotionless as he could make it. He saw the change in his daughter’s posture, in the expression on her small face, and wanted to smile. She drew herself up and said, “Very well—if she awakens. I believe she is now stirring. He may speak to her, but I will remain. He will not distress her.”

“Well, MacPhail?” Tysen asked, turning to face the man, who looked both furious and bemused.

“For God’s sake, man, she is a child. Make her leave.”

“Oh, no, she considers herself Mary Rose’s protector. Ah, yes, Mary Rose just opened her eyes. Remain where you are a moment and I will tell her that you are here.” He paused, adding, “Naturally I will reassure her that you can attempt nothing that she would dislike.”

He heard Erickson MacPhail cursing under his breath behind him. Rather vivid and varied animal parts, but not as colorful as his brother Ryder’s Beloved Ones, who could spit out the most rank curses, even better than sailors raised in the king’s navy. He walked to the bed, smiled down at Mary Rose, and took her hand between his. “Do not be alarmed. You have a visitor, but he will not upset you in any way. Both Meggie and I swear it to you. He simply wishes to assure himself that you are all right.”

“I don’t want to see him. Please, Tysen, he will—”

Tysen touched his fingertips to her lips. “Let him speak, Mary Rose, and then that will be the end to it.”

“Yes,” she said slowly, “you’re perfectly right. I must speak to him and then it will be the end to it.” She drew a deep, steadying breath and said, “May I have some water first?”

“You’ll get through this in fine style.” He lifted her head and put the water glass to her lips. He thought he heard MacPhail say something, but he ignored him. When she’d finished drinking, she sighed and sat up as Tysen fluffed a pillow behind her. Meggie moved even closer to her now, snuggling against her side.

Mary Rose watched Erickson walk toward her, every step announcing his anger, his frustration, his absolute bafflement that a vicar was standing at his elbow and a ten-year-old girl was squeezed next to her on that huge bed. She wondered if he still saw her as the woman he fully intended to have. She realized that yes, he did. She wondered if more men were like him, believing that any woman they wished to have was theirs. She also knew that Meggie was giving him a look that clearly said she would leap on him if he tried anything. She felt immense gratitude for the little girl plastered to her side.

Erickson stopped at her bedside and stared down at her, not saying a word for a very long time. Then, “You have a black eye.”

“Yes,” Mary Rose said, and she was tempted to smile, but she didn’t.

“You are feeling all right, Mary Rose?”

He sounded like the man she’d known all her life, the man who had been her friend, so long ago, it seemed now. “Yes, just a bit sore. The fever is gone.”

Then he became what she’d expected, even though he tried to keep his voice calm, cajoling, just slightly scolding, as if she were a child. “You should never have jumped into that stream. You were swept away from me before I could do anything. I was very worried about you. I searched and searched, but I couldn’t find you. I was very frightened for you, Mary Rose. When I rode back, Primrose was gone, so I knew you were safe. You should never have jumped into that water.”

She said, very clearly, “I would jump into that stream again, without hesitation, if you were threatening me.”

He felt anger leap up, flame hot. He wanted to shake her, tell her that she shouldn’t go against him, but he couldn’t. He looked at the child, who was now even closer to Mary Rose than a minute before. He said formally, “Would you like me to escort you to Vallance Manor?”

Tysen thought she couldn’t become any more pale, but she did, and now she was utterly without color. Meggie squeezed even closer.

Mary Rose shook her head.

Erickson said, “Your aunt and uncle and, of course, Donnatella, are quite worried about you. They’re hurt that you felt you could not even come home, that you had to escape to this place.”

“What about my mother?”

“No one has told her anything. Your uncle doesn’t want to distress her.”

“How could I go into Vallance Manor when I saw your horse in front? After what you tried to do to me, do you honestly believe I would take the chance of walking into a house where you seemed perfectly at home? Into a house where, perhaps, you would feel free to abuse me again?”

“Abuse? Again? Nonsense. There was no abuse, Mary Rose. You are disremembering everything. You know I would not harm a single curly hair on your head. I asked you to marry me. I was a perfect gentleman. You put me off, you played the clever, elusive female. What was I to think? I was merely going to try to convince you that I wanted you, prove my sincerity to you, that’s all, but you decided to punish me, and you jumped into the water. I could not believe you did that. But now things are different. As soon as you are well again, we will wed. All you have to do now is accept me, and I will take you home.”

Mary Rose closed her eyes a moment. Something wasn’t right here. She opened her eyes and studied his face, but he looked just as he had a moment ago, all confident, a man clearly in charge, a very determined man. She said slowly, “Does my uncle wish me to marry you?”

“Yes.”

“But that makes no sense. Donnatella wants you. Why does he not prefer you to wed Donnatella?”

“I have told him that I do not love Donnatella. I have told him clearly that I must have you.”

“Will my uncle allow you to force me if I return home?”

The little girl was looking at him like he was a monster, even though she obviously didn’t understand exactly what was happening here. The vicar, curse his eyes, looked faintly bored, but Erickson wasn’t fooled.

“Forget your damned uncle. He has nothing to do with this. Forget this nonsense about forcing you. My mother is very fond of you, Mary Rose.”

“Your mother, Erickson, refers to me as the Upstart Bastard in a very penetrating voice to anyone within hearing distance.”

“She has changed, I promise you.”

She spoke clearly, with no fear or hesitation. “Please, leave go, Erickson. We used to be friends. I wish we could be friends again. But nothing more. I do not wish to marry you. I am not being coy. I am playing no game with you. I have no wish to wed with anyone. I will not let you take me home. I do not trust my uncle, and that is a pity. Good-bye, Erickson.”

He stiffened, saw that the little girl was very nearly ready to crawl on top of Mary Rose to protect her from him. It was too much. He threw back his head and heard his own laughter ring out in the room.

“Good,” Tysen said. “A man who is laughing isn’t thinking of mayhem.”

Erickson said over his shoulder as he strode out of the bedchamber, “This isn’t over, Mary Rose.” He nearly knocked Pouder flat. “Good God, man, watch where the devil you are walking!”

“The cravats,” Pouder said. “I must see to his lordship’s cravats. I nearly have the hang of folding them properly now. I am his varlet-in-training.”

Erickson stared at the old man he’d nearly knocked over. He’d known him ever since he was too small even to remember. “You’re a varlet, Pouder? Oh, I see. Yes, see to the cravats,” he said, and went slowly down the stairs to the grand entrance hall of Kildrummy Castle.

What the bloody hell was he to do now?

14

MARY ROSE HAD just eaten a bowl of too salty chicken broth under Tysen’s watchful eye when Meggie burst into the room, out of breath because she had been running. “You’ll not believe who is here, Papa! It’s Aunt Sinjun and Uncle Colin!”

Sinjun stepped into the very large, very dark, melancholy bedchamber that had obviously had only a long line of men living there with no woman to perk the place up and quickly took in Mary Rose’s vivid curly red hair, those incredible green eyes of hers, the bruises on her face, her pallor. And that leap of fear. She said to the room at large, which also included Tysen, who had just built up the fire and was now standing, wiping his hands, staring at her, clearly startled at her sudden presence, “I would have gotten here sooner, but Pearlin’ Jane didn’t tell me exactly where the trouble was or exactly who the trouble involved until last night just after Colin and I were all snuggled together in bed and—never mind that. Then I had to convince Colin that it wasn’t some sort of absurd dream, brought on by a surfeit of—no, forget that as well. It isn’t important either. Colin is, naturally, stubborn as a flea since he is a man, but he came around finally.” Sinjun walked quickly to Tysen, who was now holding out his arms to her, still looking bemused, saying her name, and wrapped her own arms around him.

“Sinjun,” he said again, kissing her, then holding her away from him, “you know I do not believe in ghosts. Even this Pearlin’ Jane of yours. Now, will you tell me, with no embroidering of the facts, exactly why you felt compelled to drag yourself and Colin here to Kildrummy?”

“Of course I’ll tell you, my dear, but first, who is this?”

“She’s Mary Rose, Aunt Sinjun, and her hair is as beautiful as Aunt Alex’s.”

“Yes,” Colin said, stepping forward and shaking Tysen’s hand, then looking immediately over at Mary Rose, “I suppose that it is. I can see you’ve been hurt. I am Colin Kinross, the stubborn husband. What is going on here? I never believed Sinjun for a moment—well, perhaps for three or four very short moments, but no more than that—but she was so very worried that something bad was happening to Tysen that we came. I’m sorry, Tysen. If you are wishing us at Jericho, we will leave you be. But it looks as if my wife is correct. There is some trouble here.”

Tysen said, “You have arrived at a splendid time. You can help Meggie protect Mary Rose from Erickson MacPhail.”

“Oh, goodness,” Sinjun said and was by Mary Rose’s side in an instant, her cool hand on her forehead. “Of course there is trouble. Is Erickson MacPhail the man we saw striding out of the castle, looking like he wanted to blast everyone?”

“Oh, dear,” Mary Rose said.

“It doesn’t matter,” Tysen said. “He finally realizes he has lost. Let him relieve his bile.”

Sinjun said, “Now we are here, nothing else unpleasant will happen to you.” She smiled down at the young woman who had the most magnificent green eyes she’d ever seen. “Actually, with Tysen here, we’re really not at all necessary, but—”

There was a swish at the doorway, then a loud, portentous clearing of the throat. Tysen turned to see Mrs. Griffin standing there, her hands on her abundant hips.

Tysen said pleasantly, “Sinjun, my dearest sister, I beg you not to leave. Now here is trouble that is possibly even beyond my ability to manage. Help me, Sinjun. I am clearly in need of reinforcements.”

Mrs. Griffin said, striding into the bedchamber, swinging her black cane, “I do not wish to believe my eyes! But I cannot disregard what my eyes are seeing. There have been generations of Barthwicks who have slipped out of their mothers’ wombs and then died on their own, usually of gnarly old age—at least some of them did—in that bed. Just look at her—all sunk deep in the lovely feather ticking, looking right at home, as if she belonged, as if she was the laird’s wife. She is nothing but a bastard. No one has anything to do with her. She doesn’t belong here, particularly in that bed. Ah, that raises a question.”

Mrs. Griffin pumped herself up, her bosom attaining new prominence. “What is she doing in your bedchamber and in your bed, my lord?”

Tysen had always enjoyed his share of the Sherbrooke luck. But now it seemed that wondrous luck had deserted him. His bedchamber was very nearly overflowing with people, and poor Mary Rose looked as if she was going to expire on the spot. And now this ridiculous old besom was insulting her at a fine clip, and that made him very angry indeed. He said pleasantly, though it was very difficult, almost beyond him, “Mrs. Griffin, Mr. Griffin—I assume you are standing directly behind your wife, and that is why I don’t see you?”

“Just so. We are here to see what is what.”

“That is obscure enough,” Tysen said. “Before you again take your leave, you can see that Mary Rose has been hurt. She is recovering from her injuries. This is all there is to it, this is your what is what. There is nothing that requires your assistance that I can think of. I hope your carriage is still awaiting you in front of the castle?”

“Rudeness isn’t becoming, even though you are a vicar and an Englishman,” said Mrs. Griffin. “Of course there is more to this than a mere what is what. I ask you, my lord, who are these people? Obviously they are more im-ported wretched English here to torment us.”

Colin eyed the woman with the thin black mustache over her upper lip and her husband, who was still standing behind her, drew himself as tall as Robert the Bruce, wished he had a claymore to swing about, and said, “Ma’am, I am Lord Ashburnham. I am so Scottish that I wear my plaid to bed and even dream in Scottish, not English or Italian. Just who the devil are you?”

To Tysen’s surprise, Mrs. Griffin gave Colin a very quick, very deep curtsy, ruined quickly enough when she opened her mouth. “I am Mrs. Griffin, naturally, my lord. I belong here. I have been coming here for so long that I once even considered marrying Old Tyronne so I could sleep in that bed. I did not marry him, of course, because of Mr. Griffin here, and he was still breathing then, as he is now. Poor Old Tyronne needed more heirs, but alas, I was a bit too advanced in years to provide one.

“Now, I can see that I am needed. There is a conundrum of magnificent proportions here. I—we—are here to resolve everything. First, get that girl out of that bed.”

Tysen rolled his eyes. It kept him from marching up to Mrs. Griffin and either snarling something unvicarlike into her face or throwing her out the window, if only they were wide enough to accommodate her, which he doubted they were.

Sinjun said slowly, still absorbing the irrefutable fact that this woman actually existed and was standing here in Tysen’s bedchamber, “Pearlin’ Jane didn’t tell me about you, Mrs. Griffin.”

“Obviously this Pearlin’ Jane person doesn’t know everything,” said Mr. Griffin, one shoulder showing around his wife.

“If Pearlin’ Jane had told you anything at all about Mrs. Griffin,” Tysen said to his sister, “I doubt you would have stirred from Vere Castle even if my head was under the guillotine blade. You would have written me a letter of condolence and kept your distance.”

“I do not find you amusing, my lord.”

“No, I imagine that you don’t,” Tysen said. “Now, why don’t all of us leave Mary Rose to rest? Perhaps Mrs. MacFardle will provide us tea to pour down our respective gullets. Then perhaps you, Mrs. Griffin, will feel that the conundrum is well in hand and you are free once again to take your leave.”

“I continue not to like your humor, my lord.”

“Sometimes, Mrs. Griffin,” Tysen said, swallowing his gorge since there was no choice at all, “I don’t either.”

“I insist that you satisfy me, my lord,” said Mrs. Griffin.

Tysen said, “I doubt that I am capable of accomplishing that, ma’am. Come along now. Mary Rose isn’t well.”

“She doesn’t deserve to be,” Mr. Griffin said, extending his neck so that he could see around his wife’s shoulder. “No one has anything to do with her.”

I am not a violent man, Tysen said over and over to himself. Even if I were, I would not allow myself to strike an older man who has probably drunk more than his share of smuggled French brandy.

“You go ahead,” Sinjun said, waving them all away. “I wish to speak to Mary Rose. Colin, I wish you to remain and listen so that you may tell me things later that I am perhaps missing in all this.”

Tysen didn’t want to leave his sister with Mary Rose. He wasn’t certain why, but he just knew, all the way to the scar over his left rib that occasionally ached when the weather turned unexpectedly, that it wasn’t a good idea. Colin took his arm. “You have no choice,” Colin said, sympathy and humor in his voice. “Sinjun must needs meddle, you know that.”

“Yes, I know,” Tysen said. “The first time she meddled, I believe, she was four years old and Douglas ended up under a rosebush, hiding from our father.”

“Go, my dear,” Sinjun said, giving him that special smile of hers that he had never trusted her entire life. “I will take care of things here. Trust me. Ah, I believe I was five that time.”

Tysen sighed, smiled at Mary Rose. “I will see you soon. Try to rest. Try to ignore my sister.” He then told Meggie not to flatten Mary Rose with too much protection and followed the Griffins out of the bedchamber.

“Now,” Sinjun said, focusing all of her formidable intelligence on Mary Rose, “let me tell you all about Pearlin’ Jane and what she said to me.”

“Who is Pearlin’ Jane?” Mary Rose asked.

Meggie said, “She is Aunt Sinjun’s ghost. She lives at Vere Castle. She’s been dead for a very long time, but she takes care of Aunt Sinjun.”

“That’s right,” Sinjun said, and sat down in the big wing chair. “She came to me last night and told me that Tysen was in trouble, here at Kildrummy.”

“He is,” Mary Rose said. A tear rolled down her cheek. “I don’t think I believe in ghosts either. I’ve never seen one, even here, and there are supposed to be at least six ghosts hanging about Kildrummy.” She tried to smile through her tears, but it didn’t help.

Meggie squeezed Mary Rose’s hand as she came up on her knees beside her. “Oh, no, don’t cry, please, Mary Rose. Papa will take care of everything. And Aunt Sinjun is very good at meddling, even Papa agrees that she is. Uncle Colin loves her so very much I even heard him say once that he would lock her in his bedchamber and visit her at his whim. That tells you something, doesn’t it?”

There came a snort from Colin, who was seated in the wing chair, reading a newspaper.

“I would like to know what is going on here,” Sinjun said.

“It’s not his responsibility,” Mary Rose said and sniffed. She hated herself. Tears were ridiculous. They did nothing but make her skin itch. “Pearlin’ Jane could have been right, ma’am, but she’s not any longer. I’m leaving. I will not allow Tysen to face any consequences that would harm him. Mrs. Griffin is right. I do not belong here. No one wants me here. I won’t allow Tysen to be any more noble than he already has been. Would you please lend me a gown?”

Now this was interesting, Sinjun thought. This lovely ill young woman was in Tysen’s bed, and she was worried about him and his blasted reputation but not at all about herself? Did she think so little of herself? If she did, it was understandable, given the horrid things that had spewed from that wretched Mrs. Griffin’s mouth. Lovely hair, yes, Mary Rose had lovely hair, and a lovely face. But of course such things wouldn’t weigh heavily with Tysen. She had never seen him like this. Melinda Beatrice had died six years ago. It was a very long time for a man to be alone. Of course, there were Max and Leo and Meggie, but children weren’t the same thing as having someone to laugh with and talk to, to fight with, to make love to. Sinjun had worried about him for a very long time now. She looked at Mary Rose, at that pale face, the scratches, the horrible bruise around her left eye, and said calmly, “A gown? Certainly. I will do anything you need, Mary Rose.” She smiled. “Do call me Sinjun.”

“But—”

“You’d best give in to Aunt Sinjun,” Meggie said comfortably. “She and Pearlin’ Jane won’t let anything bad happen.”

Colin said, lowering his newspaper so he could see over it, “Yes, Mary Rose, you may trust my wife. I trust her with my life, and she has protected me very well indeed. Oh, yes, do call me Colin.”

There was no way to rid himself of the Griffins aside from tossing them out into the courtyard on their respective ears. Not a bad thought. After two cups of strong tea, Tysen inquired yet again, “Why have you returned?”

“You see how he tries to be as imperious as Old Tyronne,” Mrs. Griffin said to her husband. Then she turned her cannon on him with a goodly amount of enthusiasm. “It will not work, boy. No matter what you want, you will not marry Mary Rose Fordyce. I will not allow you to marry her. She is a bastard. If she is received anywhere, it is only because of her very respectable aunt and uncle. No, her sort will not be the mistress of Kildrummy.”

Tysen lost every word in his brain at that moment. Wed with Mary Rose? Such a thought had never—no, he was merely protecting her, as a man of God, it was his duty to see that Erickson didn’t rape her, that nothing or no one forced her to do anything against her will, that—he closed his eyes and managed to dredge up words for a simple prayer. They were very straightforward, those words that made up his prayer: Lord, if I strangle this woman, will you find forgiveness for me?

“My dearest wife is concerned about your reputation, my lord,” said Mr. Griffin. “She is worried that you not besmirch the family name.”

Mrs. Griffin saluted her husband over her teacup. It was her fourth cup, and Tysen found, despite being wordless and dazed, that one had to be impressed at her capacity. She then bent her look on Tysen, her black mustache quivering. “Even now, my lord, you may be certain that everyone north of Edinburgh is talking of how the new Lord Barthwick—namely, you—has an unmarried bastard female in his bed. According to Mrs. MacFardle, you stayed with her all night and took care of her intimately, and she is even wearing your nightshirt, and isn’t that—one hesitates to say it, but I must—yes, it is utterly depraved, even for an Englishman.”

Tysen, normally fluent in his speech, smoothly cultured, and quite self-possessed, lost not only his ability to reason and speak again, but also nearly every semblance of life. He stood rigid as a board, frozen in place, staring not at Mrs. Griffin but into himself, deep inside himself where one seldom has reason to look because there are many times shadows there, and doors that are better left closed. But he looked, regardless. What he saw, what he finally fully realized, what was staring him right in the face, was the realization that the miserable old hag was right.

Oh, dear God, he had taken intimate care of her, as if she were his child or his wife. He hadn’t hesitated. By all that was holy, what had he done to Mary Rose? And all for the best motives, all to protect her, to save her, to be the buffer between her and MacPhail. She was wearing his nightshirt, he had taken care of her, looked at her, fully appreciated every white inch of her, which he shouldn’t have done, but since he was a man, there’d been no hope for it.

“Well, my lord? Have you nothing to say for yourself? Did you bed Mary Rose? One doubts she was a virgin because a bastard is seldom a virgin, no matter her age. Will she, a bastard, deliver another bastard into this world? Her dear aunt and uncle, so well respected in these parts, in all their goodness, allowed her to be raised with their own sweet Donnatella. Mary Rose should never have remained in a respectable home. Just look what has happened. She is upstairs lying in your bed. And you, my lord, you allowed it. You freely partook in it. And still you let her stay.”

Tysen slowly shook his head, back and forth. He had looked deep into himself, seen the truth, recognized what he must do, and now he must act. He turned and walked out of the drawing room, the sound of his boots striking the tile in the front entrance hall sharp in his ears. Those boots of his might be a bit dirty, but they made loud, sharp sounds as they hit the tiles. And yet, deep inside himself, he heard nothing. He felt waves of guilt and shame, but now, thank the good Lord, they were receding in the face of his resolve to make things right. He heard Mrs. Griffin’s voice calling after him, but he didn’t understand her words. Indeed, they weren’t even words to his mind.

When he opened the door to his bedchamber, he saw Colin still seated in the big wing chair, still comfortably reading a newspaper, obviously still at his ease. Colin, excellent man that he was, had learned years ago that it was best just to give Sinjun her head.

Sinjun was now seated on the bed, close to Mary Rose, speaking to her, and his dearest Meggie was on her knees next to Mary Rose, holding her hand, nodding at whatever Sinjun was saying. Then Mary Rose looked up and saw him.

“Hello, Tysen,” she said, and he would have had to be a blind man not to see the leap of pleasure in her eyes at the sight of him, the smile that hadn’t been there but a moment before, there now, sweet and honest, and it was for him, and he thought, She should not so openly give me her joy. Is there no hope for it?

15

THEN ALL HER joy died on the spot and she said, looking down, “I am going to Vere Castle with Sinjun. I plan to be a nanny to Fletcher and Jocelyn. She doesn’t want me to be, but I have to do something to earn my keep, don’t I?”

She was leaving?

“I’m not ignorant. I speak Latin. I can instruct Phillip, perhaps I can also teach Dahling to play the bagpipes. I don’t play them well, but I do know several tunes. I do know how to do things. I won’t be useless.”

“You speak Latin?”

He was gaping at her, distracted for the moment.

“Yes, and also a bit of French, although my accent is not terribly pleasant. Since there are no longer Latin speakers about, why, then, no one can criticize my accent.”

She spoke Latin? How ever had that come about? He got himself back on track, just shaking his head at her. “You’re not leaving Kildrummy Castle,” he said, and he even managed to smile at her. Sinjun opened her mouth, but then he saw that she was staring at him as if she’d never seen him before. Slowly, very slowly, Sinjun got off the bed and stood beside it for a long moment. Then she held out her hand to her niece. “Come along, Meggie. You, Uncle Colin, and I are going to explore the castle. Will you give us a tour?”

Meggie had no idea what was happening here, but she knew it was something very important, something between her papa and Mary Rose. Mary Rose knew Latin? Goodness, what would Max have to say to that? She nearly leapt off the bed and took her aunt’s hand.

Colin calmly folded his paper and rose. He gave Tysen one long last look, then lightly touched his hand to his wife’s shoulder. Tysen heard Sinjun say, “We don’t have to see that dreadful woman, do we?”

“No, we won’t go near the drawing room,” Meggie said. “I want to show you the hidden garden behind Papa’s library. I believe Mr. MacNeily is working in there. He’s Papa’s estate manager, you know. He is very nice. I wish he would stay, but he is leaving Kildrummy soon now. Oliver is coming to take his place, at least Papa hopes he will.”

Colin said, “That will make Douglas gnash his teeth.”

He heard Sinjun laugh. “Oliver would do marvelously well here at Kildrummy.”

Tysen closed the bedchamber door, locked it. He said as he walked back to the bed, “Just forget this nanny business, Mary Rose. Forget teaching Latin to Phillip and bagpipes to Dahling. You aren’t going anywhere.”

Mary Rose had scooted up, feeling more strong and fit than she had even five minutes before. She hadn’t taken her eyes off him. As he spoke, she noticed, for the first time, that stubborn jaw of his. “I must,” she said, and it hurt to say it, but there was no choice. “Surely you see that.”

“No, I don’t see anything of the kind. Listen to me. We all do what we must. The must to be done in this situation is this: you must marry me. You will be the mistress of Kildrummy Castle in Scotland and you will be a vicar’s wife in my home in England. I live in a village called Glenclose-on-Rowan. My house is officially called the Old Parsonage, but it’s been known for years and years as Eden Hill House.”

“That is a very romantic name for a parsonage.”

“I suppose so.”

He thought inconsequentially that even with that awful pallor, she looked quite lovely sitting there in his nightshirt, her red hair in soft curls around her head and over her shoulders. Her mouth opened again, but nothing came out. He waited. He was good at waiting. Many times it took a parishioner a goodly number of minutes to screw up his courage to confess a sin.

“I cannot. Surely you know that, Tysen.”

“You cannot what? Marry me? I don’t see that there is anything else for you to do.”

“I will not do that to you,” she said, and her voice had firmed up now, and color was coming into her cheeks. “I came here because I wasn’t thinking straight, because I was afraid to go into Vallance Manor with Erickson’s horse wandering around outside the house, just like he was used to being there, as if he belonged there.

“But no matter. I was wrong, very wrong, to come here and involve you and Meggie.” She drew a very deep breath. “I will not allow you to sacrifice yourself because I was a fool.”

He smiled, a calm, clean smile that showed his lovely white teeth and lit up his blue eyes even more. “Forget this sacrifice business. It is nonsense. I should have told you this sooner. I have three children. Max, my scholar and wit, is nine; Leo, who sings like an angel, gets into more mischief than a devil’s spawn, and stands on his head, is seven. You already know my precocious Meggie. They are all good children, but perhaps you wouldn’t wish to be saddled with three stepchildren.”

“Meggie has told me all about Max and Leo.” Then she seemed to fold down. She just sat there, shaking her head back and forth. “No, you are purposely misunderstanding me. Please, Tysen, you know I would love your children dearly. I had accustomed myself to not having children. No, I won’t speak of that. You are being stubborn.”

“I would be interested in knowing if you spoke Latin better than Max.”

“Yes, I probably do. I probably read Latin better also.”

“Who instructed you? I cannot see Donnatella enjoying Latin lessons.”

“The very old Presbyterian minister who died some three years ago. He was pensioned off when I was very young. He was lonely.” She shrugged. “He taught me many things. He, like everyone else, deplored my antecedents, but he taught me nonetheless. He also preached to me, but I think it was more to keep in practice than to save my soul.” Then she actually smiled at the memories.

“We have to get back on track here, Mary Rose. Do you find me that distasteful? You believe me no better than Erickson MacPhail?”

Mary Rose threw back the covers and swung her legs over the side of the bed. His nightshirt had come up to her knees, and now he looked at those knees he’d thought were the prettiest knees he’d ever imagined when he was wiping her down with the wet, cold cloth. She was standing now, his nightshirt dragging on the floor, the sleeves a good six inches beyond the ends of her fingers. She walked right up to him and stood there, not a foot from him, and poked her finger in his chest. “I have to face you. I cannot remain lying there, a pathetic victim with a black eye, a woman you must see as nauseatingly pitiable. You will not tell me what to do. You feel guilty and responsible. That is nonsense. I will not marry you. I will not serve you such a turn, Tysen. I will go to Vere Castle with Sinjun. I will learn. I will become a proper nanny. I will speak Latin to everyone.”

“No,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest. He looked thoughtful for a moment. She decided he was finally coming to his senses. She’d been noble. She would deal later with the vast wasteland deep inside her.

He said, “We will have to post bans. I suppose things are the same here as they are in England?”

The wasteland disappeared, but she knew it made no difference. She grabbed his arms and tried to shake him, but she couldn’t even begin to budge him. “You will make yourself sick again,” he said, not allowing himself to touch her. That wouldn’t do at all. He held firm. “Get back into bed, Mary Rose.”

Then she smiled, a sudden, quite lovely smile. “Tysen, you are a very good man. You have the most beautiful eyes I have ever seen. And your mouth—no, I shouldn’t have said that. Listen, I have no intention of making you regret your inheritance. I will not drag you down and bring you disgrace. I am a bastard. There is nothing to be done about it. When will you accept that as an unchangeable fact?”

“Yes, I know that you are a bastard.” He shrugged. “Who cares?”

“Everyone I have ever known cares a great deal,” she said honestly. “When I was a little girl, Donnatella would call me a bastard and laugh and laugh. I didn’t think it could be all that bad because Donnatella was, after all, much younger than I. But I finally asked my uncle Lyon. He told me that I didn’t have a father. From that day onward, everything changed. I knew then that I didn’t belong, I realized then that everyone—the servants, my aunt, my uncle—treated me differently. I realized I was at Vallance Manor only because my mother was the sister of the mistress of the house.”

“That could not have been pleasant, but it is past now, Mary Rose. I am sorry that it happened, but it is over and done with. I will say it again. Who cares?”

“Don’t you understand? You belong to a noble English family. I could never belong.”

“Are you quite through yet?”

“You are sounding like a long-suffering man faced with a hysterical female.”

“You, hysterical? You assured Erickson that you weren’t. But it doesn’t matter, as it happens. As a vicar, I deal quite well with hysterical females. In truth, however I do not wish to be married to one. My first wife perhaps tended toward hysteria—no, forget that. You have struck me as very commonsensical, Mary Rose. Also you have a beautiful name. I think your eyes are far more beautiful than mine, although the Sherbrooke blue eyes are touted throughout southern England.” He laughed, just shaking his head. “I don’t care that you never had a father. It’s simply not important. If it truly bothers you, then we won’t tell anyone in England. It matters not, either way. Marry me.”

“You don’t know me.”

He was smiling now, those white teeth of his just lovely, and his hands came up to close around her shoulders. “We will learn all about each other over the next forty years. I do not believe I snore. If I did, Meggie would surely tell me, since she and her brothers sometimes curl up around me in the wintertime when it is very cold. There are also two cats, Ellis and Monroe. They aren’t racing cats, but—”

She was instantly diverted, as he’d hoped she would be. “Racing cats? I have never heard of such a thing. What are racing cats? I can’t imagine getting a cat to race. Cats always do whatever pleases them. Come, you’re teasing me.”

“Oh, no. Cat racing is quite the sport in southern England. The season is from April to October, and the races are held on Saturdays, at the McCaulty Race Track near Eastbourne. If you like, I could try to get you a racing kitten to train. I once met the Harker brothers, the premier trainers in all the sport. They are at Mountvale Hall, the home of Rohan Carrington.”

Her eyes were shining as she said, quite without thinking, “Oh, goodness, to teach a kitten to race. What fun that would be, what—” She drew up short. “No,” she said. “I must not think about things like that. I cannot. It simply isn’t right. I will not change my mind, Tysen, I cannot.”

“It might prove difficult. The Harker brothers are very particular about whom they trust to properly train racing kittens.”

“You really must stop this. I will not think about racing kittens, I won’t.”

Without conscious thought, at the end of his tether, Tysen tightened his hold on her shoulders and pulled her slowly against him. He leaned his head down and kissed her, his mouth against hers, both closed. It didn’t matter. It was a revelation. It was as if his body had suddenly come alive, sending every last bit of him reeling, exploding in awareness and bone-deep pleasure, more pleasure than he could even begin to imagine. “Open your mouth,” he said, appalled that he’d said such a thing to her, and praying with every fiber in his body that she would. Where had that come from? To his utter surprise she did, immediately, all soft and warm, and his tongue gently touched her lower lip before entering her mouth. Oh, God, he knew he was going to die then, die from this immense, overwhelming joy. He would shudder himself to death if nothing else.

He pulled back, his heart pounding hard, heaving, unable to get hold of himself, feeling so urgent, so very good, he didn’t quite understand what was happening to him. Whatever it was, he didn’t want it to stop. He wouldn’t mind if he exploded with these feelings.

“I didn’t know,” he said slowly, looking down at her, absolutely amazed at what he had felt, his entire body aching now because he wasn’t touching her, didn’t have his tongue in her mouth. He shook his head at himself, utterly dismayed. He dropped his hands to his sides and took two quick steps away from her. His body ached, simply ached. “I just didn’t know,” he said again, and it was true. He didn’t understand what had happened. But he knew it was wonderful, and he was still trembling from the onslaught.

Her mouth was shiny from his kissing her. He watched her touch her fingertips to her mouth, as if she couldn’t quite comprehend what had happened, either. Then she blinked and stared up at him, at his mouth, and that ache was taking him over, making him shake and want to cry with the urgent wanting he felt. She said, with great inadequacy, “That was quite nice, Tysen.”

Nice? She thought it only nice? He was quaking like a tree ready to be toppled over. That cataclysm that had nearly sent him to his knees was only nice? As in a summer day was nice? He simply couldn’t help himself. He was pulling her against him again, hard against him, and his arms were around her this time and he was kissing her wildly, his fingers kneading and caressing her back. He at least had the sense not to let his hands go below her waist. She wasn’t yet his wife. But he couldn’t stop kissing her, that wonderful mouth of hers, her jaw, the tip of her nose, her eyelids. There was so much, so very much to see, to feel, to taste.

“Marry me,” he said into her mouth. “I cannot bear this, Mary Rose. You must give me my way in this. Everything will be all right. You will speak Latin better than Max, and he will glow with pride. Ellis and Monroe will curl around your ankles and sleep against the backs of your knees. We will all deal well together. Marry me.”

Actually, he was beginning to believe that he would simply fall down and die if she didn’t marry him, if she didn’t allow herself to become his wife and belong to him. He couldn’t stop. He kept kissing her until she made a small noise into his mouth. That nearly whispered little sound shot mindless lust throughout his body. He realized in one last flicker of reason that it was simply all over for him.

He nearly leapt away from her, breathing so hard, so fast, that for a moment he couldn’t get hold of his body. When he did, he smiled at her shocked white face. Dear God, he had frightened her. He heard himself say with absolute honesty, “I want to do that to you until we are both very old and doddering.”

“I—” She gulped. “Yes,” she said then. “I would like that very much. I have never done that before. I am twenty-four years old, on the shelf, everyone says. I have never done that, Tysen, never known that one person could make another feel all these strange things. They’re frantic sorts of things. I want them desperately. I don’t want them to stop. I don’t understand.”

“Feel what things exactly?” He couldn’t believe he’d asked her that, but he didn’t take it back. He wanted to know.

He watched her hand fall to her belly and lightly press inward. He watched her fingers press downward a bit more. She didn’t realize what she was doing, but he did, and he nearly collapsed on the spot. It was all he could do to prevent himself from leaping on her again and throwing her on her back on that soft, giving bed.

“It is like I am somehow hungry, my stomach is hot, and I feel like I want to touch you everywhere.”

He nearly swallowed his tongue. Control, he thought. It had been so many years since he’d felt these ungovernable, roiling feelings that made him want to fly and howl and shout for joy. Go slowly, he thought, go gently. “Mary Rose, if you were my wife, then you could touch me everywhere, just as I could you. There is incredible pleasure when a husband and wife come together, so I have heard. I believe you and I would know that pleasure.”

“I was afraid when Erickson tried to hold me like you did. No, I was beyond afraid, I was terrified. Isn’t it peculiar that it is so very different with you? That it is all I can think about? Er, Tysen, could you please kiss me again? Perhaps let me press myself against you, all of you? You are very different from me.”

As God is my witness, I will not go beyond the point where I cannot stop myself. “I will kiss you and hold you if you promise to be my wife, Mary Rose. I am a vicar. I am not allowed to enjoy myself in such a way without God blessing our union. Surely you understand how I am constrained. I have done things in my life that now, knowing how life is, I would do differently, but despoiling you, giving in to a man’s lust—that I will not do.”

“Yes,” she said, so disappointed she wanted to cry, and yet at the same time she admired him tremendously, “I understand. I’m not at all good, Tysen. For many years I was jealous of Donnatella. I am impatient with my mother. I would have shot Erickson if I’d had a gun and knew how to load it and fire it.”

“Are you making some sort of point here?”

“I don’t know if I would make a very good vicar’s wife.”

“Nonsense. You are human, Mary Rose, delightfully so. Jealousy, anger, frustration—those are not bad things, they’re just things that all of us feel because they’re there to be felt. They cannot be ignored, at least not all of the time.

“You wish to know what I see when I look at you? I see a beautiful young woman. I am not blind. Looking at you delights me—your hair, your mysterious eyes, that wicked little smile of yours, and your nose, Mary Rose. It’s straight and narrow and really quite a nice nose.”

She was trying very hard not to laugh, not to fall to his knees, and weep her eyes out. “Tysen, stop it, just stop it.”

“Oh, no. I also see great kindness in you, Mary Rose. I see no petty meanness in you, just caring. You have been alone too much. You have not been cherished. I also think that you feel things very deeply. Perhaps, someday, you will feel deeply about me.” Oddly enough, at that very moment, he knew it was right to make this girl, a girl he hadn’t even known existed a simple week ago, his wife. It was the thing to do. It was what he wanted to do. Then he nearly laughed at himself, at all his mental machinations, all his man’s justifications. He also wanted to make love to her until both of them collapsed. He remembered vaguely the awesome desire he had felt for Melinda Beatrice when he’d been all of twenty years old and she was his goddess. He’d prayed for valiant deeds to perform to prove his devotion to her, but there hadn’t been any.

The fact of the matter was, however, that his union with Melinda Beatrice was a very long time ago and they had both been so very young. He was a man now. He had tried his best then, but he’d been so ill-prepared. There’d simply been so much he had never experienced, had not known how to deal with—from his wife to all the people in his congregation. And then he’d been a father and Melinda Beatrice had died.

But things were different now. He was different in many very important ways. His children had changed him, made his life richer, given him more compassion, more patience. The many men and women in his congregation had changed him as well. He had tried to be a good man, a man to minister to them as he should.

But never before in his life had he comprehended the simple joy another human being could bring him, the endless warmth, the caring, the immense joy of the world. And the excitement of just looking at her, a smile on his mouth without his even realizing it. Now she had come into his life—so completely unexpected. She fascinated him even as she brought out every protective instinct he had buried deep inside. This quite pretty girl, who wasn’t a girl anymore but a woman of twenty-four years, was now standing in his nightshirt not two feet away from him, and this was the only woman he wished to have by his side. Forever.

Dear Lord, give me the words to convince her that this is a very good idea.

16

Vallance Manor

“SHE WON’T MARRY me.”

Sir Lyon was disgusted with the young man who was sitting in front of him, his hands clasped between his knees, looking bewildered and defeated. He’d had such faith in him, not only in his good looks but in his ruthlessness. He’d believed him utterly dedicated to this task, but he’d failed.

Sir Lyon said, “Stand up and pull your shoulders back, damn you. You have hardly tried. Good God, man, get her away from that cursed vicar, and it will be done.”

Erickson raised his head. “He won’t even allow me to be alone with her. Neither will his daughter. She was practically crouched over Mary Rose to protect her from me. What am I supposed to do? Pound a man of God into the bloody ground? Lock the little girl into a closet?”

“No, of course not. If you did that, you’d be hung up by your heels.” Sir Lyon drank down a snifter of his fine French brandy. He rubbed his chin. He felt a clump of hair that his valet, Mortimer, blast the fellow, had missed when shaving him that morning. Sir Lyon said slowly, rubbing his palms over the brandy snifter, “There has to be a way to get to her, to spirit her away from Kildrummy Castle. Then the vicar would be out of it. What could he do? Nothing at all. Damnation, boy, I can’t believe she actually jumped into the stream. I always believed Mary Rose an obedient, diffident little thing.”

“She’s changed, sir,” Erickson said, and for a moment, he was puzzled by it. But it was true. Rather than freezing like a doe in a hunter’s sights, just days before, she’d run away from him into the pine forest near Kildrummy. He said slowly, “I can remember her as a little girl. She was quiet, obedient, just as you said. I remember that she was always standing on the outside of things, watching, listening. Maybe she’s changed slowly, small things that I just haven’t noticed. But she’s managed to keep herself away from me for a very long time now. I have tried every tactic, but nothing has worked.

“As I told you, she escaped me last week. She actually managed to run away from me. And she escaped me again yesterday. She moved very fast. I was reaching for her, and then she was in the water, being swept downstream. She’s a strong girl. She pulled herself out, since there was no one else about to do it.”

Sir Lyon wasn’t much impressed. “She’s a female. Find a way to get her. Hold her down so she can’t run away.”

Erickson looked toward the fireplace, its grate empty now, and the painting of Sir Lyon’s great-grandfather, William Thatcher Vallance, hanging above it. He’d been a terrifying old man who had left more bastards in the area than anyone before or since. He said, “When Ian and I were boys, we were always searching every nook and cranny of Kildrummy, trying to find secret passages. We didn’t find any, didn’t see a single ghost. We just got tangled up in a lot of spiderwebs and our boots run over by a battalion of rats. But we did find a very private way into the castle, through a very narrow ivy-covered door that gives onto a private garden just outside the library. The Kildrummy steward, Miles MacNeily, spends a good of time in there, but he is soon to leave, I hear.”

“Yes, he came into an inheritance,” Sir Lyon said. “A good-sized one, I hear. Miles wouldn’t care what you did with Mary Rose, in any case.”

“The odd thing is that I believe he would. I remember he was always asking about her, always seemed to enjoy seeing her. I also remember that he was always very nice to her when she was younger, gave her treats, that sort of thing.” Erickson rose and began pacing back and forth in front of Sir Lyon. He looks heroic, Sir Lyon thought, a very fine-looking young man with clear eyes and a noble brow, possibly even more handsome than poor Ian, who shouldn’t have died stumbling drunk over a cliff. He still didn’t understand how it could have happened. But Ian was long gone now, and how it had happened simply didn’t matter anymore.

What mattered was right here, staring him in the face. Erickson MacPhail, the man who was willing to buy his niece and overlook her unfortunate parentage. And his dearest Donnatella would benefit once she got over her snit. He would take her to Edinburgh, introduce her to every suitable gentleman between the ages of twenty and eighty. She would be fawned over, poetry written to her lovely eyebrows; she would be feted, spoiled rotten. That would make her happy, perhaps even content, once away from her cousin, who had somehow managed to steal Ian away from her. No one could credit it, but it had happened. Sir Lyon had marveled at it. He doubted now that anyone remembered Ian had wanted Mary Rose. No, most folk would think of Mary Rose, see her next to her cousin, and it would be Donnatella who’d lost her betrothed in that dreadful accident. And Donnatella, bless her lovely self, never corrected anyone who showered condolences upon her beautiful head for her Ian’s death. And Donnatella, who surely couldn’t have been involved in Ian’s death.

Sir Lyon said now, “Whatever, Miles MacNeily isn’t important. I suppose you could try your plan. As you know, however, the Griffins have returned and also Lord and Lady Ashburnham, Lord Barthwick’s sister and brother-in-law, have come to visit. What with the servants also hanging about, there are a lot of folk for you to avoid. Do you know how you’re going to get her out of there?”

“Not as yet, but I shall think of something. Time grows short.”

“Aye, it does,” said Sir Lyon. “However, I myself have a few other strategies to try before you attempt it.”

He didn’t see Donnatella standing quietly behind the drawing room door.

Kildrummy Castle

Mary Rose’s voice was as thin as the stem of the yellow rose that sat in a vase atop the mantel when she said, “Do you really think I am kind?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Kind, did you say?”

“Yes, you are the one who said I am kind. I want to know if you really believe it.”

A touch of acrimony, just excellent, and yes, he’d also heard just a tiny thread of hope there as well.

He laughed, he couldn’t help himself. He grabbed her and hugged her tightly. Then he closed his hands around her waist and lifted her above his head. Her hair swirled about her head, falling in a rich red curtain of curls about his face. He breathed in the sweet scent of her, a woman’s unique scent. It had been so very long. He hadn’t forgotten, but since he couldn’t act on such thoughts, he’d shoved them way back to the recesses of his brain and avoided ever going there in his thinking.

Tysen looked up at her, this girl with her wonderful scent, hair so rich and deeply red he wanted to bury his face in it, but now he wasn’t smiling. He looked more serious than a vicar—namely, a man like himself—in a roomful of pickpockets. “Enough is enough, Mary Rose. I will hold you off the ground until you say yes to me.”

Her hands were on his shoulders, her fingers kneading him. “You will truly ask the Harker brothers to give me a racing kitten?”

“I promise. However, they must deem you worthy and responsible. A racing cat requires great commitment, I’ve heard Rohan Carrington say. That means that you must begin to have a better opinion of yourself. If you do not believe yourself worthy, then why should they? Now, why would you ever doubt that you are kind?”

“You are the first person in my life who has ever said that. Why should I attribute something to myself when no one else has?”

“Because I’m telling you to, and since I will be your husband, since I haven’t told an outright lie since I turned eighteen years old, you must trust what I say.”

“What do you mean, you’ve told no outright lie?”

“One must shade the truth a bit on occasion, to avoid wounded feelings. I learned to do that very quickly. That, or one simply keeps quiet. Now, to prove my worthiness to you, if the Harker brothers decide you would make a good mistress, I swear that if the racing kitten upsets Ellis and Monroe, I will not complain. I will not force it to live in the stables.”

He would swear that at that precise moment, he saw a gleam of wickedness in her eyes, a wickedness to match Sinjun in her finest moments. She said, all demure as a nun, “If I say yes, Tysen, will you kiss me again?”

Dear Lord, he thought, and found that all he could do was nod, mute as the village idiot.

“Wait. What if after we are married you discover that you do not like me overmuch?”

“I even like your toes, and that includes the crooked one you must have broken when you were younger.”

Any wickedness was long gone. She looked utterly appalled. Her fingernails dug into his shirt. “You looked at my toes? I mean, why would you look at my toes? No one I know looks at toes. Oh, my goodness, when?”

He kept his voice very matter-of-fact. “I had to wipe you down when you had the fever. No, don’t start twitching. No maidenly yells. There was no one else to do it, Mary Rose. You have not even heard me complain about that, have you? I have not upbraided you for keeping me awake nearly all that night. So you see, I am a good-natured fellow.”

“You saw my broken toe,” she said again, and he would swear that in that instant he’d never seen a more mortified face in his life. “You saw even more than my broken toe.”

“Well, yes.”

“It’s very embarrassing, Tysen. Only I have ever seen myself without my clothes on. Oh, goodness, you’re a man.”

“Well, yes, I am. Mary Rose, if you do not tell me yes very soon now, I just might drop you. Though you are not large, you are beginning to push my limits here.”

Still, her face was full of questions. To his utter relief, she slowly nodded, to herself more than to him. “Very well, then, Tysen. Because I do not want you to be bent over like an old man, moaning and clutching your back, I will say yes.”

“Say it.”

“Yes. I am hopeful. I am also still so embarrassed I want to swallow my tongue. All right, then, I will say all of it. I will marry you, sir, and I pray to God that you will not regret your gallantry.”

He lowered her very slowly, his muscles nearly locking tight at the feel of her against him. To prove to her that he was a man of his word, he kissed her, just as he’d promised.

It was a lovely afternoon, sunlight flowing in through the westerly windows. As soon as Meggie and the countess of Ashburnham had left the room, Donnatella looked down at her cousin and said, “You look perfectly dreadful, Mary Rose. Would you like me to brush your hair?”

Mary Rose only smiled. Not too long ago, had Donnatella said something like that to her, she would have felt like a prune pit ground underfoot. But now she didn’t think anything Donnatella said would faze her. She didn’t doubt at all that her hair had more rats in it than the Kildrummy stables, but it didn’t matter, hadn’t mattered to Tysen. She was so very happy, all she could do was smile stupidly up at her cousin. “That would be very nice, Donnatella. You look very beautiful with the sunlight shining in your hair.”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“How is my mother?”

“Mad, as usual,” Donnatella said as she walked over to Lord Barthwick’s dresser and picked up his brush. She said over her shoulder, “She hasn’t said much, really. Mother simply told her that you were visiting the daughter of the house here at Kildrummy. Nothing else was necessary. She left the room humming.” Donnatella saw light hairs in the brush. Tysen Sherbrooke was a lovely man, she thought, and obviously in need of a wife. Given he was a vicar, likely without much spine at all, all his thoughts spiritual and not at all to the point, he would be easily managed. It was something to think about, just in case.

She pulled a dark blond hair from the brush, a small smile on her lips as she walked back to the bed. “Mrs. MacFardle tells me that you must leave the vicar’s bed. Indeed, she’s yelping that you should have never been in this bed in the first place, that soon everyone will be talking about it, and poor Lord Barthwick will be quite ruined.”

“Yes, I can well imagine her saying that. I am feeling much better. Perhaps this evening I will move back into Meggie’s bedchamber. Her bed, just like this one, would hold six people without touching.”

Donnatella sat down beside her and lifted a handful of hair. Such a common color, she thought, as she smoothed out the tangles. “Meggie is the vicar’s daughter?”

“Yes, she is precious. And very smart. She loves her father very much.”

Donnatella hit a snag. Mary Rose flinched. Donnatella worked on the knot until it was free. “I saw Erickson just a while ago at Vallance Manor. He is very upset, Mary Rose.”

Donnatella felt the sudden bolt of fear in her cousin, making her all stiff, and she studied more tangles in Mary Rose’s hair. She said, “Really, Mary Rose, being afraid of a man is quite ridiculous. He would never hurt you. I do believe he loves you. Now, what is the matter with you? Marry him, for God’s sake, and then you will control him well enough.”

“I don’t think so,” Mary Rose said slowly, staring straight ahead. “I know you could manage a husband quite well, but I? I’m not sure about that. I have never thought that Erickson loved me. You are wrong about that.”

“Then why does he want to marry you so badly?”

“I don’t know. Even if I did marry him, I cannot imagine controlling him. You could. You are very strong, Donnatella.”

“A woman has to be strong or she will become nothing more than a rug to be trod upon.” She hit another snag, and this time Mary Rose jerked.

“Ah, nearly done. Hold still.”

“When I was your age, I wasn’t so firm about things. I have always admired that in you.” Mary Rose thought about Tysen treading on her, and knew, all the way to the soles of her feet, that he wouldn’t. “I cannot marry Erickson,” she said, lightly closing her fingers about her cousin’s wrist. Her scalp was burning, surely it was enough. Donnatella lowered the hairbrush and said, “Now your hair is mixed with his.”

Mary Rose just shook her head. “I don’t love Erickson, I never have. You’re quite wrong about his feelings for me, else why would he try to rape me?”

“Rape?” Donnatella actually laughed—such a sweet sound, Mary Rose thought. How jarring it was with that awful word that had come trippingly off her tongue.

“Yes, rape. He has tried twice. Thank heaven I managed to get away from him both times.”

“I’ve heard,” Donnatella said, lowering her voice to a near whisper, pulling close to Mary Rose’s ear, “that he is a splendid lover. He has bedded several women in the village, and believe me, they smile like loons when he leaves them.” She gave a delicate shiver. “Perhaps you should simply trust him, Mary Rose. Let him have you. Enjoy him, use him. Men are ever so easy when it comes to that. I will teach you how to do it.”

“I have never felt the slightest desire to let him make love to me. Really, Donnatella, I cannot imagine such a thing.” She frowned, looking toward the now lowering sun through the windows. “I don’t understand why he wants to marry me. It makes no sense. I am a bastard. He truly did try to rape me. He isn’t a good man to so easily want to do that.”

“A man in love may be excused many things,” Donnatella said. “A man in love, I have always believed, is singularly stupid. Perhaps I should offer him my assistance in bringing you around. It would be far more efficient.”

“I would that you not, Donnatella.”

Donnatella laughed. “Yes, men in love—or in lust—it is one and the same to all of them. I have seen it several times now. It is really quite amusing to watch. However, Erickson spoke to you earlier. He saw you looking like this, and he still wants to marry you. Doesn’t that convince you that he is blinded by his feelings for you?”

“No.”

Donnatella walked to the long row of windows. She flung one of them open and leaned out. “I have always loved Kildrummy Castle. I knew when I was a little girl that I belonged here, that it had to be mine someday. Isn’t it strange how everything worked out? I thought to marry Ian and be mistress here, but then Ian died. So senseless the way he died. Now there is another master here, and he isn’t married. It’s as if he came here, knowing I was close, knowing this was always what I wanted. I thank God that the vicar is so very handsome. Have you noticed his eyes? They are an incredible blue. He also appears not to have a patch of fat on him, and that is a wonderful thing.” Donnatella turned to look at Mary Rose, who was sitting on the bed, her arms clasped around her knees.

Donnatella went on, “I will think about all this. I will spend time with Lord Barthwick. I will watch him become stupid because he lusts after me. Isn’t that a thought? A vicar, lusting after a woman. Is that even possible? However, I cannot imagine being the mother of a little girl who is only half my age.”

“He also has two little boys, Max and Leo. They are nine and seven.”

Donnatella arched a perfect brow. “Three children? I had no idea that a vicar indulged himself so generously in the marriage bed. I wonder what his wife was like. Has he said anything about her?”

“No.”

“Oh, well, she’s dead, no longer important at all. I think you should come home with me right now, Mary Rose. If you are afraid that Erickson is lurking about Vallance Manor, ready to grab you and haul you away, why, then, I will protect you. You can even sleep in my bed. I won’t let him come near you. Does that make you feel safe?”

Mary Rose felt her heart begin to pound, fast, hard strokes. Donnatella wanted her back at Vallance Manor? Why, for heaven’s sake? Slowly, she just shook her head. “I cannot.”

“So you will remain and ruin the poor vicar’s reputation?”

There was a knock on the door. Mary Rose wanted to run to the door and let whoever it was in, quickly, so she would not have to answer that sticky question, but she just wasn’t up to it, and that had been why Tysen had finally left her. He’d wanted her to sleep, and she had, until Meggie and Sinjun had brought Donnatella to see her.

She didn’t expect it to be Erickson, but nevertheless, she was as rigid as the post at the foot of the huge bed, waiting, waiting. It was Tysen, and he wasn’t smiling.

He nodded to Donnatella. “Mary Rose, I am sorry to disturb your visit with your cousin, but it appears that your mother is in a carriage outside in the courtyard. She wishes to see you. She also refuses to come inside. What do you wish to do?”

“Mother is here, truly? I must see her, Tysen.”

He smiled then. “It is no problem. My back has sufficiently recovered.” He fetched his dressing gown, quite aware that Donnatella was watching his every move, and brought it to Mary Rose. “Can you stand up? Good, I’ll put it on you.”

Donnatella said, laughter lurking, “It is pleasant to see a man occasionally play servant to a lady, sir, but do allow me. I will bring Mary Rose downstairs.”

“That isn’t necessary,” Tysen said, not even turning to look at her. “Keep upright, Mary Rose, don’t collapse on me now. Yes, just hold on to me.” He wrapped her in his dressing gown and tied the belt around her waist. “Your feet are bare, but it is very warm, so it will be all right. Are you ready?”

She nodded.

Tysen picked her up in his arms and simply walked out of the bedchamber, leaving Donnatella to stand by the window watching him and frowning slightly, wondering what was going on here.

Tysen said as he walked down the long corridor with her, “I don’t mind at all being your servant. Do you know something? You aren’t quite as heavy when I’m walking.”

She laughed. For just a brief moment, she rested her head against his shoulder, her warm breath against his neck. Mary Rose wished at that moment that she could stay in Tysen’s arms for as long as his back held up. She breathed in the scent of him, dark and rich, with a touch of wildness, like the barest hint of white heather in the air.

“Your mother looks quite beautiful,” he said as he carefully walked with her down the main staircase. The front door was open, spilling in bright afternoon sunlight.

“She usually does,” Mary Rose said. “When we wed, what will we do about her?”

“I will give that some thought. Don’t worry, Mary Rose. Everything will work out all right.” But how could it? Her mother was a very odd woman. At worst, she was indeed mad. More than likely, she used madness to gain her what she wanted. Her mother never left Vallance Manor. Her mother also knew who her father was and refused to tell anyone. And now her mother was here, in a carriage. It was hard to believe. What had happened?

17

GWENETH FORDYCE HADN’T ridden in a carriage for six months. Her last time had been that dreadful ride to Aberdeen to her mother’s funeral. She’d hated the old lady, but both she and her sister, Margaret, knew they had to don black and veils and pretend to a bit of grief. Her jaw dropped open when she saw the new Lord Barthwick walk out of the castle with Mary Rose—wearing his dressing gown—in his arms. Her feet were bare. Gweneth knew, knew all the way to her soul, that there was something between this man and her daughter. Nothing illicit, for after all, he was an English vicar. But something, something that was more than a man trying his best to protect a woman. No man that she’d ever heard of carried a woman around with her feet bare.

When the Vallance coachman opened her door, she gave him her hand to assist her down. She stood there, looking at the vicar, at her daughter, and she said, “You will come home with me now, Mary Rose. I am sorry, my dear, but as your mother, I cannot allow you to remain here with an unmarried man. I know he is a vicar, but that doesn’t matter. Spiritual trappings do not matter in a case such as this.”

“Hello, Mother. Forgive me for coming to you like this, but I’m still not feeling quite the thing again.”

“You look just fine, Mary Rose. There is color in your cheeks, you are the very bloom of health. Even your toes look healthy. You needn’t worry about clothes. We will go directly back to Vallance Manor and you can stay in your bed there. Vicar, please put my daughter in the carriage.”

“I don’t think so, ma’am,” Tysen said. “Mary Rose doesn’t feel safe at Vallance Manor.”

“That is absurd. It is also unimportant. I am her mother and she will obey me. There is no chaperone here. Come along, Mary Rose.”

“Hello, ma’am. I am Lady Ashburnham. I am his lordship’s sister and he invited me here to chaperone Mary Rose.”

Excellent, Gweneth Fordyce thought, smiling at the lovely young woman striding toward her, long-legged, full of energy, looking quite a bit like the vicar. Yes, she had the same dazzling blue eyes as her brother.

What an absolute relief. She’d kept her promise to her sister and to Lyon. She’d argued and ordered, and now this. It was hard not to laugh her pleasure aloud. Now she didn’t have to say anything more. She’d been trumped by the appearance of Lady Ashburnham, and even Lyon at his most critical would have to agree that she’d done all she could.

“A pleasure, my lady,” she said to the young woman, who also had a sparkling smile. A handsome pair they were. The vicar was very smart indeed. “Now I must go. Mary Rose, attend me. You will endeavor not to be a burden to his lordship.”

“No, Mama, I’ll try not to be. Won’t you stay for a cup of tea?”

“Oh, no,” Gweneth said and nodded to the coachman, who quickly assisted her back into the carriage. She straightened her shawl, smoothed the ribbons on her bonnet. She looked toward the people standing not six feet away from the carriage. The last sight she had of Mary Rose was her smiling shyly up into the vicar’s face.

Be happy, my darling, she thought, and waved to her daughter.

The carriage rolled out of the inner courtyard.

“That is your mother, Mary Rose?” Sinjun asked.

“Yes,” Mary Rose said, and she was frowning at the carriage dust billowing into the clear air. Her mother had said all the right things at first, all with the objective of getting her to go back to Vallance Manor. But the fact was, her mother hadn’t wanted her to return to Vallance Manor with her, not at all. But why?

Tysen said thoughtfully, “At the beginning, I didn’t care much for your mother, but this time, after she spouted the nonsense, she was genuinely pleased with things just as they are. Yes, I like your mother, Mary Rose. She isn’t like all that many mothers I’ve met to date, but she loves you. I wonder what she would have done if Sinjun hadn’t chosen to show herself?”

“Meggie came into the drawing room and grabbed me. She told me I had to be a chaperone, quickly, because she was just a trifle too young to have anyone take her seriously, and so she pushed me out the front door.” Sinjun looked thoughtfully after the coach that had disappeared through the front gates. “She didn’t want you to go with her, Mary Rose, despite everything else she said. Now, isn’t that strange?”

“No,” Tysen said. “She knows that Erickson MacPhail would probably be invited into Vallance Manor and allowed to carry Mary Rose out over his shoulder. She’s protecting her. It was well done.”

Meggie wandered out now, but she wasn’t looking at them, she was looking at the gaggle of geese that were now honking loudly at the sight of her. They’d been hovering close by her for the past three days. Just yesterday, they’d come right up to her, honking just as loudly, and she had given them all the bread she could steal from Mrs. MacFardle’s kitchen. Now she knew them. In minutes, they would be surrounding her, their chicks hovering close. “Oh, dear,” Meggie said, picking up her skirts and running back into the castle. She called over her shoulder, “I’ll be right back with some bread for them!”

Tysen laughed. “Maybe they can nibble on that crooked toe of yours, Mary Rose.”

“What crooked toe?” Sinjun asked and picked up Mary Rose’s foot.

“Oh, my, don’t, please, Sinjun. Tysen has already seen my toes.”

“He has, has he? Now isn’t that interesting?”

“Be quiet, Sinjun. Oh, here is Donnatella. I’m glad she came down. I believe you have enjoyed quite enough of her delightful company?” He cocked a brow at her.

“Yes. She wanted me to come back with her to Vallance Manor. It seems that everyone wants me back there. How is your back?”

“I believe I will put you down in the drawing room and pour tea down your gullet. I am too blown to make it back up those stairs carrying you.”

Sinjun could but stare after her brother as he walked back up the steps into the castle. He wasn’t acting the way he usually did. He wasn’t being depressingly serious with nary a smile anywhere near his mouth. He was actually smiling, a beautiful smile, and it seemed to suit him very well.

Now he was amusing, he seemed to understand wit very well. But the most remarkable thing—he seemed happy. He was overflowing with it. So many years since she’d seen him like this, nearly more years than she could remember. She’d been so very young when he’d decided he wanted to be a man of God and had become as serious as an abbot and so pious she’d wanted to shoot him. Sinjun decided on the spot that she would kill for Mary Rose if ever the need arose.

When they walked into the drawing room, there was Colin standing next to Donnatella, who was leaning toward him, her hand on his sleeve.

Sinjun recognized the signs immediately. Donnatella was extraordinarily lovely, however, and it appeared to Sinjun that Colin wasn’t looking at all hunted, like he usually did when the ladies tracked him down and cornered him.

Sinjun said, “Would you mind if I stuck my fist in your cousin’s face, Mary Rose?”

“Perhaps you’d better not. You know, Sinjun, his lordship is very handsome,” Mary Rose said. “Donnatella very much likes handsome gentlemen.”

“Not this handsome gentleman,” Sinjun said and marched right up to her husband and the little hussy who was clutching at his sleeve, laughing overly much at something Colin had said, something that probably wasn’t all that amusing at all. Still, he was looking down at her like he indeed was the most charming, the wittiest male in the known world.

She said sweetly, “Colin, my dearest love, the love of my life, the man who praises my beauty endlessly. Do you remember how you promised me that we would visit that cave Meggie told us about? The one that is quite hidden, ever so private? The one where we can—well, never mind that. I do not wish to be indelicate. I am quite ready to please you now.” She moved closer until she actually pushed Donnatella away from him. She stood on her tiptoes and whispered in his mouth, “I have plans for you that will curl your toes.”

“You are transparent, Sinjun,” Colin said, caressing her cheek. “The truth is that you are jealous. No matter the amusement I am currently enjoying, your jealousy still pleases me. A cave, you say? You will curl my toes?”

“Harrumph,” Sinjun said, grabbed his hand and turned to face Donnatella, a sunny smile on her mouth that would, hopefully, offset the murder in her eyes. “Do forgive us, but we are still newlyweds and must hie ourselves off to dark, cozy places. My husband is a demanding gentleman. Good day to you, Miss Vallance.”

“I thought they had several children,” Donnatella said, staring at the now empty doorway. “I shouldn’t mind making love with him. He is a beautiful man. Ah, well. Mary Rose, you are looking ever so well again. Are you ready to come back with me to Vallance Manor?”

“Miss Vallance,” Tysen said easily as he lowered Mary Rose onto a dark-blue brocade settee, “not just yet. You will have to amuse yourself without your cousin’s company.”

“For how much longer, sir?”

“I haven’t yet decided,” Tysen said. “We will see. I will send a message when Mary Rose is ready to return home. You may return home now.”

Donnatella looked undecided, an expression that Mary Rose had hardly ever seen before on her cousin’s face. Donnatella always knew what she was doing—but not now. She merely nodded to Mary Rose and walked out of the drawing room.

Nothing much was said until Pouder, leaving his post by the front door, walked sedately into the drawing room and cleared his throat. “My lord, Mrs. MacFardle is in a snit. I don’t know what to say to her. Your lordship is required to deal with the situation.”

“Thank you, Pouder, I shall.” Without thinking, Tysen took the old man’s arm and gently steered him back to his chair. It was well padded, a good thing, since Pouder looked to be all bones.

Tysen called out over his shoulder, “Mary Rose, you converse with my daughter when she returns from feeding the geese.”

“I will speak with her as well,” Miles MacNeily said, walking toward them. He gave Tysen a small salute and smiled at the sight of Pouder, whose head had already fallen forward to his chest.

Tysen tracked down Mrs. MacFardle in the vast Kildrummy kitchen. With no preamble, he said in a calm, very cool voice, “Mary Rose is lying on a settee in the drawing room. She is doubtless hungry. If you are not carrying a silver tray loaded with delicious cakes and nicely hot tea to her in the next ten minutes, you will leave Kildrummy Castle. If you are not smiling and respectful to Mary Rose when you deliver that tray to the drawing room, you will also leave in the next ten minutes. Do you quite understand me, Mrs. MacFardle?”

“But she is a bastard, my lord! She doesn’t belong here. She doesn’t belong anywhere where there are respectable people. Folk hereabout will believe you too democratic, too lax in your morals—er, no, that isn’t quite right, is it? Perhaps, because you are a vicar, you have to continually watch yourself not to care too deeply about people who don’t deserve it. Yes, it is a matter of having too much kindness, my lord. It isn’t what Lord Barthwick should do. Mary Rose mustn’t sleep in your bed. If she is still too ill to return home, then she may sleep in the servants’ quarters, up just one short flight of stairs to the third floor. There is this quite charming room that—”

Tysen felt waves of anger washing through him, and it appalled him, this emotional reaction that came from deep within him, destroying his control. “You have said quite enough, Mrs. MacFardle. Mary Rose Fordyce has agreed to marry me.”

Her mouth gaped open. She looked utterly horrified.

“Either you will accept her as your mistress, as Lady Barthwick of Kildrummy Castle, and treat her with respect, or you will leave, in the next minute, actually. The decision is yours. Now, we await tea in the drawing room. Ten minutes, Mrs. MacFardle, no longer.” He said not another word, not even when he heard her suck in her breath behind him.

He turned at the doorway and said over his shoulder, “You are the first person to hear our news. It might be a very polite thing if you were to congratulate me on my good fortune.”

“Oh, dear,” said Mrs. MacFardle. “Change of this nature is unwelcome. I knew that an Englishman would bring disaster. However, congratulations, my lord.”

He had forgotten about Mrs. Griffin. When he walked into the drawing room, she was sitting in a deep, faded chair that she’d had Mr. Griffin pull over to within a foot from where Mary Rose sat on the settee. She was tapping her foot, lightly tapping her cane on the carpet at her feet as she said in a loud voice, “I have had quite enough of this, Mary Rose. I have decided that I will take you to Edinburgh with Mr. Griffin and me.”

“Mary Rose has agreed to marry me, Mrs. Griffin.”

Meggie jumped to her feet. “Papa, really? Oh, this is wonderful! Mary Rose, you will really marry Papa? You will live with us?” She dashed across the drawing room, rubbing the bread crumbs on her skirts, and dropped to the floor at Mary Rose’s feet and hugged her knees. “I hadn’t really expected this to happen, but it is ever so nice. We will all have such fun, you will see. Oh, I am so very happy.”

“Child, you will hold your tongue now. You should be in the nursery or sitting quietly reading sermons, or whatever it is that children—”

Tysen was grinning from ear to ear, he just couldn’t help it. “Mrs. Griffin, my daughter needs to get acquainted with her future mother. Now, tea is to arrive shortly. Pouder, what is it?”

The ancient old man was leaning against the doorframe, grinning widely, showing each of his remaining teeth. He was nearly wheezing as he said, “Congratulations, my lord. Oh, this is a miraculous thing! I am needed now more than ever. I am learning to be a varlet. Perhaps Mary Rose will also teach me to be her maid.”

Mrs. Griffin continued, as if she hadn’t been interrupted, “Mary Rose, we will leave in thirty minutes, right after we have had some of Mrs. MacFardle’s tea. It is a great imposition, but I suppose that it must be done. You may be my companion, my maid, perhaps you can even set the fires in the mornings. I will contrive to pay you a bit, just enough for the occasional gewgaw. Now, get up, Mary Rose, and put on your clothes. This is—”

Tysen said then, “Meggie, I wish you to go outside and see that your geese have eaten enough. No, don’t argue with me, just go.” No one said another word until Meggie, her step slow, finally was gone from the drawing room. As for Miles MacNeily, he had left to help Pouder back to his chair. Only the three of them were left. He wished that Mary Rose was safely hidden away, but she wasn’t.

It had to be dealt with, now.

“That will be quite enough, Mrs. Griffin,” Tysen said. Then he looked over at Mary Rose as he spoke and nearly lost what little control that remained. She was crying, tears streaking down her pale cheeks, not making a sound, just tears and more tears. The cruelty, so much cruelty she’d endured, mean words that cut deep, and they’d finally cut so deep she couldn’t hide her pain. He’d thought that the careless cruelty simply didn’t touch her, but it did. He wanted to kill Mrs. Griffin, and after her, Mrs. MacFardle.

Rage made him feel hot, strong, and vicious. He was ready to go into battle. He was ready to kill. He strode to stand right in front of Mrs. Griffin. “I want you gone from Kildrummy Castle in five minutes. No longer. You are a malicious, nasty old woman. You and that nonentity of a husband of yours are despicable. I wish never to see either of you again. You are no longer welcome at Kildrummy. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”

Mrs. Griffin, her face scarlet with fury, leapt to her feet, but Tysen very calmly continued, “Get out of my house, both of you. Now. This time, if you dare to return, I will have you thrown out. No—I will do it myself.”

He heard Mrs. MacFardle give a shriek. She was late with the tea tray, he realized, at least five minutes late. A clean sweep, then. He turned to see her trying to hold the tray and commiserate at the same time with Mrs. Griffin. He said, “Mrs. MacFardle, you will leave Kildrummy Castle. Perhaps Mrs. Griffin would like you to accompany her back to Edinburgh. I believe she needs a companion, a scullion, a maid, and a valet. You could, I doubt not, fill each and every one of those roles for her. Perhaps she will even pay you a pittance to buy some gewgaws.”

He heard a sound from Pouder, but when he looked over at the old man, his chin was still on his chest.

Once the drawing room was empty of Mrs. Griffin and Mrs. MacFardle, he closed and locked the door. He went to Mary Rose, who was looking up at him, sniffing, rubbing her hands over her eyes. He was still shuddering from the ferocious rage that had come from the deepest part of him. “I’m so very sorry, Mary Rose. I should never have allowed that miserable old witch to continue her vicious tirade for as long as I did. I should never have allowed her to remain when she dared to come back here again.

“Oh, my dear, please forgive me. I was blind, quite blind. But it won’t happen again. Also, Mrs. MacFardle will be leaving. She and Mrs. Griffin belong together.”

He sat down beside her, simply because he couldn’t stand that awful pain he saw in her eyes. “Mary Rose,” he said, and pulled her onto his lap. He rocked her, then just held her, his cheek against the top of her head. “It will be all right now. I’ll take care of you. There will be no more cruelty, no more spite. Trust me, all right?”

She said nothing, just lay limply against him. They sat quietly for a very long time. Tysen didn’t know how long they’d remained together until he heard Meggie’s voice and her light knock on the drawing room door.

He leaned back, looking down into Mary Rose’s face. She looked beaten down, defeated, and he hated it. But no more pity. He’d never found that to be good for anyone. He kissed the tip of her nose. “Do you know where we can find someone to cook dinner for us?”

18

Id imperfectum manet dum confectum erit.

It ain’t over ’til it’s over.

MARY ROSE HEARD the whisper of sound so very close, nearly in her ear. It was a man’s voice, soft and low, telling her something, but what? Then she jerked awake, realized it wasn’t a dream, and opened her mouth to yell. A fist slammed into her jaw, and she fell back against the pillow.

Erickson smoothed the hair off her face and just looked down at her for a moment in the dim light of the one candle. He had to do this, there was simply no choice. He cursed under his breath as he pulled the covers off her. She was wearing that damned vicar’s nightshirt. It didn’t take him even a moment to realize that she would also shortly be wearing the damned vicar’s dressing gown as well.

Once he’d wrapped her in the dressing gown he hauled her over his shoulder, then walked quickly to the bedchamber door, cracked it open, and looked out. Nothing. No one. It wasn’t all that dark, since several of the bedchamber doors were open and bright moonlight poured through the windows and out through the open doors. He didn’t need a candle.

All he had to do was get her back down to the library, out the door that was covered with draperies, and into the garden. Then it was easy, just through that narrow ivy-covered gate and to his horse, tied a good hundred feet from the castle. Everything was going splendidly. He had known immediately that it was an excellent plan. It was a pity that he’d had to tap her on the jaw to keep her from yelling, but it wasn’t much, after all, and surely she would forgive him. A new bride, perforce, had to forgive her husband. He wondered for a moment if his mother had ever forgiven his father anything. No, that was impossible. He firmly believed that his father had died to escape his mother.

It was just past midnight, and everything was quiet. Erickson paused a moment, listening. He thought about his mother telling him at dinner the previous evening how simply everyone in the area now knew that the new Lord Barthwick—a vicar!—had kicked out not only the Griffins but also poor Mrs. MacFardle, who had surely worked there longer than anyone could remember. Erickson remembered that he’d always hated Mrs. MacFardle, the old witch, for the way she’d treated Mary Rose. He frowned as he thought about that. Actually, she’d been a witch to most everyone, particularly the children. He felt Mary Rose’s limp weight over his shoulder, felt her bouncy hair touch his face. No, he refused to feel guilt about what he was doing. He had no choice.

One step at a time. He was very quiet. Mary Rose didn’t weigh much, so that didn’t bother him. Then, with no warning at all, he heard giggling. Good Lord, giggling? From the room just down the hall.

There was obviously a woman in that room, and she was awake and giggling. Only one thing that could be about. Then he heard a man shout, not loud, then laugh, and another damned giggle. He heard bare feet running across a wooden floor. He stood, frozen, in the middle of the corridor, waiting, wondering what to do, when a door flew back and a woman, dressed in a flowing white nightgown, ran out of the room, still giggling, looking over her shoulder at the man who was running after her. The man who came out of the bedchamber was naked. For an instant, Erickson thought it was the vicar, and he was chasing a woman. But it wasn’t. It must be the vicar’s sister and her husband. They were the only ones left in the castle that the vicar hadn’t kicked out. But what were they doing, running around out here in the corridor? For God’s sake, wasn’t there a bed in that bedchamber?

Suddenly the woman eased back into the shadows and stood still as a statue. She wasn’t more than ten feet away from him.

The naked husband ran beyond where she was standing silent and still, then pulled up sharp, held a candle high, and looked right into Erickson’s eyes.

It wasn’t fair, dammit, just not fair. Erickson cursed, ripe, full-bodied curses. Damnation, his was an excellent plan, and it had gone perfectly until he’d had the rotten luck to have an amorous couple want to play in the corridor.

“She’s mine, damn you!” He was so furious, so frustrated, that he yelled right in Colin’s face, “I’m taking her!”

For a moment, Colin couldn’t believe his eyes. “My God, you puking little bastard, you’ve got Mary Rose. Sinjun, come quickly!”

Erickson saw the flash of a white nightgown, saw the man hand her the candle. Erickson didn’t wait. He turned on his heel and ran down the long corridor as fast as he could with Mary Rose bouncing up and down on his shoulder, the naked man nearly on his heels.

Then Mary Rose groaned, reared up, and shouted, “No, Erickson! This is madness! Let me down, you fool!” She stiffened right up, knocking him off balance. She grabbed his hair and kept pulling even as she leaned as far back as she could.

“Damn you, Mary Rose, stop it! Trust me. We’re leaving this place, together.”

They went down, Erickson falling on his back, half on top of her. Mary Rose yelled, Colin came to a stop to stand over them, and Sinjun, her white gown fluttering about, was holding a candle over them.

“He’s smashing me,” Mary Rose gasped, trying to breathe, then, “Thank you both for coming out for whatever reason I don’t yet know.”

“It is no problem,” Colin said, coming down to his knees beside Erickson, who was just lying there, staring up at him. “You’re bare-assed, man,” Erickson said. “Have you no sense? There is a lady present.”

Colin looked briefly over at Mary Rose. “Close your eyes.” She did. Colin jerked Erickson off her, and Erickson came up fighting. He was strong, a dirty fighter, and he would have had a chance if it hadn’t been for Sinjun. She gave a low growl when Erickson sent his fist into Colin’s belly. She threw the candle at him. The iron base hit him in the jaw, then bounced onto the wooden floor, sparking flashes of flame as it hit.

“You asinine idiot,” she yelled, “trying to steal Mary Rose,” and she joyfully jumped at him.

Erickson knew he was in very deep trouble. He was doing his best to hold the woman off, even as he realized that she smelled wonderful, a sort of violet smell, before the naked man was ripping his arm out of the socket. He smacked his fist against the woman’s shoulder, sending her reeling back into the naked man, who let him go to catch his wife. Then Erickson was on his feet again, running as fast as he could. The only thing was, he didn’t know of a way out of the castle that lay in this particular direction. But it didn’t slow him.

And then directly in front of him, a door flew open and a man came running out, fastening his breeches as he moved. This time it was the damned vicar. At least he wasn’t altogether naked.

“I don’t have her,” Erickson yelled. He briefly considered trying to knock the vicar senseless, but thought better of it. It was ridiculous for a man of God to look strong and mean, but this one did. Erickson turned quickly, only to run into both Colin and Sinjun. All three of them went down. Tysen looked up to see Mary Rose running toward them, his dressing gown held in one hand above her knees so she could run faster, the other hand carrying the candle that thankfully hadn’t set the castle on fire or even gone all the way out. It was flickering wildly, but hanging on.

“He tried to steal her, Tysen!” Colin shouted, coming to his feet, giving Sinjun his hand to pull her up as well. “Ah, it’s you, Mary Rose. Close your eyes again.”

Instead, Mary Rose quickly shrugged out of Tysen’s dressing gown and thrust it toward Colin, her eyes shut tightly. Colin laughed as he put it on and belted it around his waist. Then the three of them stood over Erickson MacPhail, who, in truth, was too smart to stand up and get pounded. He didn’t like this, couldn’t believe he’d failed, cursed himself, cursed Mary Rose for her damned stubbornness, and cursed Mary Rose’s damned uncle for getting him into this in the first place.

Tysen, legs spread, stared down at the man, well aware that he was getting less calm, less reasoned, by the moment. In a very low voice that didn’t sound like him at all, Tysen said, “Did he hurt you, Mary Rose?”

“He hit my jaw to keep me quiet, but it’s not bad.”

Tysen looked back at Erickson. “You were going to steal her and rape her?”

“No, damn you,” Erickson said, flat on his back, not moving. “I was going to ask her to marry me. Again. Don’t you understand? I am wild for her. I must have her. I will not rape her if only she will see reason and agree to become my wife. Damnation, I want her. No one will dare call her a bastard when she is my wife. She will be safe. She will be protected.”

The blood was pounding through Tysen’s head. He did something he’d never done as an adult—he lost all control. He leaned down and grabbed Erickson by his shirt collar, jerked him upright. He pulled him close. “That is all nonsense and you know it. I don’t know why you want her so badly, but I will find out before I let you leave Kildrummy. Now, you miserable excuse for a man, I’m going to kill you.”

He didn’t hear Mary Rose’s yell or Sinjun’s voice telling him to calm down, to remember who and what he was. But he did hear Colin saying, quite clearly, “Let me kill him when you’re through with him, Tysen.”

Tysen hadn’t struck another man since he’d left home. There, naturally, he’d fought every day of his life with his brothers. He’d learned to fight as dirty as they did in order to survive. He hit Erickson in the face, then in the belly, in the kidneys. He threw him against the wall, smiling when he heard his head hit hard against the oak. Erickson shook his head and came out fighting, fists pounding into Tysen.

“Oh, yes, come on,” Tysen said, and grabbed his right arm, bending it back until Erickson managed to kick him in the leg and pull free.

“I didn’t do anything, damn you,” Erickson yelled and sent his fist toward Tysen’s face, but he didn’t make it because Tysen blocked him at the last instant.

“You bastard,” Tysen said, and he was on him again, this time beyond himself, hitting and hitting him until he felt hands dragging at his arm. He tried to shake off the hands, and then he realized it was Mary Rose, and she was crying.

Mary Rose crying? Why was she crying? They’d saved her, and he was in the process of killing MacPhail, who should have been strangled at birth. He shook her off and grabbed Erickson again, who, having caught his breath, came back swinging. He got Tysen in the belly, and the two men went down, rolling over and over, slamming their fists, hurling yells and groans of pain. Finally, Tysen managed to twist Erickson onto his back and hold him down. The moment he straddled him, Tysen felt thunderous joy roar through him. He smiled down at Erickson, then slammed his fist into his jaw, once, twice.

“That’s enough,” Mary Rose yelled in his ear. “Stop it, Tysen.”

“Yes, it’s nearly my turn,” Colin said, striding up. “She’s right, Tysen. You’ve pounded him enough. You’ve probably even pounded him more than your share. Now give me a go at the bastard.”

Tysen didn’t even look up. He hit Erickson again. The man was nearly unconscious, not fighting back now.

“No,” Sinjun said. She was standing over her brother, her eyes wide, still trying to understand what had happened. Tysen had bashed the man, bashed him good, but he hadn’t stopped. He was holding him around his neck now, not trying to strangle him, thank God. She could tell that at last he was calming down, that finally he was gaining control. No, she was wrong. He was strangling him again. She laid her hand on his bare shoulder and said very gently, “Tysen, my dear, you must stop now. It’s over. You’ve punished him quite well enough. Stop or you won’t like yourself very much. I know you very well, so believe me. I don’t want you wallowing in guilt, con-signing your own soul to hell. Stop. Now.”

It was her last words that finally cleared away all the rage from his brain, made him aware of the nagging and various pains in his own body. His blood was no longer furiously pumping through him. Everything was slowing now. He felt his heart steadying, slowing back to normal. He rose to his feet and stood over Erickson MacPhail. He said very calmly, as he stared down at the man, “If I ever see you again within fifty feet of Mary Rose, I will kill you. Do you understand me?”

“All of us will kill you. We will take turns, each with a gun or fists or a knife,” Sinjun said. “God will forgive my brother his violence toward you because you are such an evil fraud that you deserve to be sent to hell.”

Colin said, “Now, like my brother-in-law, I want to know why you want Mary Rose so desperately. A man who truly loves a woman doesn’t try to coerce her, doesn’t try to rape her, certainly doesn’t steal her away in the middle of the night. Why do you want to wed her? Come, tell us the truth and perhaps we will let you live.”

Erickson, his nose bleeding, his lip split and oozing blood, his belly caved in, his neck and jaw so sore he could barely talk, said, “You’re wrong about all of it. I have no base motive. I love her. I must have her for my wife. I am not lying, there is no other reason, just my sincerest affection for her.” Then he looked over at Mary Rose, standing there, pale, the vicar’s nightshirt nearly covering her toes and her fingers. “You must marry me, Mary Rose, you must. My life cannot continue if you do not.”

Colin frowned. “You are lying. I want to know why you must have Mary Rose as your wife.”

Erickson shut his mouth so fast he bit his tongue.

Colin said very quietly, “Mary Rose, bring the candle over here so I can see this idiot very clearly. Yes, that’s good. His nose is bloody. It adds interest, don’t you think?”

“No,” Mary Rose said.

Colin stood right over him. “She’s right. Now, we will have all the truth out of you, or I will hold you down while Tysen finishes stomping you into the floor. Do you understand me, you treacherous sod?”

Erickson sighed very deeply, he looked defeated and desperate. Then shook his head. “No, I won’t say any more. There is nothing more to say. I am innocent of anything except my passion for Mary Rose.”

Colin came down on his haunches, grabbed Erickson’s shirt collar, lifted him up a bit, then, with no warning, no hesitation, he pounded his head against the floor. Erickson moaned.

“There is not a dollop of love in you for Mary Rose, probably not a bit for any woman. The truth, all of it. Now, or I will kick your brains into the wainscotting.”

Tysen was leaning against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest, saying absolutely nothing.

Erickson yelled at him, “You’re a bloody vicar! How can you allow this man to smash my head? I’m already half-dead since the lot of you attacked me. Stop him, for God’s sake.”

“Not unless you tell us the truth,” Tysen said, examining his sore knuckles.

“There is no bloody truth to tell you, damn it.”

“Would you like me to take over, Colin?” Tysen said, taking one step toward them.

Both Mary Rose and Sinjun crowded in, keeping Tysen back, both of them staring down at Erickson as if he were a slug that was peering up at them from under a rock.

Colin leaned forward again, grabbed his collar.

Erickson groaned. “No, not again. Damn, I can feel one of my teeth loose in my mouth. I have nothing to say. If you kill me, then you will hang for it.”

“Tysen, where are you going?”

“It’s all right, Sinjun. I’m going to get my gun. I can’t take the chance that he will try tomorrow or the next day to rape Mary Rose and force her into marriage. I have to kill him. He won’t tell us why with all this dramatic charade we’re playing. There’s just nothing else to do.”

“We’ll draw straws,” Colin said.

“I want to draw a straw as well,” Mary Rose said. “I don’t want to be afraid of him anymore. They can’t hang all of us, can they?”

“No, they cannot,” Sinjun said. “Get the gun, Tysen.”

Erickson looked from one grim face to the next. He believed them. He felt defeat fill his craw. There was no way out of this. He drew a deep breath, swallowing his pain, and said, “All right, damn all of you to bloody hell. I must marry Mary Rose because she isn’t poor. She’s rich, very rich. She’s got a trust from her father—no, I don’t know who he is, only her mother knows, since she would surely remember pulling up her skirts for a man. There is evidently a lot of money in the Bank of England in a sort of trust for her. Mary Rose receives it when she is either married or turns twenty-five. Damn you all, I must have that money!”

Erickson looked up at Mary Rose, whose face was in the shadows since she was holding the candle. “You will be twenty-five next month, Mary Rose. You must marry me before your birthday so I may have the money. I need it. Donnatella only has five thousand pounds—it simply isn’t enough.”

“How much money?” Sinjun asked.

“I don’t know. Sir Lyon said it was thousands upon thousands. He said this old man who is the trustee wouldn’t tell him the amount, just that it was more than even a greedy man could imagine.”

Tysen was sucking in air hard again because he nearly couldn’t breathe. He shoved Sinjun and Mary Rose out of his way, leaned down, jerked MacPhail up and began hitting him as hard as he could, which was very hard indeed since this new wave of rage had turned his vision red, made his heart pound so hard it should burst through his chest. It was Colin who grabbed Tysen and pulled him off. Tysen turned to hit him, but Sinjun yelled, “Stop it, Tysen! Calm down, it’s all over. At least now we know the truth. Stop it! The little worm has lost, well and truly lost.”

Mary Rose walked slowly between the two men. She pressed herself against Tysen and locked her arms around his back. He felt her mouth against his bare chest, her warm breath. Slowly, so very slowly, he lowered his arms, and squeezed her to him. He rested his face on the top of her head. He breathed in her scent, tasted her hair, curls bouncing into his mouth.

“Did you have some sort of agreement with Mary Rose’s uncle?” Colin said now, standing over Erickson, his hands fisted, but he knew the man wasn’t going to try to get away. He knew Tysen might just snap again and this time he might just kill him. He knew deep in his soul that he couldn’t allow that to happen. Such an act, he knew, would destroy Tysen, crush his soul, damn him forever.

“Yes,” Erickson said finally, knowing he’d failed, knowing it was no use. “I was to give him ten thousand pounds when I wedded Mary Rose and he would see that she was available to me at Vallance Manor so I could properly woo her there, if she didn’t accept me elsewhere.”

Mary Rose turned slowly, not releasing Tysen, holding him, perhaps, even more tightly. “What about Donnatella? She’s the one you have always wanted, isn’t she?”

Erickson rubbed his aching jaw, felt blood from his nose and split lip, as he said, his voice filled with dislike now, “Yes, you’re nothing compared to Donnatella. You’re not stupid, Mary Rose, you have eyes. Since you live at Vallance Manor, you see every day how beautiful she is.”

Mary Rose didn’t pull away from Tysen at all, just continued to look at Erickson. “If you married me then you couldn’t have Donnatella. She would never be your mistress. You know that, Erickson. None of this makes any sense. You would have my money, but surely you would be miserable married to me and not her.”

Erickson said, “My mother is very strong-willed, you know that. She said that all would be well, in the not-too-distant future. She said she would have the money and I would have all that I wanted. That would have to be Donnatella, wouldn’t it?”

“You mean your mother planned to kill Mary Rose?” Sinjun was staring down at the man, revolted, but yet not wanting to believe such evil existed.

Erickson only shrugged, which was a difficult movement since every bit of him hurt, even his knee he’d hit when he went to the floor with the damned vicar. He said, furious, “That is bloody lunacy. My mother wouldn’t kill anyone. I don’t know what she planned to do, but she wouldn’t kill anyone.”

Sinjun lifted her nightgown, baring her leg to the knee, and sent her foot into Erickson’s ribs. He moaned, clutching himself. “You’re lying, you paltry—I can’t think of anything strong enough to call you that would fit. Believe me, in the stables at Vere Castle I have heard many singularly wonderful terms for paltry men. It’s obvious that your mother would kill Mary Rose, or you would, and after Mary Rose was dead, then you would have her money and Donnatella. Bloody hell, you are an evil man. As for your mother, she should be taken out and shot. Immediately.”

Mary Rose said against Tysen’s chest, “I can’t believe it. I’m rich then? Why didn’t my mother ever tell me? Why did she make me believe that we were the poor relations, completely dependent upon her sister and Uncle Lyon?”

“Perhaps your mother didn’t think you would believe her,” Tysen said. “Would you have?”

“No, probably not. But she should have tried.” Mary Rose felt pain flow through her. She simply didn’t understand her mother, never had. She said, “But how does Uncle Lyon even know about the money?”

Erickson said, holding his head, not looking at any of them, knowing the rest of it didn’t matter, so why not tell them, “Your uncle told me that he threatened to have both you and your mother kicked out of Vallance Manor. I think he wanted to bed your mother and she refused him. I don’t blame her for refusing him. He’s an old man and his breath is nasty. I guess your mother had to tell him about the money. She assured him there were buckets of it because your father was very rich. She promised she would give him some if he didn’t kick you out and if he left her alone. He came up with this plan after, of course, he went to Edinburgh to make sure she was telling him the truth.” Erickson turned over on his side and very slowly began to pull himself upright, using the wall for support.

“Wait,” Mary Rose said. “If all this talk about an inheritance comes from my mother, then perhaps it doesn’t really exist. My mother has been mad, on and off, for a very long time. Maybe she asked this man in Edinburgh to lie for her.”

Erickson shook his head. “No, she didn’t. Your uncle found and confronted the man who holds the trust for you. He wouldn’t tell your uncle who your father is, but he confirmed that there is a trust in your name, confirmed that it was a lot of money.”

Mary Rose just stared at him, still trying to take it in. She was no longer a poor relation. She had worth.

Colin said, “But you had to marry her before she turned twenty-five or you wouldn’t get a dime?”

Erickson nodded, on his hands and knees now, breathing hard, trying to get hold of himself.

“That’s right,” Sinjun said slowly. “If Mary Rose were twenty-five, then she would get her dowry and she and her mother could go anywhere they pleased, do anything they wished to do.”

“It’s still so hard to believe,” Mary Rose said. “I never knew, never guessed. Perhaps my father loved me, since he left me so much money. I never considered that even possible.”

Tysen wanted to tell her not to consider it now, but he didn’t. He raised his head and looked at Erickson’s neck, his fingers clenching at the remembered feel of choking him. No, he shouldn’t remember that with fondness. He was shaking his head at himself when he looked Erickson right in the eye. “I’m going to wed with Mary Rose, didn’t you hear? She will be my wife. You have lost. It is all over.”

Erickson nodded. “Yes, Mrs. MacFardle has told everyone that you’re marrying the Bastard, and she doesn’t understand it except that she’s saying that Mary Rose planned it all. She wet herself down in the stream, rolled about in some briars, and came here with the purpose of gaining your pity and then seducing you. And because you’re a bloody vicar—you have all this honor and nobility—you’d feel yourself forced to marry her.”

To his own surprise, Tysen threw back his head and laughed. He hugged Mary Rose very close and laughed harder. He said finally to Erickson, “Can you even begin to imagine Mary Rose seducing anyone?”

Erickson was forced to shake his head. His belly was starting to roil and ache. His ribs pulled and poked against the inside of his skin. He held himself perfectly silent. He wasn’t going to bear the humiliation of vomiting on the corridor floor of Kildrummy Castle. He moaned and rolled back, hitting the wall, his eyes tightly shut. “That’s why I had to act quickly. If Mary Rose were to marry you very soon, then all would be lost.”

“I see,” Tysen said. “Or you could have tried to kill me too.”

“No, I’m not a murderer.”

“I’m rich,” Mary Rose said, wonder in her voice. “Now,” she said, not loosening her hold around Tysen’s back, perhaps squeezing him even more tightly, “now you don’t have to marry me.” Slowly, she leaned back against his arms and looked up at him. “I release you, sir. You are free of me now.”

“Actually,” Tysen said, “no, I’m not.”

Erickson was holding his belly, lying on his side. He felt a small surge of hope. “That’s right, Mary Rose, you don’t have to marry him now. Now you can think more clearly about this. You’ve only known the vicar for a week. You’ve known me all your life. I’ve always been kind to you, never baited you about being a bastard. You swam with the porpoises, and I taught you, remember? Listen to me—a vicar doesn’t need money. A vicar needs only to have a roomful of captive people for him to exhort about their endless string of sins. That’s why there are churches. Once they file in, they close those huge doors. No one can get out. Then the vicar yells at them, makes them feel guiltier than dirt. Once they fill the collection plate, he pats them on the head and they feel all right again, and he feels superior.”

“I cannot believe that you and your mother have survived this long without someone trying to murder the both of you,” Colin said.

“My mother means no one harm. She just wants me to be happy. However, she wants herself to be happy as well. She wants to attend balls and routs in Edinburgh, rub elbows with Society. Mary Rose, listen to me, the vicar doesn’t need you, not like I do. He’s a man of God, and even though he nearly killed me—something he’ll roast in hell for doing—he isn’t really a man, as in a man a woman would find pleasure with and—” He stopped cold, shook his head at the possible further pain his words just might bring down upon his body, and said, desperation bubbling very close to the surface, “Please, marry me, not him. Be free of him, don’t let him talk you out of it. I’ll only force you if I have to, only if you refuse me and—”

Sinjun kicked him again.

19

THE FOLLOWING MORNING at the breakfast table, Miles MacNeily told everyone about his adventure escorting Erickson MacPhail back home, there to be dealt with by his fond mother. “He didn’t even have a chance to explain,” Miles said. “She started yelling at him from an upper window. If I hadn’t wanted to pound him into the ground some more, I would have felt sorry for him.” Miles shook his head and looked at his eggs, which had been cooked so long they looked like clumps of yellow rocks. “The woman’s a terror. I heard her call him an idiot, loose-mouthed, a rotten seed of her womb. I left as quickly as I could. It’s strange. Erickson has the reputation of being very strong, very determined. But, evidently not with his mother.” He eyed the eggs again and forked down a bite, choked, and grabbed for a glass of water.

Mary Rose winced as she watched him. No one else had as yet touched the eggs. She said, “I’m sorry, Miles. I’ve never made eggs before. I suppose that I did fry them a bit too long.”

“Perhaps just the slightest bit, Mary Rose. Don’t worry about it. You tried,” Miles said, but he smiled at her, and it was a very sweet smile, Tysen saw. He felt something vaguely like jealousy rolling around in his gut, and it shocked him. Shocked him so much he just stared down at his dirty boots. Miles MacNeily was old enough to be her father.

Tysen said finally, “Miles is right. Don’t worry about the eggs. We are all grateful.”

Sinjun said suddenly, “I didn’t know you were in the kitchen, Mary Rose. Are you certain you feel well enough to be up and working like this?”

“I feel fine, Sinjun.”

“Nonetheless, until we can find a cook, I will see to the meals. Colin, please assure everyone that I am a splendid cook.”

Colin choked on his coffee. It really wasn’t his wife’s claim that bowed him over, but rather the rancid odor and taste of the coffee. He couldn’t seem to stop coughing until Meggie smacked him hard on the back.

Once Colin was upright again, a glass of water in his hand, his eye on that coffee in his cup, Meggie said, “I heard Pouder talking to MacNee about a new cook. Pouder said Mrs. Golden from the village needs money to take care of her grandchildren. He was of the opinion that she would be ready to come to Kildrummy today, so you don’t have to cook us any meals, Aunt Sinjun. He also said that she would make a splendid housekeeper as well.”

There was a moment of stunned, very grateful silence before Tysen said, “Meggie, despite all the arguments you put up to me, despite all your endless complaining, I was right to force you to come with me to Kildrummy Castle. You have been of invaluable assistance to me, and I thank you.”

Meggie didn’t even blink. “Thank you, Papa. I live to serve you.”

The table shook with all the laughter. As for Meggie, she sat back, her arms folded across her chest, the little queen who had brought down the house.

Three hours later Mrs. Golden was happily humming and baking bread in the Kildrummy kitchen. The smells floated through the castle.

But there was no more laughter.

Tysen, standing on the top steps of the castle, was yelling at the top of his lungs. “You will not leave, Mary Rose! Where did that carriage come from? You will remain here and you will marry me. I don’t want you to free me. I have kissed you—perhaps even more than kissed you, at least in my imagination. You have been compromised. You have seen my bare chest, hugged me. You have breathed against my bare shoulder. That’s beyond being compromised. Now, come back into the castle this minute or it will be the worse for you.”

But Mary Rose kept walking to the waiting hired carriage, carrying a valise that Miles MacNeily had reluctantly loaned to her.

“Oh, Papa, no, she can’t do this,” Meggie said, coming to a skittering halt beside her father. “I had no idea what she was planning. It’s her honor, Papa, she said that it was choking her. I didn’t know what she meant then. Oh, goodness, I think Mr. MacNeily helped her, and that’s because Mary Rose talked him into it. I think he’s hiding because he doesn’t want you to thrash him like you did Erickson MacPhail. You can’t let her go, Papa. You have to stop her.”

Tysen wondered in that instant if the world hadn’t tipped onto its side and put him in danger of falling off. Here he was, standing on the top steps of the castle, his hands on his hips, his face red, and he was yelling like a madman. He could actually feel the hot blood roaring through his veins. This was utterly ridiculous.

Meggie was tugging at his hand. “Please, Papa, you have to stop her. Mary Rose means to do the right thing—it’s just that she sometimes doesn’t realize that what she believes is the right thing is stupid.”

“Yes, I will stop her, and yes, this is an incredibly stupid thing she’s doing.” He ran down the long, curving stairs into the inner courtyard. “You will stay put, Mary Rose!”

She was about to let the coachman assist her into the carriage when Tysen grabbed the man by his collar and simply flung him away, sending him skittering on his backside into the dirt. “Now, as for you—”

“Tysen, you shouldn’t be here. You were supposed to be in the village.”

“I was and now I’m back, thank the good Lord. Meggie is right, this is one of the stupidest things you’ve done to date, Mary Rose. Now come along.”

She kept pulling and tugging. “You must see reason here. It is good reason, solid reason. I can see it. It’s not stupid. Why can’t you see that it is the right thing to do? You don’t want me as your wife. I’m a bastard, you can’t change that. Your brother—the earl—would rip off his wig and stomp it into the ground in rage, if it were the last century and he wore one. No, you can’t have a bastard in your family, it would be a travesty, you—”

Tysen heard the geese, Willie leading the way, honking so loud he could no longer hear his own furious heartbeat. He heard Meggie yell, “Papa, I’ve got her valise. No, no, Willie, don’t nip at my arm. I’ll get bread for you, but you must be patient.”

He briefly saw Meggie from the corner of his eye tugging at Mary Rose’s valise, slowly pulling it back toward the castle, the geese stampeding madly after her.

“No more,” he said, looking down at Mary Rose. “No more.” He grabbed her and hauled her over his shoulder.

“Tysen, oh, goodness, this isn’t what a vicar should do. Put me down. This is ridiculous. I’m doing what is best. Listen to me. Mr. MacNeily went to a lot of trouble to get this carriage here for me—”

To Tysen’s utter surprise, he smacked her bottom. “You are going nowhere.” To his further utter surprise, his palm lay on her bottom for a good second longer than necessary to deliver the hit. He raised his hand as if scalded, then stared straight ahead, determination freezing his face, and walked back to the castle.

Still, she reared up, but it did her no good. She could kick, she could pound him with her fists, but because she didn’t want to take the chance of hurting him, she was, effectively, not going anywhere.

Mary Rose saw Meggie tugging with all her might at the valise, the geese honking louder and louder, Willie pecking at Meggie’s feet. Dust flew up and Mary Rose thought, I must plant trees and shrubs here. There is too much bare earth and black dirt. Then she shook her head, tried to relax as her stomach bounced up and down on Tysen’s shoulder.

The coachman picked himself up, brushed off his trousers, and stared after the man—a vicar!—who was carrying the lady over his shoulder, followed by a little girl dragging the dratted valise with geese nearly on her heels, making more racket than his own dear wife in her finest moments.

Miles MacNeily stood just inside the castle door, in the entrance hall. Pouder, standing next to him, looked mildly interested. When Tysen came through the door, Miles said, “I’m sorry, my lord, but Mary Rose, she is very special and she didn’t want you to feel responsible for—”

“Miles,” Tysen said, not looking toward his steward as he strode through the entrance hall, “you’re fired.”

“But, my lord, I’m already leaving, in but two weeks now.”

Meggie managed to pull the valise into the hallway. Willie was honking loudly outside on the steps. Pouder was waving his gnarly old hands at the goose, yelling, “Begone, ye miserable white-feathered sot! Ye’ll nae bite the lass’s heel!”

Willie’s beak came around the side of the wide front door. He honked, then retreated. Tysen couldn’t help it, he started laughing. The woman over his shoulder had tried to leave him, and yet he was laughing. He felt her belly on his shoulder, knew that if he pulled her just a bit closer, his face would be touching her hip. He was hugging her thighs. The feel of her, it made him shake.

What was happening to him?

He saw Meggie, his precious girl, pulling that ridiculous valise past Pouder, who was just staring down at her. Miles MacNeily leaned down and scooped it up.

He heard Meggie said, “Thank you, Mr. Miles. You shouldn’t have let Mary Rose talk you into that carriage. She is promised to my father, and I have already written to my brothers telling them that we will have a new mother.”

“Er, would you like me to post your letter, Meggie?”

“Yes, sir, that would be very kind of you. Oh, goodness, Mary Rose, what is in that valise? It weighs more than I do.”

“I gave her my two prized candlesticks,” Miles said, “for her to pawn in Edinburgh. Since I haven’t yet come into my inheritance, I don’t have any money. Perhaps I should give them to your father as restitution.”

Meggie, a practical girl, who was racing after her father and Mary Rose, turned briefly and said, “I suppose it is the least you could do for your treachery.”

Where had Meggie learned that excellent word?

And then Tysen thought, two blasted candlesticks! It was too much. He felt laughter bubbling up again, and seamed his mouth together. He said, “I imagine that you needed the candlesticks to live on until your twenty-fifth birthday?”

Mary Rose nodded.

“I suppose you would have written to your mother for the name of the solicitor.”

She nodded again, not a word out of her mouth.

“And then you would have been up bright and early, ready to camp on the solicitor’s doorstep? Then once you had all your wealth, you would have brought your mother to Edinburgh?”

Another nod.

He walked toward the staircase, paused a moment, and called out over his shoulder—actually, over Mary Rose’s bottom—“You’re not fired, Miles, at least not for another two weeks.”

“Thank you, my lord. I’ll see to the coachman. I’ll take Mary Rose’s valise back to Meggie’s bedchamber.”

“I don’t want your candlesticks,” Tysen said, “just swear to me you’ll keep them hidden from Mary Rose.”

“Yes, I swear, my lord,” Miles said. “I can see now that this is for the best. I won’t listen to her again.”

Mary Rose called out, raising her head from Tysen’s back, “At least you listened to me once, sir.”

Tysen was again picturing Meggie yanking and jerking on that ridiculous valise. Actually, he thought as he walked into the drawing room, he knew what he wanted to do was to simply ease his arms up and splay his hands over Mary Rose’s bottom.

It didn’t occur to him that he was committing sins of lust in his brain, that he was actually compounding sins by the moment. All he was aware of was the closeness of Mary Rose’s bottom. It wasn’t until some time later, after he’d given her over to Sinjun with instructions to sit on her if she tried anything else stupid, that his sins started coming home to roost.

Even while he was contemplating those sins, the list compounding itself by the hour, Pouder informed him of their newly-arrived guests.

When he saw Sir Lyon, he decided he would rather spend eternity cataloguing his sins than be in this man’s company again. However, this time Mary Rose’s mother was with him. It was mid-afternoon, and there were more delicious smells sweeping through the castle. The freshly baked bread had everyone sniffing the air.

Tysen just stood there watching Sir Lyon sniff the baked bread, then escort Gweneth Fordyce into the drawing room. Why had she refused to come into the castle before? Why was she coming in now?

Mary Rose, thankfully, was upstairs, now in Meggie’s bedchamber, being entertained by his daughter, who, at his instruction, was keeping a very close eye on her. Sinjun, he’d been told, was visiting ever so often, just to make sure that Mary Rose hadn’t climbed out a window. As for Colin, he was in the stables determining what stock was needed to purchase.

“Sir Lyon, Mary Rose’s mother,” Tysen said, not knowing what to call her. “Thank you, Pouder.”

“I will adjourn to your bedchamber, my lord, and see to the freshening of your clothes.”

“An excellent notion, Pouder. I wanted to thank you for the fine ironing of my cravats.” He turned to his guests.

“Would you like to be seated? I can have Mrs. Golden prepare some tea.”

“Mrs. Golden shouldn’t be here,” Sir Lyon said, then seemed to realize that this approach wasn’t at all conciliating, and added, chin out, “Mrs. MacFardle, for all her abilities, is a bitch. You’re better off without her. That bread smells delicious.”

“I shall have her bring some bread with the tea,” Tysen said and gave orders to Pouder, who hadn’t yet left his chair by the front door to freshen Tysen’s clothes upstairs.

When he returned to the drawing room, Gweneth Fordyce spoke. “I have many times wanted to poke a knife through her middle. Over the years, she was very unpleasant to my daughter. She wasn’t to me, because she was afraid of me, the madwoman.”

“I don’t doubt that she will find a suitable position,” Tysen said. Once everyone was seated, he stood by the fireplace, his arms crossed over his chest, and simply nodded.

Sir Lyon cleared his throat and cleared it yet again. He shot a sideways look at Mary Rose’s mother, then said, “My lord, I understand that a very few minor difficulties arose here last night.”

“No, nothing that we couldn’t handle,” Tysen said, nothing more, and just waited.

Sir Lyon girded his loins and said, “As Mary Rose’s uncle and her guardian, I am willing to give Mary Rose my permission to wed you, if she is willing to provide me with payment from the dowry provided by her father, for all the money I have spent on her and her dear mother over the years, over a very lot of years. Nearly twenty-five to be exact.”

“I see,” Tysen said. “Knowing that you were charitable and kind to your sister-in-law and her child aren’t sufficient?”

“No, they are not. Tell him, Gweneth.”

Mary Rose’s mother rose very slowly. She looked down at Sir Lyon, and there was no liking at all on her still-lovely face. “Ah, so that’s it. Tell him what, Lyon? That I have always thought you a pompous bully? That now I think you are merely pathetic? You are, you know, trying to extort money from Lord Barthwick.”

Sir Lyon’s face turned so red, Tysen feared that he might fall over with apoplexy. Sir Lyon jumped to his feet and shouted, “You are ungrateful, Gweneth! Damnation, woman, I opened my home to you and your bastard. I have never begrudged you anything. You have been part of my family.” He paused a moment, and if anything, his heavy face grew even redder. Tysen tensed his muscles, preparing to catch him when he collapsed. “Damn you, Gwennie, I am beginning to believe that you are not mad at all, that you were never even remotely mad, that you have merely pretended to madness so you wouldn’t have to do anything yourself for your poor daughter.”

“No, I am not mad,” Gweneth said. “Actually, the madness kept you away from me—at least for the most part—until recently. I was a fool to tell you about Mary Rose’s trust from her father. I never considered that you would go to Erickson and bribe him to marry my daughter so you could get even more money. You are a pathetic human being, Lyon.”

Sir Lyon shouted, “That is a lie! You will be quiet! Dammit, I need the money!” He pinned Tysen again, and he was panting from his anger. “Attend me, my lord, if I do not receive the money to which I am entitled, I will wed Mary Rose to Erickson MacPhail.”

Tysen regarded the man with his red face, his fists bunched atop his knees. He waited until Sir Lyon’s face began to recover its natural color. He then motioned for the man to be seated. Once he was, Tysen said, “Ten thousand pounds, wasn’t it? I believe this is the amount you and Erickson MacPhail agreed upon?”

Gweneth Fordyce, who had sat down again, now leapt to her feet. She stared down at Sir Lyon, so much anger getting ready to erupt that Tysen said quickly, “No, ma’am, please be seated again. I have something to say to both of you that perhaps you do not know. I have already been in contact with Donald MacCray, Tyronne Barthwick’s solicitor in Edinburgh. He tells me that Mary Rose Fordyce has no legal guardian, that you never applied for such a position. Therefore, Sir Lyon, you are here to extort money from me or from Mary Rose, and you have no leverage at all. I would suggest that you consider praying to God for forgiveness for this elaborate deception.” He didn’t add that he would be doing quite a lot of praying himself, for that quick and clean lie about the guardianship. He realized he was right, of course, just looking at Sir Lyon’s face. He’d been caught out. It was there for all to see.

Sir Lyon didn’t jump up this time, just shouted at the top of his lungs, “So I am not her legal guardian. It wasn’t necessary. I am the bloody girl’s uncle! Gweneth, you will set this aright, you will see to it that I get the ten thousand pounds, or you will never again be welcome at Vallance Manor. Damnation, it’s probably a very small part of what her father left her.”

Gweneth looked down at her brother-in-law for a very long time. Then she smiled at Tysen. “My lord, he forced me to come with him today, hoping I would help him. I did not know what he intended, but I knew it was likely something dishonorable. As to the amount of money her father left her in trust, I do not know the exact amount. Her father simply assured me that it was very substantial. Now, would you mind if I had all my belongings and Mary Rose’s sent here to Kildrummy?”

Tysen bowed to her. “I would be delighted, ma’am.”

Gweneth Fordyce looked down at her brother-in-law and said, “I assume that you will allow me to have our things taken from your precious manor? You will provide me a carriage to come back to Kildrummy?”

He had no choice at all, Sir Lyon realized, or before nightfall he would be known as not only a bloody fool, but also a bounder. “Of course,” he said, and wanted to strangle her. He knew he had to think. Nothing was going the way it should. He hadn’t managed this well. He never should have trusted Gwennie to come with him today and plead his case. He should have known she’d turn on him. Damnation, he still wanted Gwennie in his bed, but faced with the economies he would be forced to make, even that desire was fast fading into the woodwork. With outward calm, he bade Lord Barthwick—the damned vicar who should have been easy to outwit and intimidate—good-bye and escorted Mary Rose’s mother back to the carriage.

He drew in another whiff of that delicious freshly baked bread as he walked out the front door of Kildrummy and realized he hadn’t even gotten to taste a bite of it.

That evening Gweneth Fordyce, along with three Vallance Manor footmen, arrived at Kildrummy Castle with a mountain of luggage.

20

THE NEXT MORNING Tysen was seated in the library, writing a letter to Donald MacCray to find out the truth of things. He looked up when Mary Rose said from the doorway, “My lord?”

He raised an eyebrow at her. “So formal?”

“Well, I still feel that you are angry at me for trying to leave yesterday, even though I know it is still the best thing to do, the proper thing. You did not wish to speak to me last night. Indeed, you avoided me, so I came to you.”

“You don’t know anything,” he said, and eased his quill back into its onyx stand. He sat back in his chair and leaned his head back against his arms. “What is happening now that I must needs know? More outpouring of guilt on your part? You will shoot yourself now to spare me from sacrificing myself? Or is it that you disapprove of something else I have done for your benefit?”

“No,” she said, then sighed and fiddled with the lace at her wrist. She was wearing one of her own gowns that her mother had brought with her. “Thank you for inviting my mother here. She is very happy. Meggie likes her very well, and naturally, my mother believes Meggie to be the brightest child in all of Scotland. Meggie has a new grandmother, and thank the Lord she isn’t mad. I believe my mother is going to teach Meggie how to draw. She is excellent with watercolors.” She paused a moment, then added, “It’s true, isn’t it? My mother really has been pretending to madness all these years? It was all a ruse?”

He nodded.

“I suppose I understand it. She was pregnant, unwed, and what was she to do? But why madness, particularly when she was at Vallance Manor with her own sister and brother-in-law?”

Tysen sighed. “Evidently your uncle wanted her in his bed and he wasn’t above using blackmail. Your mother was quick-witted. She chose madness as her defense against him. I suppose it became a habit with her.”

Mary Rose thought about that a moment. “It would seem to me,” she said finally, “that there are very few honorable gentlemen on this earth.”

“Bosh,” Tysen said. “When we are home, I will surround you with honorable gentlemen. They abound. My brothers are honorable. You will like them and their wives and children. I will admit, however, that your uncle and Erickson MacPhail could strongly influence one’s opin-ions.”

“I do not understand why my father did not help my mother.”

“Your father was undoubtedly married.”

“Yes, of course, but still. I was thinking, Tysen.”

“The good Lord spare me. Another plan to escape me?”

“I was thinking that when I am twenty-five, just next month, I can repay you for taking care of me and my mother. You’ve even allowed her to move in with you. It is very generous. Oh, goodness.” Mary Rose actually felt her jaw quiver, she just couldn’t stop it, and it was hard to swallow.

Tysen said with no sympathy at all, “If you cry, Mary Rose, I will haul you over my shoulder again, ride to that stream, and toss you in. We can see just how long it takes you to climb out this time. Now, you have caused me no end of trouble simply because I am doing the right thing. If only you would finally recognize me as the end to all your misery, and your mother’s as well. You still have tears in your eyes. Stop it now.”

She sniffed.

“That’s something. Now, I’m writing a letter to see if, just perchance, the lie I so smoothly told your uncle yesterday happens to be the truth. I believe it is. Your uncle didn’t gainsay me, but it’s best to have it in writing.”

She stared at him. “You lied? You actually knew you were going to do it, and knowing, you still lied? Oh, Tysen, it is all my fault, that is a sin and you committed it and you are a man of God and—”

“Be quiet and listen.” And he told her the very believable tale he had concocted for her uncle’s benefit.

She said slowly when he had finished, “I have never before been told that Sir Lyon was my guardian. Indeed, I can’t imagine that my uncle would ever have willingly wanted to be my guardian. He was embarrassed that a bastard was living under his roof. It was difficult for him to feel magnanimous, his shame was so great. You know, I wonder if Ian discovered this?”

“I have no idea. I will ask Mr. MacCray, if you wish. Regardless, you and I are going to be married on Sunday, by special license. I spoke this morning to Reverend MacMillan, a very nice old gentleman who says he has known you all your life and thinks you will make a fine wife for a vicar, even though the vicar is foreign. He is, however, concerned that in my nobleness, I am rushing you into this. He is concerned that you might wish to change your mind. I told him that your fondest wish was to wed a vicar, namely me, and move to southern England where you wouldn’t know a soul, present yourself to a gaggle of new relatives entirely unknown to you, and become a mother to three children not your own. I believe he wanted to laugh at that, but he choked so badly trying to hold it back that I had to thump him soundly on the back.”

She was standing there, pale, her face still bruised, her light blue gown a bit loose on her, for she’d lost flesh during the past week—no wonder. She didn’t laugh, didn’t crack even a little smile.

He said very gently as he rose from his chair, “Give over, Mary Rose, give over. Marry me. It is the right thing to do. We will do well together.”

He didn’t look away from her.

Finally, she said, her voice barely above a whisper, “All right, Tysen. I will marry you this Sunday.”

And so it was that the following Sunday morning, in the drawing room of Kildrummy Castle, the Honorable Tysen Edward Townsend Sherbrooke, Reverend Sherbrooke of Glenclose-on-Rowan, brother to the earl of Northcliffe, took his second wife, Mary Rose Fordyce, spinster, of Vallance Manor. Gweneth cried delicately into a lovely lace handkerchief, and Colin Kinross stood beside Tysen as he calmly spoke his vows. As for Sinjun Kinross, she stood beside Mary Rose and lightly squeezed her shoulder upon occasion, perhaps to encourage her to speak up, but no matter.

Neither Mary Rose’s uncle, aunt, nor cousin was present, having sent their regrets, and that was no surprise at all, rather a relief. Also there had been no word at all from the MacPhails, neither mother nor son.

Mrs. Golden prepared a delicious wedding luncheon, and Miles had managed to secure half a dozen bottles of rather decent champagne. She had hired an additional six girls from the village. Two would remain to help her at Kildrummy—a good thing, Tysen thought, for he had very few clean shirts left.

As for the new Reverend and Mrs. Tysen Sherbrooke, they would remain at Kildrummy Castle until the middle of September, exactly two weeks away.

There was one additional guest at the wedding besides Miles MacNeily, and that was Donald MacCray, the Barthwick solicitor, from Edinburgh. Given, however, that this was Reverend Tysen’s wedding day and Mr. MacCray had no wish to intrude, he merely said to Tysen, “There is no reason for you to worry. As it turns out, Sir Lyon was never your wife’s guardian. He lied to you. As for your, er, deception, it proved to be a sound deduction.” Whenever Tysen happened to look at Mr. MacCray, he was drinking champagne and staring at Gweneth Fordyce. Meggie whispered to her father that she’d wager their solicitor had drunk at least one whole bottle by himself.

Late that evening, Meggie happily followed her father and Mary Rose into his huge bedchamber, chattering, never taking a breath, laughing very gaily.

“Your aunt Sinjun gave you a bit of champagne, didn’t she, Meggie?”

“Well, yes, Papa, just a bit, yes. It’s nasty stuff and I can’t seem to stop talking.” She beamed at him, then hugged Mary Rose tightly. “We will all do very well together. You are not to worry, Mary Rose. Max and Leo will believe I did well to bring you home. Now, shall we talk about your new duties as Papa’s wife?”

And Meggie sat down in the middle of the great bed, her legs crossed, beaming at her father and her new mother.

He didn’t know what to say. Neither did Mary Rose. Tysen finally was preparing to open his mouth when there came a knock on the bedchamber door.

“Yes?”

Gweneth Fordyce peered around the door. “Ah, Meggie, dearest, there you are. I am very much in need of your assistance. I have this wretched headache, brought on, I daresay, from excessive attention from Mr. MacCray. Would you bathe my forehead for me?”

Meggie was torn. She looked from her father to Mary Rose’s mother, then sighed. “Papa? Mary Rose? Do you mind if I see to your mother? She’s now my grandmother, you know. I shouldn’t wish her to suffer if there is something I can do.”

“No, Meggie, we don’t want her to suffer, either. That would be very nice of you.” Tysen kissed his daughter. “Mary Rose and I will see you in the morning.”

Meggie frowned a bit over that and cocked her head to one side in question, identical to the way her father did it. “Mary Rose, aren’t you coming with me to your bedchamber? Why did we come to Papa’s bedchamber at all?”

Tysen said, very carefully, “Meggie, Mary Rose is now my wife. That means that she will stay close to me, both during the day and during the night. She will be staying with me now in this bedchamber.”

“But Papa, I—”

There was laughter, muted, from the doorway. Then Gweneth Fordyce came in and held out her hand to Meggie.

“Meggie, dearest, this headache of mine grows severe. Now, your new mama has to get used to your papa. That’s what marriage is all about. This means that they will spend a lot of time together, get to know each other much better, talk about so many things. You are not to worry about anything, all right?”

“I suppose so,” Meggie said. “Do you want to stay here with Papa, Mary Rose? Do you want to talk to him all night?”

“Yes, Meggie, I do.”

Meggie raised on her tiptoes, and Tysen held her against him, kissed her forehead. “Good night, sweetheart. Mary Rose and I will see you in the morning.”

And they were gone.

Tysen said, six feet away from his bride, “That wasn’t terribly romantic, was it?”

Mary Rose didn’t say anything at all. He saw that she was scared witless.

He was too, he thought, and quickly walked to the fireplace and built up the fire. It was chilly tonight, yet it was only the first of September and shouldn’t have been.

When he turned back to her, she still hadn’t moved a bit.

He walked to her, took her shoulders in his hands and said, “There is no reason for you to be afraid of all this. If you don’t wish to have me with you tonight, you have but to say so.”

The instant those words were out of his mouth, Tysen wanted to slit his own wrists. He waited, in agony, while she stood there, still scared to her toes, and he knew she was thinking that offer over. Then, finally, she said, “When you kissed me and held me, it was very nice, Tysen. We are married now. I suppose that we should get it done. It’s expected.”

“Well, yes, but that doesn’t matter. No one will know one way or the other. No, it’s up to you, Mary Rose. We don’t know each other all that well. If you would prefer to wait—” He finally managed to get his mouth to shut up. What was wrong with him? Had he lost all control of his brain?

Very slowly, Mary Rose nodded. But she still just stood there, her hands clasped in front of her, still wearing that very lovely gown her mother had made over for her. It was pale pink with a lot of lace at the neckline and just a straight fall of skirt to her ankles. He was surprised that the pale pink was so very nice with her bright hair.

Tysen cleared his throat, hoped he didn’t sound like a man about to be felled by lust, and said, “I am very fond of you, Mary Rose. And I know you are of me as well. I know that lovemaking must seem very strange to you and—”

His precious bride waved away his words. “Yes, perhaps,” she said, and took a step toward him. “Could you please kiss me?”

And so he did. Very soon, he realized that he wanted her more than he could even begin to imagine, and yet she was a virgin and he remembered Melinda Beatrice, her awful pain, her sobs that first night when he came into her, her sobs after he had come out of her, her sobs when he had wanted her again so very badly he’d nearly cried.

He shook his head. He’d been a boy, hadn’t known a single thing about how to give pleasure, how to take pleasure when it was offered. Not that he knew much more now. But he had, he admitted to himself, during those first months of his marriage, listened to his brothers whenever they spoke of matters of the flesh, which wasn’t a rare occurrence at all. So, he supposed, he had a good deal of theory down very well.

“Let me unfasten your gown for you. Then, if you like, I can go out into the corridor while you put on your nightgown.”

She pulled her thick hair out of the way, and Tysen found that his fingers were extraordinarily nimble on all the buttons of that wretched, beautiful gown. He forced himself to step back when her white back was bare.

“There, it’s done. I’m sorry I didn’t think to place a screen in here.” He left her then, quickly, and paced outside the bedchamber door, up and down the corridor. He found himself drawn to the sound of a woman’s quiet voice. It was Sinjun. She and Colin were speaking in their bedchamber, and the door wasn’t closed.

He, a vicar, a man who would give a good lecture to any of his children were they to eavesdrop, walked closer to that cracked open doorway. He heard Sinjun say, “But Colin, Tysen was only a boy when he married Melinda Beatrice. He knew nothing. He was always so pious and proper that naturally he wouldn’t know anything. He isn’t at all like Douglas or Ryder or you, and never was, for that matter. I’m just concerned that—” She stalled, but Tysen already knew everything she would have said; it was crystal clear in the quiet air.

Then Colin said, “Listen to me, Sinjun. Tysen isn’t a clod, nor is he a fool. He’s still a Sherbrooke, and I swear to you that the Sherbrooke men are born knowing how to make love properly to a woman. Leave be. Come to bed and I will let you seduce me, if you promise to go very slowly so I will have enough time to respond to you.”

Sinjun giggled. Then, “You’re sure it will be all right? You don’t believe you should perhaps speak to Tysen, ask him if he has any questions or perhaps wishes to discuss things? Colin, wait! What are you doing? Oh, goodness, you are an evil man.”

Tysen heard his sister, his baby sister, giggle. Then he heard only silence. No, that was a very deep breath someone in that bedchamber just drew in.

Tysen quickly walked away. So he’d been born knowing how to please a woman, had he? Well, he’d never succeeded with Melinda Beatrice. But that had been so very long ago, and Sinjun was right. He’d been a boy, untried, bowled over with those rampaging feelings he couldn’t control, so eager he’d nearly spilled his seed on himself.

He would simply have to trust himself. As his brother Ryder always said, “If a man can make a woman laugh, she is his.”

Laughter. How the devil did a man make a woman laugh when the man couldn’t think beyond those raw, very urgent surges in his groin?

He came back into the bedchamber. Mary Rose was lying in the middle of the bed, propped up on pillows, the covers to her chin. He smiled at her. He went methodically about the room, pinching out the myriad candles. When there was only a single candle lit near the huge bed, he moved away into the shadows and undressed. He pulled his nightshirt over his head. He came to a halt beside the bed.

“I’m not wearing one of your nightshirts,” she said. “I think you look better in it than I do.”

He pulled back the blankets and came in beside her. He said, looking down at her beloved face, “Do you know we had never even seen each other before a very short time ago?”

Mary Rose pulled her hand out from beneath the mound of blankets and lightly touched her fingers to his face. “Yes, and it both frightens me and makes me believe devoutly that God had very good plans for me. You’re quite wonderful, Tysen.”

Her words stirred inside him, moved him, and he said, “I don’t want you to think that I married you simply because of my honor, because I want to protect you, save you from the machinations of your wretched uncle and Erickson MacPhail. I am very fond of you, Mary Rose. I am very glad that you are now my wife.” He looked away from her a moment, then said, “And we are man and wife now. Or vicar and wife, if you would prefer.” That was an attempt at humor, but it didn’t yield anything except perhaps a tiny smile.

“I can barely see you, Tysen.”

“Well, one doesn’t have intimate relations in full daylight,” he said, although he imagined that his brothers even had intimate relations in the gardens, beneath the oak trees. But he never had. He’d always believed that a wife was precious and should be protected from a man’s lust, her modesty never to be violated. “I don’t wish to shock you or embarrass you,” he said, his voice austere.

“Thank you,” she said, but there was something odd in her voice that he didn’t understand, and he said quickly, “Please don’t be frightened of me. I might not be much good at any of this, but I wish to try. I’m going to kiss you now, Mary Rose, kiss you until I’ve gotten all the way to that crooked toe of yours, and I will kiss it as well.”

She grinned. Aha, nearly a laugh. “All right,” she said, and closed her arms around his neck.

“You taste like strawberries,” he said, “and your hair is as soft as my mare’s mane.”

She giggled when he at last touched her breast. Then she jumped. He closed his eyes a moment, wondering what to do. He knew he was in a bad way, and that surprised him, but it didn’t matter. He said, “I want you to hold still, and I will try not to hurt you.”

He eased her nightgown up, felt her soft flesh, and prayed fervently that she was ready for him, that he wouldn’t hurt her too much. She didn’t pull away, did nothing to escape him. And her kisses had been so very enthusiastic. He had to control himself. So very long, he thought, so very long since he had been with a woman, and that woman had been his first wife. He regretted that in his inexperience he might hurt Mary Rose, that he might deny her pleasure. Then he realized he could only do his best. He could, as a matter of fact, do exactly what he wanted to do, and surely that wouldn’t be bad. He was a Sherbrooke male, after all.

He gritted his teeth, knowing the moment was upon him, and came inside her, pushing slowly, his blood pounding through his body, nearly splitting him apart with lust, but his determination not to hurt her was profound. He was a man, not the boy who had mauled Melinda Beatrice. He moved very slowly indeed. He stopped. “Mary Rose?”

She was looking at him, but she wasn’t smiling now, ready to kiss every bit of his face, ready to let him even put his tongue in her mouth. She was scared stiff, rigid as a log beneath him.

“Yes?”

“I’m inside you. Just a bit more. You’re doing very well. I can feel your maidenhead. Can you feel me feeling it?”

“Yes.”

Then it was simply too much. The man and the vicar broke; he lost himself and all his good intentions. He couldn’t stop himself, he pushed hard until he broke through her maidenhead and went deep. Dear God, he was touching her womb. His heart pounded, his body was more alive than he’d ever felt in his entire life. He was on the edge of a cliff, and he wanted to leap off that cliff right this very instant, but he heard her crying. “Mary Rose? Are you all right?”

“Yes, Tysen, I swear it to you. That maidenhead part was a bit difficult, but you’re not moving now and it isn’t too bad.” She added, wonder in her voice, “I knew that a man came into a woman’s body, but I just never imagined it like this.”

Oh, dear God, he thought, he was so crazed with lust, so over the edge with a need that was eating him alive, that he thought he would die. It was soon over, and he’d never imagined anything like it in his life. He had died, he thought, a wonderful death. He was hanging over her, balanced on his elbows, breathing so hard, feeling his heart pounding against his chest, still beyond words, beyond any rational thought. It was wonderful, what had just happened. He’d forgotten—that, or he’d never experienced it. It was beyond wonderful.

Mary Rose wasn’t moving.

He said, once he could speak coherently, his voice all stiff with guilt, “I am sorry that I hurt you. That won’t happen again. Can you forgive me?”

“Yes, of course. You’re my husband, and I suppose things have to happen that aren’t always pleasant. I don’t know, Tysen.”

“I didn’t make you laugh,” he said, and he slowly came out of her. He lay beside her and pulled her into his arms. He realized that he’d jerked off his nightshirt and that he was naked and she could feel that he was naked. He could imagine that it would send her running from the bedchamber. “Let me put on my nightshirt,” he said, but Mary Rose just shook her head against his shoulder. “No, please don’t. You are so very warm, Tysen, and hard. I love the feel of you.”

He nearly swallowed his tongue. A woman—his wife—had said that to him. He didn’t say a thing because he simply couldn’t think of anything to say. Did a man thank a woman—his wife—when she said something like that to him? He didn’t know. He was, however, immensely grateful that she was still in her nightgown. That was for the best, given how her words had made him feel. It was sinful, what he was thinking, it was excessive, what he wanted to do again, and boorish and probably so pleasurable that he nearly groaned. No, it was time to sleep, time for her to ease with him, perhaps forgive him for hurting her, though she hadn’t seemed upset with him.

He snuffed out the single candle, then he was lying on his back, in the dark, and he could feel her pressing against him. She was soft and warm and her breasts were against his side. Yes, God be blessed that she was wearing a nightgown. He knew he should say something. It was difficult to tell her to trust him when it came to matters of the flesh, since he was such an ignoramus and a clod, but he tried. “Trust me,” he said, kissing her cheek when he missed her mouth. “Trust me.”

“I would trust you with my life, Tysen,” she said, her breath warm against his flesh, and he shuddered. He didn’t trust himself to say anything more. He just might start begging her to let him have her again.

He held her against the length of him. He wanted to come inside her again, right now.

He remembered overhearing Douglas and Ryder talking about how a man should never be a pig, it wasn’t worthy. He held himself very still, and eventually, he slept.

Mary Rose didn’t sleep for a very long time. How very odd, she thought, looking off into the darkness and feeling him so very warm and alive pressed next to her. He was a man, and he had actually been inside her, and he’d touched her, he’d kissed her. It hadn’t been awful. Well, not too awful. She knew he had enjoyed the business. No, for her it hadn’t been too bad. She sighed. She realized then how very wet and sticky she was. She heard Tysen’s breathing even out into sleep. Slowly, carefully, she eased away from him. She stripped off her nightgown and bathed herself. She was sore, muscles pulled. It was all quite strange. She grabbed up her nightgown and pulled it back over her head. It was chilly in the large bedchamber. The embers had burned themselves out.

She slipped back into bed beside him, nestling close. This part was nice, she thought, and laid her palm over his chest. Her palm wanted to go down his body, but she knew that wasn’t done, that wasn’t what she should want to do.

When at last she fell asleep, she felt optimistic. Tysen cared about her. He’d been sorry to hurt her, but she wondered if he truly had been all that sorry. She’d seen something in those beautiful eyes of his, something hot and pleased even as he’d been apologizing so sincerely. But how could she begin to understand him? He was, after all, a man, and she simply couldn’t grasp what they were all about. She wondered if any woman grasped anything about the thoughts of a man.

21

DAWN WAS TURNING the bedchamber a soft, vague gray. Tysen awoke, instantly alert, instantly aware of the wonderful soft and giving body beside him. He then realized it was freezing. He didn’t want Mary Rose to be cold when she awoke. He eased away from that wonderfully warm body and rose to light the fire. He was shivering when he returned to bed. He warmed himself, then came onto his side over her. “Mary Rose,” he said, and just saying her name made him as hard as the black basalt rocks below the castle. He was more than warm now, he was burning up, and it was from the inside out. He was roaring with heat, like a furnace that was being stoked so fast it was in danger of exploding.

He didn’t wait for her to stir. He began kissing her. Her flesh was flushed and warm, and he could see her lovely face now, pale and calm in sleep, her glorious red hair wild about her head. He realized that she was wearing his nightshirt and wondered how that had happened, but it didn’t matter, of course. He had that nightshirt off her in under two seconds. She wasn’t fighting him. She wasn’t stuttering with fear, wasn’t trying to stop him at all. She even lifted her hips for him to get the nightshirt off her. When she was naked and he’d hauled her up tightly against him, he felt all of her, every small bit of her. He moaned into her mouth when he realized that she was kissing him back. He felt so very urgent, nearly frantic in his need, that he simply didn’t think about it being daylight in the room, that he would shock her, that she knew he could see her body and she would be mortified.

Mary Rose was kissing him back, wildly now, and when he said against her mouth, “Open, I want to taste you,” she did, and he was shuddering with the power of it. When he kissed her breasts, his hands all over her, she made little mewling sounds, and they nearly drove him over the edge, those sounds and her mouth and her hands, now stroking his belly. He tried to arch up so she could touch him. When she did, he nearly became a pig. It was a very close thing. He pulled away from her, heaving from the effort, and then everything suddenly was very clear to him. He wanted to kiss her everywhere, something he’d never done before, something that hadn’t really occurred to him before, but now he wanted it more than anything in the entire world. It seemed utterly natural, something he had to do if he wished to keep breathing. He came down her body, kissing and kneading her belly, then his hot breath was lower, and his mouth was on her and his tongue as well, hot and wild.

Mary Rose froze for a moment at what he was doing to her, but not longer than a moment. “Oh, my,” she said and pressed herself against his mouth and felt his fingers, stroking over her, easing inside her. “Tysen,” she said, nearly on a yell, then realized something incredible was happening to her. She lurched up, grabbed fistfuls of his hair, and screamed.

Then she fell back against the pillow, saying his name over and over, begging him not to stop, never stop, please, please. On and on it went, with her wild beneath him, and Tysen felt her frantic pleasure washing over him, coming deep inside him, and it shook him to his core. Never had he felt anything like this in his entire life. Slowly, he lessened his pressure, it just seemed the natural thing to do, and when he felt her ease, he raised his head and looked up her body. He could see her clearly in the morning light pouring through the windows. Her face was flushed, her lips parted, and she was staring at him, but her eyes were vague and soft, and she said, “Oh, goodness.” And then she held out her arms to him.

He’d never moved so fast in his life. He said as he came over her, “I hope you like this as well,” and he was inside her, deep and moving hard and fast. This time there was no doubt at all in Tysen’s mind that he was going to die. And it didn’t matter. He was ready to leave this earth. When he raised his head, arched his back, and yelled to the ceiling, she held him very close, and he felt her breath on his chest, and she was kissing his chest as well, her hands stroking everywhere, even between their bodies on his belly.

He fell flat on top of her, his head beside hers on the pillow. He felt her hands slow now, lightly stroking down his back, and every once in a while she kissed his ear, his neck, any part of him she could reach.

She said against his ear, “That was a very incredible thing, Tysen. I had no idea that being married could mean having feelings like that.”

He hadn’t either. He was floored. He thought of his brothers, who were worldly men and enjoyed making love to women immensely. They’d never been at all shy about speaking about such things. He’d always believed it was a sin, perhaps a sin of overindulgence, what his brothers did with great regularity, perhaps even a sin that they enjoyed their wives so very much. He’d felt superior to them, felt that they hadn’t achieved his ability to rely on his intellect, to let his spirit and his mind control his body. It had to be a sin, for didn’t it make a man forget himself, forget who and what he was, forget what was important in life and what wasn’t?

Had he truly been such a pompous idiot? Such an obnoxious prig? He grew hard inside her again, and he couldn’t help it, he started laughing. He laughed because for the first time in his thirty-one years, he finally knew the incredible joy of being a man and having a woman enjoy him as much as he did her.

He managed, finally, to bring himself up just a bit, and he kissed her mouth. “Mary Rose,” he said between light, nipping kisses, “can you feel me inside you?” He started moving slowly, easily, and the pleasure made him want to shout and sing, perhaps even dance.

“Yes,” she said, leaned up and kissed his shoulder and moved beneath him. “Yes, I can. It is a wondrous feeling, Tysen. Thank you for showing me what was what.”

He saw their two bodies together, and he realized that it was the first time in his life that he had ever had a woman’s body pressed against his. “Are you sore?”

“Yes, but it doesn’t matter. I rather like this, Tysen.”

And he laughed again and kissed her, still laughing, and then he wanted very much to touch her again, to feel her tense and go wild when she gained her climax, and it just happened. He slid his hand between them and found her and watched her eyes go vacant. He was, he thought, a man who was very happy. Surely that wasn’t bad, a husband who enjoyed his wife. Surely.

There was a knock on the door.

Tysen opened an eye but didn’t move. He said, “I don’t care what is going on, even if Erickson MacPhail is back intending to steal you away again, I don’t want to move. Don’t you move, either. You’ve got to be safe from him since you’re lying beneath me.”

She laughed, squeezed him hard, and called out, “Who is it?”

“It’s Meggie.”

Tysen opened an eye. “I have a daughter. I also have two sons. At the moment I can’t remember their names.” He smiled a bit at that. “At least Meggie knocked.”

They’d just managed to pull apart when the door opened and Meggie stuck her head in. “Good morning. It is nearly eight o’clock, you know. Shall I bring you breakfast, Papa? Mary Rose, are you all right? Are you still talking to Papa? Telling him things? Do you still like Papa?”

Tysen sighed deeply and said, “She adores me, Meggie, and yes, we would love some breakfast.”

“Yes, Meggie, I still like your papa.”

The door closed and Tysen turned to face her. He pulled her hard against him, felt her breasts, her belly, the length of her smooth legs. “So what do you think of being married to me so far?”

“I lied to Meggie,” she said, and pushed back the covers. “I more than like her papa. Being married to you so far is splendid. I had never in my life imagined feeling such things.” She started to get out of bed, remembered that she was naked, and stopped cold. She turned quickly to see her new husband, the covers at his ankles, also quite naked, and he was staring at her as if he didn’t know what to do either.

She didn’t move, just kept staring. He didn’t move either, and he also just kept staring. She swallowed, and her hand fluttered, then fell back to the sheet. “Tysen, we are unclothed.”

She was staring at him, not at his face but at his sex, and he felt pinned. It was the first time a woman had ever seen him naked, and this woman seemed to be very interested in him. Melinda Beatrice had always averted her eyes whenever he’d chanced, by accident, to be naked with her anywhere near. “Mary Rose?”

“You are a beautiful man, Tysen,” she said, and stood. She started to cross her arms over her breasts, then, almost defiantly, she dropped her arms back to her sides. “I suppose it is ridiculous for me to be embarrassed, since you saw me while I was so ill.”

“That’s right,” he heard himself say, as if from a great distance, and then he took his own turn looking at her. “It’s different now, though,” he said. “You see, now you’re smiling at me, and you’re moving about and you are very alive and warm and your face is a bit flushed and your hair is incredible, Mary Rose.”

She squeaked and dashed to pick up her nightgown from the floor near the washbasin. She pulled it over her head, then chanced to look at the basin. “Tysen, oh, my God.”

Her voice was a thin, wispy sound that had him out of bed in a flash. “What’s wrong?”

He was at her side in a minute.

She could only point to the bloody water in the basin.

“It’s from your maidenhead,” he said, vastly relieved. “It’s nothing to worry about, I promise you.”

She turned then, looked him up and down, mainly down, her look very interested, and he flushed, couldn’t seem to help himself. He reached for her and pulled her close, both, he supposed, to preserve his modesty and because in truth he wanted her against him again. He breathed in the scent of her, the light rose smell of her hair, the smell of himself, and the smell of sex.

“Do you forgive me now, Mary Rose?”

She pulled back slightly, looking up at him, feeling him against her, and she couldn’t quite comprehend what had happened. “Oh, yes. I think you are the finest husband in the world.” She pulled back more and looked down at him. “And the most beautiful. A man—you are so very different from me. I think you are incredible, Tysen.” And she reached down and touched him. He moaned and jerked, but he didn’t pull away, just kept holding her against him, wishing she would touch him again, and knowing it was best if she didn’t.

He didn’t say a thing. He couldn’t think of a thing to say, in any case. She thought he was beautiful? That male part of him? He held her even more tightly. He was hard, and he didn’t know what to do about it.

Luckily for him, there was a knock on the door. He slowly separated from her, sighed, and fetched his own dressing gown.

“You have a letter from Douglas,” Sinjun called out when Tysen and Mary Rose, holding hands now, both smiling like loons and trying not to look self-conscious, came down the front staircase.

Colin came through the front door, windblown, wearing only black knit breeches and a flowing white shirt, and grinned at the two of them. “Good morning. I trust both of you are quite well?”

Mary Rose said, “Oh, yes, Colin. Everything is quite excellent.” She blushed, turned nearly as red as her hair. Tysen, without thought, leaned over and kissed her cheek. He thought she looked luminous, the morning light stark on her face, her green eyes bright, her mouth laughing. He was a married man, he realized at that instant, and she was his wife, and he decided he was quite pleased about it.

He had become Lord Barthwick, come to Scotland, and gotten himself a bride. God’s plan was as yet unclear to him, but given that Mary Rose was now his, it had to be a good plan.

“Hmmm,” said Colin, and after eyeing the two of them a bit longer, he turned and gave his wife a wicked look. “I am not at all surprised,” he remarked to the entrance hall at large, which included Pouder, napping in his chair by the front door. “After all, Tysen is a Sherbrooke.”

“Be quiet, Colin,” Tysen said pleasantly as he took the letter from Sinjun and began to read it. “You’re embarrassing my wife.” How strange it was to say that word aloud. He continued reading, then raised his head and said, “Douglas is rather irritated with me, but he says it won’t last because Oliver is so excited about learning the management of Kildrummy Castle, and thus what can Douglas do? Oliver is on his way to Scotland. He should be here quite soon. Douglas said he was so eager that he was throwing his clothes into his valise so he could be gone. He says also that I am now in his debt.”

That very afternoon, Oliver arrived, all his luggage with him, a big smile on his face, and an enthusiastic yell at the sight of Kildrummy Castle.

“Oh, Reverend Tysen,” Oliver said, pumping his hand up and down. “It is more than I deserve. Oh, my, now you’re Lord Barthwick. You’re my lord now. And you are Mr. MacNeily, sir? You will assist me, sir? You will not leave until I know enough not to bankrupt this beautiful place?”

“I will not leave,” Miles MacNeily said, laughing as he looked closely at this very young man, “until I am convinced that you will raise Kildrummy Castle and its lands and tenants to new heights.”

When Oliver met Mary Rose, Reverend Sherbrooke’s bride, he simply stopped cold and stared at her.

“Oliver,” Tysen asked, “are you all right?”

“It’s that you’re married, sir—my lord—and I simply hadn’t ever thought of you with a woman, that is, she is your wife and—”

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Oliver,” Mary Rose said, and shook the young man’s hand.

“It is time,” Tysen said to Mary Rose. She knew it was, and yet she was afraid, afraid of what she would learn.

Mr. MacCray had left earlier, Colin and Sinjun were riding, Meggie was helping Pouder arrange Tysen’s cravats in his bedchamber, Mrs. Golden was preparing their dinner, the new maid was washing their clothes, and Oliver and Miles MacNeily were ensconced in the library, surrounded with ledgers.

“I asked your mother to meet with us,” he said. He paused, then added, squeezing her hand, “She knows it is time that you’re told, Mary Rose.”

To their surprise, Miles MacNeily was not with Oliver in the library. He was with Gweneth Fordyce in the drawing room. He rose slowly when Tysen and Mary Rose came into the room.

Tysen didn’t say a word, just stood quietly, waiting.

Mary Rose looked from her mother to Miles MacNeily and said, “Sir, are you my father?”

He smiled at her and said, “I wish that I were, my dear, but I didn’t come to Kildrummy Castle until you were nearly ten years old. For the rest of it, however, your dear mother has agreed to marry me.”

Mary Rose weaved a bit where she stood. She felt Tysen cup her elbow, holding her steady. “I don’t understand. You have always been very kind to me, sir. Is this why? You have always loved my mother?”

“Yes, I have loved your mother for a very long time. However, I could not afford to make her my wife until recently, when I inherited property and money from my mother. You see, if she had married me, we would have been forced to live here at Kildrummy since there were no cottages available.” He paused a moment and smiled down at Mary Rose’s mother. He said now, “As for you, Mary Rose, I saw you, your beautiful red hair flying around your little face, all skinny, your slipper hanging off your left foot, and you gave me this big smile, and I fell in love. You also had the most beautiful teeth. No, my dear, I love you for yourself. Do you mind? Can I now be your stepfather?”

Mary Rose turned to her mother, who’d said nothing, just sat on the settee, gowned in lovely light-blue muslin, looking both pale and worried and quite happy. “Mama?”

“Yes, my darling, I would very much like to marry Miles.” She drew a deep breath, rose slowly. “You see, he could love me because he was the only one to whom I was never a madwoman. It has been a long time, for both of us. But now you are settled and it is time.”

Tysen said, “I congratulate both of you. Mary Rose, what do you think about this?”

“I just don’t know. So many things have happened. I thought Mama would come with us back to England, that I wouldn’t be alone in a foreign country, that—”

“Oh, dearest,” Gweneth said, her hands outstretched, walking quickly to her daughter. “We can wait if you wish. I will accompany you and your husband back to England.”

Mary Rose was shaking her head. “No, Mama, that was very selfish of me. I am so very happy being married to Tysen that I cannot imagine you not having that happiness as well.” But as she said those words, Mary Rose thought of her mother and Miles MacNeily in bed together, their clothes on the floor, pressed together like she and Tysen had been last night, Tysen’s mouth all over her, and she simply couldn’t imagine such a thing. She stared at the toes of her slippers. “Oh, goodness,” she whispered.

Tysen said, “Excellent. We have need of some champagne.” He paused then and said, “May we end it here, ma’am? It really is time, you know. Time for Mary Rose to learn about her father, to learn about the trust he left for her.”

“Yes,” Gweneth said, “it is past time. It’s just that there is tragedy as well, Mary Rose, and it will hurt you to know.”

“How can learning who my father was be a tragedy?”

“Because your father was Ian’s grandfather.”

Tysen could only stare at Gweneth Fordyce. “You’re saying that Old Tyronne was Mary Rose’s father? That he left her money?”

“Yes,” Gweneth said. “He was past sixty when I met him. His wife had died, and he was desperate to have more heirs waiting in the wings. It had become an obsession with him.

“I had come to visit my sister and her new husband. I met Tyronne. I was fascinated by him.” Her hands fluttered a bit, and she turned away from all of them to walk to the large row of windows. “I’ll never forget that he told me he wanted sons, he had to have more sons, that life was too uncertain, too fragile, even with the male heirs he had at that time. Five males, I believe.”

She turned then, splaying her fingers, as if beseeching her daughter to understand. “I was intimate with him, Mary Rose, and you were the result. He refused to marry me until he knew if you would be a boy. You weren’t, and so he said that he had to find another woman to birth him another boy child.

“He told me about the trust he would set up for you in Edinburgh. The only requirement was that his identity as your father had to remain a secret. I hated him. I wanted to kill him. But I kept silent because he’d promised to provide very well for you. He said that I could never tell you that he was your father or he wouldn’t keep the money there for you. I suppose he didn’t want you hanging about all his heirs.

“I had nothing at all. I moved in with my sister and Sir Lyon and very shortly thereafter began my madness. It was Sir Lyon, you see. He wanted me. It was the only way I could discover to keep him at bay.”

“Mama,” Mary Rose said, barely above a whisper, “I am so very sorry.”

“No, wait, that isn’t all of it, dearest. There is Ian, Tyronne’s last heir. As you know, Tyronne never married again. There were so many boys—sons, grandsons, nephews, cousins—but slowly, each of them died. Until there was only Ian, and he wanted to marry you, Mary Rose. But, naturally, he couldn’t. You were his grandfather’s daughter.”

“Ian died,” Mary Rose said. “He got drunk and fell over that cliff.”

“Perhaps,” Gweneth said. “But I know that Tyronne told him that very same day who you were, that he was your father. And then Ian was dead. It was all over.”

Mary Rose couldn’t, wouldn’t, believe it. “No, I will never believe that Ian killed himself.”

“I don’t know. I pray that he didn’t.”

Without another word, Mary Rose turned and walked to her husband. Tysen opened his arms and drew her close. He said nothing, merely held her, resting his cheek against her hair. Finally he said, “Is that all of it, ma’am?”

“Yes. I do not know the amount Tyronne left in trust for her. It is probably a vast amount. He more than hinted that it was. I do have the name of the old gentleman, the only person in the whole world, who knew what had happened. I will give it to you now. It is your right.”

22

September 15, 1815

TYSEN AND MARY Rose left the bedside of Mr. Mortimer Palmer, solicitor, a very old man who was propped up in bed, all wrapped up in woolen scarves. He’d given Mary Rose a thick envelope, then blessed her in the manner of a Catholic cardinal and proceeded to cough until Tysen feared he would fall out of his bed with the effort. He was frankly relieved that Mr. Palmer had survived their visit. He wondered what would have happened to Mary Rose’s envelope if Mr. Palmer had died before she’d come.

They were walking back to Abbotsford Crescent to Sinjun and Colin’s town house, enjoying the warm, sunny weather, breathing in the smells of Edinburgh. Tysen was listening to all the lilting English that he scarcely understood, looking over his shoulder every once in a while at the castle, high and stark on the hill in the middle of Edinburgh. Mary Rose was walking beside him, her brow furrowed, silent and thoughtful, clutching that envelope to her bosom.

“You may as well open it now, Mary Rose,” he said after a while, smiling down at her. “Don’t worry so. It will be all right.” He led her into a small park and motioned her to a small bench.

“I’m afraid,” she said, looking at him, then at that fat envelope clutched in her hand as if it were a snake poised to bite her. Finally, after more hesitation, she thrust it into his hands. “Please, Tysen,” she said, “you read it.”

Tysen opened it. There was a single sheet of paper wrapped around another smaller, very thick envelope. He opened the single sheet of foolscap first and read aloud:

My dear daughter:

I am dead and you are either twenty-five or married, and thus are reading this, my letter to you. Your mother was a beautiful woman and I was hopeful she would breed me a son and another heir, but she did not. She birthed you, a female. I prayed and prayed for a son, but God didn’t heed me. No, you are not a son and that is a pity. This is why I couldn’t marry her. She hadn’t proved true. But you are here now and what am I to do? Because I am an honorable man, I am providing you with a dowry.

Your father,

Tyronne, Lord Barthwick

Tysen wadded the single sheet of foolscap in his fist and shook it northward, toward Kildrummy Castle. Then he got hold of himself. He read the letter again, to himself this time, and he laughed, an honest laugh. He said, “What a pathetic old curmudgeon. He believed it was a pity that you weren’t a son? Thank God you’re weren’t, else we wouldn’t be here together, you still looking all battered down. Listen to me. Old Tyronne had a full measure of cruelty, not to mention he was more obsessed with begetting heirs than the devil is with stealing souls. The old buzzard also enjoyed a full measure of arrogance. Actually, he was a dreadful man, Mary Rose.” He waved the envelope again. “You will not let this hurt you. The old man’s mind was long gone when he wrote this drivel.”

She cocked her head at him in a way that he found very appealing. She laid her hand lightly on his forearm. “It’s all right, Tysen, truly. I remember him when I was growing up, and he was always strange. Because I was a girl, I suppose, he didn’t pay me any attention. At that time I just accepted it, didn’t really think anything about it. I remember clearly Ian telling me that every evening at dinner, whatever male children were present, he questioned each one of them to determine his state of health. Ian was always laughing about it, said he and his cousins would make up strange symptoms just to watch Old Tyronne turn pale and wring his hands and talk about the dread diseases that the symptoms could be.” She stopped talking then and grew very still. “He was rather pathetic, wasn’t he?”

“Yes, he was. I’m glad he was never in your life, at least as a parent. He wouldn’t have given you much of anything, Mary Rose.”

“I know. It was better just seeing him from a distance, hearing the bizarre stories about him. At least he was interesting—as an eccentric.”

Tysen handed her the smaller sealed envelope. It was thick, very thick indeed. Slowly, Mary Rose opened it. It was so old, it shredded in her hands and out spilled pound notes, scattering like snowflakes. They gathered up the notes and counted them.

Then they both burst into laughter.

Tyronne, Lord Barthwick, had left exactly one hundred pounds for his daughter’s dowry, all in one-pound notes.

“It was amazing,” Mary Rose said later to Sinjun, Colin, and Meggie, who was standing beside her father. “Once we stopped laughing, we realized what a very fine jest it was. What if I had married Erickson MacPhail? He believed I was rich, and here he went to all that trouble to try to snare me, and as it turns out, Old Tyronne left me only one hundred pounds.”

“Will you tell your mother about this?” Colin asked.

“No,” Tysen said. “Mary Rose doesn’t want anyone to know what the old curmudgeon did.” He gave her a big grin. “She decided to let Erickson always wonder how wealthy he would have been had he coerced her into marrying him. Now he will marry Donnatella and be miserable with her five thousand pounds. I wonder what his dear mother will have to say about it?”

“I doubt she will say very much,” Mary Rose said. “Donnatella is a force to be reckoned with. Erickson’s mother wouldn’t have a chance against Donnatella. As for Uncle Lyon, I suppose he will simply have to economize. None of them will like that very much.”

“Sir Lyon will probably immediately marry Donnatella off to Erickson,” Tysen said. “Ah, Mary Rose, you have made your mark,” he continued to his bride. “You leave a mother who is quite content now with Miles MacNeily, a good man who will take good care of her, and a suitor who is gnawing on his knuckles and will always think of you as the pigeon who escaped him.” He touched his palm to her cheek. “And now it’s time for you to make your mark in that foreign land where you will come to live.”

Mary Rose sighed and lightly rubbed her cheek against his palm. “Meggie told me that a wife must cleave to her husband, that she must follow her husband, even into a snake pit.”

Meggie said, “I assured her, Papa, that there were only a few snakes near where we live.”

Eden Hill House

Glenclose-on-Rowan

Southern England

“Who are you?”

Mary Rose had just wandered around the side of the vicarage. She looked about and saw a lanky young boy standing on his head just behind a hedge close to the front door of the vicarage.

“Isn’t that awfully hard to do?” she asked, coming down to her knees beside him. This, she realized, must be Leo, the athletic boy who loved horses, couldn’t spit out a single word of Latin, had the sunny disposition of his uncle Ryder, and drove his sister quite mad with his pranks. Tysen and Meggie had told her that both boys were staying with their aunt and uncle at Northcliffe Hall.

“No,” he said, “it simply requires a very sturdy head. Papa says I have a head made for being stood upon.”

“I’m Mary Rose.”

“I’m Leo. Are you here to see Papa? He’s the vicar, you know. He’s in Scotland being a new lord, and I don’t know when he will return.”

“Well, to be perfectly blunt about this—”

“Leo, come up to your feet, if you please.”

“Papa!” Leo gracefully flipped over frontward, ended up on his feet, whipped about, and flung himself into his father’s arms. “We didn’t know—Max tried to wager that you would be here by next Sunday, but I only have three shillings left and I can’t afford to lose them too. I know he cheats, Papa, I just can’t prove it.”

“I’m home, and I’m glad you didn’t lose your three shillings,” Tysen said, and Mary Rose saw him hug the boy tightly to him, briefly closing his eyes as he held him. He held him at arm’s length then, studying his face, and said slowly, turning a bit toward her, “It’s very good to see you, Leo. What are you doing here? You’re tanned and look repellently healthy. Ah, I see you have met Mary Rose?”

Leo turned to look at her. “She told me her name, but that’s all. I hope she isn’t a governess, Papa. Max would make her want to clout him, since he brags he already knows everything. But she doesn’t sound all proper and educated like a governess should. She talks funny. Perhaps she is a new maid? Oh, yes, Uncle Douglas lets us visit home while Max is having his lessons with Mr. Harbottle.”

Tysen said mildly, still holding his boy, loath to let him go, “I’ll write immediately to your uncle and tell him I’m home and have decided to let you stay here with me. Now, Mary Rose knows more Latin than Max does. What do you think of that?”

Leo really looked at her now, up and down, several times. She was wearing one of her old gowns, a pale gray muslin with no particular style, and now she wished she’d worn one of her two new gowns that Sinjun had had made for her in Edinburgh. “I didn’t know that girls could speak anything but English. Mr. Harbottle says that’s why he doesn’t tutor girls, they just can’t learn. Max told him about Meggie, how she can out-argue even him, but Mr. Harbottle wouldn’t believe him.” He frowned at her now. “You really do talk funny.”

Mary Rose said, thickening her accent a bit for his benefit, “It’s Scottish, and Mr. Harbottle sounds quite antiquated.”

“Meggie says he’s an old dimwit and doesn’t know a bean from a strawberry. You’re really from Scotland? Papa brought you back from Kildrummy Castle?”

“Yes.”

“Leo,” Tysen said, squeezing the boy’s arms, “Mary Rose is my wife and your new mother.”

Leo became very still. Slowly, he turned and stared at her with new eyes, eyes that didn’t appreciate what they were seeing. A mother? He scratched his head. “Papa, I haven’t had a mother for years. I don’t think we really have use for one. No, Papa, I don’t need a mother. None of us does. Besides, how can she be my mother when I don’t even know her?”

“Shut your trap, Leo!” It was Meggie, and she was scurrying around the side of the vicarage. She came to a stop not six inches from her brother’s nose. “I didn’t know you were here or I never would have let Mary Rose leave me and wander about by herself. Listen to me, codbrain, I know her, and I will tell you right now that she is exactly what we want.” She added, her voice quite vicious, “Don’t even think about torturing her, Leo, or I will hurt you very badly.”

“Well, that’s a good start,” Mary Rose said, laughing. She sounded more dazed than amused, and Tysen couldn’t blame her. He said to Leo, “I’ll hurt you too, Leo. Just get to know her. I think you’ll find she’s very nice. Now, is Max back yet from his lessons with Mr. Harbottle?”

Leo, sticking very close to his father, looked up at him, frowning, and said slowly, “That was funny, Papa. Are you all right?”

“Why, yes, of course.”

“Well, Max is with Mr. Pritchart. I believe they are arguing a theological point, in Latin, naturally.” Leo said to Mary Rose, “Mr. Pritchart is Papa’s curate. He’s the one who takes us back to Northcliffe Hall after Max’s lessons. Mr. Pritchart is even older than Papa but he doesn’t yet have a wife. Maybe you could marry him instead of Papa.”

“Once married,” Tysen said, “it’s forever. Mr. Pritchart will have to find his own wife.”

“Can you argue in Latin?” Leo said to Mary Rose. He was now plastered against Tysen’s side.

“I don’t believe I have ever enjoyed an occasion where this was possible,” Mary Rose said. “Perhaps Max will show me how it’s done.”

“Your hair’s red,” Leo said.

“Leo,” Meggie said, her eyes narrowed, “you will carefully guard what comes out of your mouth. It’s a pity you didn’t receive my letter telling you all about Mary Rose. You could have practiced holding your tongue.”

“I didn’t say anything vicious,” Leo said.

“Yes,” Mary Rose said, “very red. Do you like red hair, Leo?”

“My aunt Alex has red hair. Yours is even redder. Your hair is all thick and curly just like hers. My uncle Douglas—he’s Papa’s brother and the earl—evidently he really likes red hair. He’s always playing with Aunt Alex’s hair. I saw him rub her hair against his face once and then he licked it. I thought that was revolting.”

Mary Rose very nearly burst into laughter, but held herself together in time. What had she expected? Little boys who would take one look at her and vow to love her to distraction?

She blinked at her husband, a child on either side of him now, facing her, and she was standing there, alone, beside the vicarage that was now where she would live forever.

“Papa’s different,” Leo said slowly, eyeing him again. “He’s funny and he hasn’t stopped smiling. He didn’t even say anything when I talked about the three shilling wager with Max.”

“Papa’s just the same,” Meggie said. “Just shut up, Leo.” She frowned at her brother until she was sure he would remain quiet. Then she did a little skip over to Mary Rose, hugged her, and said, “What do you think of your new home? Isn’t it lovely? All this peach brick and the ivy, so much ivy. Papa’s said he fears the ivy will creep into his bed and wrap him up and then Monroe and Ellis won’t be able to knead him. But it’s pretty inside, and large enough for all of us, you’ll see, Mary Rose. Well, to be honest, the drawing room is very dark, but I expect that you can order all the draperies burned.”

“There is a lot of ivy,” Mary Rose said. “It is lovely. Should I really burn the draperies?”

“Actually, yes,” Tysen said. “I’ve just never thought to do it.”

“That’s because you’re a gentleman, Papa, and gentlemen aren’t capable of seeing things in their homes that need to be done.”

Tysen grinned down at his daughter. “I swear to you, Meggie, I will look at things differently now that Mary Rose is here. Let’s go inside,” he added to Mary Rose, taking her hand. “You need to meet Mrs. Priddie, she’s our cook and housekeeper. We have two maids who come in daily, Belinda and Tootsie, and Marigold, the tweeny. There is Malcolm who sees to the stables, you already met him.” He paused a moment, then said on a smile, “I trust you will find Mrs. Priddie more acceptable than Mrs. MacFardle.”

“Oh, there’s also Monroe and Ellis,” Meggie said. “They love Papa. And since you sleep with Papa so you can talk all night, Monroe and Ellis will probably be right there too, climbing all over you and purring.”

“Ellis just spit up a big fur ball,” Leo said. “Mrs. Priddie yelled at him and tried to whack him with the broom, but he was too fast for her.”

“Ellis,” Tysen said, and he smiled at her, thinking that smiling was something very natural now, “undoubtedly has racing blood. He’s long and lean and so fast he’s sometimes a blur.”

“But he’s lazy most of the time,” Leo said. “I try to get him to play with a ball and he puts up his tail and walks away. Papa, you’re still smiling.”

“Leave Papa alone, Leo,” Meggie said. “Now, the reason Ellis leaves is because you’re boring. Accustom yourself to it.”

“Well, at least I wasn’t walking around with my drawers showing and—”

“Do you want me to kill you again, you little crab-head?”

“You’ll never catch me!”

And they were off, Meggie chasing Leo, out of sight into the vicarage garden. Tysen just shook his head. “She won’t hurt him badly,” he said, and realized he was still grinning widely. It felt very good.

After meeting Tootsie, Belinda, and Marigold who giggled and gaped at her, and Mrs. Priddie, who was full of stiff civility, Mary Rose briefly toured all the downstairs vicarage rooms. Thirty minutes later, Tysen was trapped by a Mrs. Flavobonne, who insisted only the vicar would do, and Mary Rose went upstairs with Mrs. Priddie. When Mary Rose was finally standing in the middle of her new bedchamber with its adjoining door to Tysen’s room, she heard Meggie outside her window, in the vicarage gardens below. Mrs. Priddie excused herself, said she had to rescue Reverend Sherbrooke from that oily Mrs. Flavobonne, and left her alone. Mary Rose walked closer to the window and looked down.

“You just batten down your hatch, Leo,” Meggie said, and then she poked her finger against his chest, hard, and pushed him back into a mess of the infamous ivy.

“But he just found her in Scotland, Meggie. We don’t need another mother. Everything is just fine the way it is. I don’t want her here. She doesn’t belong here. She’s a foreigner and a girl. Why do you?”

“I’m a girl, goat face, and I belong here. Half the people around are girls. Get used to it.” Meggie poked him hard again, and he landed on his bottom in a rosebush. He hol-lered and jumped up. “A thorn got me in my left cheek. Just because I don’t like her, you don’t have to kill me, Meggie. You just got home. You should be happy to see me.”

“Not if you’re still a moron,” Meggie said, then frowned. “You’ve grown. It’s been only a month and you’ve gotten bigger than I’ve gotten. But I can still break your legs, so don’t you forget it.”

Leo said, “I’m going to be as big as Papa. Maybe by next month. By Christmas, for sure. You won’t be able to beat me up for much longer.”

“I will always be able to beat you up,” Meggie said, hands on her hips, “because I’m going to be bigger than even Papa. Now, don’t you dare say anything bad about Mary Rose to Max when he gets back from Mr. Pritchert’s house, do you hear me?”

“Mary Rose—that’s a silly name. It sounds all spongy and soft, like she doesn’t have a backbone. Why did Papa marry her? He didn’t do it to get us a mother, because we don’t need or want one. It’s not like we’ve asked him to get us one. Why?”

“Papa married Mary Rose because there was this awful man who tried to steal her away to make her marry him, and she didn’t want to.”

“Oh,” Leo said, rubbing his bottom where the thorn had stuck into him. “Well, all right then, I can understand that. He married her because he’s so bloody honorable and he felt sorry for her. It’s a good thing a man can only have one wife, otherwise Papa would have married a good dozen ladies by now, all because he felt sorry for them and rescued them from something or other. But you know, Meggie, he’s laughing. He’s saying funny things. It sounds very strange. What happened?”

“He’s happy. Perhaps he has changed a bit. Hmmm. Well, he does laugh a lot now. I like it.”

“Yes, I suppose I do too,” Leo said.

“Oh, dear.” Mary Rose backed away from the window. “Oh, dear,” she said again to the empty bedchamber that was horrible. Well, she’d eavesdropped. What did Leo mean that Tysen had changed? Of course he laughed and grinned and said funny things. It was the way he was.

She walked to the middle of the room and just stood there for a moment. She’d deserved what she’d heard. Leo was a little boy. It would take a while for him to get used to her. She looked around her then. She didn’t want to spend another minute in this dismal place. It had been Melinda Beatrice’s bedchamber Mrs. Priddie had told her. It hadn’t been touched since the mistress had passed on some six years before. Didn’t Mrs. Sherbrooke think it simply lovely?

Mary Rose wanted to puke, a word she’d never really even thought before, but it fit this particular circumstance. She would end up on her knees over the chamber pot if she had to stay in here. It was perfectly dreadful, not that it was ugly or anything like that, it was the feel of it, the way the air smelled, the way it was creeping in on her, closing her in. She was an idiot. This was ridiculous. It was just, simply, that the room wasn’t hers.

She was standing in the center of the room, not moving, wondering what to do when the door opened and Tysen came in. He didn’t even ask her what the matter was, just said without hesitation, “I don’t wish you to be in here. I have never cared for this room. My bedchamber is quite large enough for both of us. Why don’t we have this room redone into a sitting room? If that doesn’t work, we can lock the boys in here for punishment?”

She ran to him and threw her arms around his back. Mrs. Priddie harrumphed behind Tysen. She said quite clearly, “You dealt with Mrs. Flavobonne very quickly, Reverend Sherbrooke, perhaps too quickly. This is the home of a man of God. It is a vicarage. If you were yourself, Reverend Sherbrooke, there would be no matters of the flesh. You would be above that. This isn’t what I’m used to, sir.”

“But I’m no longer just myself, Mrs. Priddie. I’m now married.” And, he thought, a smile blazing, he wasn’t above much of anything, particularly when it came to Mary Rose and where he touched her. Tysen very slowly dropped his arms. He turned to Mrs. Priddie. “Let’s show Mary Rose her new bedchamber.”

Mrs. Priddie harrumphed again. Both cats—Ellis, so long and skinny that he seemed to be wrapped around fat Monroe, with his yellow eyes and fur blacker than a sinner’s dreams—were on top of Tysen’s bed. Ellis cracked an eye open, saw Tysen, and yowled once, then twice, unwound himself from Monroe and leapt. Tysen, used to this, caught the cat in mid-flight and simply brought him to his shoulder. “Have you been a saintly cat, Ellis?”

The cat was purring so loudly that Mary Rose, who had never before heard the like, just stood there staring at him.

“He stole a pork chop right off the kitchen table, Reverend Sherbrooke.”

“Well yes, Mrs. Priddie, he is fast, isn’t he?” He rubbed the cat’s stomach, hugged him, then finally set him back down beside Monroe, who was just looking at everyone, not even twitching a whisker.

“Monroe doesn’t do much,” Tysen said, and petted the cat in long strokes down its back. The cat stretched out, and Tysen continued to pat him until Ellis, jealous, swatted at Tysen’s hand.

“Just wait until we’re in bed with them,” he said to Mary Rose, and Mrs. Priddie harrumphed yet again.

“I can’t wait,” Mary Rose said, and Ellis looked at her, then stretched his neck toward her. She gave him a light pat. Ellis jumped back onto Tysen’s shoulder.

23

Antiquis temporibus, nati tibi similes in rupibus ventosissimis exponebantur ad necem.

In the good old days, children like you were left to perish on windswept crags.

MAX SHERBROOKE, STANDING straight and tall, his shoulders back, said firmly, “Girls do not speak Latin.”

“This girl does,” Mary Rose said easily.

“Even if a girl were able to repeat the words, she would have no comprehension of what she was saying.”

Mary Rose raised an eyebrow at that pompous pronouncement from a boy who had blue eyes—Sherbrooke blue eyes—just like his father’s and Sinjun’s and Leo’s and Meggie’s, and a very stubborn chin. The boy would break hearts when he grew into manhood. She stroked her fingers over her chin. “Hmmm. Do I perhaps hear the antiquated Mr. Harbottle speaking?”

“Certainly not,” Max said, frowning just a bit, “ although he does not hesitate, even on good days, to point out the weakness of the female sex.”

“Why do you have such a low opinion of the female brain, Max?”

“Yes,” Tysen said pleasantly, coming into the very dark drawing room with its soon-to-be burned draperies, “tell us where you got this asinine notion.”

“You said—” Max, pinned by his father’s stare, managed to squirm just a bit. “Well, perhaps it isn’t precisely what you said, sir, but I’ve never believed that you thought any girl, with the exception of Meggie, of course—”

“Of course.”

“Well, that any girl could do much of anything except have babies and—”

“Yes, you’re quite right, Max. I’ve never said anything so absurd, or believed such a thing either. Now, you’d best just stop right where you are. If you were to continue, I fear that your new mother would shoot you.”

Max was staring hard at his father. “Leo said something about how you were different, but I thought he’d just been standing on his head too long. I don’t know, Papa, but—” Max stopped talking, stared at that smile on his father’s face.

Max continued to stare at his father. Mary Rose knew she wasn’t their mother, and she wished Tysen wouldn’t call her that, particularly now, particularly when they looked at her and wished her back in Scotland. But she managed to laugh, fanning her hands in front of her. “Max, please, none of this is important. Here we are arguing about Latin and which sex can or cannot speak it—a very dead language that is excessively common, after all, and a language that is very likely not nearly as interesting as the Egyptian hieroglyphics, don’t you think?”

“Don’t tell me you can speak hieroglyphics,” Max said, raising an eyebrow identical to his father’s.

“Er, no. Not really. Actually, you don’t speak them, you read them, but no one can just yet. I’ve been reading about the studies done on the Rosetta stone. That perhaps it holds the key to translating the hieroglyphs. A Mr. Young is currently working on deciphering them.”

Max moved a step closer to her, a heartening sign. “I have heard that the symbols are simply pictures, that there is no alphabet. Mr. Harbottle believes it is all heathen in any case, and therefore who cares?”

Tysen decided at that moment that Mr. Ellias Harbottle would not ever again open his mouth around Max. To think he was paying the man for lessons. Why hadn’t he ever realized before that Harbottle was indoctrinating his son with such rubbish? Actually, maybe he should turn Meggie loose on Mr. Harbottle.

“No one is certain yet,” Mary Rose said mildly. “Not about them being heathen, but about the hieroglyphs being an alphabet and an actual language or just pictures. Since your father knows most of the scholars at Oxford, however, when something definitive is discovered, he will find out about it very quickly. Then he will tell us.”

“Yes,” Max said slowly, staring at his father. “You will know, won’t you, sir? It’s a serious sort of thing, very scholarly. Perhaps there are even some religious aspects to it, so it should be of interest to you.”

“Do you possibly believe it could be more interesting than you are, Max?” Tysen said, and his son blinked at him.

“I’m not at all sure, Papa,” Max said, giving his father a confused look. Then he did a little skip, his Sherbrooke blue eyes alight with excitement. “Just imagine looking at all those symbols and drawings and actually reading them! I believe I will go to see Mr. Harbottle and tell him it’s important that we know about everything, heathen or not.”

And Max left the room, humming softly, a sign, Tysen knew, that he was deep in thought. He had to find another tutor for his son, but able scholars were scarce.

Tysen said to Mary Rose, “You at least deflected him, Mary Rose. Well done. I don’t think Mr. Harbottle is a particularly positive influence on my sons. I hadn’t realized.” He frowned a moment, then replaced it with a smile, cocking his head to the side.

“Oh, goodness, Meggie does it just the same way,” Mary Rose said, charmed.

“What?”

“The way you just tilted your head.”

“Yes, but now I have something important to say. I had never realized that your name sounds all soft and spongy. Isn’t that what Leo said? Not that you were eavesdropping, of course.”

She sighed. “I shouldn’t have listened, I know, but I just couldn’t help myself. And no, I hadn’t thought either that I sounded soft and spongy.”

“I know this is only your first day here,” he said, coming to catch her hands up in his, “actually, only your fourth hour here, but it appears that everyone in Glenclose-on-Rowan knows that the vicar has taken a new wife. Mrs. Flavobonne probably told Mrs. Padworthy, and even though she’s probably older than those stones on the Salisbury Plain, she can get around. The good Lord knows what else is being said. Mrs. Priddie just informed me that many of the ladies are on their way here, bringing cakes and biscuits and scones, since you’re Scottish. I can’t imagine that their husbands are pleased with their sudden defection at what is almost dinnertime.”

“Oh, dear,” Mary Rose said. “How much time do I have?”

“About five minutes.”

The vicar met the dozen ladies who streamed through the vicarage front door and congregated in the entrance hall, clutching their plates and dishes to their respective bosoms.

When they were all assembled, finally, in the drawing room, and Mrs. Priddie had relieved them of their offerings, Tysen said, “Ladies, please let me present to you my wife, Mary Rose Sherbrooke.”

Mary Rose stepped into the drawing room. Meggie slithered in behind her, staying behind the ladies’ backs. She sent Mary Rose a little wave, then leaned against the window.

“I am delighted to meet you,” Mary Rose said, and gave what she hoped was an enthusiastic smile. “It is so kind of you to come so quickly to welcome me. All the food you have brought smells delightful. Please sit down. I should like to meet each of you.”

Tysen left some ten minutes later, having downed a bite of scone that left the taste of flour heavy in his mouth, and certain that everything would be all right. Some of the ladies he didn’t trust an inch, but they seemed to be behaving themselves. It was Miss Glenda Strapthorpe, though, who worried him. Perhaps he should have mentioned her to Mary Rose. He was aware that the ladies were eyeing him a bit strangely by the time he quit the drawing room. Well, he supposed he had laughed, perhaps even grinned a bit. Several of the ladies had looked at him as if he’d grown another ear. He hadn’t changed that much, had he?

He hadn’t allowed himself to worry about how Mary Rose would deal with the members of the town and his congregation. Actually, truth be told, he hadn’t thought about much of anything since he’d made love to his bride on their wedding night. That was about all he could think of. His own pleasure at seeing that wonderful look of astonishment in her beautiful eyes when she yelled that first time, still had him feeling like the most accomplished lover in all of England, perhaps even as excellent as his brothers. He hadn’t been able to have her since they’d left Sinjun and Colin’s house in Edinburgh, for Meggie had slept in their bedchamber every night on the way back home. It had been difficult, lying there, Mary Rose not three inches from him, and not being able to do a thing because Meggie was on a cot two feet away from their bed. He’d wanted to weep by the third night. He had the feeling that his new wife wanted to weep too. That was a wonderful thing.

Now they were home, and he could have her this very night. Maybe he could have her twice this very night. Surely God wouldn’t think that too self-indulgent. He looked around his study, stuffed to the ceiling with more books than he could read in two lifetimes, most of them so hideously boring that it would be better to have a dead brain in order to get through them. But this was his home, this was where he wrote the words he spoke to his congregation each Sunday, words of God’s expectations of his noble creation, God’s punishments meted out fairly but harshly, and God’s continual demands of His disciples.

He sat at his desk. There was not a speck of dust. It was as if he’d never been gone. Except for the large pile of correspondence, neatly stacked. He began reading.

Thirty minutes later, Meggie, panting, her face pale, stuck her head into Tysen’s study. “Papa, it’s Mrs. Bittley. She’s being so mushy nice, you know how she can be. I’m afraid she’s just preparing herself to take Mary Rose apart.”

Tysen was at the drawing room door in under thirty seconds. He paused a moment next to the partially open door, listening.

Mrs. Bittley, Squire Bittley’s shrew of a wife who’d been a fixture for as many years as Tysen had been on this earth, was standing in the middle of the drawing room, her bosom overpowering in deep purple, a purple feather sticking out of the sausage curls behind her ears, and she was facing Mary Rose, a muffin in one hand. “How delightful for you, a foreigner just to our north, to be married to our own dear vicar, an Englishman to his bones.”

“Yes, very delightful for me, Mrs. Bittley. Thank you for remarking on it. Mrs. Markham, would you like another cup of tea?”

“No, Mrs. Sherbrooke—how difficult it is to say that name when you—a perfect stranger—and not even a perfect English stranger—are very suddenly and so very unexpectedly wearing it.”

Mary Rose just smiled at the very thin woman who was so fair her hair looked nearly white in the dim afternoon light. Tomorrow, she thought. Tomorrow there would be light in this room. She would have it painted a pale yellow, perhaps. She stopped herself. She had to remember that this was just barely her home. She turned her attention to Mrs. Markham and said easily, “I suspect you were a bit surprised for a while to hear yourself called Mrs. Markham when you first married your husband, were you not?”

“That is neither here nor there,” said Mrs. Bittley. “You have admitted that you are Scottish, have admitted that you are a foreigner.”

“It is not something one can readily hide, don’t you think?”

Mrs. Padworthy, an ancient old woman, tiny and stooped, waved a veined hand. “Now, Mrs. Bittley, haven’t I told you that I have always liked the Scottish people? They bring such exotic music to the world with that wheezing bagpipe, a strange-looking thing that sounds like a gutted cow, don’t you think? And all those quaint combinations of colors in their endlessly clever plaids, so popular amongst them—at least they did until they went against God’s rightful king and we had to plant our boots on their necks. Wasn’t the last time in 1745?”

“Ah, ladies, I trust you are enjoying your visit with my wife. Mrs. Bittley, won’t you be seated? Mrs. Padworthy, how is your dear husband? Well, I trust?”

The thin mouth thinned even more. “He is nearly dead, Vicar. I expect him to be breathing his last by the time I arrive home. You did not ask about him before.”

“We will pray that he lasts a while longer,” Tysen said. “Ah, yes, Mrs. Bittley, I see a chair just over there. Meggie was just telling me that I should disclose to you, since you are all my very good friends and have only my best interests at heart, exactly how I went to Scotland and came home with a bride.”

“You went to Scotland, Vicar,” said Mrs. Padworthy, “because you inherited a Scottish title and a castle that likely is so old it is in ruins and smells of damp. You are now Lord Barthwick. That is why you went. You didn’t go there for any other reason at all.”

He smiled at all of them, each one in turn. “True. However, I found, quite simply, that when I met Mary Rose I knew—yes, ladies, I knew all the way to my very soul—that she was special. It took me a very long time to convince her to marry me and live here with me in England. Her arguments were sound: she didn’t know anything about the English, for to her, you see, we are all foreigners, with different beliefs and manners, perhaps we even commit different sins, although she and I did not discuss any specifics.

“I assured her that everyone here would be delighted to meet her, to welcome her, to befriend her, for the English were a sunny-tempered race, very important since it rains here so very much, a gracious people, a kindly people. Ah, here I am going on and on and it isn’t Sunday, and thus this is not a sermon, just a devout plea from my heart for your understanding. Forgive me for disturbing you, ladies. I will remove myself and let you continue getting to know each other.”

He gave each of them an austere smile, the sort of Sunday smile, Mary Rose thought, that was aimed at people who were seriously considering committing major sins.

“This is very unlike you, Vicar,” Mrs. Padworthy said. “I shall tell my husband about your very lax conduct if he is still breathing when I return home. We will see what he has to say about all this.”

“But only if he is still breathing,” Tysen said, smiled at all the ladies again, and left the drawing room. Mary Rose could swear that she heard Meggie’s voice just outside the door. Actually, she wanted to run after him and leap on him and kiss him until he was silly with it.

She drew a deep breath and said, “Ladies, I very much admire my husband. He is a wonderful man.”

Mrs. Bittley said after a moment, very much aware that the other ladies were no longer quite so ready to hurl themselves into the attack, “It did not take the vicar all that long a time to convince you to marry him. He wasn’t gone for any time at all. It was very quickly done, too quickly done. Evidently you did something quite severe to him. He isn’t what he was. We will have to study this. There is a mystery here. We will all hope that your English will improve when you have lived here a while.”

“Or perhaps,” said Mary Rose, “some of you will begin to speak with the soft lilt of Scotland, perhaps a bit less bite and clip in your speech. What do you think?”

Mrs. Bittley harrumphed. Mary Rose wondered if she and Mrs. Priddie were related.

Mrs. Tate, the very young, quite pretty wife of the local blacksmith, Teddie Tate, cocked her head to one side, her lovely black hair sliding across her cheek, and said, “I believe I would like lessons in a lilt. What do you think, Glenda? You haven’t said anything at all. Come, tell us, what do you think about learning to lilt?”

Glenda Strapthorpe, just turned nineteen and well aware that she was the prettiest young lady in these parts, actually, in many other parts as well, turned her lovely pale face toward Mary Rose. “I believe a lilt would sound terribly common, Bethie. Mayhap vulgar. Rather like red hair, I think.”

Bethie Tate wasn’t certain what to do with that, and so she said quickly, “Mrs. Sherbrooke, do tell us about Kildrummy Castle. Just imagine, Reverend Sherbrooke is now Lord Barthwick. I wonder what his brother, the earl of Northcliffe, thinks about that.”

24

Northcliffe Hall

Near New Romney

THE EARL OF Northcliffe, Douglas Sherbrooke, was reading Tysen’s short note at that moment. He finished reading and looked blankly toward the fireplace, which was quite empty since it was warm out today. He read it again, then one more time.

“I don’t believe this,” he said, and looked up to see his son Jason peering around his estate room door.

“What don’t you believe, Papa?”

“Come on in, Jason. It’s time for your chess lesson, isn’t it? It’s a letter from your uncle Tysen. He’s gotten married. She is Scottish and her name is Mary Rose. He, er, sounds quite happy, very lighthearted, indeed. Quite unlike himself, actually. He writes about how Meggie dressed like a boy and played his tiger all the way to Edinburgh. He said he nearly expired on the spot when she was unmasked, so to speak. I wonder why he didn’t write of this when he wrote before to take Oliver away from me.”

Jason sniggered behind his hand, then cleared his throat and stared down at his boots. His father grew very quiet. “Did you know what she would do?”

“No, really, not quite, Papa. Just the idea of it is worthy of note, don’t you think?”

“No, I don’t think.” Douglas knew his beautiful son, knew he was more stubborn that a stoat, knew that he’d never get any more out of him, particularly if it would get his cousin in trouble. He said, “Thank God she came to no harm. An idiot thing for Meggie to do. They have just arrived back at the vicarage.”

“You said that Uncle Tysen found a vicaress in Scotland?”

“Hmmm,” said Douglas and tapped the letter with a fingertip. “Tysen was smiling when he wrote this, I’m sure of it. I can see him smiling, laughing, his mouth all wide. Maybe even dancing a bit, at least his feet are moving. What is going on here? I think perhaps we should all pay a visit to the vicarage. What do you think, Jason? We could return the boys’ clothes.”

“Do you think she’s ugly on the outside?”

“Why would you say that?”

“I overheard you saying to Mama once that Leo’s mother was close to an abomirat—”

“An abomination?” Oh, Lord, Douglas thought, he was continually forgetting that children’s ears were so sharp they could hear a mouse eating cheese in the corner of the pantry.

“Yes, that’s it. And I’ve heard Uncle Tysen say that the flesh isn’t important, that it’s what is in the soul, and in the heart, that makes a person ugly or beautiful.”

Douglas stared at the small human being who had come from his loins, and had excellent hearing, and very likely had looked up “abomination” in the dictionary. “Yes,” he said slowly, “your uncle is perfectly right. We shall just have to see, won’t we? Listen to me, Jason—you will not ever say the word ‘abomination’ in your new aunt’s hearing, do you understand me?”

“Yes, Papa, but do you think she will be as, er, unpretty as Leo’s mama was? Although, of course, I don’t remember her.”

“I have no thoughts whatsoever on the subject. Forget it, Jason.”

“Yes, Papa, but it will be difficult.”

“You’re strong. You can do it.” However, Douglas found himself clearly remembering Melinda Beatrice, Tysen’s first wife. He remembered that Tysen had believed her a goddess, the perfect wife for a vicar, his soul mate, his helpmeet—and he had been quite wrong. He winced. Well, Tysen had been very young, much too young to have his brains working properly. And any joy, any full-heartedness, that he’d had, that twit Melinda Beatrice had crushed right out of him. But now Tysen wasn’t very young, and he seemed changed, and it was for the better. God be praised.

“You’re always telling Mama how beautiful she is,” Jason said.

“Your mother is very special, Jason. Her insides are just as beautiful as her outsides.”

“I’ll go tell James, Papa. Maybe our new aunt won’t be able to tell me and James apart and we can pretend to be each other and gather information.”

“I request that you don’t.”

But he knew that Jason was already coming up with scenarios that would make Douglas’s head ache. They would drive the poor woman distracted, pretending to be each other.

“Can we play chess a bit later? A new aunt—maybe she’ll have presents for us.”

“Greedy little beggar.” After his son left the estate room, likely to wander with his twin in the Northcliffe gardens and ogle all the naked statues, Douglas rose and went to look for his wife, to give her the news.

He found her in the music room, practicing her new harpsichord. She was endeavoring to get through a Scarlatti sonata that had a goodly number of high, tinkly notes. It was to be played very fast, and she was trying, but the result was regrettable. She played with verve, however, just as she did everything. He rubbed her shoulders lightly, then leaned down to kiss her ear, then her nose, and then her mouth. She turned on the bench, her hands closed around his back, and she rubbed her cheek against his shirt. “Ah, bless you, Douglas. I was ruining my ears.” Alex sighed. “It isn’t very easy.”

It wouldn’t have occurred to him not to lie cleanly and quickly, and so he did. “It was wonderful, Alex,” he said, kissed her again, and added, “I will just give you a little respite. Read this letter from Tysen.”

“Oh, dear,” Alex said, blinking several times, when she finished the letter. “Goodness, she has two names, just like Melinda Beatrice. Do you think she has no bosom either?”

Douglas laughed and laughed. He remembered how Ryder had said that no girl should have two names and no bosom. Well, Tysen had married another girl with two names. He wondered if Ryder had received a letter yet and if he was thinking about his new sister-in-law and the rather astounding change in Tysen.

Chadwyck House

Between Lower Slaughter and Mortimer Coombe

The Cotswolds

Ryder Sherbrooke had one little boy tugging on his left arm, another little boy clinging to his right leg, and a little girl with her legs locked around his middle, laughing in his ear, her skinny arms clasped around his neck. He was laughing himself, even as he tried to free just one hand. “Don’t strangle me, Linnie. I must read this letter. It was just delivered, and it’s from your uncle Tysen. I don’t like letters delivered like that, it usually means something is wrong. All of you need to let me go for just a minute. That’s right, I’ll be a prisoner again, just let me sit down first.”

Ryder sat down in a very large chair, made exactly to his specifications. It fit one adult and at least three small children or two larger children. “And,” he’d said to his wife, Sophie, rubbing his hands together, “I’ll even be able to hold one of the very little ones as well.”

Ryder smoothed out the piece of foolscap and let the children gather in close. As he read, he was stroking little Theo’s arm, nearly healed now.

Dear Ryder:

I am writing to tell you that I have brought a wife home with me from Scotland. Her name is Mary Rose and she is lovely. When I left Kildrummy Castle, Oliver was dancing about, exclaiming over everything he saw, so excited that he could barely speak. He sends his love and tells you that he will do just fine as my manager there. Many things happened—I dealt with the strangest people—but all worked out, and I did gain a wife, who, to be perfectly honest about it, is adorable. She fills me with pleasure. My love to all your children. You will meet my Mary Rose soon.

Your brother Tysen

“By all that’s amazing,” Ryder said slowly, staring over Linnie’s head at nothing at all, unable for the moment to believe what he’d just read. “This is something indeed. No, don’t any of you worry, it’s not bad news. It’s incredible news, actually. It appears that perhaps my dour, righteous brother has changed a bit. Maybe more than a bit. Hmmm, we’ll have to see.

“Now, Theo, I saw you frowning just a moment ago. Does your arm pain you? No? Good. Linnie, my shoul-der’s a bit numb. As for you, Ned, you may just stay right where you are and hug me as tightly as you want.”

“What is it, Uncle Ryder?” Linnie crawled closer and plastered herself to his side. As for Theo and Ned, they were each sitting next to him, each pressing against part of him, each touching him, from his neck to his knee. Now that he’d finished the letter, they moved even closer, something that was always possible even when you’d wager it wasn’t. He’d learned there was always more room for a child, he’d learned that wondrous fact many years before. He hugged them all, leaned his head back, and closed his eyes. They were still so afraid, he thought, afraid that they would suddenly find themselves back in the hells where he’d found them, afraid they’d feel pain again, the humiliation and helplessness, the god-awful hunger that had shrunk all their small bellies. He felt the pain deep inside him, and rage, knew he would feel it until he died. He realized how very lucky he was to have them, and he smiled at them, patted them, and stroked their small faces. They would get better. They would learn to trust. He had had few failures over the years, thank God. And they would learn that they would be loved forever. He felt Linnie snuggle up under his armpit. He dropped the letter to the floor and gathered them all even closer to him in that big chair.

“Do tell us, Uncle Ryder, who writted to you?” Theo was very young and had learned to talk from a gin-soaked thief in the back alleys near the docks in London. But he’d improved tremendously in the four months he had been here, and his arm, finally, was mending well. Ryder said easily, “It was a letter from one of my brothers. He’s your uncle Tysen. You met him, Theo, do you remember, just after I brought you here? Just at the beginning of summer? He is the vicar and he brought his three children.”

“Meggie taught me how to climb a tree,” Linnie said. “I fell on her, but she just laughed. She showed me how to hit a boy, too, so he’d really hurt.”

“Maybe I don’t want to hear any more about that,” Ryder said.

Linnie said, “Meggie told us not to bother her papa, that he had very serious thoughts in his head, and that those serious thoughts occupied all of his time. She said he needed her close to protect him because he was so very unworldly.”

She knew her father very well indeed. Ryder smiled, imagining Meggie’s precious little face as she’d said that. He said now, “He had very serious thoughts for many, many years. But now? A new wife? I wonder what has happened to Tysen? I wonder what Meggie thinks of her?”

“Leo taught us how to race,” Ned said, “around the big oak tree, jumping over the yew hedges, and around the pond back to the house. Leo taught the winner how to flip over backwards.”

“Max was teaching us Latin,” Theo said.

“Vos amo,” Ryder said, and kissed each of them.

“What does that mean, Uncle Ryder?” Linnie asked.

He gave each of them another quick kiss and a hug. “It means ‘I love you.’”

“Vos amo,” each of them said, then repeated it again and again, until it became a chant. Ryder rolled his eyes, knowing that Sophie would hear nothing else from any of the sixteen children for the next month. As for Jane, the directress of Brandon House, which stood only one hundred yards from Ryder and Sophie’s own home, Chadwyck House, he didn’t doubt that all the children would be chanting it to her in unison until she was ready to throw up her hands and run from the room. Of course, she would be smiling because it would also wring her withers.

Theo said, “Max taught us ‘Diabolus fecit, ut id facerem!’ ”

Linnie said complacently from Ryder’s armpit, “That means ‘the devil made me do it.’”

“He said that never failed to make adults laugh,” Theo said. “He said any mischief followed by that would likely save you a hiding.” Theo frowned. “But how could that be true if the adult didn’t speak Latin?”

“It couldn’t,” Ryder said and laughed. He didn’t stop laughing for a very long time.

He looked up to see his own daughter, Jenny, standing in the doorway, her head cocked to one side, listening carefully, a smile on her lovely face. She was seventeen now, looked like him, nearly mirrored his expressions, only she had her mother’s soft green eyes. She was slow in her thinking and in her speech, but she had a beautiful soul and a very sweet disposition. She also loved all the children.

“Vos amo,” Ryder called out to her. “That means ‘I love you.’ ”

Jenny gave him her sweet smile, and said softly, to all of them, “Vos amo, too.”

Ryder moved Ned and brought Jenny down on his legs. Ned, without hesitation, climbed up on Jenny’s lap. Ryder closed his eyes. He was blessed. He also had a feeling that he would probably be losing his daughter to Oliver, now in Scotland, managing Tysen’s Kildrummy Castle. He also believed that Oliver loved Jenny more than anything, even more than himself, and that was an excellent basis for a marriage. They’d grown up together. As far back as Ryder could remember, Oliver had always protected her. As for his Jenny, he fancied she quite worshipped Oliver.

Everything would be fine.

He hugged her closely to him and felt her soft laughter against his neck. “I miss Jeremy,” she said. “When he comes home from Italy, do you think he’ll stay here or go immediately to Scotland to visit Oliver?”

Ryder thought of Sophie’s younger brother, born with a club foot, and it didn’t matter a bit. He was a bruising rider and fighter, a fine young man.

“I don’t know,” he said slowly. “We’ll just have to see.”

Jenny missed Jeremy? Not Oliver? What was this?

Ryder sighed and closed his eyes. Life, he supposed, would always be life and that meant twists in the road and surprises to hit you in the eye.

Jeremy? Not Oliver?

Eden Hill House

Glenclose-on-Rowan

Credo fatum nos coegisse.

I think fate brought us together.

He loved to kiss her belly. He loved to rub his cheek against the soft, warm flesh. He would sigh with pleasure even as she giggled at the feel of his scratchy morning beard against her. And then, in such a short time, she would be free to yell his name as she climaxed because his palm covered her mouth. No chance that the servants or any of his children would come running.

He was smiling at her as he watched her sip her tea, knowing she was worried about their visit around the town, to bid all his parishioners hello and for them to meet her. Meggie was coming, insisting that everyone had to see that Mary Rose was very welcome at the vicarage. He was also thinking about nibbling her crooked toe.

An hour later, Tysen was still smiling, for most folk wished him well, because they liked him, he supposed, and believed that Mary Rose would be a helpful addition to the town.

“Mrs. Bittley is a fishwife, Papa,” Meggie said and squeezed his hand.

“Yes, but she has always been one. There is no change there. That is gratifying, I suppose. At least it’s expected, so one is never surprised.”

“I like change,” Meggie said, giving her father a sideways glance.

“Yes,” Tysen said absently. “Now, it’s time to have our last—hopefully small and of short duration—bride-welcome, at the Strapthorpes’. They live just over toward the forest, Mary Rose, a ten-minute walk. Grattling Grange—a strange name for a house. Mrs. Strapthorpe tells everyone that it comes from a German count who built it in the fourteenth century. I have no idea if this is true.”

Meggie said, her voice far too grim for a ten-year-old, “I’m sorry, Mary Rose, but you’ll have to face Miss Strapthorpe. But I won’t leave you. At least now she will have to stop flirting with Papa. And the way she’s always treated me and the boys—” Meggie shuddered.

“She was rather quiet when all the ladies visited the vicarage our first day back,” Mary Rose said, tilting her head up so the sunlight could fall full on her face. It felt wonderful. She felt Tysen’s warm breath on her cheek as he lightly kissed her. She stopped, looked up at him, her heart in her eyes, and said, “Did she really flirt with you, Tysen?”

“No. Meggie is exaggerating.” He kissed her again, on her ear.

Meggie rolled her eyes.

They heard a noise that sounded like a giggle. It was Mrs. Snead, the local seamstress, who had been examining a swatch of muslin. A soft pink muslin that, Tysen thought, would make up a beautiful gown for Mary Rose. He smiled at her and introduced his wife, who complimented her on the beautiful muslin. Tysen then asked Mrs. Snead to make his beautiful Mary Rose a gown.

Mrs. Snead sighed, a palm over her heart.

“Well done, Papa,” Meggie said when they were on their way again.

“Mary Rose looks beautiful in pink,” Tysen said, and kissed her ear.

Meggie began humming at that. As for Mary Rose, she was happy to her toes. She was also feeling very confident. It didn’t matter if Glenda Strapthorpe had flirted with Tysen and was very pretty. Mary Rose was wearing the pale yellow muslin walking dress that was a gift from Sinjun, and she knew she looked very fine in it. Meggie had told her so at least three times. As for Max, he had frowned at her, looked her up and down, and said, “Just look at you, Mary Rose. You look all soft and fluffy, like a yellow dessert with red hair, and that’s why you shouldn’t be able to speak Latin.”

“Quis est qui inquit, Max?” Mary Rose said, and grinned at his father, who was closing a large hand around his son’s throat.

Meggie asked, her brows lowered at her brother, “Just what does that mean?”

“It means ‘Who said that,’ ” Max said. “Why, Mr. Harbottle says that, that’s who.”

Tysen shook his head, perplexed. He’d been thinking that Mary Rose looked edible, at the very least, until his ears had finally picked up Max’s words. He said, “I don’t wish you to listen to Mr. Harbottle again, Max. Do you understand me? I can’t believe that I never before realized what a fool the man is. I have made inquiries, Max, but there just aren’t many tutors about who know more than you do. Is it possible for you to simply learn from him and not adopt any of his absurd philosophies?”

“You mean like girls are worth very little?”

“That’s it exactly.”

“I will try, Papa,” Max said.

“You’re such a shortsighted little dolt I doubt you’ll be able to manage it,” Meggie had said, and smacked him in the shoulder.

Now Meggie said to Mary Rose, “I don’t trust Glenda Strapthorpe. She’s a cat. She’s wanted Papa for more than a year now, and he’s had to be very wily to escape her. Remember that time she trapped you in the vestry, Papa? I heard two of the ladies saying behind their hands that she tried to assist you out of your robe.”

“Er, yes,” Tysen said, and Mary Rose saw him blush. Then he shook himself. “No matter. I’m married now, and she will quickly accustom herself. She has probably long forgotten me and is searching out fresh quarry.”

Mr. Strapthorpe was monstrously fat, with gout and at least three chins. He admired Tysen not because he was a devoted town leader and an excellent vicar but because he was the brother of an earl, a very wealthy earl with a great deal of power. Mr. Strapthorpe was still in trade, although he’d removed himself physically far away from his factories in Manchester, and his new status as a wealthy man and the most important man in Glenclose-on-Rowan had made him look to Tysen as a possible son-in-law.

But he was philosophical, if nothing else, and greeted Mary Rose with gallantry while his pinched and meager wife poured tea and complained about the servants that one had to deal with in a small town.

Glenda Strapthorpe made a lovely entrance not three minutes later, her eyes on Tysen as she came into the overly warm drawing room, wearing so lovely a gown that Mary Rose felt suddenly like a dowd. Evidently Meggie agreed, because she moved closer.

As for Tysen, he rose to greet Glenda and said charmingly, “You are in fine looks, Miss Strapthorpe, as is my own lovely wife. When she has settled in, we shall begin entertaining.”

Glenda paid no heed to this or to the vicar’s new wife. She said, without preamble, “I need to show you something, Reverend Sherbrooke. In the conservatory. Mama, we will be back shortly.”

Her mother shot her a nervous look, nearly spilling the tea she’d just poured. Her father looked as if his gout suddenly pained him. Tysen knew Mr. Strapthorpe didn’t like this forwardness in his daughter, but Glenda ruled the house. Her parents were there to serve her, and everyone knew it.

Tysen smiled at Mary Rose and his daughter, and took Glenda’s arm. He said over his shoulder, “No sugar in my tea, Mrs. Strapthorpe. We will be back very quickly.”

Glenda Strapthorpe had no sooner closed the door to the conservatory—it was just a room so far as Tysen could ever tell—than she said in a wonderful, throbbing voice, right in his face, “How could you, sir?”

“How could I what, Miss Strapthorpe?”

“I wanted to marry you, sir, and instead you brought back that creature from Scotland! All you had to do was ask me. I would not have kept you dangling overly. I would have refurbished the vicarage, perhaps added to it, removed some of those worm-eaten old graves and built another wing that would cozy right up to the church so you could be closer to your flock. You would also have greatly appreciated my beauty. You should have already appreciated my beauty. It is remarkable. Just look at me, sir, then at her. There is no comparison.”

Tysen looked mildly interested. “No,” he said, “there is no comparison.”

“Yes, I waited and waited, but you didn’t ask me. What do you possibly see in her? Surely she has no dowry to bring to you. I am nineteen years old. She is old, nearly the age of my mother!”

Tysen decided in that instant that he hated conservatories. It was time to bring this monologue of hers to a close. “Forgive me for disappointing you, Miss Strapthorpe. Mary Rose hasn’t quite gained your mother’s years. Now, what did you wish my advice on?”

“Are you blind, sir? Are you an idiot? Without a brain or any sense at all? I just said that I wanted you, and you were beginning to appreciate me when you had to leave for Scotland. Now you are Lord Barthwick, and my father is more than pleased, and he wanted you for a son-in-law. And you had the gall to bring her back, that foreign creature with no style, no claim to beauty—”

Tysen said slowly, cleanly interrupting her, “Yes, Miss Strapthorpe, perhaps I have been a bit blind. The fact is, however, that I am now married. I was raised with the notion that a person of breeding was always civil, even in the face of disappointment, distress, or regret. If you have no need for advice, then let us return to the drawing room.”

He heard her angry breathing behind him as he opened the door and stepped back to let her pass in front of him.

“Be nice to Mary Rose,” he said, looking at her straight in her lovely eyes. “I would appreciate it very much. It would be the polite thing to do.”

She looked like she would rather gut trout.

“Well, we survived,” Meggie said, when, finally, a half hour later they were walking back toward the vicarage. “Well, Papa, did she try to seduce you in the conservatory?”

“No,” Tysen said. “Meggie, curse you, I don’t want you to know about that word and its meanings. ‘Seduce’ isn’t a good word for you. You’re only ten years old. Contrive to forget it.”

“Yes, Papa. What did she want with you?”

“She wanted to upbraid me,” he said. “She was angry that I brought back a wife when she saw herself as waiting to marry me.” He sighed.

“Oh, dear,” Mary Rose said. “There might be problems.”

“Nothing we can’t deal with,” Tysen said. “We have done our duty. You have met nearly everyone except for Mr. Thatcher, who spends a great deal of his time beneath his table, dead drunk. But he is always sober on Sundays, and you will meet him then, Mary Rose.”

It was strange how they responded to Tysen, she thought—both with wonder and, perhaps, with a bit of confusion. It didn’t make much sense to her. Then she realized that she’d been blind—what had concerned everyone was that most people simply didn’t know what to make of her, a foreigner dropped suddenly in their midst. They very likely wondered why he would marry her, of all the possible women available to him.

Mary Rose brooded about it, at least until dinner that evening.

25

Vivere, amare, discere

Living, loving, and learning

OVER A VERY fresh turtle soup at the dinner table, Tysen announced, “The weather is very warm. We’re going to visit Brighton. I asked Mr. Arden—”

“That’s Papa’s solicitor,” Meggie said to Mary Rose.

“Yes, and he immediately found us a house. I didn’t want to tell you until I was certain we could go. We will spend a week there. What do you think?”

His two boys stared at him. Leo said slowly, “Papa, you have never before taken us to Brighton. You have never taken us anywhere except to visit our uncles. You have always believed that doing nothing much of anything at all is a waste of time.”

Had he really believed that?

“We would love to go,” Max said, frowning a bit toward Mary Rose. “Perhaps having her here isn’t such a bad thing.”

“I agree with you, Max. She is nice to have here,” said his father, and thought briefly about kissing her behind her left ear, breathing in her scent, and maybe then sliding his mouth to her—well, no, that would be rushing things a bit. He realized his children were looking at him. He coughed behind his hand and tried to look blank.

“Oh, I see,” said Leo.

“Dolt,” said Meggie.

The regent wasn’t in residence at the Pavilion, and so Brighton was thin of the London society who dutifully followed the prince here during the summer months. It was late in September now, but the weather remained glorious—sunny and mild. They quickly settled into the small rented house on the Steyne.

Mary Rose saw the young man again on their fourth day. She had seen him before, quite a lot, really. She was sitting beneath an umbrella on the beach, watching Leo, Max, and Meggie playing in the sand.

Tysen had gone off to buy some tea cakes for them all when the young man cast a long shadow beside her. “ Excuse me, ma’am, for intruding on your solitude, but I heard from some friends of mine that you are from Scotland. My name is Bernard Sanderford.”

She remembered that Tysen had spoken to him, that she had seen him about a good half-dozen times now, and so she smiled and said easily, “Why, yes, I am Mary Rose Sherbrooke, sir.”

“Ah, yes, the lovely Mrs. Sherbrooke. Your husband is a vastly fortunate gentleman. One has but to look at you to know that.”

Mary Rose thought immediately of Erickson MacPhail. She’d rather hoped that Erickson was one of a kind. Evidently not. She didn’t say anything, just watched Mr. Sanderford. He was as handsome as Erickson. Perhaps that was the key to a rotten character. She wasn’t the least bit afraid of him, not since she’d had a goodly bit of experience with Erickson.

Even when he came down on his haunches beside her, Mary Rose only looked at him, her face still. He was a bit too close, but she knew she could blight him easily if the need arose. It was odd that there was no one else on the beach, just the children, playing near the breaking waves.

He said, his eyes so intimate that she wanted to throw sand in his face, “Actually, your husband is very well occupied at this moment, ma’am. Does he perhaps bore you and thus you sent him away on an errand? I know you saw me, and so you sent him away. Ah, I have been watching you, and I saw how you looked at me. Perhaps you and I could get to know each other. Perhaps we could meet later?”

“Are you related by any chance to Erickson MacPhail, sir?”

“No, that is a foreign name, ma’am. Surely I would not be related to a foreigner. Now, perhaps—”

“Mama!”

It was Meggie, covered with wet sand, her hair in tangles around her face, and on her heels were Max and Leo, looking windblown, sunburned, and quite alarmed. Meggie planted herself in front of Mr. Sanderford, hands on her hips, and demanded, “Sir, who are you?”

“Meggie, love, this is Mr. Sanderford. He was just paying a bit of a visit.”

Max said, “Our mother doesn’t entertain gentlemen when our father isn’t available.”

“Surely,” Mr. Sanderford said, appalled, “you are not the mother to these children? You are far too young.”

“Mama is nearly thirty-five years old, sir,” Leo said. “She just looks young. She says that we keep her looking young. She’s very happy with Papa and with us. She tells us that all the time, don’t you, Mama?”

“At least twelve times a day,” Mary Rose said.

“I see,” Mr. Sanderford said slowly and rose. Even though he was young, his knees creaked a bit. He dusted off his knit britches, looked at each of the children, and said, “I never loved my mother as you do yours. You are fortunate to have her.”

“Yes, sir, we know,” Leo said, and waited there until Mr. Sanderford had left them. When he was sure the poacher was gone, he sped away to turn a series of cartwheels right down to the water’s edge.

Mary Rose laughed.

“He reminds me of Erickson MacPhail,” Meggie said thoughtfully as she watched him walk back up the beach to the path.

“Odd you should say that,” Mary Rose said. “You three were right here. How ever did you know that he wasn’t being a gentleman?”

“Pompous Max might be a blind looby,” Meggie said, eyeing her brother, “but he knows when a flash cove has the light of wickedness in his eyes.”

Mary Rose could have handled Mr. Sanderford, but she was pleased to her bones that the children had been so possessive of her. “Thank you all,” she said.

Then Tysen was back, his hands filled with cakes and tarts, apples and oranges. “Who was that man speaking to you?”

“Father,” Max said, “that was no gentleman. He was trying to flirt with Mary Rose.”

Tysen blinked at that. Slowly, he lowered himself to the blanket. “What happened?” he said to Mary Rose.

“He is very much like Erickson MacPhail,” she said matter-of-factly, “and I could have dealt with him, but Max, Leo, and Meggie came running to protect my virtue.”

Tysen wanted to bash the man’s face in. He was on his feet in an instant, his face red with outrage, but Mr. Sanderford was nowhere to be seen. Then he cursed under his breath. Meggie heard him and stared, her mouth dropping open.

“I’m sorry,” Tysen said. “I should not have said that.”

“Papa, we didn’t let him do anything at all,” Max said. “Here comes Leo. Just ask him. There is nothing to worry about.”

“Yes,” Mary Rose agreed as she picked up an apple. “Just a small drama. Now, Max, I do believe you have a nasty scratch on your foot. When we return home, you must let me put some ointment on it.”

“Num mihi dolebit hoc?” Max wanted to know.

“What does that mean?” Meggie asked.

“That means ‘It won’t hurt a bit,’” Mary Rose said. “Unless, of course, I want it to.”

“Abeo,” Max said, and ran toward the frothing waves.

“Abeo? What does that mean?” Meggie said, shading her eyes from the sunlight to watch Leo, who was now walking on his hands down the beach.

“He said he was leaving,” Mary Rose said, and laughed.

“Have I told you recently that I love to kiss your belly?”

Her heart was pounding, slow, powerful strokes, waiting, waiting, and she felt his warm breath on her skin, felt her muscles tighten, felt the need for him building, always building, and flowering, opening her, and she managed to say, “No, but I rather believed that you liked it. You seem to spend a goodly amount of time on my belly.”

“And elsewhere,” he said, lifting his head to smile at her. He nearly crossed his eyes when there was a sharp knock on their bedchamber door.

“Oh, dear,” said Mary Rose, her eyes nearly crossed in disappointment.

It was Leo, and he had a confession to make: he and Max had made a new friend, who, it turned out, was a wily gambler, and wicked, and both of them had lost their shoes in a wager.

Tysen didn’t want to know what the wager had been.

Their stay extended for another five days, until finally rain came crashing down upon Brighton, dark clouds and wind whipped up the water, and the temperature plummeted.

Then, because Samuel Pritchert had already prepared the congregation for at least another month of sermons to be written and delivered by himself, Tysen slapped him on the back and told him he was taking his family to visit their cousins.

Samuel Pritchert inquired in his emotionless voice, “How long do you plan to stay away this time, Reverend Sherbrooke?”

“Ah, that remains to be seen, Samuel. I can trust you to keep the spiritual ship on course.” And he laughed and rubbed his hands together. Samuel Pritchert looked over at Mary Rose and the boys, all of them looking tanned and bright-eyed from their extended visit to Brighton, and wondered what sort of a place this once very serious and upright vicarage would become.

They remained two weeks at Northcliffe Hall, and late one afternoon Mary Rose found herself walking in the Northcliffe gardens with the countess. “These are very private gardens,” Alex Sherbrooke said, then sighed. “I suppose, however, that the boys discovered them a very long time ago. The boys can always sniff out anything that perhaps even smacks of a bit of wickedness.” And so it was that Mary Rose saw the endless number of Greek statues, each copulating in one way or another, some so delightfully shocking that she blinked and nearly swallowed her tongue. “Goodness,” she said for the fifth time when she paused in front of a large stone man whose face was buried between the legs of a woman who looked to be in ecstasy. “That is Sophie’s favorite, I believe,” Alex said. “You know, I don’t believe Tysen ever spent any time at all in these gardens. Indeed, I know that he found them dreadful and altogether godless. Do you think he might enjoy them now?”

And Mary Rose, who was still staring, her eyes glazed as she thought of Tysen and her doing the very same things, said on a croak, “I plan to show him as soon as he returns with his lordship.”

“His name is Douglas. He will feel offended if you continue to be so formal.”

“But he looks like he should be treated with great formality,” Mary Rose said.

“Perhaps, sometimes,” Alex said.

“Your sons are the most beautiful boys I believe I have ever seen. Tysen had told me they were identical twins. But to me they aren’t at all alike.”

Alex Sherbrooke sighed. “Most people can’t tell them apart, and that leads to a lot of mischief. As to their confounded beauty, it’s unfortunately true. It quite drives poor Douglas mad. You see, the boys are the image of their aunt Melissande, and she is the most beautiful woman in all of England. Douglas despairs for womankind when the boys reach manhood. On the other hand, Melissande’s son is the very image of Douglas. Perhaps you will meet my sister and her husband soon. Now, come along, Mary Rose, there are more very interesting, er, presentations for you to investigate.”

And Mary Rose was nothing loath.

That evening, just before dusk, Mary Rose led Tysen to her favorite statues, deep in the private gardens, and they didn’t emerge until a light rain began to fall at nearly eight o’clock.

Douglas Sherbrooke just shook his head, amazed, heart-ened, and very, very pleased.

The Sherbrookes then traveled to the Cotswolds and spent three weeks there. They took both James and Jason with them, who had pleaded on their knees to their earl father and their countess mother to let them see Uncle Ryder and all his children. All in all, it was an excellent performance, and it gained them what they wanted.

All the children stayed in Brandon House, not for the purpose of giving Tysen and Mary Rose privacy but because a house filled with nearly twenty children was bedlam, with an endless parade of fights, laughter, mischief, jests, some tears, and abundant amounts of food.

It was November now, and it should have been cold and dank and dreary, but it wasn’t. There were a few more warm, sunny days remaining before the fall weather made itself known. On those days Tysen enjoyed lying on his back, his head in Mary Rose’s lap, in the apple orchard. The afternoon sun was streaming down through the leaves, and it was warm, the light breeze carrying the smell of honeysuckle.

In the distance they could hear the voices of a good dozen children. But here, they were alone.

Tysen leaned over and kissed her belly. “Too much material between thee and me,” he said, and closed his eyes when he felt her fingers stroking slowly through his hair. He sighed. “I don’t suppose I can drape all your clothes over the apple tree branches?”

“Not just yet,” she said and bent to kiss his mouth. She was silent for a moment, her eyes closed. “It’s like we’re out of time here,” she said slowly, leaning back against the apple tree trunk. “Like it’s not only a different place and time, but we’re also apart from the world and all its realities and demands. Do you miss being the vicar of Glenclose-on-Rowan? It’s been nearly three months now.”

Tysen thought about that. He thought about all the people who had wished him and his new wife well. He thought of his children, their smiles, their laughter, the ferocious fights among the three of them, all of them won by Meggie. And he thought of his own laughter and joy just watching them, and just being with Mary Rose. Waking with her in the mornings, at the Vicarage, Ellis and Monroe stretched across the both of them, purring madly, listening to her speak to his children, seeing their smiles, just knowing that she was there and that she was his and his alone, just as he was hers. And the vicarage—it seemed lighter, and not just because the drawing room was now painted a pale yellow and those dreadful dark draperies had been taken down. No, it just felt as if the house itself had shaken off years of gloom and emerged into the light. It was a very happy place, with Samuel Pritchert the only gloomy face to be seen. Even Mrs. Priddie was smiling now. He’d actually heard her singing once while she baked some haddock in the kitchen.

He frowned. “Have I changed, Mary Rose?”

“Not that I know of,” she said, rubbing her fingers over his brow. “You have always been the same to me, always saying just the right thing, taking care of things. And your laughter, Tysen—I have always loved your laughter, the way you tease me, tease the boys and Meggie. Why would you ask such a strange thing? Haven’t you always been as you are now?”

He didn’t want to examine that. Perhaps he was even afraid for her to know that he had been at one time, perhaps, a bit stricter, a bit less humorous, perhaps even a bit on the stodgy side, even pompous and too austere in his notions, with everyone. “How do you like your new family?” he asked, grabbing one of her hands and holding it against his heart.

“Well, Douglas—the earl. When I first saw him I thought he must be dreadful, you know—stern and autocratic and very lord of the manor.”

“He is a natural autocrat.”

“Perhaps, at least until Alex happened to tickle him under his left arm and he laughed and grabbed her and then he pulled her down behind that settee and her petticoats went flying.

“Your laugh is a lot like his, Tysen. As for Alex, she is amazing, truly. Max has said that he now approves red hair. He said that an aunt and a stepmother have overcome his reservations.” She laughed. “They’re coming around, Tysen. They are grand children.”

“What do you think of Ryder and Sophie?”

“I think Ryder could seduce any woman between the ages of eighteen and eighty.”

“Even you?”

“Oh, no, I’m the only woman who wouldn’t succumb to him with a lovely sigh. You have some of him in you as well. You’re both so filled with kindness and laughter, and everyone seems to shine brighter when you’re near. You walk into a room, and everyone just seems to turn toward you, ready to smile. It’s the same with Ryder.”

He was like Ryder? His fun, carefree brother who’d enjoyed seven mistresses at one time?

“But there’s some of Sinjun in you as well, or perhaps you in her. Sophie manages to hold her own with Ryder—very difficult, I imagine. She’s quiet, just gets things done with no muss or fuss, and I believe that Ryder would crawl on his belly if she wanted him to. Such love and patience both of them have for all the children.”

“Oliver was one of Ryder’s first children,” Tysen said. “He knew only his first name, and hunger and endless cruelty. When Ryder found him in an alley in London, he was dragging his broken leg, trying desperately to find a pocket to pick so he could get some food.”

“But look at Oliver now. He is a man and he is smart and knows he belongs. Ryder did very well by him. And just look at you, a man of God, who cares for everyone in Glenclose-on-Rowan, prays with them, helps them overcome tragedy and unhappiness, and shares happiness with them. You are an excellent man, Tysen. Have I told you that I am the luckiest woman in all of southern England?”

“No, you hadn’t yet told me that.”

“I would be certain of it if only I could manage to get a racing kitten.”

“Hmmm,” Tysen said. “I will write to Rohan Carrington and see what the Harker brothers have to say.”

“I will be philosophical about it if I am rejected by them. Perhaps Leo is right. Perhaps Ellis would make a good racing cat. I saw him running from Mrs. Priddie once, and he flew across that kitchen, skidded on a polished patch, turned an entire flip in the air, and was gone again.

“Now, Tysen, I saw a good dozen of the children climbing all over you this morning.”

“It’s because I had the wit to stop in Lower Slaughter and buy all of them presents. They hope to get more out of me if they swamp me with attention.”

“If I swamp you with attention, what will I get?”

“Ah,” Tysen said, raising an eyebrow and looking up at her, “I just had a very great desire for the private gardens at Northcliffe Hall.”

“I have an excellent imagination.”

“And I have an excellent memory.”

26

Eden Hill House

Glenclose-on-Rowan

SAMUEL PRITCHERT, TYSEN’S curate for three years now, a stickler with a rigid soul, a man with a face so morose it was rumored that his own mother cried when he was born, said in his flat, deep voice, “Reverend Sherbrooke, I regret to report that the local ladies—so many of them—feel cut adrift from you, their pastor. They do not feel that you are truly back to minister to their needs. As the lovely and very young Mrs. Tate said, ‘Our dear reverend seems inattentive since he finally came back after his months and months of absence. He no longer cares about us.’ ”

Tysen just stared at him. He’d always thought it amazing how everyone spilled their innards to Samuel Pritchert within minutes of his appearing, despite the fact that Samuel always looked nearly ready to burst into tears—that, or simply sink into a pit of gloom. But everyone did speak to him, frankly, many times too frankly.

Tysen himself trusted Samuel implicitly to keep his finger on the emotional pulse of his flock. Samuel had just given his prologue. He was ready to move forward with but a nod from his vicar. Tysen didn’t want to hear this. Truth be told, he was afraid to hear more, but he knew he had no choice.

And so Tysen lowered his quill to his desktop, leaned back in his chair, and rested his head against his crossed arms. He said mildly, “I have only been home for eight days, Samuel. It is true that this will be my first sermon in three months, but you did an excellent job. I felt particularly moved by your sermon this past Sunday, for you presented it quite well. It would seem to me that any flock would like an occasional change of the guard in the pulpit.

“Now, tomorrow is Sunday, and I will once again be before them, my time away from them over. Why, Mary Rose and I visited with everyone before we went to Brighton and then on to visit my brothers. I have been home to stay for a week now, and everything is back to normal. I have seen everyone in these past days, spoken to everyone, commiserated with everyone, prayed with everyone. Surely both Mary Rose and I have taken tea with nearly everyone yet again, and I will say that everyone has been quite civil. So please tell me, Samuel, how could they possibly come to this conclusion, a conclusion that is nonsense, of course?”

“Be that as it may, sir,” Samuel said, not answering the question because he deemed it irrelevant, “I must tell you that I always strive to communicate God’s word to his flock, and to communicate the flock’s words and feelings and thoughts back to you.”

“Very well. Tell me what I haven’t seen.” At Tysen’s nod, Samuel gently cleared his throat. Tysen could see that he was striving to find a tactful way of delivering the blow. He said finally, reluctantly, “I feel it my duty, sir, to remind you that you are no longer in Scotland, surely a place of sufficiently strict Protestant ethics, a place that surely holds no more sinners than we have here. But nonetheless, the Scottish people are still not our sort. Perhaps they changed you, sir, presented you with problems that made you think differently from the way you’ve always thought, made you yell and howl when normally you would speak quite calmly, perhaps even whisper, made you perhaps question—perhaps even deny—all the spiritual and pious philosophies you have hitherto always firmly believed and espoused.”

“Although your words flowed quite nicely, Samuel, I am not entirely certain I understand what you just said.”

“You would have understood before you left for Scotland, sir. You would have answered me in the same vein—before Scotland. Ah, it is difficult, Reverend Sherbrooke. I will endeavor to clarify my sentiments. The Scottish people, sir—they are, quite simply, not like us. They do not share the exact breadth, complexity, and depth of our beliefs. They do not comprehend or appreciate the ways we look at ourselves and at the world. They are different from us, sir.”

“Ah. What sort are we, Samuel?”

“We are Englishmen, Reverend Sherbrooke.”

“I begin to see. And my wife isn’t.”

“That is correct, sir. From what I’ve learned, our people are striving out of respect for you to tolerate her if you will but return your former self to them. That means, sir, that they want you the way you were before you left for Scotland. They want the real you to come back to them.” As Tysen’s eyebrow was still elevated, Samuel added, near desperation in his voice, “They very much want you to try very hard to be yourself again. No one else, just your old self, the very introspective and devout self that was in full bloom here before that old and revered self left for Scotland.”

“The way I was before I went to Scotland,” Tysen repeated slowly. “What do you think they mean by that, Samuel?”

“I have even spoken at length with many of the men and the ladies in our flock, Reverend Sherbrooke. They have sought me out, actually, many of them. They wanted to speak to me. Mr. Gaither, who now owns the Dead Spaniard Inn—he just purchased it this past week from his older brother, Tom the Wastrel—something you didn’t know and it would have been nice if you had but known and commented upon it.

“Ah, yes, my point is that Mr. Gaither was the men’s spokesman. He told me that they have all discussed the situation amongst themselves. I have to say it, sir—though it smites me to have to—they have even gone so far as to smirk and leer. They are jesting at how a pretty woman has brought you—a devout man of God—as low as a young man rutting his first female, as low as a young man who has no thought, no caring for anything save his own fleshly desires. Mr. Elias even reported that he saw—actually saw—you kissing your wife, sir. He said it nearly knocked him on his, er, arse.”

Tysen nearly roared out of his chair then, ready to separate Samuel Pritchert’s head from his shoulders. He caught himself with effort, and simply nodded.

“It has quite bothered me, sir, because they now see you as one of them—no longer a man of God who has always been set apart from them, set apart from the base desires that seem to plague men and bring them low time and time again.

“They see you, quite frankly, as now being as weak and as much of the flesh as they are, as consumed by matters of the flesh as they and their neighbors are, as all their friends and enemies are. They fear for you, sir. You have fallen low. You are, in their eyes, no longer their spiritual leader. You have fallen from grace.”

Matters of the flesh. Tysen froze. He thought of the last three months, all the glorious nights and glorious mornings, each and every one of them filled with endless delights, endless tenderness and discovery, and dear God, endless lust that bowed him to his knees, made him heave and pant and yell with the utter joy and wonder of it, and emptied his brain of what he was, what he used to be.

Samuel was right. He wasn’t the same man now as the one who had traveled to Scotland. He realized that he’d been smiling for at least three months now, smiling at nothing in particular, something he hadn’t done since he’d been a very young man, since before he’d decided to become one with God, a spiritual man of the Church, before he’d met Melinda Beatrice.

He saw himself clearly then, the before and the after. After that decision so long ago, he’d become dour, so very serious, that he was humorless, unable to see anything that brought simple joy to life. From that point, he’d had only one goal, only one focus. Over the years, that focus had been on the people for whom he alone was responsible. They were to look up to him, to depend on him to tell them how to solve their problems and to succor them in their time of need and pain. And these people expected certain behavior from him, he’d known that very well, and he’d never let them down, before he’d gone to Scotland, before he’d wed Mary Rose.

Certainly he’d always loved his children, but he’d never given them his unstinting attention or the unfettered joy he now lavished on them and on himself and on his new wife.

Mary Rose. His wife. He’d made love to her that very morning, kissing her awake, his hands all over that smooth, warm body, feeling such pleasure, such overwhelming need that seemed to grow greater each time he became one with her. He’d awakened, he remembered, with a wondrous smile on his face, and hard as the oak planks of the bedchamber floor.

Tysen rose and walked to the windows. It was gray and cold outside, a nasty, dreary drizzle streaking down the glass. It had moved from fall to winter in such a short time. He realized he was cold, cold all the way to his bones. He said nothing to Samuel, just walked to the fireplace and built up the fire. Then he drew in a deep breath and turned back to his curate, who hadn’t moved, just stood there, silent and still.

Samuel said at Tysen’s nod, “I will be blunt, sir. Our people do not want a foreigner here. They want you, but they want you the way you were before you went to Scotland and brought her back.”

“Go away now, Samuel.”

“There is just a bit more, sir.”

“Very well.”

“It seems it is your laughter, sir.”

“My what?”

“Your laughter, sir, your unconcealed lightness of spirit, your unexpected flow of charm, your wit. It makes them uncomfortable, it makes them feel as if their spiritual leader has become a stranger. It is your lack of seriousness, sir, that alarms them, your lack of proper gravity and conduct, of proper perspective on what is important in life. You have changed into a different man. All have remarked upon it. You are no longer their spiritual leader. You have diminished in their eyes. Their faith suffers because of it. There, I have said it. I hope you will forgive my bluntness.”

“I thank you for your bluntness, Samuel. Go away now.”

Tysen didn’t move until Samuel was out of his study. He turned to stretch his hands to the fire. He rubbed his neck, feeling knots he knew hadn’t been there ten minutes before. Then he realized that it was only eleven o’clock in the morning and he was again hard with lust for Mary Rose. He’d made love to her three-and-a-half hours before, and now he wanted her again. She filled his mind, she filled his heart—perhaps even his very soul, which, until she’d popped into his life, had been filled only with God and with God’s mission for him on this earth.

No, she didn’t own his soul. No, that wasn’t possible. He hadn’t sunk that low yet. But she’d changed him by giving him her body, by giving him her trust, by giving him all the love that filled her, and it was abundant.

He knew she loved him, although she hadn’t yet said the words. She was open, guileless, her love for him shone in her eyes. And what did he feel for her, his wife? The woman who had changed him utterly?

He didn’t want to think about it, he simply couldn’t. He’d become single-minded, a man lost in his own appetites, in the gratification of his own selfish needs.

It repelled him even as he accepted that it was true.

Even at twenty years old and newly wedded to Melinda Beatrice, he’d never felt this overwhelming intensity of need for another person, this frantic desire. Yes, call it by what it is—lust. But it was more than that. Melinda Beatrice had tried to yield to him because she’d loved him, had told him she loved him countless times, and she’d wanted to be his wife and his clerical helpmeet, but it hadn’t lasted. Very quickly he’d visited her bed only when he realized he had to so that children could be conceived. And life had become, he’d supposed, what it had needed to become, what it was meant to become, and he had gained what he’d sought.

He was surely respected, surely admired, surely needed, since he’d tried with all his being to fill his role as the spiritual adviser to nearly an entire town of people.

Ah, but now here was Mary Rose. She was his. Just to be near her, to touch her, to feel her pleasure when he touched her with his fingers, with his mouth, was something he’d never even considered before, but with her it had seemed so very natural, so important somehow to share her own pleasure with her, to know that he was giving her pleasure. And when he came into her, when he heard her crying out his name over and over when she reached her climax, he’d felt blessed. He’d felt beyond himself. He’d felt more than he was.

She made him feel like a man who was cherished, and surely that was something blessed.

Not only was she loving and giving to him, she was dealing well with his stubborn boys, even telling Max the previous evening at the dinner table to eat his broccoli—in Latin. Max laughed so hard he had to hold his stomach. In fact, Tysen had heard Max mumbling several times at the breakfast table just this morning so he wouldn’t forget: “Aut id devorabis amabisque, aut cras prandebis.” Mary Rose, when asked by Meggie what that meant, gave them all a sunny smile and said, “It means ‘You’ll eat it and like it, or you’ll have it for breakfast tomorrow.’”

Yes, he’d laughed so hard he’d nearly fallen out of his chair, just like his son. So he wasn’t sufficiently serious anymore, was he? He laughed too often? He was too light-hearted? And this diminished him?

Dear God, what was he to do? He knew Samuel was right. He knew his flock was right. Everyone had seen the incredible changes—everyone except him.

But now he did.

He had changed.

It wasn’t a respectful, devout change.

He had become a man seduced by all that was unimportant to the salvation of his soul.

It was a licentious change.

He moved to his desk, read the pages he’d written for his sermon. He felt a shaft of pain as he read, and surprise at what he’d written so naturally, so easily—so joyfully. He closed his eyes for a moment. Then he tore the pages in half.

Tysen didn’t remain at the vicarage for lunch. He went to the Dead Spaniard Inn to have Mr. Gaither’s barmaid, Petunia, serve him a cup of spiced tea and a cold plate of chicken and warm bread. He felt the damp from the thickening rain and cold to his bones.

He ate and waited for Mr. Gaither to show himself, which he did after Tysen had taken only two absent-minded bites of the chicken and wondered yet again what had become of his life.

“Ah, Reverend Sherbrooke, it’s delighted I am to see you home again. You were away far too long, sir. Many good people lapsed a bit, didn’t attend Mr. Pritchert’s sermons. A good fellow, but long-winded he is, poor man. But Samuel Pritchert is always there, always ready to shoulder another man’s burdens, to counsel him, to help him wipe clean his plate when it’s dirty. But tomorrow you’re finally back in the pulpit. Everyone will be in church.”

Mr. Gaither was wider than his apron, and his heart was as big as his belly. He was a good man, a man Tysen had respected for the entire eight years he had been the vicar in Glenclose-on-Rowan. Mr. Gaither had dealt more than fairly with his wastrel older brother, who had, evidently, just taken a ship to the Colonies, to find new vic-tims to fleece.

“Have you ever traveled to Scotland, Mr. Gaither?”

“Not I, sir. Born and raised here, been here all my life. I believe it’s best for a man to know his roots and stick close to them.”

Not very subtle, Tysen thought, and took a bite of the warm bread.

“I saw your wife, sir, just yesterday afternoon, with little Meggie, over at the draper’s shop on High Street. They were laughing, sir, over nothing at all as far as I could tell, as far as anyone else could tell. She’s a looker.”

“Yes, Meggie looks a great deal like her aunt Sinjun,” Tysen said.

“No, I meant your wife. All the, er, men think so.”

Tysen wadded the piece of bread into a ball in his fist. His heart began to pound, death-hard strokes. Now Mr. Gaither wanted Tysen to believe that Mary Rose was a strumpet to be ogled? He remembered Mr. Sanderford in Brighton. Mary Rose hadn’t wanted him to flirt with her, she hadn’t, and Tysen felt a leap of rage at this insult, and nearly choked on the bread he’d been chewing. He managed to calm himself. He said, after he’d motioned Mr. Gaither to seat himself, “My wife and daughter are very fond of each other. Naturally they laugh together. Now, I don’t know precisely what you mean, Mr. Gaither, by this ‘looker’ business. You have met my wife. Did you not come to the vicarage just three days ago with your dear wife to share tea with us?”

“Naturally, my lord. Mrs. Sherbrooke was very gracious to everyone. It is just—oh, dear, I surely meant no insult to you or to her, Reverend Sherbrooke.”

“Perhaps you should try for an explanation, Mr. Gaither, one that is readily understandable.”

“Dear heaven—the pain, the embarrassment—to speak of it, sir. No help for it. Your wife flirted with Teddie Tate! Shameless, it was.”

“Ah,” Tysen said, utterly confused now. The only man Mary Rose had ever flirted with in her life was him. Again, he remembered Sanderford, and he nearly smiled, remembering how Mary Rose had compared him to Erickson MacPhail.

“Poor Bethie Tate, well, dear Bethie was in tears, sobbing her heart out to Miss Strapthorpe.”

“I see. It is Miss Strapthorpe who mentioned this to you?”

“Oh, Miss Glenda mentioned it to everyone, Reverend Sherbrooke.”

“Other than flirting with Teddie Tate, is there any other sin my bride has committed?”

“Oh, sir, now you’re upset and I never meant for you to be. I know, I know, Miss Strapthorpe fancied you for herself, and thus you think this is all a lie to discredit your wife, that it is nothing more than the spite of a rejected female.”

“That’s it exactly, Mr. Gaither. Miss Strapthorpe is a single-minded young lady. I fear I offended her by not giving her what she wanted—namely, myself and the vicarage, which she wanted to expand into the graveyard.”

“You don’t say! What a thought that provides. Just imagine drinking your tea atop old Mrs. Beardsley’s coffin, and she’s been down under for over fifty years now.”

“I believe Miss Strapthorpe had visions of removing the coffins.”

“Oh, dear,” said Mr. Gaither and shook his head. “Aye, and I’ll wager you were plain-speaking with her too, sir, and not unkind.”

“I suppose so.”

Mr. Gaither stroked his fingers over his clean-shaven jaw. “It’s true that her disappointment is great, according to Mrs. Bittley and Mrs. Padworthy. I heard them talking just outside the tavern, while they were waiting for their husbands to down their final mugs of ale. Proper sods, their husbands were that day. Aye, it is a strong possibility that Miss Strapthorpe perhaps exaggerated the thing a bit.”

“More than a bit. Now, all that is distraction, Mr. Gaither. Tell me what this is all about.”

“I will try, sir. You see, everyone remarks on the fact that you have quite lost your head over your new wife, that you have fallen snare to a man’s weakness. An ordinary man’s weakness. And that is it, sir.”

“I see,” Tysen said slowly, and thought, well, I have certainly heard enough of this before, and he rose from his chair. It was all very clear to him now. “I am very sorry that everyone believes that I have somehow changed when all I’ve done is gotten married.”

Mr. Gaither looked at him sadly. “A very melancholy thing to happen to a man of God, Vicar. A disastrous thing.”

Tysen felt his heart pounding again, only this time each deep stroke sent a deep, searing ache through him. His head rarely ached, but it did now, a biting pain just over his left temple. He said, “Is laughter such a bad thing, Mr. Gaither?”

“If it exposes naught but more laughter, Reverend Sherbrooke,” Mr. Gaither said, pity in his eyes now, “then I fear it likely is, at least for you, sir.”

Tysen left, turning right on High Street, nodding, speaking, looking all his parishioners in the face as he met them. Few met his eye. He wasn’t kissing Mary Rose, he wasn’t laughing. He probably looked as serious as if he was conducting a funeral. He ignored the rain, falling more heavily even now, and walked to the beautifully tended old graveyard beside his church. Glenda Strapthorpe had wanted to take away all the graves and build a wing onto the vicarage? It boggled his mind.

He was still shaking his head in disbelief as he walked among the graves, eventually wending his way through the stones to his favorite. The man buried here had been a violent warrior, yet when Tysen came to the grave, he felt peace, a measure of serenity. He laid his hand on the ancient headstone, feeling the centuries-old texture that was still changing, year by passing year. It was just possible to make out the nearly obliterated lettering: Sir Vincent D’Egle, born in 1231, died in 1283. There were fresh flowers on the grave, leaning against the marker. Meggie had brought them, he knew, because she’d long known that he somehow identified with this one particular grave. They were bedraggled now, the rain tearing them apart. He felt as bedraggled as those wretched flowers. He moved just a bit away from it and sat on the long stone bench. He looked up at his church, at its magnificent spire, rising so tall above every other building in Glenclose-on-Rowan. The thick gray stone looked solid and timeless beneath the gray-clouded, weeping sky. He’d sat here many times listening to the bells rung by his sexton, Mr. Peters, feeling the incredible sounds seep into his very soul.

He closed his eyes and prayed for a very long time.

27

THE VICARAGE WAS crammed to the attic rafters. Douglas and Ryder and their families had all descended, unannounced and unexpected, late that Saturday afternoon, piled into three carriages that overflowed the vicarage stable.

The vicarage was filled with shouting children, laughing adults, a housekeeper who was nearly in hysteria from the pressure of it all, and him and his wife.

Mary Rose was gowned in the new dress Sinjun had given her, a dark-green wool with lace at the neckline, long fitted sleeves, banded with a dark-green satin ribbon beneath her breasts. It looked, he thought, very well indeed on her.

Mary Rose was overwhelmed, he knew, but looking at her now, not as her husband and a man who was coming to know her, but as a stranger would, he thought her nervousness wasn’t obvious. She smiled, she was gracious, she dispensed tea and small cakes and tarts, she listened intently to any child who happened to engage her, and she smiled happily at him whenever she had the chance.

As for Tysen, he wanted to close himself in his study and remain there, in the darkness, steeped in the pain and doubt and uncertainty that had penetrated to his very soul. But he couldn’t. His brothers and their families had come to visit, only the good Lord knew for how long, because neither Douglas nor Ryder would say. All they did was poke him in the shoulder and laugh. He sat there quietly, a teacup in his hand, saying nothing, just listening to everyone talking, arguing, all of it so very normal and, yes, lighthearted. Just a bit over a week ago, he’d held Max up by his ankles as punishment for saying merda to his cousins. He closed his eyes against the pain of it, against the inevitability of it.

Mary Rose didn’t know what was wrong. Tysen was acting strangely, and it wasn’t brought on by the visit by his siblings—no, he’d been abstracted for the full hour before they’d arrived. When he’d come in, his hair plastered to his head from the hard-blowing rain, she’d skipped up to him, laughing, scolding, smiling, so filled with pleasure at the simple sight of him, sodden but here with her again, and she’d come up on her tiptoes to kiss him. He’d not moved.

Slowly, slowly, her arms had fallen away and she’d stared up at him. “What is wrong, Tysen? What happened?”

“Nothing,” he said and left her.

She’d wanted to yell after him to get out of his wet clothes, for he was probably soaked to the bone, but she didn’t. She just stared after him.

Now he was acting as though the world was going to end at any moment, and he didn’t know whether he was going to heaven or to hell.

What had happened?

Because Mary Rose was worried about her new husband, she wasn’t particularly nervous about the unexpected visit of her new family in her own home. Besides, she knew them now, had seen naked statues with Alex and had made an apple pie with Sophie. Still, Meggie stood by her, her hand on her shoulder, her small protector, and she felt a rush of love.

Meggie said, “In this darker light, your hair and Aunt Alex’s look exactly the same color.”

“I know,” Alex said. “In the bright sunlight, Mary Rose’s hair is shinier and richer, altogether more charming.”

“I wasn’t intending that exactly,” Meggie said, and grinned at her aunt.

“You have no guile, Meggie,” Alex Sherbrooke said, and popped a small apricot tart into her mouth, closing her eyes as she chewed. She said then to Mary Rose, “As I told you at Northcliffe Hall, we are both cursed and blessed, you and I, what with all these curls and twisters and waves. At least there is so much hair, we should never go bald in our later years.”

Mary Rose offered Alex another apricot tart and took one herself.

“You’ll also never become flat-chested,” Sophie Sherbrooke said, eyeing her sister-in-law’s bosom. “What do you think, Mary Rose? Don’t you think that God was overly generous to Alex when he handed out bosoms?”

Mary Rose laughed. “Very unfair, indeed.”

“What is this about breasts?” Douglas Sherbrooke said, walking lazily to where his wife sat, sighed as he looked at her bosom, and lightly kissed her mouth.

“Douglas, that is not at all appropriate,” his wife said.

“I have told you, dearest, that ‘bosom’ is a very faint vague sort of word used only by females. What you have are breasts. Thank God.”

Sophie cleared her throat. “Actually, whatever we were speaking about, Douglas, it wouldn’t hold your interest. Do go torment poor Tysen. To be perfectly blunt, our conversation isn’t for your tender ears, my lad.”

Mary Rose said a few minutes later to Sophie Sherbrooke, after Douglas had strolled off, an eyebrow arched upward, a smile on his lips, “I so enjoyed meeting all the Beloved Ones. I have never seen Tysen shouting and laughing quite so much as when a dozen of the children had taken him to the ground and were holding him down and sitting on him.”

“He did enjoy himself,” Sophie said, and frowned slightly as she looked over at him now. Mary Rose knew what she was seeing. A man who was distracted, a man who wasn’t really with them, but off somewhere, deep in his thoughts, and she’d bet those thoughts weren’t wonderful.

Sophie turned to smile at her husband as she said, “It is bedlam.” She saw that Ryder was standing in the middle of the drawing room, holding Leo’s head under one arm and Max’s head under the other, rubbing them together. “Ryder loves them all so. Give him a crying child and that child will be smiling within moments. You know he is also a member of the House of Commons. That job and the children keep him very busy.”

“You make it sound like you do nothing at all save sit about eating sweetmeats,” Mary Rose said. “Remember, I was there at Chadwyck House. I saw how you never slowed from dawn until dusk.”

“Well, I quite enjoy being responsible for all our tenant farmers. I can tell you the very best sheep-breeding methods, the most efficacious manures to be plowed into our fields, the best milking cows to be had—goodness, I am quite the expert on crops. Just let me tell you all about barley and rye sometime.” She laughed gaily, adding, “In addition, naturally, I have to keep my dear husband under control, always a fascinating and demanding job.”

“I saw that it was,” Mary Rose said.

“Ha,” Alex said, poking her elbow into Sophie’s side. “Ryder dotes on you. He gets within three feet of you and he’s licking his lips. It’s embarrassing, Sophie.”

“And just what about you, Alex? You’re one to talk. I can see Douglas staring at your bosom from across the room, and he is supposed to be attending to what poor Tysen is trying to say.”

Mary Rose listened to the good-natured bickering between her sisters-in-law. She liked them both, impossible not to. They were open, friendly, and didn’t seem to mind at all that she was from Scotland and spoke with a lilt.

Alex said then, “Max was telling us all what he said to you at dinner one evening when you first came. Something about he wouldn’t eat his broccoli—and he said it in Latin. Then you answered—also in Latin. Well done, Mary Rose. Max seems so much less, well, how do I say it? He seems more lighthearted, more ready for fun, than he ever has before. It’s amazing, don’t you think, Sophie?”

“Oh, yes,” Sophie said thoughtfully. “And Leo. He simply couldn’t sit still at Chadwyck House. He was just telling me that he likes to ride, primarily with you, Mary Rose. He said that you could sing to a horse and the horse would start running faster than the wind.”

Mary Rose thought about that small jest with Leo, still so surprised that her borrowed mare, Dahlia, had actually nearly run her legs off when she’d sung that Robert Burns ditty. “They are both dear boys,” Mary Rose said, “unlike Meggie here, who gives me nothing but trouble. She is always criticizing me, always telling me what I should do and what I shouldn’t do.”

Meggie only laughed and pulled Mary Rose’s earlobe.

Sophie and Alex looked at each other. They’d been pleased before when a laughing Tysen had brought his bride to visit them. They were even more pleased now. Tysen had chosen well this time.

Meggie said, “Mary Rose has nearly as sweet a smile as you do, Aunt Sophie.”

“Very well,” Sophie said on a sigh. “You may wear my garnet bracelet, Meggie.”

“Thank you,” Meggie said.

“That was well done,” Mary Rose said, tilting her head at Meggie. “Am I as easy as your aunt?”

“I haven’t yet tested you, Mary Rose. We will see.”

Mary Rose later went to the stables with Leo to see his uncle Douglas’s stallion, Garth, a brute with a vile temper, Leo told her, that made Uncle Douglas laugh with pleasure when he tried to fling him off his back. She was to sing a Robert Burns ditty to Garth, and then they would see. She opened her mouth and managed to sing nearly one complete verse to the huge horse before he did his best to trample them. She moved nearly as quickly as Leo.

Yes, Mary Rose thought as she dressed for dinner, her new family were very nice people, delightful really, and they seemed to like her very much—the Scottish bastard who was now, magically, an English vicar’s wife. She’d even brought her husband a hundred-pound dowry.

She managed to find beds for all their guests. The three boy cousins would sleep with Max and Leo, and she imagined that they would be awake most of the night. Grayson, Sophie and Ryder’s son, was a mesmerizing storyteller, despite his meager eight years, or maybe because of them. In the dark of the night, Ryder had told her at Chadwyck House, his boy could make his listeners’ hair stand on end. He’d told his first ghost story at three years old, and his old nurse had run screaming from the nursery.

She gave Meggie’s bedchamber to Douglas and Alex, and once again Meggie would sleep in their bedchamber. It was a pity. She wanted to know what was bothering Tysen.

At dinner that evening, just the adults present, he was quiet, his expression austere, his speech, when he was required to say something, really quite cool, detached. He simply sat there at the head of the table, eating little, just listening to his family toss jests and insults to and fro across the table. He was, Mary Rose thought, uninvolved, and she hated it. Had it been just the night before, he would have been laughing as much as they were now. Dear God, she missed his humor, his lightness of touch, his kindness.

What had happened?

What was wrong?

When at last the house was quiet and Meggie was asleep on her cot against the wall on the far side of the bedchamber, Mary Rose came up on her elbow, bent over her husband and kissed him.

What he did was the last thing she expected.

He didn’t move. His mouth stilled beneath hers, and he said, “Don’t.”

She whispered, “But I love to kiss you, Tysen. It’s been far too long. I won’t wake Meggie. Just another kiss.” He was wearing a nightshirt because Meggie was in the room, and Mary Rose hated it. Her hand strayed to his belly. She loved to touch him, feel his entire body tense, feel the power of him.

He grabbed her hand and lifted it off him. “Go to sleep, Mary Rose.”

Slowly, she pulled back. She couldn’t see his expression, just the shadow of his face in the dark of night. “Do you feel all right, Tysen?”

“Yes.”

“Have I done something to upset you?”

“No.”

“Something has happened. Won’t you talk to me?”

“There is nothing to say. Go to sleep.”

She lay on her back, gazing up at the darkened ceiling, wondering what was wrong, wondering why he wouldn’t talk to her.

The following day was Sunday. All the Sherbrookes went to church. Gathering the children together was a task for Ryder, the most patient of all the adults in the house. As they walked from the vicarage to the church, the bells were ringing, the air was clear and sweet with the smells of late fall, and the gray clouds and rain wafted away early that morning. They filed into the pews, an adult assigned to every two children.

Tysen hadn’t come into the church with them. He’d told her that he and Samuel Pritchert would go in through the vestry.

The organ, Mary Rose thought, was just a bit out of tune, but it was played very well by old Mrs. Caddy, whose fingers were gnarled and bent with arthritis.

It was the first time Mary Rose had seen her husband as a vicar. He came in quietly, wearing his black robe, his linen very white, standing back while Samuel Pritchert gave out all the announcements, led the congregation in the singing, and offered a single prayer for God’s grace, a rather long prayer that had the children twitching.

Then Tysen walked forward to stand tall behind his beautifully carved walnut pulpit. When he spoke, his voice was deep and resonant, reaching every ear in the large church. His Sherbrooke blue eyes were clear, radiant in the gentle morning light that streamed through the stained-glass windows into the church. She found herself mesmerized, looking at him, thinking no angel could be more beautiful than he.

But when he spoke, his eyes were intense, his expression bleak. He became an avenging angel, here to warn the people of the consequences of their sins. He spoke at length of one’s duties to God, of not allowing worldly considerations to pull one away from one’s focus on God and his commandments. He spoke of God’s expectations of those who believed in him and devoted their lives to him and his teachings.

He spoke eloquently, intelligently, his words severe, stark, and, in truth, Mary Rose thought, many of his thoughts so intricate and complex that they seemed to her to be fitted more to a roomful of clergymen than to a church filled with laypeople here to worship.

She became very still as she listened to her husband speak to the nearly two hundred people packed into the church. There was not a hint of levity or laughter in his voice, no message of redemption or joy in any of his words, no assurances of God’s boundless love and compassion, no encouragement to marvel at the daily endless beauty of God’s bounty.

He was intelligent, she thought, so very austere and clever in his harshness. And he was very cold. Mary Rose realized that his brothers and their wives saw nothing amiss with what he was saying or how he spoke. That was what they were used to? No, that didn’t seem right. Her husband, the man who had enveloped her in his caring, his kindness, his immense ability to make her feel very good about herself, he wasn’t to be found in this vicar. This was a very different man, a man she didn’t know. How could it be? She realized suddenly, in a flash of insight, that his siblings looked disappointed. Was that possible?

She didn’t like that distant, harsh sermon or this stranger who spoke with such cold passion about God’s endless demands, His countless tasks for man to perform to earn His approval. This stranger was pious and hard and demanding on God’s behalf; he was ready to smite both the sins and the sinners into eternity.

Thankfully, the service finally ended. Mary Rose sat there, stunned. Mrs. Caddy began playing a loud, energetic recessional, and Mary Rose stood with everyone else.

Tysen, Samuel behind him, walked down the center aisle, past his family, not looking at them, or at her, not pausing to speak to them, or to her. He stationed himself just outside the great church doors, in the light of the early-afternoon sun, not smiling, seriously greeting each of his parishioners, shaking hands, bowing over others, speaking quietly, not even one stingy smile ever showing on his mouth.

When Mary Rose paused in front of him, he gave her only a curt nod, as he did his brothers and their wives. As he did his own children and nephews.

No one said a word to Mary Rose. Max, Leo, and Meggie stayed close to her, but they didn’t speak to her. They were talking low among themselves. She knew they could see that she was completely smashed down. She also knew they realized if they did try to comfort her, she would burst into tears. She couldn’t begin to imagine how Max and Leo would react to that.

28

TYSEN CAME THROUGH the narrow garden gate. He stood at the back of the garden, his palms pressed against the pale peach stone wall, the ivy touching his fingers. He pressed his forehead against the wall. The sun had disappeared behind wintry gray clouds. It was chilly, but still not all that cold. Nevertheless, he felt numb to his bones. He closed his eyes and wondered what he was going to do. He could, quite honestly, think of no more prayers, no more pleas to God to show him his duty, to give him guidance, to help him see what His plan was for this one simple man. Perhaps it was because he already had God’s plan, that he’d performed exactly as God wished him to as his chosen emissary. But it was cheerless, that plan. He felt deadened all the way to his soul, and surely that was blasphemy.

He had prayed himself out. Now he felt utterly alone, and he knew in that moment that he’d always been alone, until Mary Rose. Dear God, he couldn’t bear himself. He hated the pain that was crouched inside him now, bur-rowed in so deep he doubted he would ever be free of it.

Douglas said, “Just what the hell do you think you’re doing, Tysen?”

Wearily, he turned to face his brothers. Both Douglas and Ryder were standing not six feet away, their posture aggressive, their faces hard.

“Yes, that was some performance,” Ryder said after the silence had continued for too long. He looked at Tysen, his confusion and frustration plain. “You gave a ringing sermon about sin and the dreadful consequences of sinning and wickedness and man’s duties and obligations to God. Endless and unforgiving, all those duties. Then you offered up a thundering prayer in that god-awful cold voice of yours, exhorting everyone to forget everything but their obligations to God. All else, you said, was sacrilege.

“Then, you damnable ass, you leave your wife, ignore both her and your children and the rest of your family, to go off by yourself to greet your parishioners. What the devil does God say about your duty to your wife? What the hell is wrong with you? What were you thinking, you damned prig?”

More unblinking silence.

Douglas said as he took a step toward his brother, “Alex said that Mary Rose was stunned, that she was very hurt by your actions. For God’s sake, I myself saw what you did, saw her shock, her utter surprise. I saw how all your parishioners looked pleased when you did that, nodding their bloody heads because their vicar of old was back, the man who had no humor, but nonetheless, they knew him, didn’t want him to change.

“And your children—no, that can wait. Tysen, I’ve a good mind to knock you down and smash your bloody face into the dirt.”

Ryder said, stepping forward to stand again by his brother, “You marry her and now you treat her like she’s some sort of unwanted stray who happened to wander into your house. An unwanted, foreign stray. You ignore her. You simply cut her in front of all your parishioners. You’re acting like a bloody ass.”

“I know,” Tysen said, and he said nothing more because, simply, there was nothing more to say.

“What the hell do you mean by those idiotic words?” Douglas said, and now his hands were fists.

“I mean only that I know how I’m acting. I am at last acting the way I am supposed to act. The past three months have been an aberration, a mistake. I am back to being myself now. All is as it should be.”

“An aberration? A bloody mistake?” Douglas said, a thick black eyebrow slanted upward. “Aberration? Damn you, what sort of bloodless word is that? Tysen, Mary Rose is your wife. We have observed how much she adores you, seen the smile light up her eyes when you come into a room. We have seen how you idolize her, how you laugh when you’re with her, how you play with your children now, how you have finally found joy.”

Ryder said, “We’ve seen how much you laugh now, how you hug your children for no good reason at all, how you simply play. Play? Neither Douglas nor I had seen you play since you turned eighteen and decided to become a complete and utterly pious prig.”

Douglas said, “Oh, yes, Max sidled up to me when we arrived back here at the vicarage a while ago, and said, his head bowed, his voice all sad and hopeless, that something must have happened, that you were his old papa again. I thought he would start crying. Damn you, Tysen, what the hell is going on with you? Even that first short letter you wrote to Ryder and me was filled with humor and excitement. It was filled with your love for a woman. And then you brought your family to see us. We realized that you finally saw the beauty, not only in life but in the open love for your wife and your children. You finally realized the importance of them to you, and you gloried in it. All of us marveled. We were excited, so pleased that you had finally met a woman who could give you joy, show you her deep love, a woman who could teach you to smile and maybe even kick up your heels.”

Ryder said, “Now it’s all sucked out of you again. I should have realized it when we first got here yesterday, but neither of us did. We just thought you were preoccupied by a church matter, or perhaps you were even worried about Mary Rose dealing with all of us.

“But it wasn’t that, was it? Something had already happened to blight you again. What the hell was it?”

Tysen looked blindly at his brothers.

“I don’t want you to be the old you,” Ryder said, more gently now, seeing the ravages of pain in his brother’s eyes. “I want to see the new you, the new you I met at Chadwyck House, the man I had never before realized I loved quite so much—the father who shows his love to his children, who shares his contentment and happiness with them, who teases them and shouts with laughter when Leo tries a new acrobatic move and falls flat on his face or when Max spouts some new Latin, especially a curse word.”

They were his own personal Greek chorus, Tysen thought, taking turns, getting it all out.

It was Douglas’s turn, and he said now, “And what about Meggie? She worships you, her little face lights up from within when she sees you, but now the light is gone. Where the hell is that Tysen? What happened to make you bury him away again? What happened to freeze him back up?”

“He does not belong here,” Tysen said quietly. “He is not what God wants. That man wasn’t a man of God, he was a man of the world, a man swallowed by the temp-tations of the world, content to wallow in his own indul-gences, his own wants and desires—no, not a man of God.” He pushed past his brothers and left by the garden gate, closing it quietly behind him.

They stood there, staring after him. Douglas said slowly, “Something is very wrong here, Ryder. I’ve never seen a more miserable man. And it has come about so quickly. What the hell happened?”

Ryder said, “Before, when Tysen acted like he did at church—all uncaring and remote and stern—you and I both knew that he truly believed that cold, distant man was who and what he saw himself to be. Nothing more, nothing less, and he was content with that man. We weren’t, but we’d finally accepted him as the humorless prig he was. Yes, that man was comfortable being who and what he was, and he was smug in his belief.”

Douglas said something very crude and strode back to the vicarage. Ryder remained in the garden, wondering what the hell would happen now. He felt very sorry for Mary Rose and the children. For his brother he felt deep, strangling pain.

Mary Rose sat in front of her dressing table, a small brooch that her mother had given her before she’d left Scotland held loose in her hand. Her dressing table had been moved back in here, along with her brushes, her clothes, her shoes.

While she’d been sitting in church listening to that grim stranger speak, everything of hers that had been in Tysen’s bedchamber had been brought into Melinda Beatrice’s. Dear God, it was a dreadful room, and now Tysen had sent her here.

It was so dreadful a room that she hadn’t even considering placing any of their guests, even the children, in here.

It was late afternoon. Mary Rose went looking for her husband. She found him in the graveyard, sitting on a bench, his hands clasped between his knees, just staring at a very old grave. She walked up to him, and stood there, watching him, saying nothing.

“Is there a problem?” he said finally, not looking at her.

“Yes, I believe there is,” she said. “You have never spoken to me so coldly before, Tysen. Won’t you please tell me what is wrong? Did something happen?”

“No, nothing happened. Please go attend to our guests. I have an appointment very shortly.” Even as he spoke, he rose. He looked at her briefly, then turned on his heel and made his way through the graves to the far cemetery gate.

She stood there, looking after him until he was gone from her sight. She returned to the vicarage and asked Mrs. Priddie to have all her things moved from Melinda Beatrice’s bedchamber back to Tysen’s.

Mrs. Priddie said, “I don’t know if we should do that, ma’am. The vicar didn’t say anything to me about moving you back into the big room.”

“I am the mistress here, Mrs. Priddie. I shall do as I please. Is there anything else you would like to say?”

“Would you like any of your guests moved in here? All the boys are crammed into one room.”

“Oh, no, it would give them nightmares, particularly the children. Can you imagine the tales Grayson could make up with this room as his ambiance? No, we will just close the room up again. Now, excuse me, Mrs. Priddie. I must find my husband.”

But she didn’t find him. He was doing a fine job of avoiding her.

He didn’t return to the vicarage until very late that night. When he came into his bedchamber, he cradled the single candle. He didn’t want to disturb Meggie. But Meggie wasn’t there. Mary Rose was, and she was sleeping right in the middle of his bed.

He made no noise, he was sure of it, but she sat up in bed, looking toward him. “Hello, Tysen.”

“Mary Rose. What are you doing here?”

“We are husband and wife. This is also my bedchamber. I will not be sent like an outcast to Melinda Beatrice’s room.”

“Nonetheless, I would prefer it if you slept in the other room.”

“No, I won’t be banished to that dreadful room. If you cannot bear to have me near you, then you will just have to move in there yourself.”

Tysen set the candle down on the bedside table. He began automatically to take off his clothes, realized what he was doing, and stopped cold. He stood there, his hands at his sides, looking blankly at the bed that had his wife sitting in the middle of it.

“It is enough, Tysen,” Mary Rose said. She hugged her knees to her chest. “I’m glad you came back. No, I won’t ask you where you have been hiding. I was praying you would come back, and finally you have. Your brothers tried very hard to make things appear normal, but of course, nothing was normal. Even the children were quiet. They don’t know what’s happening, but they know something is very wrong.”

“Nothing is wrong,” Tysen said. “Everything is as it should be again.”

She digested that, then said slowly, “I spoke to Samuel Pritchert this afternoon, when I gave up trying to find you. He agrees with you. He said to me that everything is as it should be again. He told me how all your flock would just as soon see the back of me, that they wanted you to become again the way you were before you came to Scotland, before you met and married me.”

He said nothing at all, just stood there, his hands at his sides. He looked very tired. No, he looked beyond tired. He looked deadened.

She didn’t know whose pain was greater in that moment, hers or his. “Do you want me to leave, Tysen?”

“You can’t leave. You’re my wife.”

“Do you really want to be that man I saw in church this morning who spoke of sin and corruption and moral laxity? The man who stood aloof from everyone, the man who looked so cold, so withdrawn that he could have been forged from stone?”

“That man is the man I was, the man I must be again. It is God’s will.”

“I don’t know that God,” she said slowly. “My God is loving, forgiving. My God wants us to laugh, to see the beauty of the world He created.” She shook herself. It didn’t matter. She said then, “I should have told you this before, Tysen. Perhaps now isn’t a good time, but I think I owe it to myself that you know the truth.”

Still, he said nothing.

“I love you.”

He flinched as if she’d struck him, hard. Then, slowly, he shook his head. “No, Mary Rose. Please, don’t.”

“You cannot even bear to hear me say that to you?”

“No.”

“I see,” she said. “Well, that does make a difference.” Without another word, Mary Rose left the bed. She grabbed her dressing gown, pulled two blankets off the top of the bed, and without another word, without another look at her husband, she left the bedchamber. Meggie was sleeping in the small sewing room at the end of the corridor. Mary Rose curled up next to her and finally, after a very long time, she fell asleep.

“It’s all over,” Max said the next morning. He was sitting against the wall, his arms dangling between his bent knees, two books open on the floor beside him. He looked defeated.

Leo said, “Papa is as he used to be again.” Leo wasn’t turning cartwheels or even standing on his head. He was stretched out on his stomach, his chin on his fists, and he looked ready to burst into tears.

“No,” Meggie said, from her perch on Max’s bed, “Papa is now even more than he used to be. Before, he wasn’t so distant, so set apart from us. He loved us and we knew it. Now he is so far away he can’t even see us.”

“That’s right,” Leo said. “Before, he would laugh, every once in a while. He hugged us once in a while. He even frowned when we irritated him. But now there’s nothing. It’s like he’s afraid to say or do anything that could be seen as not utterly serious.”

Mary Rose couldn’t bear it. She’d come in a few minutes before and listened to them. Now, she said, “Where are all your cousins?”

“They’re in the graveyard,” Max said. “Grayson likes the graveyard. He makes up stories about all the dead people. Even though it’s cold out there today, no one wants to miss one of Grayson’s stories.”

“Except the three of you.”

“Everything is scary enough,” Max said. “We don’t need Grayson’s stories.”

“All right, then. You three are coming with me. We’re going riding.”

They didn’t want to, but when Meggie looked closely at Mary Rose, saw her pallor, saw her determination, she nodded slowly. “You’re right, Mary Rose. It will put things at a distance for a while. Come on, Max, Leo. I don’t want to have to hurt either of you. Move, now.”

There were enough horses, if Mary Rose rode Garth, Douglas’s huge stallion. “I’ll sing to him, a different ditty this time, since he obviously didn’t like the one I sang to him last time.” Garth was seventeen hands high, a huge black beast, with mean eyes. Mary Rose sang one ditty after the other as she saddled him.

He let her mount him. “He is very big,” she said, her heart thumping a bit faster as she looked over at her three stepchildren atop their own horses.

“You will be all right, Mary Rose?” Leo said.

“I’m a good rider. We won’t have any races, all right?”

They rode single file until they were in the countryside. It was cloudy and cold, and Mary Rose felt the chill to her crooked toe. “Is everyone warm enough?”

“Poor old Ricketts is cold,” Leo said, patting the geld-ing’s neck. “I hope he lasts through the winter. He’s nearly twenty now, you know.”

Mary Rose hoped he lasted too. Actually, she hoped she lasted as well.

After they’d ridden through Grapple Thorpe, a small village very close to the Channel, Mary Rose said, “Who would like to go down to the beach?”

“I think we should go back to that inn in Grapple Thorpe and have some chocolate,” Meggie said. “I’m cold, Mary Rose.”

They would have made it back to Grapple Thorpe had it not been for the mail coach coming at breakneck speed around a corner of the country road.

Mary Rose saw that coach flying toward them, saw poor old Ricketts falter, rear back in panic, then stumble. She watched Leo fly over his head and land in a ditch beside the road.

“Meggie, Max, get out of the way, go! I’ll see to Leo!”

She couldn’t do a thing until the mail coach passed them, whipping up thick winds of dust in its wake.

Mary Rose slid off Garth’s back and ran to Leo. He was pulling himself upright, shaking his head. She didn’t touch him, just came down on her knees beside him. Meggie and Max were right behind her. “Are you all right, Leo?”

“My brains are scrambled,” Leo said, panting a bit. “My ribs feel like they’re broken into little sticks, my stomach is jumping into my neck—” He looked up and gave her a blazing smile. “Don’t worry, Mary Rose, I’m all right.”

“Oh, Leo,” she said and gently pulled him into her arms. “Just sit very still a moment.”

There was a sharp hitch to his breath, then he eased against her. Mary Rose said to Max and Meggie, “Let’s just stay here a moment until Leo gets his brains unscram-bled.”

Leo laughed.

Slowly, Mary Rose leaned away from him. She studied his pale face. “How do you feel? Tell me the truth now, Leo.”

“Just a bit dizzy.”

“No wonder. I want you to lie down a minute. There’s no rush, we can stay here as long as you need to. Max, tie the horses so they don’t run back to the vicarage stables along with old Ricketts.”

Leo was indeed dizzy, and so he didn’t argue. Mary Rose touched each of his ribs lightly. None were broken, thank God. She looked up when she heard Max trying to calm Garth. “He will be all right,” she said, and knew even as she spoke that she was praying it was true. He could be injured internally. “Leo, does this hurt?”

She touched him here and there, ending finally by lightly pressing on his belly. No pain, thank God.

“Do you want to vomit?”

“No, even the dizziness isn’t so bad now.”

“Good. Now, how would you like to ride Garth with me back to Grapple Thorpe? Chocolate for everyone. Oh, dear, did anyone bring any money?”

“Meggie always has money,” Leo said.

“She wins it off us,” Max said. “I wish she’d cheat, then we could complain to Papa about it.”

Leo said, “Just yesterday, Papa would have laughed if we’d said that. But not today. Not ever again.”

Mary Rose didn’t know what to say, and so she concentrated on helping Leo to rise. He was a bit shaky on his feet, but he was upright and walking, and then, finally, he smiled. “I’m all right, Mary Rose. Poor old Ricketts, when the fellow blew that silly horn, Ricketts must have thought it was Saint Peter calling him to the horse pearly gates in heaven.”

Meggie laughed. “Oh, Leo, if you ever let anything happen to you, I will kill you.”

Fifteen minutes later, they sat on a long, scarred old oak bench in the taproom at the Golden Goose Inn in the middle of Grapple Thorpe village, right across from a lovely green that boasted a pond and at least half a dozen ducks.

And that was where Mr. Dimplegate found them, that lovely young woman, all windblown, shepherding three children. He was the town bully, drank too much, and believed himself to be God’s special treasure to womankind. When he spotted Mary Rose, he knew this day would work out to be just dandy for him. All jocular, grinning widely, just a dash of ale froth on his upper lip, he walked to their table, hands on hips, and leaned down close to Mary Rose. “Eh, ye a governess, little gal? Ye sure are purty as a picture, ye are.”

Mary Rose looked up at the man, who was surely large, looked strong, and was young enough and drunk enough to be a problem. He was also standing much too close.

“No, I am their mother, sir,” she said and turned away from him. When he didn’t move, she said over her shoulder, “Good day, sir.”

It degenerated from there, beginning with a roar from Mr. Dimplegate. “Ye ain’t bloody well their mother, girl! What are ye, then? A maid seeing them back to their home?”

“Go away,” Mary Rose said.

“No female turns her back on Dimplegate,” he yelled and grabbed her arm. “Me, I’m a grand lover, a man o’ yer dreams.”

“You, sir, are more in the nature of a nightmare.” Mary Rose threw her chocolate in his face. Too bad it had cooled a bit.

Max yelled, “Get away from our mother, sir!”

“Shut yer trap, little sprat!”

Leo jumped up on the end of the table, turned a backward flip and landed on his feet, right in Mr. Dimplegate’s face. Leo shoved him hard, but Mr. Dimplegate had grabbed Mary Rose’s other arm. As he fell over backward, he jerked her up from the bench. They went down together.

The children were on their feet, yelling at him, hitting him. The owner was wringing his hands, having had too many run-ins with Dimplegate to come close. “See yerself home now, Danny,” he yelled. “Hey, you let the lady alone. She didn’t do nothin’. Let her go!” But his voice was swallowed by all the racket.

Mary Rose scrambled off Mr. Dimplegate and backed away from him. But he was fast. He grabbed her hand and held on to her like a lifeline as he came to his feet. “I’m going to wallop that little codshead,” he said, then yelled over his shoulder, “Ye get yer butt here, boy!”

It was Meggie who grabbed up a thick log from beside the fireplace, climbed up on a chair, and bashed Mr. Dimplegate on his large head. He whirled around, blinked up at the little girl who was now his height standing on that chair, and yelled not six inches from her face, “Why’d ye do that fer, little gal? This one, she ain’t nothing, jest a maid or a governess, or a nanny, and she needs a man.”

He poked his finger against his chest. “Ye see? All she needs is me. Now I’ll jest take her out o’ here for a bit and make her all ’appy.”

“She’s my mother, you idiot!” And Meggie hit him again with that log, really hard.

Mr. Dimplegate dropped Mary Rose’s hand, swayed where he stood, and collapsed finally against Meggie’s chair. The chair rocked a bit, then went flying. Mary Rose managed to break Meggie’s fall, which could have been nasty, since she would have landed too close to the stone fireplace. It was Mary Rose who landed against the fireplace, carrying Meggie’s weight, slamming against the hearthstone.

Leo was on his knees beside them in an instant. Meggie was blinking hard, getting herself together. “Mary Rose, are you all right? Oh, God, Max, do something!”

Leo was patting her face, even as Meggie was on her knees now beside her, frantically rubbing her hand.

“Oh, dear, oh, dear,” said Mr. Randall, the owner, still wringing his hands.

“Sir,” Max said, “we need you to get us a wagon. We must get our mother home. We live in Glenclose-on-Rowan. Our father is Reverend Sherbrooke, the vicar there. Please, sir, hurry!”

“Yes, yes,” Meggie said, crying now, “Papa will know what to do.”

29

CLOSE TO AN hour later, an ancient wagon belonging to Farmer Biggs, quickly emptied of moldering hay, and pulled by a gray gelding that was even older than Ricketts, lumbered to a stop in front of the vicarage gate.

Both Leo and Max were yelling even before the wagon pulled to a halt.

Mary Rose was awake, had awakened before Mr. Randall had carried her to the wagon and carefully laid her on a pile of smelly blankets. All three children had hovered over her on the bumpy ride back to Glenclose-on-Rowan.

She’d been content not to move, to let everything settle, she told the children. She smiled now up at Meggie. “I just feel a bit strange, Meggie, nothing bad, I’m sure of it.”

“You’re awfully pale, Mary Rose.”

“Well, I landed against the brick hearth. It was very hard and unforgiving. But I’ll be fine. I just feel a bit dull, heavy.”

“If you’re all right, then why do you look like you want to cry?”

Shouting voices poured out of the vicarage.

“I won’t cry. Please, love, don’t make a fuss. We don’t want to worry your father.”

But Meggie just shook her head.

Tysen was beside that old doddering wagon in an instant. He saw Mary Rose lying there, covered with blankets, so pale and listless that he knew she was dying. He’d never been so afraid in his life.

He climbed up beside her, studying her face closely before he said, “Mary Rose, are you all right?”

His beloved face was above her. He was worried. She wanted to weep. “It was an accident, a very silly accident, Tysen. I am quite all right, I just landed against a brick hearth at the inn in Grapple Thorpe, that’s all, and—” Suddenly she grabbed her stomach and cried out.

The pain lessened. “I don’t understand,” she said, and then the pain slashed through her again. This time it didn’t stop, just kept on and on, tearing at her insides, making her cry and whimper, making her twist, trying desperately to get away from it. She heard Tysen say, his voice hoarse with shock, “Oh, my God, she’s bleeding.” He’d been about to lift her out of the wagon and he lifted his hand. It was covered with blood.

“A miscarriage.”

Was that Sophie who had said that? The pain tore through her again, harder this time, deeper, and she wanted, quite simply, to die.

What was that Sophie had said? A miscarriage? Mary Rose was pregnant? She was losing her babe?

“Tysen,” she said and grabbed at his hand.

“It will be all right, Mary Rose, I swear it to you.” Then she was in his arms, and the pain was twisting and tearing her insides apart.

“A babe? Tysen, am I losing our babe?”

“Hush, Mary Rose. Please, it will be all right.” Tysen carried her to their bedchamber, aware that Sophie and Alex were running ahead of him, yelling out orders to Mrs. Priddie. Sophie was spreading towels on the bed.

He laid his wife down, only to have her clasp his hands so tightly she hurt him. “It’s all right,” he said over and over. She was lost to him for several moments. He felt the dreadful pain in her. He knew the exact moment when her body expelled the babe. Blood, so much blood, on his hands, his arms, covering her gown, weighing it down, stark red against the white towels.

She was crying, and he was holding her tightly against him, rocking her, talking nonsense, really, but he just couldn’t stop himself.

He heard Alex yell, “Fetch the doctor, Douglas, quickly! She’s bleeding too much!”

Tysen simply pulled away from her. “Hold still,” he said, his voice harsh enough to get through to her. Then he was between her legs, jerking away the bloody gown, tearing away her petticoats and chemise. So much blood, and it was nearly black now, that blood, and it was not only her blood but also the bloody waste that had been their babe.

“Mary Rose, listen to me.”

She forced herself outward at that hard voice, saw Tysen between her legs at the foot of the bed. “Stay with me,” he said, then pressed a towel wrapped around his fist as hard as he could against her. “I mean it, Mary Rose, you will stay with me, look at me. Damn you, don’t leave me. Open your eyes. That’s right.”

He knew little about childbirth, even less than that about miscarriage. He’d prayed with many women who had lost their babes, but he’d never seen it happen. He’d consoled men who’d lost their wives to childbirth. Oh, Jesus. He was the father of three children, yet he’d never been in the same room when Melinda Beatrice had given birth. He remembered her yelling. And now he shuddered.

So much blood, covering his hands. He pulled away the towel and took another one from Sophie and pressed it against her again.

“It will be all right, Mary Rose.” It was his litany, he thought. Oh, dear God, what else should he do?

It seemed a lifetime had passed and another begun before Dr. Clowder ran into the bedchamber, took in the situation at a glance, and very gently pushed Tysen away.

Tysen realized that his brothers and their wives were in the bedchamber. At least they’d kept the children outside. But he knew that they had heard her screaming, that they knew what had happened.

Tysen gathered Mary Rose against him and held her while Dr. Clowder plied his instruments. He felt her shock, her pain, her deadening sorrow. He felt it all deep inside himself.

He just held her, his bloody hands pressed against her, his face pressed against her tangled hair. She was still wearing her riding hat. He gently pulled it off and flung it to the floor. He saw Alex slowly pick it up and lay it on a table. Anything, he thought, anything anyone could do to keep all this pain at bay.

“I didn’t know,” she said, her voice hoarse from her yelling. “I didn’t even know I was pregnant.”

“I didn’t either,” he said. “It’s all right, Mary Rose. Please, my love, it will be all right.”

She stilled, utterly. And he realized then what he had said, and it filled him with quiet joy. At that exact moment, he knew that if he didn’t have her, he wouldn’t have anything at all. In those minutes, feeling her blood dry on his hands, feeling her tears wet his linen shirt, prickle against his neck, he knew to his very soul that without this woman, his life was meaningless.

No, not that, never that, but that his life would have no more importance to him. And if he was of no importance to himself, then how could he possibly serve God?

In that instant, holding this precious human being against him, realizing that he could so easily have lost her, still could lose her, he finally understood. Everything fell into place. All the confusion, all the chaos and uncertainty, it was gone as if it had never existed in the first place. He felt peace flow through him, fill him, and he knew it was all right now, all of it.

He smiled as he kissed her forehead, her nose, and finally her mouth. “We are together,” he said against her dry lips. “I love you, Mary Rose. I love you with all my heart, I will love you all my life and beyond, and together we will bring joy to this damned town and to ourselves and to our children. Please tell me that I haven’t lost you. If I lost you, it would be all over for me. And for my children, too, I suspect.”

Mary Rose looked at his dearly loved face through the tears that blurred her sight. “Tysen,” she said, “I’m so glad you came back to me. I love you so very much. I don’t want to ever leave you.”

Then she simply closed her eyes. She was unconscious, that or asleep. He touched his forehead to hers, not moving.

“The bleeding has nearly stopped, Reverend Sherbrooke. Your wife will be all right. You did well.”

Tysen realized he was praying again, and it was a prayer filled with hope and endless gratitude, a prayer of promise and soul-deep joy.

Tysen stepped to his pulpit. Brilliant sunlight poured through the stained-glass windows. He felt the warmth of it on his face. He paused a moment, looking out over the many faces he’d known for eight years, all of them focused now on him, wondering at his silence, starting to get nervous because they didn’t understand.

Tysen looked at his brothers and their families, then at his own family—his boys, Meggie, and Mary Rose, who was still too pale, too thin, but she’d insisted she was well enough to come. And she was smiling at him, the most beautiful smile he’d ever seen in his life.

He felt a smile tugging at his own mouth. He wondered if he would ever stop smiling. He leaned forward, clasped his hands atop the pulpit, and said, “I have been here for eight years. I was a very young man when I came to Glenclose-on-Rowan, given this living by my brother, the earl of Northcliffe. You have, all of you, seen me grow to my full manhood amongst you. You have held me and my children close to you. I know each of you and I cherish what you are, what you doubtless will come to be.

“As you all know, I am now Lord Barthwick of Kildrummy Castle in Scotland. I went there solely out of duty, but God must have been directing my steps, for what I found was a very special woman who has shown me the absolute wonder of life, the glory of being a man who is beloved not only by God, but by a woman that He fashioned just for me.

“Through her, my dearest wife, Mary Rose Sherbrooke, I finally realized how very lucky I am. I finally saw what was right in front of me. I finally saw my children as the precious beings they are. I found that life could be filled with joy—endless joy. All I had to do was embrace it. I did.

“Now, however, I see that many of you wish that I would return to being that very devout and sober man you were used to, that very serious young man you had nurtured and watched grow in his faith and his self-belief. Since you had never seen him as a man filled with contentment and laughter and so much love he threatened to burst with it, you did not know that person, and thus he made you uncomfortable, and thus you did not want him.

“He was a stranger to you. He made you uncertain because where he once was stern in his admonishments to you as God’s creatures, once told you in no uncertain terms that a sin would blight your soul, he now wanted you to see the simple pleasure of just being alive, to feel the sun on your face and to smile under its warmth, to hear the sound of your children’s voices, knowing that they are yours and you will love them into eternity. This man now wants you to believe with all your hearts that God loves you, wishes you to be devout and loyal and honest, to worship Him with all the joy in your hearts, to be grateful to Him and to each other for the happiness we find here, on His magnificent earth.

“Our Lord created us, all the men and women who are sitting here today. And what he gave us, what he placed deep within each of us, is the capacity to love and honor and know in our hearts that there is meaning in our lives, meaning that allows for us to come together and give each other boundless happiness.

“I stand before you this morning a man who has been given one of our dear God’s greatest gifts. God has blessed me, opened my heart to know more pleasure than a simple man deserves.

“All of you know that I returned from Scotland with a wife. Her name, as you well know now, is Mary Rose Sherbrooke. She and I and our three children are a family, and we will remain a family who loves God and each other, a family that rejoices that we are together, that we care endlessly for each other.

“This will be my last service as your vicar. Mr. Samuel Pritchert, a man you all admire and respect, will be here to advise you and assist you in any spiritual matters. I do not know who will come to Glenclose-on-Rowan as your vicar, but I know that the earl of Northcliffe will give it serious and careful thought.

“I thank you again for my eight years as your vicar. I will think well of all of you for the rest of my days.”

And he smiled again, at everyone, and stepped back from the pulpit.

The silence was deafening.

Meggie said, her voice delighted and spontaneous, reaching to every pew in the church, “Oh, my, Mary Rose, just imagine. We’re all together. You can have babies and I can teach them what’s what, just as I have Max and Leo.”

“I will teach them how to tell ghost stories,” Grayson Sherbrooke said.

Ryder Sherbrooke shouted with laughter.

Epilogue

Bleaker’s Bluff

Kildrummy Castle

September 15, 1816

THE SUN WAS a ball of fire, warming the land as it slowly rose to fill the sky and turn the sea red.

“It is the most beautiful sight in the world,” Mary Rose said as she leaned closer to her husband. She was sitting against him, cradled between his arms and legs, and he tightened his arms around her, pulling his cloak closer around her, just in case, since it was still early morning.

“It is one of them,” he said, and kissed her ear. His fingers splayed over her swollen belly. “Our babe does well this morning? He is not kicking you?”

“He is fine. Mayhap he is resting after performing Leo’s acrobatics all night.”

“We must leave next week, love. I don’t wish to, but I don’t want you too far along in your pregnancy before we go back to Glenclose-on-Rowan. Also, Dr. Clowder has threatened me to ask that you be there for him to deliver our child.”

“Dr. Clowder told me that since Max and Leo and Meggie are such marvelous children, if we don’t want this one, he will be delighted to adopt him or her.”

Tysen laughed, then said more soberly, “Well, the poor man had two sons, both of them rotters. One got sent to Botany Bay for beating two men and stealing their purses; the other was killed in a duel for sleeping with a man’s wife.”

“We can give him very liberal visitation rights,” Mary Rose said.

“Did you enjoy your mother’s birthday last evening?”

“Oh, yes, everyone was in such high spirits. Isn’t it grand, Tysen? She’s so very happy with Miles. All those years playing a madwoman, and now all she does is sing and laugh, just like we do.”

Tysen wasn’t sure what he felt about Mary Rose’s mother. He supposed he wished her well now. He was kissing Mary Rose’s ear when she said, “Isn’t it odd that Donnatella was married to Erickson for three months and his mother just up and died so suddenly, in her sleep? At least that’s what my mother told me.”

Tysen thought of Donnatella. It didn’t take long for him to say, “No. I don’t find that particularly odd. Donnatella, I think, was born knowing how to land on her feet.”

“You don’t really think that she—”

“I think it best not to visit that notion. Oh, yes, love, I got a letter from Samuel Pritchert.”

“Oh, my, I don’t like the way you said that. All right, Tysen. I’m ready. What did Samuel write to you?”

“Actually, he’s pleading with me to come home. He said that Mr. Gaither, as the congregation’s representative, came to see him. It seems that everyone is despondent, nearly miserable. We have been gone for three months, much too long a time, it seems. A great cloud of melancholia has descended over the town, and all because they were so used to leaving the church smiling, perhaps even grinning a bit at something the vicar had said during his sermon, feeling warm that the vicar told them they were worthy of God’s love. Yes, they were used to discussing their problems and their neighbors’ problems with a vicar who made them see that silver linings abounded, and not just misery and bad feelings. He wrote that they want me back so I may bring optimism into their lives again.”

“Was Samuel truly pathetic?”

“Very.”

“Well, then. Perhaps after we spend some time with Sinjun and Colin at Vere Castle, we can return. At the first frost?”

“Probably before that. I believe that Oliver can’t wait to see the back of me. Bless his heart, he finds himself in a bind. He loves the children so much, they follow him everywhere, and yet he much enjoys being the master here. If he could get away with it, he’d have me go back to England and keep the rest of you here.”

She turned a bit in his arms to look up at him. “I’m glad that Douglas and Alex were here so they could see how very well Oliver is doing. I’ve never seen such a proud man as your brother, striding along beside while Oliver showed him everything.” She snuggled against him, breathing in the scent of him, and then his fingers moved lightly over her belly, and she knew such a burst of love, such overflowing gratitude, that she wanted to shout with it. Instead, she said, “It was just a year ago that I met you. Remember, Tysen? I was stuck in one of those dratted sheep killers and you hauled me out.”

“The luckiest day of my life,” he said.

She was silent a moment, the sun filling the sky now, the warmth on her face. She closed her eyes for a moment, her head on his shoulder, and said against his throat, “And mine as well.”

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

PENDRAGON

A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author

All rights reserved.

Copyright © 2002 by Catherine Coulter

This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.

For information address:

The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is

http://www.penguinputnam.com

ISBN: 978-1-1012-1913-3

A JOVE BOOK®

Jove Books first published by The Jove Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

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JOVE and the “J” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.

Electronic edition: May, 2004

Contents

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

32

33

34

35

Epilogue

1

The Cat Races

A bright Saturday afternoon, April 1823

near Eastbourne, England

The McCaulty Racetrack,

“MR. RALEIGH, GET Tiny Tom out of Mr. Cork’s way. Blessed Hell, he’ll run right over him!”

Tiny Tom was jerked off the track just in the nick of time, not more than two seconds before Mr. Cork would have laid him flat. Tiny Tom was Mr. Raleigh’s great hope, but he just wasn’t yet ready for this level of competition. Tiny Tom, black as the devil’s familiar with small white paws, was, after all, only one year old, not fully grown or as yet well trained.

But when the runners had scampered and darted past, Mr. Raleigh set Tiny Tom back on the track, swatting his hindquarters and growling in his little ear. That growl, evidently, promised chopped-up chicken livers. Tiny Tom, tasting those chicken livers going down his little gullet, shot forward.

Meggie Sherbrooke scanned the racers, cupped her mouth with her hands, and yelled again, “Blessed Hell, Mr. Cork! Run! Don’t let Blinker II catch you! You can do it, run!”

Reverend Tysen Sherbrooke tended to ignore his daughter’s very occasional lapses into the favored Sherbrooke curse, since it really was quite fit for the racetrack, and yelled himself. “Run, Mr. Cork, run! Cleopatra, you can do it, sweet girl, go!”

Mr. Cork, who’d finally finished growing into his paws six months before, was a big tabby, all orange-striped on his back, the top of his head, and snow white all over his belly and legs, strong as Clancy, Mr. Harbor’s prize bull. He ran only to the smell of a trout, about six pounds and thankfully always dead, baked with just a squeeze of fresh lemon, held by Max Sherbrooke at the finish line, who waved it back and forth like a metronome, keeping Mr. Cork’s attention focused on that trout in front of him. When not in strict training, however, Mr. Cork many times spent his mornings beneath the dining table, his orange-striped tail waving lazily from beneath the tablecloth, announcing that he was ready to be served a nice strip of crispy bacon, or perhaps a small bowl of milk, or both, if the donor would exert himself a bit.

Strong and big, legs pumping with muscle—sheer power and poetry in motion—said Lady Dauntry of Mr. Cork in admiration. She’d been the mistress of ceremonies for the past fourteen years, always calling the race, even in inclement weather. Lady Dauntry deplored corruption on the racetrack, and even now, in 1823, it was rumored that there were still occasional attempts to fix races, and so there was always stringent oversight by all racing mews.

Mary Rose, Tysen’s Scottish wife for eight years now, yelled in a very loud and lovely lilt, “Run, Cleo, my bonnie girl, run!” Then she ratcheted up her lungs and yelled, “You can keep up with her, Alec! Run, lad!”

Seven-year-old Alec Sherbrooke was actually trying to keep up with Leo, whom he worshipped. It was being said in the major racing mews that just perhaps Alec Sherbrooke was one of a very rare breed indeed—a cat whisperer. If he was, he would be extraordinarily special. It was said that Cleo would begin leaping whenever Alec was about and thus that was how she’d been trained so quickly to this new technique. Everyone marveled—a cat whisperer. If Alec Sherbrooke was so blessed, his was going to be a famous name in the racing world. Since Alec wasn’t yet big enough to keep up with her, Leo, his older half brother, was Cleo’s on-track trainer. Meggie privately wondered if Cleo ran because Leo ran beside her or because of what seven-year-old Alec whispered in her white ear before each race.

For those who preferred the more dainty racers, like Cleopatra, christened Clea Mia by a visiting Italian curate some months before, she was a natural leaper. Breath held, Mary Rose watched her run her very fast six steps, building up momentum, then like a dancer, she took off her hind paws, legs extended, leapt forward, stretching her long calico body in the air and landed directly ahead of Blinker II.

Everyone cheered. Lady Dauntry had announced that Cleopatra was grace in motion, and all agreed it was true.

In the beginning of the race, Cleo was content to run a good six lengths behind the leader, running alongside Leo, with seven-year-old Alec trying to keep up. Leo said her name over and over, just loud enough for her to hear, keeping pace with her, difficult when she leapt, but Leo was young and strong and he loved to see Cleopatra stretch and leap and land some three feet ahead of all the other racers. The Harker brothers, from the Mountvale mews, praised the technique as unique and ever so lovely to watch. Then they would speak of Alec and shake their heads and wonder how he would change the world of cat racing with his gift. A cat whisperer, just imagine.

Blinker II poked his head out, running all out, managed to pass Cleopatra again. He was running his paws off, staying right in the middle of the course, hearing his master’s shout of encouragement, a shout that meant to Blinker that he would get all the fresh warm milk he could lap up as it was squeezed out of Trudy, the Grimsby cow. He didn’t even veer away when another racing cat nearly ran over him. Mr. Grimsby hadn’t overtrained him for this meet, heeding the Harker brothers’ advice some six months before to keep laps at no more than ten per day. Blinker II was all gray, with bright green eyes. He always purred when he ran.

Meggie was getting hoarse, but it didn’t matter. She yelled at the top of her lungs, “Come on, Mr. Cork! Move! You can run faster than Blinker II! Look at that delicious trout Leo is waving for you. Just you smell that tangy flavor!”

Mr. Cork was serious now, running so fast his legs were a blur, his golden paws barely skimming the dry dirt course. His green eyes were fastened on that gently swinging trout in Max’s right hand, now in full sight, standing just over the finish line.

Cleopatra executed a major leap, landing her some three and a half feet ahead of Leo. He panted to catch up with her because when she couldn’t see him out of her right eye, she would simply stop and wait for him. Or perhaps she waited for both Leo and Alec, no one could say for sure. It was the only mdrawback of this training method. Leo Sherbrooke, seventeen, trained as hard as any of the racing cats in the vicarage mews. In the early morning both Leo and Alec could be seen running across the fields toward the Channel.

Horatio Blummer’s stark white racer, Candace, shaped much like a cannon, mean as could be, was all snarls and fangs when she got near another racer. Those racers who didn’t move away from her quickly got bitten hard on the rump. Candace was running fairly well today, snarling with every step. Just plain mean, that was what Mr. Blummer said proudly of Candace. She didn’t need any bribes to make her run hard.

Mr. Cork paused just an instant to snarl back at her before, tail stiff in the air, he sprinted past her.

Mr. Goodgame’s Horace, ten years old now, but still game, a small joke, always repeated by Mr. Goodgame, was long and skinny and looked like a white-and-gray spotted arrow flying through the field of racers. Mr. Goodgame had attached a flag to Horace’s fat white tail, and it waved madly in the breeze. It showed two cats standing on their hind legs, holding crossing swords, the words beneath:

Leve et reluis

Translated: Arise and re-illumine, a beautiful sentiment, surely, but not entirely understood by the locals.

They were nearly to the three-quarters mark. Only three cats had been seduced from the track by hooligans who hooted like owls to scare the cats into skidding off the track, or hollered like fishmongers, waving overripe fish or raw chicken legs. Training assistants from surrounding mews wrestled the hooligans away from the track.

Meggie shouted, “Mr. Cork, I’ll give you three strips of bacon if you beat out old Lummley!”

Old Lummley was a champion. He knew his business, and needed only to see his mistress, Mrs. Foe, standing at the finish line, her arms crossed over her mighty bosom whistling the same tune over and over, to run straight and fast. He’d gotten a touch of arthritis over the last year and the experts predicted it would soon slow him down.

Four-year-old Rory Sherbrooke loved Cleopatra, although she twitched her tail and ran away from him whenever he was close enough to try to grab her. Rory waved frantically as he sat atop his father’s shoulders, yelled until his father believed he would surely go deaf.

Meggie patted Rory’s leg, then saw Mr. Cork suddenly pull away from Cleopatra, who’d just landed short on one of her leaps. There was a moan and a cheer from the crowd who lined the racetrack.

Cheering intensified. Five cats remained, running as hard as they could, all in splendid shape, all wanting to win. Four of them were grouped together—Cleopatra, Blinker II, Old Lummley, and Mr. Cork. They were moving fast, faster still. Candace, just behind them, her head down, was looking neither right nor left, just running hard out to catch the pack.

Suddenly, from the back came Tiny Tom, leaping over racers in front of him. His leap was a bit like Cleopatra’s but with an added corkscrew flair just before he landed. The crowd held its breath as the small cat leapt over Horace, barely skimming the proud flag flying off that fat tail. Then, in the next moment, Tiny Tom landed, by awful accident, on Blinker II’s back, causing the racer to twist about, bite Tiny Tom’s ear, sending them both howling and spitting off the track and into Mrs. Blanchard, eighty years old and deaf, and tangle in her long skirts as she hit at them with her parasol.

Pandemonium broke out when Mr. Cork, in a final surge of power, flew over the finish line, beating Cleopatra by three whiskers. Old Lummley and Candace tumbled over each other vying for third place. Blinker II trotted back to the track, realized he’d lost and walked over the finish line, tail stiff, nose in the air. Horace followed behind him, his tail flag dragging in the dirt. There would be no re-illuminating this day. As for Tiny Tom, he was exhausted. He lay on his side at the edge of the track, licking his paws.

When Lady Dauntry, in a voice that carried all the way to Eastbourne, announced that Mr. Cork had won, Max hefted him up and carried him, draped over his shoulder, in state, to the winner’s circle, Alec walking proudly beside him. Max was panting by the time he got there, as Mr. Cork wasn’t a lightweight. When Mr. Cork saw Meggie, he automatically opened his mouth and let out a mighty MEOW. She dutifully pulled a piece of bacon wrapped in a pristine napkin from her pocket and fed it to him, telling him he was a beautiful boy and a splendid racer.

Mr. Cork consumed his bacon, licked Meggie’s hand, and laid his head back on Max’s shoulder. He looked very pleased with himself.

Cleopatra knew she’d lost. She wasn’t happy about it. Unfortunately, good sportsmanship was something trainers couldn’t seem to teach the racers, and so when Leo carried her too close to Mr. Cork, she reached out a paw and swiped his head. He opened one eye, tossed one hiss her way, then fell back to sleep, undisturbed by her bad manners.

“Next time, Cleo,” Leo said, stroking his hand down her sleek back, “you’ll get the orange giant next time, you’ll see. You need some more takeoff training, more power in your hind legs, and Alec and I have come up with just the way to do it.”

Alec nuzzled her head even as his fingertips lightly touched her ears. Then he whispered something in her small ear, and everyone would swear that she was listening to him. He kissed the top of her head. She forgot her snit and purred madly.

Mr. Grimsby saw this, and nodded wisely. “A cat whisperer,” he said to his wife, who looked profoundly awed. “Yes, Alec is a budding cat whisperer.”

There was one more race that afternoon, this one just for the three-year-olds, no others, as this age was the most aggressive, the most untrainable. There always seemed to be cat free-for-alls, fur flying all over the track from yowling cat fights. Many times not a single racer crossed the finish line, and today was no exception.

“Kitters will be kitters,” Ozzie Harker said, shaking his head as he carried off Monroe, a wicked three-year-old tabby with a mangled ear.

Meggie patted both Mr. Cork and Cleo, kissing their faces until they both drew back from her, wondering where the food was.

“An excellent day,” Meggie said, and hugged her father. “Now that Alec is focusing on Cleo, I would wager she’ll begin beating Mr. Cork.”

“The boy is amazing, isn’t he, Meggie?”

His daughter heard the love in her father’s voice for his son, and hugged him. “Both he and Rory are wonderful. You and Mary Rose have done very well.” She grinned. “And just as I promised, I have taught them what’s what.”

Tysen laughed, just couldn’t help himself as he remembered that long-ago sermon that had ended in not ony a good deal of laughter but profound acceptance.

Meggie said, “I wish Susannah and Rohan Carrington could have been here. I’m just glad they let the Harker brothers attend to scout out the competition. It’s always more exciting when the Mountvale mews are represented.”

Tysen said, “They’ll be here in May. They’re in Paris, Rohan wrote me, looking at all the new crop of beautiful gardens. You know Rohan and his gardens—he will return with a dozen new designs.”

“It was a good day,” Max said, still carrying Mr. Cork, no longer panting so heavily now.

“Yes,” his father agreed, “it was.”

“Papa, can I carry Mr. Cork?”

Tysen looked up at his four-year-old Rory, mentally added Mr. Cork’s additional weight, and sighed. “Hand him up, Max.”

2

Sherbrooke town house

Putnam Place, London

One week later

THE SHERBROOKE TOWN house, on the corner of Putnam Place, was a three-story Georgian mansion built in the middle of the last century by an earl of Northcliffe with far more money than good taste, or bon gout, as he was wont to shout out when he took his pleasure at Madame Orly’s brothel. He was also the same earl who had filled the Northcliffe gardens with all the coupling Greek statuary. Sherbrooke children, adults, guests, servants, and the occasional tradesman had, for the past sixty-five years, spent hours staring at the naked marble men and women, all in the throes of physical endeavors. Meggie wished she could have met that earl. Neither Leo nor Max had ever let fall to their vicar father that their cousins, Uncle Douglas’s boys, had quickly shown them the statues in the hidden part of the Northcliffe gardens, and how all four boys had gawked and made lewd remarks and studied the statues in great giggling detail for hours on end. None of them was stupid.

Meggie was just down the hall from her aunt Alex’s bedchamber that adjoined to Uncle Douglas’s in a lovely airy room that was all shades of peach and cream. She’d stayed in this same room since she’d been eight years old.

There came a light tap on the door.

“Enter,” Meggie called out.

It was her aunt Alex, looking tussled and windblown and as happy as the spring sunshine because she’d been out riding early with Uncle Douglas in Hyde Park. They’d doubtless galloped to their heart’s content because no one was about that early to see and remark upon such eccentric behavior. She was wearing a dark green riding habit that Uncle Douglas had presented her on her birthday. Her rich red hair had tumbled out of her stylish riding hat and was in curls and tangles down her back.

She looked flushed and happy and in high spirits. “I love to be back in London,” she said as she stripped off her York tan riding gloves, the leather incredibly soft. “It’s ever so when we first arrive. Everything is fresh and new again. Now, it’s your first Season, Meggie, and I am so pleased that Tysen gave you over into our care. What fun we shall have. I’ve come to tell you that Douglas will be taking you to Madame Jordan’s this morning.”

“Who is Madame Jordan?”

“Why, she’s my dressmaker, has been since Douglas and I married.” Alex broke off a moment, a wicked memory breaking into a big smile. “Hmmm, oh yes, between the two of them, you will look like a princess. Trust whatever your uncle says. He has excellent style.”

Both her uncles had had excellent style when it came to ladies’ clothes, Meggie had been told all her life. Her own father did too, one assumed, since all Sherbrooke males had unconscionable portions of luck and style, but as a vicar, he normally didn’t let his style out in full company.

Mary Rose, Meggie’s stepmother, and Meggie, in a house full of males, had long ago pulled together and seen to their own shopping, enjoying it immensely. Because they weren’t dolts, the four males in the Vicarage household, including Alec and Rory, knew that they were to instantly compliment any new garment, the greater the length of the compliment, the better treatment accorded them. Their father, hardly ever a dolt, roundly endorsed this.

“Now, Douglas wishes to leave as soon as he changes from his riding clothes. He has a meeting with the foreign office this afternoon. I do hope it’s not yet another offer of a diplomatic post. The last one was to Rome. It was very hot when we were there. We spent a lot of time with cardinals and bishops, and that meant I was very well covered up.”

“I would perhaps consider Paris,” Meggie said.

“He turned that down two years ago,” Alex said. Indeed, Lord Northcliffe had turned down several diplomatic offerings, and was frequently called in by the King, George IV, particularly on matters pertaining to the French, a people Douglas understood very well, and then he would snort.

An hour later Meggie and her uncle were discussing fashion with Madame Jordan in her elegant shop in the heart of Regent Street, at #14, on the east side.

It wasn’t raining, a miracle, Meggie said to her uncle, since it had poured all the way to London, poured the entire previous evening, but beginning at dawn, April was strutting beautiful spring plumage. Flowers were bursting out and trees were turning green. Meggie couldn’t breathe deeply enough.

There were only three ladies and their maids in the shop that morning because it was quite early. Madame Jordan took one look at Meggie’s uncle, and flew to him, presenting her cheek to be kissed, which he did. After tea and gossip, Madame Jordan said to Uncle Douglas, considering Meggie irrelevant to the process, which she was, “Just fancy, a young lady for you to apply your excellent taste to, my lord. She will be a beauty, with my assistance. Hmmm, a nice waist, which is good since ladies are now allowed to have waistlines again, and her bosom is ample. Yes, nice skin, and that hair, the same rich color as Mr. Ryder Sherbrooke’s and Lady Sinjun’s, all blonds and browns and sunlight. And those blue eyes, I will make them sparkle with magnificence. Now, let me take her measurements, and we will see what is what.” Meggie was stripped to her petticoat and chemise and stockings, stood upon a small dais, measured, large swatches of material draped over her, from the filmiest silks to the most brilliant and shimmery satins, all with Uncle Douglas looking on, making comments, stroking his jaw, looking like a man in charge of an army, and every soldier in that army was ready to do his bidding.

When she saw the ball gown Douglas picked out for her to wear the next evening, Madame Jordan nodding enthusiastically, her heart thrummed with excitement and pleasure. It was glorious, tulle over white satin with two lines of exquisite embroidery from the waist down the skirt to the hem, suggesting an open robe.

“Thank God you look very fine in white, Meggie,” he said, looking her up and down and nodding. The sleeves were short and tight, the neckline square. There were very narrow flounces, one at the hem, the second nearly to the knees.

“It’s not overdone,” said Douglas, “and at last the waist is where it should be. You have a nice small waist, Meggie, and your bosom is particularly pleasant—ah, perhaps I shouldn’t point that out in your hearing, but it’s true, just as Madame said. Yes, this style will become you. No more schoolgirl gowns, my dear. You are now a young lady in her first Season.”

Madame Jordan sighed. “Remember, my lord, when you first brought your young bride to me? What atrocious taste she had, and still has, for that matter, but she did understand the power of her magnificent bosom, and dug in her heels.”

“Women always understand the power of the bosom,” Douglas said, snorting. “As for my wife, she still wears her gowns cut nearly to her knees, and I don’t like it any more now than I did then. Men ogle her, Nicolette. Three men could ogle her at the same time, she is so well endowed.”

Madame Jordan laughed and poked his arm. “Ah, a jealous husband, isn’t it delightful, my dear?”

Meggie looked from Nicolette to her uncle, getting her first glimpse of uncharted territory. “Yes, ma’am, now that I am thinking about it, why yes, it is quite delightful.”

Then came a riding habit in royal blue that made Meggie want to weep it was so beautiful. “Oh goodness, Uncle Douglas, it is too fine,” she whispered as she ran her fingers over the fabric that one of Madame’s minions had delivered directly to Meggie’s fingertips.

“We will come back tomorrow, Meggie, to order up more gowns for you and to have your ball gown fitted. This is just the beginning. Tomorrow evening you will look like a princess for the Ranleigh ball.” He said to Madame, “Her coming-out ball will be in two weeks. I want something very special for her that night.”

“I will find it,” Madame said comfortably, and if Meggie wasn’t mistaken—and she wasn’t since she’d seen the same look many times in Mary Rose’s eyes—there was a gleam of pure lust in Madame’s fine dark eyes as she watched Uncle Douglas leave her shop.

“She, er, really appreciates you, Uncle Douglas.”

A dark eyebrow went up. “You are eighteen, Meggie, a vicar’s daughter. What do you know of men and women sorts of things?”

She laughed. “I live with my father and Mary Rose. Those two—they laugh and hug and sneak kisses when they think they’re alone, which they never are in the vicarage. What’s more, Rory came into my bedroom two weeks ago, afraid because he’d heard his mother yelling. I am not an idiot, Uncle Douglas.”

“Your father is a very happy man,” was all that Douglas would say to that revelation. Then, later, he laughed and said, “Ah, I would like to hear some day how you dealt with little Rory’s concern. Now, Meggie, I have something to say to you. You will enjoy yourself here in London. You aren’t hunting for a husband, just having fun. There is no pressure on you to attach some idiot gentleman. That’s all your grandmother’s idea, not ours. Your father is in complete agreement. Also, you are something of an heiress, so there will be some men drooling on your slippers in hopes of attaching you. You will be careful of any man who goes over the line. Do you understand?”

“Oh yes. Aunt Alex told me that she was thrown at you because her papa needed money desperately, but, she told me, since I’m not in that situation, I can just skip about and smile and flirt with whomever pleases me. Papa kept telling me that I was to waltz and learn how everything worked and remain reasonably modest. Mary Rose wants me to see all the plays. Now that I think about it, Uncle Douglas, I don’t think Papa wants me to marry and leave the vicarage until I’m thirty.”

“That’s possible,” Douglas said, and smiled, imagining that he wouldn’t want a man near his daughter, if he and Alex had produced one, which they hadn’t.

“Grandmother Lydia tells me I must be vigilant or I will end up on the shelf like Aunt Sinjun nearly did. She kept insisting that eighteen was the perfect age to marry.”

Douglas laughed. “Bless my mother, at least she will never change. You will have fun, Meggie, that’s what it’s all about.”

The evening of the Ranleigh ball, Alex said as she smoothed her hands over the soft silk of her deep rose ball gown, “I am so pleased that my waistline is finally down to where my waist actually is.”

“On the other hand,” Douglas said, looking over at his wife, “you always looked splendid in the empire style, with the focus on your endowments.”

Meggie wasn’t particularly surprised; it had always been so with her aunts and uncles. She saw her uncle’s fingers creep toward her aunt’s shoulder, pause, then fall back to his side.

After Douglas had seated his two ladies in the Northcliffe carriage, tapped his gloved fist against the roof, he said to Meggie as the carriage rolled forward, “You will be treated very nicely because, to be very honest about it, no one would ever dare to insult one of my family. On the other hand, both Alex and I are rather well liked in society, as is your uncle Ryder and aunt Sophie. You will be your charming self, and if you have a question about how to behave in any given situation, just ask either Alex or me.”

“It’s still rather scary,” Meggie said. “I suspect the balls here are very different from ours in Glenclose-on-Rowan.”

“People are the same,” Alex said. “It’s just the gowns and jewels that are more splendid.”

“Some people are idiots,” said Douglas.

“And some are not,” Alex said. “Just like at home.”

“However,” Douglas said, “as I told you, if any man does anything that makes you uncomfortable, you will immediately tell him to take himself off. Then you will show me the clod and I will feed him a few choice words.”

“Yes, Douglas is quite good at that, although he hasn’t had much practice for a long time.”

Douglas sighed, crossed his arms over his chest. “Just think, Alex. In a couple of years all the boys will be let loose on London. Can you begin to imagine the sorts of messes they will embroil us in?”

Alex groaned.

Meggie laughed. She thought of their twin boys, James and Jason—the most beautiful males she’d ever seen in her life. She rolled her eyes, thinking of the two of them strolling into a ballroom and hoards of wide-eyed ladies swooning in ecstasy.

Lord and Lady Ranleigh greeted their guests at the bottom of the grand staircase that led up to their pride and joy—a ballroom occupying the entire second floor.

“The first Sherbrooke offspring to appear in Society,” Lady Ranleigh said, smiling at Meggie. “You are blessed with your family, my dear. There are many people eager to meet you. I trust you will enjoy yourself.”

Meggie said, “Oh yes, ma’am, Aunt Alex says I am to dance holes in my slippers.”

Meggie continued to smile, to laugh, to make jests with all sorts of people who were perfectly pleasant to her. Young gentlemen came by to meet her and stayed or asked her to dance. It was just before the midnight dinner that she saw a tall man she knew looked familiar. She cocked her head to one side as she stared at him.

Surely she’d met him before, but where? The tilt of his head, she knew she’d seen him somewhere before. But it wasn’t just his air of familiarity that held her in place. It was the oddest thing. Meggie felt the impact of him to her toes, which, she was forced to admit, were on the sore side what with dancing every dance.

She recognized that impact in the deepest part of her. She hadn’t forgotten it. It had simply lain dormant for a goodly number of years.

She was still looking toward him when she reached her aunt Alex. Her heart was beating, slow deep thuds. Why wouldn’t he turn around? It had to be him, it just had to.

“You are enjoying yourself, love?”

Meggie managed to look away from him a moment. “Oh yes, I just danced with Viscount Glover. He speaks Spanish fluently and wants to enlarge his father’s succession houses.”

“Hmmm. He is an interesting young man. I believe he lost his wife in childbirth just last year.”

Meggie nodded, but she wasn’t paying attention. She was staring at that man. “Who is that man, Aunt Alex? The one who is speaking to the three gentlemen beneath that chandelier?”

Uncle Douglas came up behind his wife just then. “What man, Meggie?”

“That one,” Meggie said, and watched her uncle turn to look at him. At that moment the man finally turned.

“Well,” Douglas said slowly, “this is a pleasant surprise. I hadn’t known he was in town.”

Meggie was staring. No wonder she’d felt the familiarity, the impact that jarred her to her soul. It was Jeremy Stanton-Greville, Aunt Sophie’s younger brother. She had fallen in love with him when she was thirteen years old and he was a wild young man of nearly twenty-four. She’d looked at him with a young girl’s full heart and fallen at his feet, at least metaphorically speaking.

Douglas said to her, “I’m surprised you don’t recognize him, Meggie, it’s Jeremy Stanton-Greville. One of your numerous cousins.”

“Oh no, he isn’t really my cousin, Uncle Douglas,” she said, and was so glad of that fact that she nearly shouted with the relief of it, with the wonder of it. He was finally back in her life, and now she was finally old enough for him. “He’s my almost-cousin.”

3

MEGGIE LOOKED AT him again, really looked, and she was so excited, she had to really pay attention or she knew she’d stutter herself right out of the ballroom and look like an idiot. “He looks a bit different. Of course it’s been a very long time since I last saw him. Goodness, I don’t remember him as being so very tall, and so stylish. Was that his laugh? Oh yes, I’m sure it’s him laughing. It was a wonderful laugh, all deep and full, don’t you think; and—” Meggie pulled back from the precipice and gulped because her aunt was looking at her with a good deal of appalled comprehension.

“Hmmm,” said Uncle Douglas, all his attention focused on Meggie now. She’d been the cutest little girl, a benevolent tyrant to her brothers, the ruler of all the male cousins. But she wasn’t a little girl any longer. Jeremy Stanton-Greville? There were a lot of years separating them—a good dozen—too many in Douglas’s opinion. At least Jeremy wasn’t yet married; Douglas would have been notified. “All right, then,” he said slowly. “Why don’t I fetch Jeremy and we can enjoy dinner together? Get reacquainted?”

“Yes,” said Aunt Alex comfortably. “It’s always interesting to reminisce, don’t you think, Meggie? We haven’t seen Jeremy in at least five years. He appears to have become a fine-looking man.”

“Yes,” Meggie said, never taking her eyes off him. “Do I look all right, Aunt Alex? My gown? My hair? Is my nose too shiny?”

“You look perfect.” So much for flirting and just enjoying herself and not husband hunting, Alex thought, seeing her niece’s heart in her beautiful Sherbrooke eyes as she stared at Jeremy Stanton-Greville, who had now turned and was speaking to Douglas. He was nearly Douglas’s height, well formed, a big man, and his hair was a dark rich brown, his eyes dark as well. Then he smiled and nodded and walked beside Douglas toward them. Alex saw that he limped slightly and remembered that he’d been born with a club foot, but it hadn’t slowed him down a bit, according to his brother-in-law, Ryder, who’d seen that he’d learned to fight dirty and ride like a centaur. He’d been a terror, Ryder had proudly said, during his years at Eton.

As Meggie watched him come closer and closer, her stomach pitched wildly. She felt like a fool, a dolt. She couldn’t think of a word to say. All she wanted to do was hurl herself at him and beg him to marry her.

Well, perhaps not yet. That would be rushing things just a bit. Maybe tomorrow or even the next day. She cleared her throat. She had to say something, had to charm him, show off her wit, if she could manage to find it.

Oh dear. What would happen now?

At three o’clock in the morning Meggie crawled beneath the thick covers on her bed and turned onto her back. She smiled, an idiot’s smile, but it didn’t matter. She was thrumming with happiness, with anticipation. Giddiness washed through her veins, and she wanted to shout to the cherubs that adorned the ceiling of her bedchamber, she was so very happy.

Imagine, her very first week in London and she’d met her future husband.

Jeremy Stanton-Greville. Meggie Stanton-Greville. Lady Stanton-Greville. It sounded wonderful. It sounded perfect.

What a beautiful man he was. Just imagine, her almost-cousin, and she’d known him nearly all her life, and here he was in London at exactly the same time she was and surely a sign that he’d been sent here for a specific reason, namely to see a grown-up Meggie Sherbrooke through a man’s eyes and throw himself at her feet. Oh yes, the last time he’d seen her, she’d been thirteen—bossy and loud, smacking her brothers and cousins whenever they deserved it, which was often. Not very appetizing memories for him. Her memories of Jeremy were, now that she thought of it, of a young man constantly in motion, constantly on horseback, always racing, windblown, laughing, white teeth. And he’d been full of himself. But it hadn’t mattered. She’d loved him the moment he opened his mouth that last time she’d seen him when she was thirteen years old. He’d come with Aunt Sophie for a visit. She’d taken just one quick look and it had been all over for her. She’d not let him out of her sight. Then he’d left and time had passed. Five whole years. And, after all, she was young and there was so much to do, and she’d forgotten about him, about the impact of him. He’d had but to reappear and that impact was back, slamming her hard, right in the heart. Talk about heated blood, hers was boiling her from the inside out. It was entirely too wonderful.

No, evidently, tucked away deep inside her, she hadn’t forgotten him entirely. She smiled up into the darkness.

And tonight, there he’d been and everything was different, everything had changed. When he’d taken her hand, when he’d smiled at her showing those lovely white teeth again, she’d wanted to throw herself in his arms. What would happen then—ah, kisses and more kisses. Nothing of that sort had happened, naturally, but to dance with him, she’d feel ready to burst with happiness.

After a few polite phrases had been exchanged, Jeremy had asked Uncle Douglas if he could pay a visit—today, in not more than eight hours from now.

He had another party to attend this night, a pity, but there it was. Just before he left them, he took Meggie’s hand, smiled at her yet again from his superior height, and told her she’d become a beauty, and kissed her cheek.

“Young men will take one look at you and fall to their knees,” he said.

“I used to line up Max, Leo, and Alec on their knees so Rory could walk over them,” she said, and thought, I only want you on your knees.

Jeremy burst into laughter.

“Rory got so good at it, he’d beg them to line up for him, but farther apart, so he could leap from one back to the next. Then, of course, the boys lined up so that Cleopatra, one of our racing cats, could practice her leaping by jumping from one to the next.”

“I had forgotten about the cat racing. I didn’t know you were so involved.”

“Oh yes. I’m Mr. Cork’s official trainer. He’s the current champion, at least until the next meet. We’ll see. Cleo’s leap gets longer and more timely with each race. I don’t remember, do you like cat racing?”

He shook his head. “Not really. I love horses. You must admit that racing cats is rather ridiculous compared to racing horses.”

She didn’t agree at all, felt as if he’d smacked her, but just very lightly, and said only, “That is a pity. I’m sure you’ll come about.” She couldn’t wait to see to it that he did. She would race cats and he would race his horses. It was a perfect match.

Jeremy said, “That is quite an image—of both the leaping cat and of Rory. How old is Rory now?”

When she fell asleep not five minutes later, Meggie dreamed that Cleo beat Mr. Cork in a race that lasted only three seconds. Cleo had pumped up her back legs, taken two long high leaps and landed over the finish line.

Another sign, Meggie thought when she woke up at nine o’clock the next morning, instantly awake, filled with so much excitement she thought she’d vomit. It was the sort of excitement and fear she’d never felt before in her life. If feeling sick to her stomach was the price, she’d endure it gladly. Yes, Cleo’s dream performance was a sign. Two leaps, two graceful soaring leaps, and Meggie would have him.

Jeremy Stanton-Greville, Baron Greville, of Dragon’s Jaw in Fowey, arrived at the Sherbrooke town house at precisely eleven o’clock in the morning.

Darby, only fifty years old, had taken over his butler duties six months before, and he was still basking in his new responsibilities. And finally, the staff recognized his importance. He knew he was awe-inspiring, what with his measured walk, more of a smooth glide really, his dignified set of the shoulders and his incredibly well-pressed black knee pants and white linen.

He had known Jeremy Stanton-Greville since he was nine years old, newly arrived in England from Jamaica, and Mr. Ryder Sherbrooke’s brother-in-law.

What a handsome man he’d become. Darby hadn’t seen him since he was a carefree young man, wild and free and a new member of the Four Horse Club, wearing their colors, racing to the death.

For the first time since he’d assumed butlerdom, Darby smiled, showing a missing molar.

“It’s Darby, isn’t it?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Good God, I see you’re now in charge of this place. Congratulations.” And Jeremy shook Darby’s hand, nearly sending the redheaded Darby into a swoon of pleasure.

“Ah, my lord, it’s been too long, far too long. I haven’t laid an eye on you since—what was it—September of 1815, yes, that was it, there were such celebrations because Napoleon was gone once and for all. How have you been?”

Jeremy smiled. “I have been just fine, Darby, traveling quite a bit, to Jamaica, you know, to my plantation there and then to Baltimore.”

“You went to Baltimore? Why ever would you wish to go there?”

Jeremy turned at Meggie Sherbrooke’s voice. He turned and smiled at her. “Hello, Meggie. Yes, I was just telling Darby that I spent several years in Jamaica at Camille Hall, my sugar plantation there. Then I went to Baltimore to stay with James Wyndham and his family. They have a very famous stud and racehorses. I learned an immense amount.”

“Surely you already knew an immense amount, Jeremy. After all, you were raised by my uncle Ryder.”

He took the white hand she was offering him. “Would you believe it? I learned even more about horse racing and breeding. In addition to racing horses, I want to start a stud at my home in Fowey. I needed to learn everything I could before I began.”

At the touch of his hand, Meggie nearly swallowed her tongue. Never in her eighteen years had she felt the slightest bit of anything at all when a boy or a man had touched her—admittedly most of the touching had been done by male relatives and the good Lord knew there was no titillation in that. Jeremy was a relative, but not really. They shared no blood. She couldn’t remember his touching her when she was thirteen, except maybe to take her hand when he’d arrived or when he’d left. She could just remember standing about, staring at her god, perfectly willing to worship him from whatever distance was required.

“I suppose there is more money in horse racing than in cat racing,” she said.

She looked down at his hand holding hers. She didn’t want to release him. He’d stopped talking and was looking at her now, a dark eyebrow cocked up a good inch.

“Oh,” Meggie said, and with the greatest reluctance, she let go of his hand.

His head was cocked to one side. “Is your father here?”

She shook her head, took a step closer, then drew up short. Where was her brain? It had shut down, it was that simple. Just looking at him, listening to him speak, watching how he used his hands when he talked, and her brain had moved out, vacated her head.

“No, Father and Mary Rose couldn’t leave Glenclose-on-Rowan just yet. Perhaps in a fortnight they will visit London and see me all togged out in my new clothes. Uncle Douglas and Aunt Alex are in the drawing room. I, ah, heard you speaking to Darby and came to fetch you to them.”

Very weak, Meggie, she thought as she saw Darby blink at her, and hoped he would keep his mouth shut. Darby took his duties very seriously and here she was, interfering. Who cared? She took Jeremy’s hand again and tugged him after her. “This way.”

“You’ve grown up, Meggie,” he said from behind her in a beautiful smooth voice. “You’ve grown up very fine.”

That brought her to an immediate halt. She turned to look up at him. “Thank you. You’ve grown very tall and handsome. Although I remember you as tall and handsome. I think you were twenty-three or -four when I last saw you.”

“Something like that, I guess.” He had dark brown eyes. They were twinkling down at her as if he believed her to be flattering him—as a cousin would flatter another cousin.

Well, blessed hell.

“Jeremy, I’m glad you are here.” It almost seems like fate, but she couldn’t say that.

Uncle Douglas took over then, clapping Jeremy on the back, ushering him into to greet Aunt Alex. Meggie stood there a moment, until Darby cleared his throat.

“Miss Meggie, is there something amiss?”

She turned slowly to look at him. “Yes, Darby, there certainly is. I must figure out what to do about it.”

“He has become a very nice man, hasn’t he?”

Meggie nodded, thinking, he has become a lot more than just nice. He was a lot more when I was thirteen. Now he’s here and he’s here for me. Thank you, God.

Uncle Douglas called out, “Meggie, have Darby fetch us some tea and cakes, won’t you?”

“Immediately, Miss Meggie,” Darby said, gave her a slight bow, and took himself off to the nether regions of the big house.

The first thing Meggie heard when she stepped into the drawing room was Aunt Alex saying, “You knew that Meggie was an exceptional horsewoman, didn’t you, Jeremy? Ah, here you are, my love. Come and sit beside me and hear what Jeremy has been doing.”

Jeremy said to her, “The last time I saw you, Meggie, you were thirteen years old, and you were carrying around little Alec, teaching him the names of all the flowers. I remember asking you the name of one particular pink blossom, and you said it was a lost cause, you couldn’t remember, and you’d made up so many names that Alec couldn’t remember either. Alec burped, if I remember correctly.”

Meggie grinned. “I had promised my father and Mary Rose that if she had the babies I would teach them what was what. The names of flowers, however, defeated me. They still do. To me, a rose is a rose is a rose, all the rest is different smells. Alec is now seven years old, can you believe it? And Rory is four.”

“I look forward to seeing your family.”

Douglas said, “How long will you be in London, Jeremy?”

Jeremy said, “Well, Uncle Douglas, as it happens, I’m here for a very specific reason. Then I will be returning to my home in Fowey.”

Meggie sat forward, words spilling out of her mouth because she couldn’t dam them up. “Come, tell us, Jeremy. Spit it out. You’re here for my first Season, aren’t you?” You came because you had to come, something powerful brought you here, and now that you’ve seen me, you know what it is.

He looked perfectly blank, but just for an instant. “Not only your Season, Meggie.” He paused a moment, then looked at his aunt and uncle, opened his mouth just as Darby said from the doorway, “My lord, Cook has sent you her favorite lemon tarts. She informed me that they were Lord Stanton-Greville’s favorite.”

“Yes, they are,” Jeremy said. Conversation was desultory as Alex dispensed the tea and offered the cake plate around.

“They are delicious,” Jeremy said. “How is Oliver doing at Kildrummy, Meggie? I haven’t received a letter from him in nearly six months.”

Meggie said, chuckling, “He is altogether too happy—you can just see him leaping over the sheep killers that haven’t yet been filled in—you remember, Jeremy, the huge gouges in the earth that sheep, because they’re stupid, have always fallen into? Anyway, he’s filled in a number of them over the years. Oh yes, Oliver’s very happy. You can just stand there and hear him whistling as he counts the sheep and cows and goats and directing any repairs on Kildrummy and the crofts, see that exuberant smile of his when he greets everyone in the village.” She paused a moment, giving everyone a chance to laugh, then added, seeing everything so very clearly now, “Do you know what else—he has announced, just last month, that he is ready to marry.”

“Good Lord,” Jeremy said, choking on the lemon cake. “Oliver, married? I’d believed him quite content in his single state.”

“He is thirty, I believe,” said Douglas. “I was leg-shackled at twenty-eight. Oliver is behind schedule and so I have told him. He is ripe.”

“Ah,” said Jeremy, and grinned a fool’s grin, “I am also ripe. Perhaps it is predestined.”

“That’s a nice thought,” Meggie said, and wanted to leap on him.

“Douglas wasn’t particularly ripe,” Alex said and toasted him with her teacup.

“Just thinking about it makes me want a brandy. Jeremy, will you join me?”

“No, thank you, Uncle Douglas. I must be going. I very much wanted to see you, to see that everything was going well, and I see that it is. And here’s little Meggie, all grown up now.” He rose, hugged Alex, shook Douglas’s hand, and walked to Meggie. She wanted to kiss him. She wanted to take him right down to the floor and kiss him until he was silly with it. She wanted him to moan, something she had heard her father and Mary Rose doing when they didn’t think anyone was about. Jeremy took her hand, lingered just a moment—a bloody cousin’s linger—nothing more. “I wish you the best during your Season, my dear.”

Meggie realized in that moment that Jeremy wasn’t even close to feeling about her as she did about him. Well, after all, the last time he had seen her she’d been only thirteen years old, and she shuddered at that thought. He’d already been a young man. And he’d only seen her for the first time in many years just fifteen hours before. She had to give him a bit more time, to build memories she already had of him, and that meant creating the opportunity for him to fall tip over arse. She said with a guileless smile, “Uncle Douglas and Aunt Alex aren’t up as early as they used to be”—clearly a lie of the first order—“and I love to ride early in the morning before everyone is out and about. I would like to go riding with you tomorrow morning, Jeremy. Could you be here at seven o’clock? Is that too early?”

Jeremy said without hesitation, “I should like that very much. I would be delighted to observe an exceptional horsewoman in action. Tomorrow morning, Meggie.”

He squeezed her hand. And then he was gone. She heard him say something to Darby, heard the front door close.

Meggie said to her aunt and uncle, “He was only here for fifteen minutes.” Then she left the drawing room, humming.

“I don’t like this, Alex,” Douglas said and downed his brandy. “I don’t like this at all. He is too old for her. Indeed, I don’t think he even saw her—you know what I mean?”

“I wonder,” Alex said, nodding, “what he was going to tell us before Darby came in.”

“I don’t know. Maybe I don’t want to know. Hopefully it was something to do with his new stud. I heard he was dealing with Marcus Wyndham. Now, there is a man I would gladly drink with.” A black brow suddenly shot up. “When did we become too old to ride in the morning? All right, so we didn’t ride this morning. On the other hand we didn’t get to our bed until nearly three o’clock.”

His wife rose and walked to him. She was wearing a lovely soft pink silk dress that was, he saw, cut far too low, displaying too much of a magnificent bosom. She touched her fingertips to his sleeve and said, eyes twinkling, “And then you were resolved to show me an excess of affection, Douglas.”

Douglas looked at her barely covered breasts, grunted, and poured himself another snifter of brandy. His fingers still tingled at the thought of touching her. It was amazing.

4

MEGGIE WORE HER new dark blue riding habit with its beautifully worked lace spilling out over the bodice, fitted at the waist with a narrow cloth belt. The skirts were full and looked quite elegant spread around her as she sat atop Eleanor’s back, her black boots peeping out, waiting for Jeremy Stanton-Greville. Stanton-Greville. She’d always thought two last names sounded rather absurd, but realized that if everything came to pass as she wanted it to, as she prayed it would, why, she herself would have two names as well. She started, surprised at herself. Meggie Stanton-Greville. Yes, it sounded simply perfect. She pulled in a deep breath and wanted to be sick, but she wasn’t about to deny it. She wanted to marry Jeremy Stanton-Greville and she’d only known him as a man for less than a day. It was madness.

No, no, it wasn’t as if he were a stranger to her, he wasn’t. She’d known he was hers from that day when she was only thirteen years old. So she had forgotten him for five years. He’d probably forgotten her as well.

Now that she thought about it, deeply, she decided that two names had become, overnight, quite distinguished.

She yearned for two names.

It was exactly seven-thirty in the morning, a dreary cold morning, with fat gray rain clouds hanging low overhead. To Meggie, the gray clouds were lovely, the morning was perfect, holding more promise than the day before, more delight than just an hour before.

Yes, it would rain, but not for several hours, that was what Old Hamish had told her. He was the head stable lad, all of sixty years old, gnarly as an old oak and very smart about the weather. Surely she would have Jeremy out of the park, off his horse, and under a lovely romantic shelter before it started raining. All she needed was two hours, maybe less. She was committed; she was focused. She just had to set Jeremy thinking on a straight line, one that led directly to her. She just had to assist him to truly understand why he was really here in London. A distant boom of thunder sounded.

Ah, let it rain, she didn’t care. But her riding habit, her beautiful new hat. No, only Jeremy mattered, and how he would feel when she poured out her heart to him. Not immediately, no, it would surprise him, perhaps make him wary of a girl who professed to have fallen in love with him when she was thirteen. No, she would hold back until the time was right, until he looked at her and simply knew she was his mate.

She looked up to see two people riding toward her.

She looked away, lips pursing. Well, blessed hell, she didn’t want two strangers anywhere near her. She just wanted Jeremy, and she wanted him alone.

The two horses kept coming straight at her.

Meggie cocked her head to one side and looked now, really looked.

It was a man and a woman. The man, who looked like a bloody centaur riding a magnificent black barb, was Jeremy Stanton-Greville. As for the woman, curse her eyes, she was young. She was riding very close to Jeremy.

Meggie felt her heart begin to pound, slow thumping strokes. Her breath suddenly whooshed out when she realized she’d forgotten to breathe. She waited, sitting very still atop Eleanor.

Jeremy waved to her. In just another short moment he and the young woman were directly in front of her, not more than three feet from Eleanor’s nose.

“Meggie,” Jeremy said, riding his horse just a bit closer, extending his hand to take hers briefly, “I am so glad you’re here. I wasn’t sure that you would be here this morning. It’s on the chilly side, you know.”

“Yes,” Meggie said, “I know. I wanted to see you.” But she wasn’t looking at him in that moment, she was staring at the most beautiful young lady she’d ever seen in her life, who had also ridden a big closer. Her glossy black hair was arranged in artful tight curls around her face with the rest of it pulled up atop her head into an Adonis knot. So much black hair, thicker than a female deserved, just barely covered by a clever little riding hat with a curling feather that caressed her white cheek. Ah, and such lovely white skin. She was more beautiful than a woman should be. Meggie wouldn’t be surprised if her bloody name were Helen.

The goddess smiled, a quite lovely smile that reached those incredible blue eyes of hers.

Jeremy said, “Charlotte, I would like you to meet one of my favorite cousins, Meggie Sherbrooke. Meggie, this is Charlotte Beresford, my betrothed.”

Betrothed. In that moment everything in Meggie closed down. She’d heard the term coup de foudre—struck by lightning, to signify falling in love upon first seeing someone. This was a different sort of lightning. This coup de foudre sliced right to her heart and split it apart, shattering it into a million pieces.

“How do you do,” Meggie said in another’s voice as the real Meggie lay there beneath Eleanor’s hooves, mortally wounded. Both parts of her wished the heavens would burst open, right this instant, and every fat cloud would dump every ounce of rain until she drowned in it. No, until that damnable young lady named Charlotte drowned in it.

“I am very fine, thank you, Miss Sherbrooke,” said the young lady. She grinned toward Jeremy and lightly tapped her riding crop to his sleeve. “I have told Jeremy that he comes from such a distinguished family. His uncle Douglas is known by simply everyone, you know. I believe your father is the vicar who is also Baron Barthwick of Kildrummy, is that right, Miss Sherbrooke?”

“Yes,” Meggie said, and hated Charlotte Beresford all the way to the soles of her lovely pale gray boots, that perfectly matched her riding gown and that damned artful little hat she wore.

“I have been told that your other uncle, Mr. Ryder Sherbrooke, Jeremy’s brother-in-law, has even taken a seat in the House of Commons. So quaint for a younger son, don’t you think?”

“Not quaint at all,” Meggie said.

Jeremy, who was looking a bit puzzled, hastened to say in the abrupt silence, “My brother-in-law hates to see children abused. He works tirelessly to abolish child labor.”

Charlotte said, “I am eager to meet him. You and I haven’t spoken of it, but I must say that I feel the same way. It makes one want to weep to think of the poor little ones forced to work at looms for untold hours on end.” She nodded to Jeremy but continued to Meggie, “Jeremy is taking me to Chadwyck House next week to meet his sister and his brother-in-law. And also to Brandon House to meet all the Beloved Ones.”

Meggie wished Charlotte would shut her lovely pink-lipped mouth, particularly since everything that had emerged was filled with kindness and charm.

Damn the woman.

She was Jeremy’s betrothed.

“Meggie,” Jeremy said now, pulling his gelding in beside Eleanor and motioning Charlotte to pull into the other side of her, “Shall we ride now? You and I can talk about your wild and fractious childhood tonight.” He paused, patted her hand. “I wanted you so much to meet Charlotte.”

“How very thoughtful of you, Jeremy,” Meggie said, that distant Meggie, not the Meggie who lay in pieces on the ground. When it began to rain a few minutes later, she didn’t even blink, just smiled at Jeremy, at Charlotte, and said, “It is too inclement to ride. Goodbye.”

“Until this evening,” Jeremy called after her. She didn’t look back. Her beautiful new riding habit was wet, her riding hat quite ruined, when she finally walked into the Sherbrooke town house. Darby took one look at her and shouted, “My lady!”

When Alex came out of the library to see Meggie standing there, dripping on the beautiful marble entrance hall, she knew something very bad had happened. Not being a dolt, she knew it had to do with Jeremy Stanton-Greville.

Meggie didn’t want to see either Jeremy or Charlotte again, actually, for the rest of her life. No, just Charlotte.

She’d loved him for so long. It didn’t matter that she hadn’t particularly thought about him for years at a time, all the feelings she’d birthed for him so long ago, had just remained dormant, waiting for her to grow up, waiting to burst into bloom when she was ready to take a husband. And there he’d been. As if Fate had plunked him right down in front of her.

Only he hadn’t waited for her.

At that moment she decided she would never again look at a man with anything resembling liking. She would become the premier cat trainer in the entire sport. She would devote her life to the cats and to her parents and brothers. That gave her a bit of a pause. No, it would work. It would be fine. Perhaps when Lady Dauntry retired, she would mount the dais at the McCaulty racetrack and shout, “Free the Cats!”

She dressed beautifully for dinner. She knew even before she stood in front of her dressing table, ready for company, that she couldn’t possibly look finer than she did at this moment. She gave herself a ghastly smile in her mirror. Timma, Aunt Alex’s maid, said from behind her, “The pale pink, it is delightful on you, Miss Sherbrooke.”

“Thank you, Timma.”

“And your lovely hair, I have done an excellent job arranging it, just so.” Timma snapped her fingers.

Meggie tried for a smile, but couldn’t find one. “Thank you, Timma.”

When she went downstairs, Darby was there, as if he’d been waiting specifically for her, she thought, which he had, and allowed him to lead her into the drawing room.

Jeremy Stanton-Greville and Miss Charlotte Beresford were there. Uncle Douglas, unbeknownst to her, had invited him to dinner. Jeremy saw her and immediately jumped to his feet. He said as he walked quickly to her, “You are not thirteen years old any longer, Meggie.” He kissed her hand, hugged her, then stepped back. “You look quite beautiful.”

“Thank you, Jeremy.”

But she saw that his eyes couldn’t even remain on her face for more than an instant, perhaps two, before swinging back to Charlotte, who looked like a princess, sitting there, her lovely dark blue silk skirts fanned out around her, her décolletage not comparing to Aunt Alex’s, but still, all that young very white flesh on display would make a man bite his tongue before swallowing it.

She nodded toward Charlotte. “Good evening, Miss Beresford.”

Charlotte trilled a laugh. “Come now, we will soon be related. Do call me Charlotte.”

Meggie couldn’t say, “No, you miserable hussy with your big breasts, I would like to shoot an arrow through your heart.” So she merely smiled and nodded. “No, we won’t be related. Jeremy is not a blood cousin,” she said and turned her full and complete attention to her aunt and uncle.

Meggie didn’t remember much of the evening when she rode Eleanor the following morning with her aunt and uncle. She wasn’t remembering much of this, either. She kept her head down close to Eleanor’s sleek brown neck and let the wind rip through her hair.

She wanted to go home but knew she couldn’t. It would distress her father and Mary Rose, and Uncle Douglas and Aunt Alex, particularly since they’d been so delighted to present her. They’d gone to so much trouble, smoothing her way, ensuring that she would have a grand time during her first Season. And the very worst was that they would also know what had happened and Meggie didn’t think she would ever live that down. So she would remain and she would enjoy her Season. Blessed hell, she would enjoy every moment of the next two months.

She bit her lip to keep from crying. She would never cry for any man again.

She didn’t believe her aunt and uncle realized her feelings for Jeremy, which made her profoundly grateful that she hadn’t said anything. She had to be merry, laugh, tell them how very much fun she was having. Meggie wanted to howl to the ever-present bloated gray clouds overhead.

Meggie Sherbrooke was declared an original that Season of 1823. She was the most sought-after young lady in all that crop of debutantes, and feted until she should have been heady from her success, and become quite conceited. Her admirers were legion—that was the ridiculous word Meggie had heard Lady Ranleigh say about the gentlemen who never gave her peace, and she would have laughed, if she’d cared one little bit, but she didn’t.

Uncle Douglas received four offers of marriage, each of them from excellent gentlemen, and each he discussed with Meggie. If any had interested her, then he would have sent the young man she’d selected to go see Tysen, but Meggie just shook her head when he presented them to her.

“Lord Marcham’s son, Lancelot, is quite unexceptionable, Meggie, and appears quite taken with you. He really cannot help his unfortunate name.”

“No, thank you, Uncle Douglas,” she said, and that was that, similar words used to decline each of the other offers.

Douglas wrote to Tysen and Mary Rose at least once a week, his early letters filled with Meggie’s successes, then they were filled with Meggie’s disinterest in any of the gentlemen who praised her very nice Sherbrooke blue eyes, her lovely Sherbrooke hair, her somewhat distracted wit.

Reverend Tysen and Mary Rose arrived in London the final week of May, both of them very worried.

Meggie leaned against her father, felt his hands lightly stroking her back, up and down, and it felt so very comforting, and she whispered against his neck, “Please, Papa, I want to go home.”

He loosed his hold and held her in the circle of his arms. “You met a man who did not return your affections. I’m very sorry about that.” That was all he said, nothing more, and Meggie wondered how he could know. She prayed he wouldn’t ever find out which man she’d wanted who didn’t want her.

“Perhaps so,” she said. “Papa, I want to go home.”

“All right, love. Let us show Mary Rose some of the sights, just a week—she loves the theatre, you know—and then we will go home.”

On June second the Sherbrookes returned to Glenclose-on-Rowan to the vicarage.

In October every Sherbrooke in England traveled to Eagle’s Chase, in Somerset, the Beresfords’ country estate, to attend the wedding of Charlotte Beresford and Jeremy Stanton-Greville.

It was carried off in grand style. Every Beloved One was there, and to everyone’s amusement, all fifteen of the children applauded when the vicar said Jeremy could kiss his bride.

5

March 1824

Glenclose-on-Rowen

MEGGIE SHERBROOKE WALKED out of the church in the wake of her stepmother, Mary Rose Sherbrooke, Alec on her left side and Rory on her right side, holding her hand. She pulled him back so they could take their place in the vicar’s receiving line. Rory’s little arm was dry, his face flushed with joy and health, thank God. Just his hands were sticky.

It was a difficult time for the town. Three children had died of a fever during the past week, the cause unknown, and all three funerals had taken place at the same time, three days before. Tysen had spent a great deal of his time with the grieving parents. And today, Sunday morning, every parent was worried sick. They’d all come to church today because they needed reassurance. Her father’s sermon had been both moving and practical, which had brought every parent in the congregation a measure of peace and a sense of control, which was desperately needed.

He’d said in his deep, reaching voice, “I know that all of you are afraid that your own children will be struck down. I know that I look at my own boys and pray devoutly that God will spare them. Then I realized that I am not helpless in this, that God has given me a brain and good measure of common sense and the determination to face what I must. Naturally I, as well as you, want to guard my children as best I can. I have spoken at length with Dr. Dreyfus. He believes that we must all be vigilant, that the fever could strike again. He wants us all to keep our children at home during this next week, keep them warm and calm and quiet. They will probably grow bored and you will want to strangle them, but you must endure.” He smiled as there was a bit of laughter from his congregation. “I would only add that we must pray to God that it will be enough.

“God has given us all the strength, the fortitude, the ability to face illness, to face death, when need be. None of us are alone in this. Dr. Dreyfus will be visiting each family beginning this afternoon, to examine each child. As a congregation, as a town, we will survive this.”

His closing prayer had made Meggie’s heart ache and gave her a measure of hope.

The congregation spoke in low voices as they passed the vicar and his family, who stood in a line, shaking everyone’s hand as they passed, and patted each child.

Leo was home for several days, down from Oxford to visit with his family for the first time in over two months. He was still horse mad and he had plans to join his cousin Jeremy Stanton-Greville at his racing stud in Fowey, to learn the business, which, Jeremy had written, put them in a somewhat unusual situation, since he was still learning the business as well. Leo had also told them that Jeremy’s wife, Charlotte, was expecting Jeremy’s heir.

Meggie had said nothing upon hearing that. Nor did she say anything about her brother’s plans, not that Leo had asked her for her opinion.

As for Max Sherbrooke, their Latin scholar, who had finally surpassed his stepmother in his knowledge of everyday Latin, he’d announced that he planned to become a man of the cloth, like his father. There was, Tysen said, and blessedly so, a very big difference between father and son—Max brought laughter into the room with him, just like his uncle Ryder, and laughter was a wonderful thing, only discovered by Tysen after he’d met Mary Rose. Tysen was very pleased, knowing his son would bring joy to his future congregation from his very first sermon.

Meggie looked up at the sound of a stranger’s voice, a man’s voice that she’d never before heard, and she saw that indeed, she had never seen him before either. He was young, perhaps in his mid-twenties, and he was tall, taller than her father, possibly as tall as Uncle Douglas, and he was dark as a bandit on a midnight raid, dark hair, dark eyes, his complexion swarthy. There was no question that he’d spent a lot of his recent time at sea.

He was also taller and darker than Jeremy, whose wife was going to have a baby. No, no, put away that lump full of pain.

Rory tugged on her skirt. She looked down to see him holding the remains of a stick of candy Mary Rose had given him to keep him quiet during his father’s sermon in his left hand, no longer in his right, as was always the instruction from his mother. His left hand was now as sticky as his right hand and now so was the skirt of her beautiful new gown.

“Oh, no. Rory, just look at my skirt. How could you?”

Rory shook his head, big eyes ready to weep. He whispered that he didn’t know how he could have done that. He began frantically sucking his fingers, saying between his fingers and licks, “I’m sorry, Meggie,” then he gripped her skirt and brought it to his mouth. He began sucking hard on the sticky material.

Meggie couldn’t help herself. Her irritation with him evaporated. She burst into laughter, swung Rory up in her arms, and said, “You little sweetheart, how can I ever be upset with you when you are so cute?”

“I wonder,” the man said slowly, his voice pensive, looking at her directly now, “if my mother ever held me like that and told me I was a sweetheart and cute. Somehow, I doubt it.”

Meggie turned, still laughing, and said, “I’m not his mother and that, I believe, saves his adorable self from a hiding.”

Tysen said easily, “Lord Lancaster, this is my daughter, Meggie, and one of my sons, Rory. The candy does work to keep him quiet during the service, but occasionally he forgets, and this is the result. Meggie, my dear, this is Lord Lancaster. He has just returned to England to assume his responsibilities and see to his property.”

“Oh,” Meggie said, “Lord Lancaster—how odd that sounds. Your father was an old man, you see, and quite deaf toward the end of his life. I am sorry that your father died, my lord.” She paused a moment, and added as she hugged Rory closer, “However, he died some seven months ago, and you weren’t here then.”

“No, I was not.”

And no explanation forthcoming, she thought, because it was none of her business. He’d put her very nicely in her place. But it was strange nonetheless. She’d never even heard Lord Lancaster himself mention that he had a son, although she remembered now that there had been an occasional mention of an heir by a servant. To the best of her knowledge, the new Lord Lancaster had never even lived with his father at Bowden Close. It was a pity that such things happened in families.

“Welcome home, my lord,” she said, gave him an absent nod, and carried Rory away, back to the vicarage, Rory’s mother on his other side, wiping his hands with a handkerchief dampened from the well that stood on the edge of the cemetery. When Old Lord Lancaster had finally shucked off his mortal coil, a heart seizure Dr. Dreyfus had said, Meggie had mourned him perfunctorily since she’d known him all her life. Why, she wondered, had the son never visited his father?

She turned her attention back to Rory, whose mother was playing hide-and-seek between his now clean fingers. She chanced to turn around some twenty steps later to see Lord Lancaster standing quite still, his arms folded over his chest, staring after her.

He was tall, she thought again, and darker than a moonless night, and there was an edge to that darkness of his. It was as if he were seeing all them clearly but he himself was masked, hiding in the shadows. She was succumbing to fancies, not a very appealing thing for a lady who would doubtless become the village spinster.

Meggie saw Thomas Malcombe, Lord Lancaster, again the following Friday evening when the Strapthorpes held a small musical soir-ée—pronounced quite in the French way—the name Mrs. Sturbridge stubbornly held to despite her spouse’s contempt.

Mrs. Strapthorpe, far more voluble now that her daughter, Glenda, had married and left home, immediately pulled Mary Rose and Meggie aside and said in a rush, bristling with complacency and pride, “He doesn’t accept invitations, Mrs. Bittley told me, a recluse he is, she assured me, possibly he’s now ashamed he never visited his dear father in a good twenty years. Some folk remember a little boy and Lady Lancaster, but they were both gone very quickly.” She lowered her voice. “I heard it said that the earl divorced his wife. What do you think of that? But now this splendid young man—an earl—is here, at my invitation, because, and so I told Mr. Strapthorpe, I wrote an ever-so-elegant note to him and he accepted my invitation with an ever-so-elegant note of his own—ah, his hand is quite refined, let me assure you—and now Lord Lancaster is coming, can you imagine? Yes, I snagged him. He is ever so handsome and obviously quite proud. No, don’t mistake me, he isn’t at all standoffish, he simply knows his own worth and expects others to know it, too. Yes, he is coming and I believe it is because of my elegant invitation and my brilliant idea to hold a musical soir-ée. A gentleman of his distinction would most assuredly be drawn to an elegant offering. Yes, this evening is tailor-made for his tastes. I have brought in a soprano, all the way from Bath—she last performed at Lord Laver’s magnificent town house on the Royal Crescent—and she strikes a high C with great regularity and astounding verve. Such a pity Glenda is wed and far away, and only to a viscount, more’s the pity, but she wouldn’t wait, particularly since our dear Reverend Sherbrooke was gobbled right up by dear Mary Rose, so there it is. Of course she couldn’t have waited for Lord Lancaster since she is nearly his own age, because, for a lady, unmarried at such an advanced age would announce to the world that there were serious problems with either her father’s purse or her face.”

Mrs. Strapthorpe, after this outpouring, took a long overdue breath, shook out her purple satin skirts, and marched to the punch bowl, to guard it from her spouse, who was fat, sported three chins, and loved to drink until he was snoring too loudly in his chair. “So distracting for guests,” Mrs. Strapthorpe was wont to say.

“She has always amazed me,” Meggie said, staring after their hostess. Then she giggled. “She spoke nearly a complete chapter in a book, Mary Rose, and she never lost herself between commas. Remember when you and Papa were first married and he brought you here for a visit?”

Mary Rose shuddered.

“And Glenda ordered him to take her to the conservatory—that miserably hot smelly room—and demanded to know how it had happened that he had wed you and not her?”

“I wanted, actually, to dance at her wedding,” Mary Rose said, smiling now at the memory. “At last she would no longer send her sloe-eyed looks at your father. Do you know that she has three children now?”

“These things happen,” Meggie said, grinning. “After all, you and Papa have given me Alec and Rory.” She remembered that Jeremy would be a father soon. But not the father of her child. No, she wasn’t about to think about that, she wasn’t.

“Ah, the musical soirée begins. There is your poor papa, trapped by Squire Bittley, whose wife didn’t manage to snag his lordship for her very refined dinner party last week.”

Meggie said, “Smart man. Now, Mrs. Bittley—that old battle-axe—has, thank the good Lord, quite come around where you are concerned.”

“Yes, she is even pleasant to me most of the time now, unlike my own dear mother-in-law, your blessed grandmother, who still roundly tells Tysen he is wedded to a savage with vulgar hair. And then she looks at Alec, whose hair is also red.” Mary Rose was still grinning as she lightly touched her fingertips to her husband’s sleeve. Tysen turned immediately to take her hand.

Meggie sat beside her stepmother, in an aisle chair. She hated it when a singer pumped her lungs up to blast out a high C. If need be, if the high notes rattled her too much, she would simply slip out and walk in the gardens.

She did slip out after the sixth high C nearly burst her eardrums and made her toes cramp from quivering so much. She knew the Strapthorpe house very well and walked down the main corridor into the conservatory, Mr. Strapthorpe’s pride and joy, the only room that everyone avoided because of the heat and the overpowering scent of the wildly blooming flowers. She imagined the garden was nearly full of escapees by now.

She was totally taken aback when he said from behind her, “I assume this is your sanctuary?”

Meggie turned so quickly she nearly tripped over her gown. She grabbed hold of a rose stem to steady herself, then yipped when a thorn punctured the pad of her finger.

“What a clever way of putting it, my lord. Oh dear, I have stabbed myself.”

“The soprano drove me away as well. I’m sorry to startle you. Let me see what you did to yourself.”

Lord Lancaster pulled a white handkerchief from his pocket, but he didn’t hand it to her, he just picked up her hand, saw a fat drop of blood welling up, and lifted the finger to his mouth. He sucked away the blood.

Meggie didn’t move, didn’t breathe. He’d actually sucked the blood off her finger? Then licked her finger? How very odd that was. It felt very strange. Not bad, just very strange.

She stared up at him, still silent, as he then wrapped his handkerchief tightly around her finger, and pressed his thumb against the wound. She was very tall for a woman, but still, she had to look up, a very goodly distance. Was he as handsome as Mrs. Strapthorpe had said? He could have been, she supposed, but the point was that he wasn’t Jeremy.

She said, frowning slightly, “I have read that vampires suck blood. Usually, in the novels I have read, it’s fangs sunk in a person’s neck at midnight and there is a good deal of drama involved.”

He laughed, a warm deep sound that sounded dark as his midnight hair. “Yes, I have read about vampires as well. However, since you met me at a church during the day, then you know that I cannot be one.” He gave her a big grin. “See, no fangs either. There, that should do it. I’m sorry I startled you, Miss Sherbrooke.”

Lovely white teeth, just like Jeremy’s. No, she had to stop thinking about him. She shook her head as she said, “I will be fine. I did manage to hold on until that final high C nearly knocked me out of my chair.”

“Such impressive lungs are fashionable, I’m told.”

“Where?”

He laughed again, then paused, as if surprised that he’d laughed. “Why, do you know that I’m not really sure? I haven’t lived much in England in the past five years. I suppose I believed that the ninnies in London lauded such performances.”

“I spent just one Season in London, my lord. As far as I could see, there were very few true devotées of Italian sopranos. Most people I saw on those evenings were polite enough to endure in stoic silence. Ah, but Mrs. Strapthorpe believed that her musical soirée was just the thing to induce you to attend, that and her elegant invitation to you. She is very pleased with herself.”

“Good Lord. Actually, though, I wished to attend.”

“But not for the wailing soprano?”

“No, I didn’t attend because of the music.”

Meggie hoisted up an eyebrow.

“My name is Thomas Malcombe.”

The eyebrow remained hoisted.

He laughed, couldn’t help himself. She appeared to be utterly uninterested in him. Without conceit, he realized she was the first female to be indifferent to him since he’d come to manhood. It was a rather appalling realization, this unconscious conceit, and one that made him want to laugh at himself.

“All right. I came because I wanted to meet my neighbors, people who had known my father.”

“I’m Meggie Sherbrooke,” she said finally, and hoisted her left eyebrow again. “You aren’t telling the truth, my lord. If I may risk offending you, I daresay you don’t care a fig about anyone in Glenclose-on-Rowan.”

“Meggie, it’s a nice name. You’re quite wrong.”

“It’s short for Margaret. No one has ever called me Margaret, thank goodness. That’s a Mother Superior’s name. I would have preferred something exotic, like Maigret, but it was not to be. No, I really don’t think I’m wrong. If I am wrong, then I have offended you, and I apologize.”

“You really are a Meggie, never a Margaret. I accept your apology, for it is merited. I understand you train racing cats.”

“Yes.” She saw a glass sitting beside an orchid that looked overwatered. Its leaves were suddenly trembling. Probably the soprano had hit more high notes. “Actually, my little brother Alec is a cat whisperer.”

“I have never known of a cat whisperer.”

“It is a very rare occurrence, and all agree that Alec is blessed. It still remains to be seen if the gift will mature with him. But ever since he was a very small boy, the cats in our mews would gather around him, very happy to just sit and listen to him talk, which he did, all the time. He is at present assisting my brother Leo train our calico racer, Cleopatra, to improve her leaps. Alec believes she doesn’t yet have the proper motivation. As a cat whisperer, he will determine what it is she wants and provide it, if possible.”

“I should like to see him in action. How old is he?”

“Alec is seven now.”

“Cat racing is an amazing thing, really unknown outside of England. I understand that some French devotees of the sport introduced cat races there, but the French were, evidently, too emotional, too uncontrolled, and so the cats never could get the hang of what was expected of them.”

Meggie laughed, then shrugged her shoulders as if to say, what can you expect? He smiled again. She said, “At the McCaulty racetrack, all the cats would desert their owners in a moment if Alec called to them. He must be very careful not to unwittingly seduce them.”

“When are the cat races held? Surely now it is too cold.”

“They begin again in April and run through October.”

“And you are a trainer.”

“Oh yes, for a long time now. You can call me the boss.”

“Ah, you’re the one who makes all final decisions, decides which techniques are the most efficacious, the overlord trainer?”

“I like the sound of that. I will tell my brothers that my new title is overlord. They can drop the trainer part. I will demand that they use my new title or I will make them very sorry.” He looked very interested, and so Meggie added, “As a matter of fact, I did spend one entire summer at Lord Mountvale’s racing mews being tutored by the Harker brothers.” She lowered her voice into a confidence. “They are the ones who developed the technique of the Flying Feather.”

“I have heard of the Harker brothers. I understand they have a special intuition when it comes to selecting champion racers. What is the Flying Feather technique?”

“Curled feathers are tied to the end of a three-foot pole. It is waved in a clockwise motion—it must always be clockwise, at no less than a six-foot distance. It evidently has a mesmerizing effect. Goodness, I hadn’t intended to tell you all about the Flying Feather technique; it is still supposed to be a secret. I am considering adopting it when I have a proper candidate. Ah, listen, I don’t hear anything. It is a good sign,” she added, pointing to the orchid, “its leaves are no longer quivering from the vibrations of her voice.”

He laughed, just couldn’t help himself. He couldn’t recall having laughed so much with one single human being. Life had always been rather difficult.

And Meggie thought it was as if he laughed only when he planned to and surely that was rather calculated and cold-blooded. She watched him closely as he said, “Actually, I set that glass there beside the orchid so I would know when it was safe to return to the drawing room. It isn’t trembling either now.” He smiled down at her. “Let’s see if your finger has stopped bleeding yet.”

He unwound the handkerchief and lifted her hand to inspect the finger. “Yes, it has.”

Meggie said, “Thank you, my lord. Perhaps I don’t know all the ways of the world, but I have never before had anyone suck my blood. Or lick my finger.”

He felt a lurch in his gut; it was lust and it hit him hard. He looked at her closely, realizing that she didn’t understand the teasing promise of her guileless words, didn’t realize that they promised, on the surface at least, a woman’s very pleasurable skills. No, she was outspoken, a vicar’s daughter, just turned nineteen. “No?” he said slowly, then added, “Then I have added to your education.”

She said abruptly, “My father will wonder where I am,” and she turned to go. “Sharing sanctuary was pleasant, my lord.”

She was just going to leave him? Another blow to his manhood. “Miss Sherbrooke, a moment please. Will you ride with me tomorrow morning?”

That got her attention, but she didn’t hesitate, just said pleasantly, “I thank you for the invitation, my lord, but no, I don’t want to ride with you tomorrow morning.”

He looked as she’d slapped him, as if he simply couldn’t believe her gall in turning him down. He looked, quite simply, flummoxed. She wanted to smile at his obvious male conceit, but she didn’t. She just wanted to leave. She realized now that she shouldn’t have remained in here, alone with him. He had gotten the wrong idea about her. She didn’t want any attention from him, she didn’t want any attention from any man. She wouldn’t have stayed in here with him if she’d been in London, but this was her home. No matter, she’d been wrong.

He saw her withdraw completely from him. He didn’t understand it. She’d been so confiding, so natural. But no longer. Despite her lack of enthusiasm, he persevered. “I understand from my steward, a very old man with fingers that tap by themselves when the weather is going to turn bad, that it will be unseasonably warm tomorrow morning, a fine morning for a ride.”

“Mr. Hengis is famed for his weather predictions in these parts. I did not know about the tapping fingers. I hope it will be a fine morning and you will enjoy yourself. As for me, no thank you, my lord. I must go now.”

He said as she turned to leave the conservatory, “I understand you enjoyed your first Season in London last spring. Do you intend to return to London in April?”

“No,” she said, not turning to face him. She could feel his frustration, pouring off him in waves, and something else. Why did he wish to be with her so badly? It made no sense. “Goodbye, my lord.”

“My name is Thomas.” She would swear she heard a damn you under his breath.

“Yes,” she said, “I know,” and left the Strapthorpe conservatory with its dizzying smells and hair-wilting heat.

He stood there, watching the back of her head as she walked quickly out of the overly warm room. Lovely hair, he thought, blondish brownish hair with every color in-between thrown in, the same hair as the vicar’s, her father. Their eyes were the same light blue as well. He sighed, then left the conservatory some minutes after her. Truth be told, he was getting nauseated from the overpowering mix of all the flowers.

He met several guests in the large entrance hall. Meggie Sherbrooke wasn’t among them. Damn her. He wasn’t a troll. What was wrong with her? He was polite and charming to everyone before he took his leave.

Perhaps she didn’t ride. Yes, perhaps that was it and she was ashamed to admit it. He would think of something else. She was nineteen years old; for a girl she could have been long married by now, well, at least a year or so. As for himself, he was rich and young and healthy and now he even sported a title. What more could a girl possibly want?

She was a vicar’s daughter, for God’s sake.

And she trained racing cats.

6

MEGGIE WAS PLAYING with Rory, telling him stories about famous cat champions from years past. The most famous of all the cat racers in this century was Gilly of Mountvale mews, who had died of extreme old age some two years before.

“No one had much of a chance when Gilly was racing,” she was saying as she handed Rory a small cat carved in cherry, painted in Gilly’s distinctive black, gray, and white colors. “See how high his tail is? Racers always carry their tails high. I’m told it means they’re very proud, that they know their own worth, and they are very pleased with the world and their place in it.”

“Meggie?”

“Yes, love?”

“I don’t feel very good.”

Meggie felt fear so strong that she couldn’t breathe for a moment. Automatically she laid the flat of her palm against his forehead. He was roasting. The fever. Somehow he’d gotten the fever. They’d all been so careful, kept both Alec and Rory home, entertained them endlessly, taken such care, and still he’d gotten ill.

She lifted him in her arms, no mean feat because Rory was quite good-sized for his age. “Let’s go see your mama.”

He didn’t try to pull away, as was his wont, for he was a very independent little boy, no, he became boneless in her arms, his cheek resting on her shoulder. It scared Meggie spitless.

Meggie was praying frantically as she quickly walked from the nursery downstairs to the drawing room. Both her father and Mary Rose were there with his curate, Mr. Samuel Pritchert.

“Mary Rose,” she said quietly from the door. Mary Rose looked up. The smile on her face froze because she knew, oh yes, she knew immediately that something was very wrong, wrong with Rory. Rory was ill, he had the fever. She said blankly, “Oh no, not Rory. Oh no, Tysen.”

Tysen immediately went to Meggie and lifted Rory off her shoulder. “What’s this, my boy? You are feeling a bit pecked?” Tysen felt his cheeks, his forehead, and felt fear cramp his guts. “All right,” he said, all calm and easy, “I’m going to give you to your mother and be right back. You just rest, Rory.”

“Yes, Papa. I don’t feel good.”

“I know. But you will be pulling on Meggie’s hair again in no time at all.” He hugged his son against him, then laid his palm against his cheek.

Tysen then lightly touched his palm to Mary Rose’s cheek. Much cooler than his son’s. “It will be all right. I’m going to fetch Dr. Dreyfus. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Tysen had never moved so fast in his life. He didn’t realize that Meggie was trotting beside him he was so locked into himself, so frightened he wanted to curse loud and long to keep the awful fear at bay.

“He will be all right, Papa, you’ll see.” Meggie was panting, running now, and everyone got out of their way. They arrived at Dr. Dreyfus’s cottage in just under seven minutes, out of breath, nearly beside themselves.

Dr. Dreyfus, Mrs. Midderd told them, was seeing to the Clay boy, no, not the fever, none of those this week, thank the good Lord, and thank you, Vicar, for all your prayers. No, the Clay boy had broken his leg, something very very serious.

“How long as he been gone, Mrs. Midderd?”

“At least three hours, Vicar. What is the matter?”

“It is my son, Rory. He has the fever.”

Mrs. Midderd, a former Catholic, converted to the Anglican church upon her marriage to Mr. Midderd some thirty years before, crossed herself.

“I will send him to you immediately upon his return, Vicar.”

Back at the Vicarage, both Tysen and Meggie stood at the end of Rory’s bed watching Mary Rose bathe his small face. He was flushed, he whispered to his mother that his bones ached as he clutched her hand.

It was nearly another hour before Dr. Dreyfus walked into Rory’s small bedroom, the longest hour of Tysen’s life. Meggie hadn’t moved from the other side of Rory’s bed, holding the little boy’s hand, speaking quietly to him. As for Tysen, he’d sent Alec with Leo to Northcliffe Hall. Why hadn’t he sent both of them? No, he as the vicar, couldn’t very well send his own children out of harm’s way when no one else had that luxury. Because of his idiotic sense of what was proper, he might lose his son. He was a fool.

Dr. Dreyfus’s large hand was on Rory’s forehead, then he was sitting beside him, his ear to his chest.

When he looked up, he saw the corrosive fear on the vicar’s face, and slowly nodded. “I have some laudanum for him. It will keep him comfortable. But the fever, Vicar, it will climb and climb, so we must keep it down as best we can.” He rose and took both Mary Rose’s and Tysen’s hands. “Listen to me. We can pull him through. The Dixon girl survived it, so can Rory. Now, first things first. Let’s give him the laudanum, then begin wiping him down.”

It was near dawn; Meggie was sitting beside Rory, having taken over from her father an hour earlier. Mary Rose was asleep on a small cot that Tysen had brought into Rory’s room. She looked frightened even in sleep, all stiff, her hands clenching and unclenching.

There had been other illnesses in Rory’s young life, but none so frightening as this one.

Meggie felt Rory’s cheeks. He was not quite so hot to the touch, she was sure of it. Then he was trembling, jerking about, shoving his covers off. “No, no, baby, don’t do that.” His teeth were chattering. “Oh goodness, you’re freezing now, aren’t you? Don’t worry, baby, I’m here and I’ll take care of you.”

Meggie shrugged out of her soft warm velvet dressing gown and wrapped Rory in it. Then she got into his small bed and pulled him close. She whispered to him even as she stroked her hands up and down his small back. Suddenly he stiffened, moaned, and became perfectly still.

Oh God.

Meggie very nearly yelled, then, suddenly, she felt him jerk, heave in on himself, and he was breathing once again, shallow spiking breaths. She was crying now, holding him so close to her heart, so afraid, so very afraid. She was rubbing his back as she said over and over, “No, Rory, hang on, I know you can do it. Breathe, baby, breathe.”

He was fighting for every breath now, wheezing. Oh, God, no. No.

“Meggie, what is it?”

Meggie didn’t know how she managed it, but she said very quietly, “Mary Rose, get Papa. It’s bad, really bad. Go, hurry. Send someone for Dr. Dreyfus.”

Mary Rose stuffed her fist in her mouth and ran from the small room. When they returned, Tysen eased down and gently pulled Rory into his arms.

“He just stops breathing, Papa. Then when you think it’s over, he manages to draw in a bit more air. He can’t go on like this.”

Tysen didn’t look up. He just held his precious boy against him and willed him to breathe. Then he rose and carried him to the rocking chair that he himself had made for Mary Rose when Alec was born. Meggie and Mary Rose sat on the bed, watching the father and the vicar hold his child. Tysen rubbed the palm of his hand over his son’s chest, pressing in, then out, trying to help him breathe. He knew he should send for Dr. Dreyfus. He also knew that he couldn’t do anything for Rory that hadn’t already been done. Rory would either survive this or he wouldn’t. Tysen pressed and massaged his son’s chest, over and over, and spoke to him, encouraging him, and he prayed; he, the vicar, was making agreements with God. If he could have, he would have freely offered his soul if the Devil had but come to bargain.

Mary Rose took Meggie’s hand. “He can’t die, Meggie, he just can’t.”

Meggie nodded, words beyond her. She didn’t want to cry, it would gain naught. They sat together until the sun came up, until shafts of soft pink slipped beneath the pale cream draperies to bathe the room in dim light.

Samuel Pritchert came to tell them that Dr. Dreyfus’s carriage had been thrown on its side and the doctor was in bed, his back wrenched. He couldn’t move. He said there was nothing more he could do in any case. He was praying for them, Samuel assured them.

Some minutes later Meggie heard Mrs. Priddle moving about downstairs. Then, quite suddenly, she head a knock on the vicarage door.

Mrs. Priddle was breathless when she stuck her head in Rory’s room. “Forgive me, Miss Meggie, it’s Lord Lancaster. He says it’s very important.”

Thomas Malcombe? What could that man possibly want at dawn, for God’s sake? She didn’t want to hear him again ask her to go riding.

She simply nodded to her father and to Mary Rose and quietly left the room. She stopped by her own bedchamber, pulled on another dressing gown, this one so old the elbows were nearly worn through. She hurried down the stairs. No candle was needed, there was nearly full light now.

He was there, standing in the entrance hall, wearing riding clothes, boots.

Meggie felt no Christian kindness in her heart. “What do you want?”

He merely nodded to her, then walked swiftly to where she stood on the bottom stair. She saw then that he was carrying a small package. He pressed it into her hand. “I have spoken to Dr. Dreyfus. He said to bring this over and give it to Rory, that it couldn’t hurt. It’s a medicine, one of many that my shipping partner sent me from Genoa, Italy. It’s for the fever. Is Rory better?”

“No,” Meggie said flatly, and she knew, knew to her heart, “No, I don’t think he will get better. What is this?”

She was ripping away the paper. There was a long thin bottle filled to the corked top with a dark brown liquid.

“It’s a medicinal root called the maringo. It grows near a river on a lava plateau on the western slopes of Mt. Etna in Sicily. Perhaps it will help Rory. The letter from my man says that this particular root is effective for virulent fevers. Here, Meggie, give it to the boy, quickly, a small drink, that’s all that’s needed. Then another drink every hour, until—well, until he’s better.”

Tysen and Mary Rose believed the medicine was from Dr. Dreyfus. Meggie didn’t correct them. She managed to get Rory’s little mouth open and poured a bit of the brown liquid down his throat, then lightly rubbed his neck with her fingers. He wheezed and coughed even as his teeth chattered and his small body clenched with the violent spasms that were killing him. But he was breathing, little gasps of breath.

They said nothing at all, just watched the little boy continue to labor for each breath. Suddenly, without warning, he went into convulsions.

Tysen held him firmly while Meggie tried to keep him from swallowing or biting his tongue. Mary Rose rubbed his arms, his legs, to keep him still and warm. After an eternity, the convulsions passed. Rory became utterly still.

Mary Rose fell back on her heels. “Oh God, no! Tysen, no, he can’t be dead, he can’t!”

“No, just wait, just wait.”

Meggie was praying harder than she’d ever prayed in her life. She couldn’t hear him breathe, couldn’t hear him do anything. He was dying. Oh, please God, no, not this wonderful little boy. She watched her father squeeze Rory’s chest, then massage it, again and again as he whispered, “Breathe, Rory, breathe.”

Meggie looked up then to see Lord Lancaster standing in the doorway, saying nothing, just standing there quietly, watching the tableau in front of him, his face pale, his dark eyes hooded.

“Thank God,” Tysen said then, unutterable relief mixed with tears in his voice, “he’s breathing.” He grabbed Mary Rose to him and held both Rory and her close. “Thank the good Lord, our boy is breathing again.”

He lifted Mary Rose onto his lap and on her lap she held Rory, her white hands shaking even as she stroked them up and down his small back, steady circular motions while Tysen still massaged his small chest. Finally, Mary Rose laid her head against his neck. He kissed her hair even as his arms tightened around the two of them. Meggie knew she would never forget that moment her whole life. Rory was breathing, not just the stingy little gasps, but full breaths that sounded more and more normal. His cheeks were flushed, but now it wasn’t with fever. She took a blanket off the bed and wrapped it over all three of them.

“Another one, Meggie. He isn’t shivering now, but I want to make all of us sweat.”

“He’s all limp now, no more shudders or convulsions,” Mary Rose whispered, hope brimming in her voice. “Oh, Tysen, do you think he—”

“I don’t know, love, let’s just keep holding him and holding each other. Let’s keep rubbing him and massaging him. It can’t hurt. That medicine, Meggie—when you see Dr. Dreyfus, tell him it worked. Tell him I knew he would think of something more.”

“It isn’t from Dr. Dreyfus, Papa, it’s from Lord Lancaster.”

Tysen was silent a moment, confused, really, then he said, “Thank him for us and tell him it seems to have had something of an immediate effect. Tell him we are very grateful.”

“Yes, I will tell him,” she said, not mentioning that Thomas Malcombe was standing in the doorway watching them. She loaded them all down with all the blankets in the room. She lightly laid her palm against Rory’s cheek. He was cooler, she would swear that he was cooler.

“Papa, I think he’s truly asleep now, and his breathing is easy, regular.”

Her father smiled up at her. She smiled back at him, then leaned down quickly to kiss his cheek. “I will bring you some tea. Ah, good, Mary Rose is finally asleep, too.”

In truth, her stepmother looked like an exhausted Madonna holding her sick child close, her brilliant curly red hair all over her head, tickling her husband’s chin, framing her pale face.

Tysen whispered, “I had prayed until I was out of words, until there wasn’t another plea in my mind, Meggie. I think perhaps God heard me and sent Lord Lancaster here with that medicine.”

“Perhaps,” Meggie said, “I do think that Lord Lancaster felt some urgency to come here. Was it God nudging him? It is a comforting thought.”

“Now, I want you to take the medicine to Dr. Dreyfus, tell him that it appears to have worked with Rory. If another child falls ill, then we can see that—”

“Yes, Papa, I will. I will ask if Lord Lancaster has more of it. We are to give Rory another swallow in about twenty minutes or so. Then, if he remains like this, no more is necessary.” Meggie smiled, straightened, turned, and walked to where Thomas Malcombe stood, watching her come toward him, her old dressing gown flapping around her bare ankles, her lovely hair braided down her back, much of it come loose and now tangled around her face.

She nodded to him and he quietly backed away from the open doorway. He waited at the head of the stairs, his face in shadows now because the sun had slipped momentarily behind some clouds. She stopped right in front of him. She lifted his left hand in both of hers and clasped it strongly. “I thank you, my lord. Was it God who made you feel the urgency to come to us?”

“Perhaps it was,” Thomas said slowly, looking down at his large brown hand held between her two smaller ones, not fine soft white hands. Meggie Sherbrooke’s hands helped raise her brothers, trained racing cats, did countless tasks as the vicar’s daughter. And he found himself wondering: Why had he come so quickly? He didn’t know. He just knew that he’d had to. Was it God nudging him?

He said matter-of-factly, “The package of medicines arrived just a few moments before dawn along with other supplies. The fellow bringing it said he had this feeling that I would be needing it and thus pushed on from Eastbourne to my home. I heard that little Rory was ill and so I came here immediately. I think the messenger was the one whom God nudged.”

“Is there more of the medicine?”

“Oh yes. My man will take it to Dr. Dreyfus now, and he can hold it for any children who become ill.”

“Oh goodness. Look at me, I’m not dressed. Ah, Mrs. Priddle, please take His Lordship to the drawing room, then give him some breakfast. I will be down very soon.”

Twenty minutes later Meggie walked into the drawing room. Lord Lancaster was standing beside the fireplace, now lit and warm, drinking some tea.

She said without hesitation, her hands outstretched to him, “My family is in your debt, my lord.”

He raised a dark eyebrow. He wanted to assure her that she wasn’t in his debt, that any decent human being would have brought that medicine to the vicarage without delay, but he wanted her in his debt, if that was what it would take. Just her.

He let her hold his hands yet again as he said, his voice deep, “You are exhausted, Meggie. I want you to rest today. If it doesn’t rain on the morrow, why then, will you go riding with me?”

“Yes,” she said, “I will go riding with you, my lord.”

7

THEY WEREN’T ABLE to ride for two more days. It rained so hard everyone said that the skies wept. And wept. On the morning of the third day, it was cool and overcast. However, Mr. Hengis has claimed it wouldn’t rain anymore, so no one was particularly concerned. The sun would burst from behind those rather gray clouds, and all would be well.

To Meggie, it was a fine day. She loved to ride, to feel the wind, strong off the Channel, tugging at her very eyebrows, flinging many a riding hat to the ground and under her mare’s hooves, and the man riding next to her had saved her little brother’s life. He’d even come every morning and afternoon to the vicarage to check on Rory’s progress since he’d brought the medicine, even in all that dreadful rain.

Meggie was riding Survivor, a lovely bay mare whose name, she told Thomas Malcombe, had been changed early on from Petunia.

“Why was the name changed?” he asked.

Meggie laughed, couldn’t help it. “Well, you see, Petunia just happened to be the first mount for all three of my brothers and me. That’s four children she’s survived. When Rory is just a bit older, then he will learn to ride on her as well. She’s still happy and running, so we all thought Survivor fit her much better.”

“A noble horse,” he said, one of those black eyebrows of his arched, “with a great deal of stamina. Rory will mount her as well? Surely she has earned retirement by now. That is asking a lot of any of God’s creatures, don’t you think?”

“Survivor is a natural with children, so don’t waste your pity on her,” Meggie said, and laughing again, leaned forward to pat the glossy neck. Survivor slewed her great head around and whinnied softly. Meggie reached into her pocket and pulled out a carrot for her. The mare snagged the carrot and ate it without ever breaking stride.

“She is nearly twelve years old. I believe my cousin Jeremy wanted more than anything to breed her, but she is too old now.”

He heard the slight change in her voice. Something sad or perhaps it was more wistful, he couldn’t be certain. He didn’t like it. “Jeremy?” he said carefully. “Which cousin is he?”

Meggie shrugged, stretched, looked all indifferent as she stared at a maple tree to her left, and said, voice all thin and watery, and that just made him all the more on edge, “Oh, Jeremy isn’t really one of my dratted cousins. He’s an almost dratted cousin. There is no blood tie. He’s the brother-in-law of my uncle Ryder Sherbrooke.”

She was obviously discomfited. He would let it go for the moment. He said, “I have heard many tales about your uncle. Is it true that he has sired more bastards than the sheiks in Arabia?”

Meggie reached out and smacked his shoulder. “That is your punishment for listening to gossip, my lord. Although, you know, there are certainly many wicked stories put out about him, my other uncle as well. However, the bastard story—that’s nonsense. My uncle Ryder is one of the most moral men in the entire world.”

“Forgive me,” Thomas said, “he is your uncle. I shouldn’t have said that so starkly. It is as you said—there are many wicked stories told about him. You’re saying that he doesn’t have a house for his bastards?”

Meggie realized the mistake. She patted Survivor’s neck, fed her another carrot as she said, “I haven’t heard that in a long time now. You really don’t know about my uncle Ryder, my lord?”

“My name is Thomas, and I thought I did.”

“Obviously you don’t. My uncle, from a very young age, began saving children he found in back allies, in servitude to cruel masters, beaten and starved by parents, even sold by gin-sodden mothers or fathers, it didn’t matter. They are called his Beloved Ones. At my last visit there were at least fifteen children living at Brandon House in the Cotswalds, very close to Chadwyck House where my uncle, my aunt Sophie, and Grayson, one of my dratted cousins, live, although Grayson is now at Oxford. The bastard business—that was all started by one of my uncle’s political foes. Because people are people, they wanted to believe it until they realized how silly such a thing would be. Just imagine, installing your bastards in a grand house next to the one where your own family lives. That would require a great deal of gall, don’t you think?”

“Yes, a great deal. Beloved Ones?”

“Yes, that is the name my aunt Sinjun gave them when she discovered his secret many years ago. I believe she was around fifteen years old at the time.”

“If this is all true, then why isn’t it well known?”

Meggie smiled. “Because my uncle Ryder is extraordinarily reticent about what he does. He considers it his private business. He gets irritated if anyone tries to praise him for his good deeds. He claims that he takes in the children because they give him great pleasure, and ‘it is no one else’s bloody damned business.’ That was a quote.”

“Who was this political foe? The one who claimed he had his bastards right there under his wife’s nose?”

“A Mr. Redfern, the incumbent, spread that ridiculous rumor because he knew he would lose if he didn’t. His was not a moral character, and next to my uncle Ryder, he was very paltry indeed. It was quite a brouhaha at the time.” Meggie paused a moment, felt a drop of rain hit the tip of her nose, and said, “Oh dear. Mr. Hengis must have had a falling out with the weather gods. His fingers must have been tapping incorrectly. It’s raining. Again. We will all begin to grow mold if this keeps up.”

“Yes,” he said and raised his face. He had loved the rain since he’d been a small boy, even the grand sheets of rain that had dampened the earth to its core for the past two days. “No,” he said, frowning after a moment, “no rain. I’m told that Mr. Hengis is never wrong. It must have been an errant drop, nothing more.”

“Another errant drop just hit me on the chin.”

“Keep your head down.”

She laughed. “All right, but you see, I don’t want to ruin my beautiful riding hat. Oh yes, Uncle Ryder’s multitudinous bastards. Actually, he does have one natural child, Jenny, whose mother died birthing her. They love each other very much. Jenny is Oliver’s wife, they married this past Christmas. He manages my father’s estate, Kildrummy Castle, in Scotland. Oliver was, if I remember correctly, one of the first children my uncle rescued. If you remain in Glenclose-on-Rowan you will meet them, my lord. Oliver usually comes for a visit in the fall. Hopefully, this fall, both he and Jenny will come.”

“Thomas. That’s my name.”

“Yes, I know, it’s just that I am an unmarried young lady. You know as well as I do that I really shouldn’t use your first name, much less be riding alone with you down country lanes.” She looked up to get some rain in her mouth. “I shall have to tell Mr. Hengis that he must forego his potato sticks since he has blundered. Let’s go to the Martins’ barn that lies just beyond that rise. It’s not much, but it will keep the rain off, if we’re careful where we stand.”

Meggie didn’t wait, just click-clicked Survivor in her sides and said, “Another carrot if you get me inside before all this increasing number of errant drops make my feather collapse under their weight.”

She thought she heard Thomas Malcombe’s laughter from behind her, but she didn’t turn, just smiled as she gave Survivor her head and hugged close to her neck. He had a very nice laugh.

When they reached the barn, Thomas realized that whoever the Martins were who had owned this barn had departed this earth many many years before, probably long before Thomas had been born. Long abandoned, it was small, utterly dilapidated, collapsing in on itself, boards hanging loose, part of the roof caved in—he hoped there would be enough roof overhead for all four of them. The rain was starting to pick up now. He would have a few words for the now-fallible Mr. Hengis.

He watched Meggie dismount, pull Survivor’s reins over her head, and lead the mare into the barn. He eyed it again, hoping the wreck wouldn’t collapse on them.

“I will try to save you, Pen, if something bad happens,” he said to his big black gelding.

Pen whinnied. He was smart. He didn’t want to go into that barn. Thomas couldn’t blame him. It took him a good three minutes to convince the horse that the bloody roof wouldn’t fall in on him. Thomas got a good soaking in the meantime.

Finally, inside the barn, he saw Meggie Sherbrooke and her mare in the one dry corner. Thomas shrugged out of his coat, shook himself like a mongrel, and plowed his fingers through his wet hair. It was a tight fit, but all four of them managed to be covered.

“What are potato sticks?”

“Why, they are Mrs. Bartholomew’s specialty. She, my lord, is your cook.”

“Oh, yes. I call her Morgana.”

“Morgana? She was King Arthur’s sister. Why would you call her that? Mrs. Bartholomew’s name is Agnes, I believe.”

“I call her that because she’s a witch, a witch who, I’m convinced, is trying to poison me. Now, these potato sticks, the ones that Mr. Hengis really likes. If I deprive him of them will it be a fitting punishment for his weather blunder?”

“Oh yes, I promise. He nearly whimpers when he smells Mrs. Bartholomew baking the sticks. Why does she want to poison you?”

“I believe it is my father she wants to poison, but he is dead, so I am the only one available.”

Meggie had been rubbing her arms, but now, she was hugging herself she was laughing so hard. “You’re right. Mrs. Bartholomew did dislike your sire profoundly. How did you know?”

“I heard her in the kitchen one morning when I wanted my tea replenished and Torrent was no where to be found, which happens more often than not. The downstairs maid, Tansie, wasn’t about. I understand she is smitten with Tobin, the butcher’s son. When I got to the kitchen, Morgana was slamming pots around and muttering about the crooked ways of the Devil, the dreadful thickness of demons on the ground. She had a truly amazing litany.”

“I would say she sounds rather upset. Did she say anything else? How do you know she was talking about your father?”

“Well, a number of times she said Old Lord L—that’s what she calls him—then followed that with miserable old bounder, blackguard, stingy coot who deserved to be drawn and quartered. Also, there was something about the hideous fate of the wicked.”

“Hmmm. I wonder what that was all about. Your father was rather clutch-fisted, at least that was his reputation, but he did pay the local tradesmen within the same six months as a purchase. As for your butler Torrent, he is getting old, my lord, and he naps at least a half dozen times a day, just behind the stairs, in a small alcove in his own special chair with three pillows. As for Tansie, she makes quilts, every chance she gets, beautiful quilts from scraps of material. She is very talented. You should look into having her start up a shop of her own. She hides in the small nursery at the top of the house whenever she can to sew. To the best of my knowledge Tobin doesn’t stand a chance with her.”

He could but stare at her. “Do you know everything about everyone in this town?”

“Naturally. I was born and raised here. Now, of course, for the past ten years we go to Scotland for the summer, to Kildrummy Castle. We all love it there. It is wild and barren and then, just half a dozen steps later, you see clumps of white heather, then purple, ah, so many colors, all of them so very brilliant that you want to weep. Have you been to Scotland, my lord?”

“Call me Thomas. Yes, I have been many times to Scotland, to Glasgow for business and up to Inverness to visit friends and to hunt.”

Meggie leaned down to pick up some ancient hay that had probably moldered in the same spot for at least twenty years. She began to rub it over Survivor’s back. Thomas did the same with Pen.

Without warning, Survivor whipped her head around and tried to bite Meggie’s shoulder. Meggie jumped back just in time, tripped on the hem of her riding skirt and went down on her bottom. She was laughing. “Oh, I see the problem now. The straw is too stiff and it is irritating her. Beware, Thomas, Pen might not like it either.”

Pen neighed loudly but didn’t move.

Meggie grinned as she brushed some dirt and straw off her skirt. “Survivor tries to bite you only if you’re grown up, never children.”

Thomas leaned down and clasped her hand. He pulled too hard, and both of them knew it was on purpose. She slammed against him. She’d never before slammed against a man. It was heady, that slamming.

It was too soon, he thought, then just couldn’t help himself. He leaned down his head and kissed her. Not much of a kiss, just a light touching of mouths. She didn’t move, didn’t do anything at all. It took him a moment to realize this must be her first kiss.

Good. No Jeremy. He must have been mistaken about him, which was a relief.

Her first kiss and he’d been the one to give it to her. Slowly he raised his head. She was staring up at him straight on, not blinking. She touched her fingertips to her mouth. Then, finally, she frowned and stepped back.

“How very odd,” she said, as she shook out her damp skirts. “Of course you should not have done that, but no matter. I am only a bit damp now. It is still raining quite hard.”

She watched him plow his fingers through his dark hair, nice and thick that hair, a bit shaggy for popular tastes. “Meggie, you’re right, I shouldn’t have done that, but it was just a kiss, after all, not a mauling or a serious attempt at seduction. I apologize for taking advantage of our situation.” His voice softened and deepened. He couldn’t help the dollop of masculine pride that crept in. “It was your first kiss. I gave you your first kiss.”

“Ha,” Meggie said. “Ha ha. You are mistaken, my lord. I have been kissed many times.”

“Thomas,” he said. “My name is Thomas.”

“Yes, I know your name. Let me tell you, I have kissed so many boys I can scare remember all of them.”

“This was all during your Season last year?”

“Well, no, to be honest about this, and I suppose that I must be honest since my father is the vicar and this business of honesty is quite important to him, all the boys were my dratted cousins. I asked them, you see, when I was thirteen years old, to kiss me. I didn’t ask any of the older ones, only the dratted cousins who were my age or younger.”

“Jeremy was older?”

“Yes, he was much older,” and she thought, no, not Jeremy, never Jeremy. She’d wanted to, more than anything, but she’d known she’d probably sink into a puddle at his feet if he’d kissed her, and her father would have been appalled. Doubtless Jeremy would have been appalled as well. She said, “The older male cousins thought it a great jest, but I ignored them.” Jeremy, she recalled, had laughed his head off. Why had he asked specifically about Jeremy?

“What did you do?”

“I lined up all the dratted boy cousins. Each stepped forward when I called his name and puckered his lips and did it.”

8

HE COULD ONLY stare down at her. She was without guile. She also had an outrageous streak that was a good mile wide. She’d lined up her cousins? “You simply wished to experiment?”

“Well, yes. You see, Max and Leo, my brothers, absolutely refused to kiss me, so they announced that they would judge which cousin kissed the best. But as I think about it now, I think I should have been the judge, not two boys who knew nothing about anything.”

“It makes sense to me. What criteria did Max and Leo use to choose the winner?”

Meggie thought back to that splendid day, at the line of dratted cousins, all of them nervous, afraid, knowing there was a lot on the line here, but each eager. “Hmm. They picked Grayson, my uncle Ryder’s son. But the criteria—they claimed they awarded Grayson on form. But come to think of it, they might have picked Grayson no matter what the contest. You know, Grayson tells marvelous stories—ghost stories, adventure stories, really scary gnarly stories—and he’d told them a hair-raising ghost story just the night before about midnight. It was about this old man whose wife shoved him into a well and left him there to die, but his ghost came after her, did all sorts of gruesome things, and Max and Leo were so scared, so happy, wanting so badly to hear Grayson tell another story, that they didn’t even hesitate. Do you know, they announced Grayson the winner before poor James was barely finished.”

“This is an amazing story,” he said slowly. He tried to remember a single evening in his growing-up years that could possibly have been as delightful as this one. He couldn’t dredge a single one up. Then he remembered Nathan had taught him how to dive into the ocean from the cliff that summer of his tenth year. Nathan, who’d left, joined the army, and died in Spain so many years ago.

He shook this off. “Who is James?” he asked.

“He is my uncle Douglas’s oldest son. He and Jason are twins, born only about thirty minutes apart. James will be the earl of Northcliffe someday. Did you know that they are quite the most beautiful young men in the world?”

“No, I didn’t know. They weren’t beautiful then? You weren’t infatuated with one of them when you were younger?”

“Oh no. Both of them have very bad habits. I was always trying to make them better. Now it will be up to their wives to improve upon them, if they ever marry, that is. My uncle Douglas always despaired for their characters since they are so beautiful. In all fairness to other males, though, it’s really unfortunate that today they are quite unspoiled—only male sorts of bad habits that one simply cannot eradicate—but in their hearts, they are not rotten at all.”

“Not rotten at all?”

“No more rotten now than any of their contemporaries. You know, they curse and brag and steal their father’s brandy, run races at midnight and nearly break their necks, lay wagers on who can spit the farthest, that sort of thing. They don’t gamble or get sent down from Oxford or seduce local girls.”

Thomas doubted that last sincerely. They were young men. That was what young men did, rotten or not. Hopefully, they really had outgrown the worst of it. “May I kiss you again?”

“Whyever for?”

He said slowly, even as he lowered his head, “I want to see if you compare me favorably to your cousins.”

“But that was a long time ago and we were all children and—”

He kissed her. This time it wasn’t just touching mouth to mouth. This time there was a bit of pressure, a bit more coaxing, and lots of warmth. His hands were on her arms, slowly bringing her closer. Then he opened his mouth.

He actually opened his mouth, Meggie thought, appalled, like he was going to speak or eat his dinner or butcher a high note like that Milanese soprano.

She felt his tongue lightly pressing against her lips, but she kept her mouth shut. Meggie blinked up at him. His eyes weren’t closed. When he saw the shock in her eyes, he drew back.

She didn’t jump back or slap him. She simply stood there, looking thoughtful, staring up at him. Finally she said, “That was very strange. Since you have lived outside England for a very long time, perhaps you have forgotten English customs, my lord. That, I am quite certain, cannot be one of them. You opened your mouth, you touched your tongue to my lower lip, my upper lip as well, and you sort of licked me. Surely that isn’t done here in England, only in some foreign country where there is permission to explore shameless sorts of things.”

He had to smile. “Actually, Meggie, I swear to you it is the done thing.”

He saw that she wasn’t quite ready to accept that. She said, “So it is the done thing where you have lived all these years? Did someone instruct you to do this where you were brought up? Where you grew into manhood?”

“Oh yes, but instruction really isn’t necessary. Well, perhaps some instruction would be helpful to some young men. What is necessary is practice, a great deal of it, although by its very nature, there is a lot of built-in practice involved in the process.”

“What process?”

“The lovemaking process. Kissing simply sets the whole business off.”

“Oh.”

“Yes, it is done all the time. It is even done in China.” He was lightly stroking his hands up and down her arms. The velvet riding habit was still a bit damp. “Actually, Meggie, there is something that you need to know since you are now a woman.”

“What is that?”

“It is even done here in England.”

“You are certain about this? This tongue business?”

“Oh yes.”

“Really in China as well as in England?”

“Oh yes.”

And she realized: Then Jeremy must do this to Charlotte. He opens his mouth when he kisses her. Does she open her mouth as well? No, no, don’t think about that.

“Did you find it distasteful?”

Meggie thought about that a moment, considered it. Her forehead was furrowed, and she chewed on her bottom lip. He wanted to touch his fingertip to her bottom lip, perhaps stroke her bottom lip with his tongue.

“No, it wasn’t distasteful, just very curious. Goodness, I wonder if my father and Mary Rose do that.”

She looked utterly appalled as she said the words, looked as though she’d give anything to take the words back, to take back the fact that she’d even thought of it. Again, he held back a laugh, and said, “I am not so deranged to comment on the marital habits of a vicar and his wife.”

“You’re right. I shouldn’t either.” Meggie sighed. “Is that a sliver of weak sun?”

“It is. And look, it is no longer raining.”

She didn’t know whether to be pleased or disappointed. This had been a very strange morning.

“I wonder,” she said, “if Max and Leo would judge you to be the kissing winner now.”

“Yes,” he said, “they most certainly would.”

She laughed, but it wasn’t full and delighted, it was reedy and wary because she was thinking about his mouth against hers, about feeling him against her as well, his big hands stroking her, and it was as frightening as it was fascinating.

He looked at her upturned face and thought, Well, I’ve taught you something and it both worries and interests you. It’s a good start.

He said easily, “You see, to ensure that they would select me the winner, I would tell them an excellent story about scaly fire-breathing dragons and the witless knights who had nothing better to do than track them to their caves.”

“I fear Max and Leo are no longer bribed with good stories. Actually, I’m not sure what would sway them now. They are young men and I simply no longer know. The problem is the male brain—it is wholly mysterious and unpredictable. It’s rather like a mass of confusion in your head.” She sighed then. “I really did my best raising them. Max is going to be a vicar, like Papa, so he can’t be too wicked, can he?”

“Oh no. So you’re telling me that you raised your brothers?”

“Oh yes, at least until my father married Mary Rose. I was ten and a good-sized girl, lots bigger and stronger than they were. I could pound them whenever they needed it, which was quite often, being that they were boys, and had no sense at all. Yes, they required a great deal of discipline, and a vigilant eye. Leo was the prankster. I’ll never forget the time he cut a strip out of the back of my gown. I threw him in the bushes for that stunt.”

He laughed. He realized he’d laughed more since he’d met her than in a very long time.

They led their horses out of the barn. Pen whinnied, delighted to have escaped, hide intact. Leaves dripped water, the ground was spongy. He gave her a leg up, saying as she smoothed her skirts over her legs, “I hear from Dr. Dreyfus that Rory will be up to all sorts of mischief by the end of the week.”

“Oh yes. Let me thank you again, my lord.”

“You can thank me by calling me Thomas.”

“If you put it that way. All right. Thomas. It is a good name, a solid name. I will use it. Since you’ve kissed me, using your tongue, I suppose I know you well enough.”

“Yes, I believe you do, at last. Dr. Dreyfus also wants to analyze all the medicines my partner in Italy sent me. He has asked me to have that maringo root sent here to see if it can be grown in England. He is very excited about it.”

Meggie wasn’t really listening. Thomas Malcombe wasn’t a cousin. She’d known him such a short time, and he’d opened his mouth when he’d kissed her that second time.

He wasn’t Jeremy.

She managed to bring herself back to the point. “There was another case of the virulent fever, and Dr. Dreyfus immediately administered your drug. Little Melissa perked up very quickly.”

“Yes, everyone in the village told me about it.”

“Everyone in the village is also singing your praises. The men are toasting you in the taproom. The ladies are so fulsome in their praise that your ears should be burning. You are rapidly working up to local hero.”

“I like that,” he said, and lightly laid his hands over hers. “I would like to see the Channel.”

Meggie raised her face to the watery sun, and smiled. “I should like that as well,” she said.

She wondered if perhaps she should kiss him again. Was the female supposed to open her mouth as well? Perhaps touch his mouth with her tongue?

She shivered. This was new ground, probably unsafe ground. She wasn’t at all certain that she wanted to walk here. She thought of Jeremy kissing her, knowing it would spin her off her feet, and felt a deep shaft of pain. He said, “Perhaps you could be specific about what the ladies are saying about me and my magnificence. I would like my ears to burn a bit. They never have before.”

“I’m not sure that is such a good idea,” Meggie said. “I think you could grow far too used to being worshipped,” and nudged her boot heels into Survivor’s sides.

9

“THAT IS QUITE the longest leap Cleo has ever made,” Meggie said, reading the distance stick again. “Yes, that’s right—three feet and about four inches. Just excellent, my sweet girl.”

“It’s that new training method, Meggie,” Alec said, humming under his breath. He stroked the cat’s back, long light strokes. Cleo began to purr and arch her back.

Like what Thomas Malcombe did to me. At least I had the sense not to purr and squirm.

Oh dear, better concentrate on training methods. She wrapped the long length of pale yellow ribbon around her hand. A good foot of it was shredded by Cleo catching it, her claws seaming it, so that it was now five skinny strings of ribbon.

Alec said, “She might just beat Mr. Cork on Saturday.”

“I have worked with Mr. Cork as well, and you know he has more endurance. He is very taken with smells, as you know. I tried a new one on him—mackerel. I chopped it up, added a dash of garlic, and dried it. Then I wrapped it in a netted bag. He nearly ran his legs off trying to get close enough to get a really strong whiff of it. It must replace the dead trout.”

“Meggie, you will surely beat out the Harker brothers in the creativity of your training methods. They’re entering three cats in this race.”

“Never underestimate their ingenuity, Alec. I hear that Jamie, the head stable lad at the Mountvale mews, has come up with a new limerick to sing to the Black Rocket. It’s so effective—all Jamie has to do is stand at the finish line and sing his heart out, and the Black Rocket will spead toward him like a bullet.”

“The Black Rocket has very mean eyes,” Alec said thoughtfully. “I think Mr. Cork needs to bring him down a peg. I need to think about this.”

Thomas Malcombe listened to brother and sister discuss the Black Rocket—whatever sort of racing cat that was. He liked that name, it was quite menacing. He’d seen Mr. Cork, his gold and white body stretched out, all muscled and long in the sun, with just a bit of shade over one leg from one of Mrs. Sherbrooke’s rosebushes.

He’d never had a cat, even when he’d been a boy. There were the barn cats, feral, all of them good mousers.

“Lord Lancaster, how nice to see you. Do you like thin ham slices? They’re Cook’s specialty. Do join us for luncheon.”

He turned to see Mrs. Sherbrooke coming around the side of the vicarage. “Good day, Mrs. Sherbrooke. I merely came to see if Rory was well enough yet to train with the racing cats. I have no wish to intrude.”

Mary Rose took his hand. “You saved my son’s life, my lord. I want you to intrude until you are quite tired of all of us. Do call me Mary Rose.”

Meggie overheard this and nodded vigorously as she joined the two of them. “Thomas, welcome. I’m delighted you could visit. The last time I saw Rory, he was climbing the trellis that divides Mary Rose’s hydrangeas from her daffodils, the one with the red climbing roses on it.”

Mary Rose’s eyes nearly crossed. “Oh no, tell me you made that up, Meggie! Oh goodness, he can’t. That trellis isn’t all that sturdy. I swear that as of right now, I will no longer look at him and thank God endlessly. No, I will pull my resolve together and swat his bottom. Well, perhaps if he is more than two feet from the ground I will swat him. My lord, I will see you in the dining room in no more than five minutes. Rory! Get down off that trellis!”

And Mary Rose was gone, holding her skirt up to her knees and running toward the east side of the vicarage.

Meggie grinned after her. “This is a good sign. She’s been hovering over him, so afraid he will stop breathing again.”

“Being hovered over doesn’t sound like a bad thing,” Thomas said.

Meggie grinned. “Hovering in this case means she’s always petting him, kissing him, squeezing him, stuffing food down his gullet, driving the little boy quite distracted, a very independent little boy, let me add.”

“You mean you made that trellis story up to get your mother back on an even keel?”

“I wouldn’t call it precisely a lie,” Meggie said. “Perhaps Rory was looking longingly at the trellis. Now, I am delighted you came to visit. Cook’s ham slices are so thin you can see yourself through them. No one knows how she manages it and everyone is always lurking about to watch when she slices the ham. Come along now. You needn’t worry that she will try to poison you. The only person she ever mutters about is Mr. Samuel Pritchert, my father’s curate.”

“The very dour man who never smiles even when he eats a bite of apple tart?”

“That’s the one.”

“He’s in a bad way.”

“Yes. But do you know, he has but to look at someone, and that someone will spill his innards to Samuel. My father thinks it’s amazing.”

“I don’t believe you.”

She just laughed, took his hand, and pulled him toward the vicarage door. They heard Mary Rose yelling at Rory, who had, evidently, climbed the trellis, because she was telling him that she was going to swat him but good when she got him down from that great height. Goodness, he’d climbed at least eighteen inches and he deserved a good swat.

“That,” Meggie said, “makes you wonder about the nature of deception, doesn’t it?”

Jeremy’s visit the following Wednesday was unannounced, thank God, or Meggie would have been an incoherent bundle of nerves. As it was, all she felt was longing and an immense pain at what couldn’t be.

Jeremy Stanton-Greville was so happy. So incredibly, blessedly happy. He gushed; he grinned like a fool. He oozed contentment and smugness. He rubbed his hands together, so proud of himself, so pleased with life, so uncaring, so blind, to the one person who would have gladly played Sir Walter Raleigh to his Queen Elizabeth and thrown every cloak she owned at his feet. Thus, just seeing him, knowing he wasn’t ever to belong to her, made her want to hide under the stairs and weep, but naturally, she couldn’t. She was stoic. She endured, even managed, when a jest nearly punched her in the nose, to dutifully smile.

After an hour, however, Meggie was feeling less and less like bursting into tears when she looked at him. Actually, she wanted less and less for him to stare at her, just her, with regret and nameless hunger in his beautiful eyes. She wanted less and less for him to realize his tragic mistake that would keep them apart forever.

No, after an hour, Meggie was ready to smash him. She began to drum her fingers against the arm of her chair as he talked on and on about his dearest Charlotte, his beautiful, elegant Charlotte, so sweet, so clever—the embodiment of perfection, a flawless example of womanhood. Then he went on to his stud at Fowey. After a while, both the stud and Charlotte sported the same attributes.

Jeremy never stopped talking about either Charlotte and the stud, even after dinner when the adults were finally having tea in the drawing room.

Hour upon hour of his braying went on. Meggie knew it would never end unless someone shot him. She was ready.

His endless braying had become the fifth circle of Hell. He was still beautiful, of course, no change there, and he still made her heart sigh and ache, but enough was enough. To keep her mouth shut, Meggie moved to the piano and played vigorously, to drown out his endless praise of himself and what he himself had found and fashioned. But he just didn’t stop. Her father looked mildly amused, and to Meggie’s eye a bit distracted, and she knew he was likely composing next Sunday’s sermon while he was the perfect host. Mary Rose was constantly patting Jeremy’s hand, as if to congratulate him on his brilliance, perhaps to keep herself from slapping him silly.

Meggie’s limber fingers ran the last Scarlatti arpeggio, hit the last cord, perhaps too forte, since she used quite a bit of muscle, but it didn’t matter. She waited just a moment to see if perhaps the conversation had shifted to someone besides perfect Charlotte or the perfect stud.

It hadn’t.

Meggie said finally, in a very loud voice as she rose from the piano stool, “How are Uncle Ryder and Aunt Sophie?”

Jeremy, who been detailing every improvement he’d made on the stud—in only three months, mind you—and the plans he had for Leo, said, startled, “What? Oh, they are just fine, Meggie.” He grinned, and Meggie felt her heart lurch. Well, blessed hell. “Yes, Ryder tells me the Sherbrooke boys have quite taken over Oxford. He says that when a letter arrives from Grayson, he’s loathe to open it, fearing the worst.” Now his grin turned fatuous. “I know you love to ride, Meggie. Did I tell you how much Charlotte adores this one mare I bought for her, a beautiful bay mare with a white blaze on her nose and white fetlocks. She is as lovely a mare as Charlotte is a woman. I will breed her, naturally. Her name is Dido, so fitting, don’t you think?”

“No,” Meggie said. “To escape her husband, Dido built a funeral pyre, stabbed herself, and threw herself on it.”

He paused a moment, frowning. “I thought she founded Carthage, something both the mare and Charlotte will do, that is, they will both found a dynasty.”

“She did, then she stabbed herself.”

“Hmm,” said Jeremy, “now that I think about it, I’m not certain that I should allow Charlotte to ride all that much now, since she is carrying my child.”

“It is her child too,” Meggie said, her voice rising an octave. “She’s the one doing all the work.”

“Well, yes, but she tells me over and over that she is having this child for me and that it will be a boy because that is what I want.” He gave her a brainless self-satisfied grin.

This was nauseating. Her heart wasn’t lurching in pain and regret now. Meggie said, her fingers tapping on the lovely cherrywood piano case, “I would only care if my child were healthy and that it managed to survive its first year on this blessed earth. I wouldn’t care whether or not it was a boy or girl.” She added, her voice even louder now, “Perhaps Charlotte can decide for herself when she should stop riding her beautiful mare that you bought her, whose namesake stabbed herself.”

Jeremy gave her what she’d thought only four hours before was the most seductive smile in all of Christendom. Now it looked superior and smug. He said, all patient and condescending, “Meggie, as is proper, since I am Charlotte’s husband, she looks to me to guide her, to tell her what is best for her.”

“What a wonderful parent you will be, Jeremy,” Meggie said, her own smile as false as Mr. McCardle’s leg, “just look at all the practice you’re gaining since you married Charlotte. But you know, I simply can’t imagine what is proper about treating your wife like a child and a nitwit.”

“Charlotte a nitwit? A child? That is absurd, Meggie. Oh, I see, you’re jesting.”

To keep the nausea at bay, Meggie played another song. She was quite aware that Mary Rose had cocked her head to one side, sending her glorious mass of curly red hair halfway down her arm, no doubt wondering why Meggie had lost her manners.

Meggie stopped playing in time to hear Jeremy say to her father, ignoring both her and Mary Rose, “Since you have approved, Uncle Tysen, Leo will be coming to me at the end of his term at Oxford. He is a natural with horses. He and I will do very well together. He writes me with new ideas. He is studying the science of horse breeding, he tells me.” This was said with an indulgent grin.

“Leo knows more about horses than you do,” Meggie said.

Tysen said easily, “Now, Meggie, Leo knows quite a lot, that’s true, but he doesn’t yet have Jeremy’s years of experience.”

“Does Charlotte think Leo will do well too?” Meggie asked.

Jeremy leaned back against the sofa back, smiling. “My dearest Charlotte has no idea what Leo will do since she is a woman and can’t really understand the needs and requirements for someone to succeed at building a successful stud.”

More nausea. How could he be so utterly obtuse? She couldn’t believe the nonsense flowing from his mouth. Why hadn’t Uncle Ryder beaten that out of him? Surely after four hours of it, he would have realized a good blow would do the trick.

Meggie nodded ever so pleasantly and said, “Oh yes indeed. How true. I, myself, have often wondered how God could have been so remiss as to have made women, when they are so very useless. He wasted his time.”

“But Charlotte is pregnant,” Jeremy said, looking at her, blinking, confused.

Meggie said, “Surely God could have found an easier way to provide boy children for men rather than forcing them to have to deal with women, don’t you think? Imagine, Charlotte hasn’t the brains to even understand how horses mate. Imagine, you have to tell her even when she should no longer ride a horse. Imagine, she will welcome Leo with no idea what he will do.”

“Meggie.” This from her father, who knew from her tone of voice that she’d gone too far. “Jeremy didn’t mean that. You are misunderstanding him.”

Of course her father doubtless wondered why she was quite ready to clout Jeremy in the head. Oh goodness, she had to stop being such a shrew. Her feelings for Jeremy—this was something Meggie never wanted either him or Mary Rose to know. It was too humiliating.

But something she couldn’t control made her ignore her father and say, “I believe he said that Charlotte is stupid, unlike him or Leo since they are men and seem to know what’s what.” She looked at Jeremy straight in the face. “When I met Charlotte, I never thought she was stupid. Indeed, if I’d had the opportunity, I would have asked her if she had any ideas about training racing cats.”

Jeremy looked like a calm, reasoned man who suddenly had an eccentric cousin on his hands. He said easily, “Meggie, you played a lovely song. Why don’t you play another?”

“It was a Scarlatti sonata, not a song. It has no words. Oh goodness, how foolish of me. You, a man, would know that even without being told, wouldn’t you?”

“Scarlatti was a man, dammit!”

“Wouldn’t you say that perhaps dear Scarlatti had ample time to do his composing since he didn’t have to birth children, wash clothes, scrub floors, or pander endlessly to all the males around him?”

“Hmmm,” Mary Rose said, leaping to her feet. “Do you know, I have a headache. It started a good while ago. Meggie, would you please press a rosewater cloth to my forehead? You do it so very well. Come along.”

Mary Rose held out her hand. Meggie had no choice. She said as she walked to her stepmother, “Shouldn’t you ask Papa how it is best done? Or is that one of the very simplest of tasks to accomplish—like birthing children—so that I have a chance of learning to do it?”

“Meggie, my headache is going to split my brow apart.”

“Good night, Mary Rose, Meggie,” said Tysen. “Ah, my dearest daughter, I hope you will apologize to Jeremy before you bid us a pleasant good night.”

“I apologize, Jeremy. Surely you can forgive me. I am much too stupid to understand my own insults.”

Mary Rose had hauled her out of the drawing room, even pausing to shut the door behind her.

Tysen said to Jeremy, “Although Meggie was rude to you, my boy, your opinion of women would raise most female’s hackles. I believe you should think about this.”

Jeremy, however, was grinning, a thoroughly wicked grin. He said, very quietly, because Meggie was known to eavesdrop, “Do you think I baited her too much, Uncle Tysen?”

“You were acting like a jackass to make her lose her head, which she, naturally, did. It was well done.”

“Not at first, but then she was so appalled, so furious at me, I couldn’t help myself.”

Suddenly Meggie appeared in the doorway. Jeremy said without pause, “I don’t understand, Uncle Tysen. I am a man and Charlotte is a woman. We each have our own roles, our own responsibilities. Is Meggie feeling ill? Perhaps in her head?”

Meggie, no matter how important her reason for coming back, now turned on her heel, cursed under her breath, but not under enough for the two gentlemen, one of them her father and a vicar, and ran up the stairs.

Tysen just shook his head. “Do tell me more about this Arabian stallion you wish to buy from Spain.”

Jeremy said, “Meggie is growing up fast.”

“No. Actually, she’s already well grown. She has very firm ideas about things.”

“She always has. What a joy to tease her until the smoke came out of her ears.” And he grinned again. “Now, about that Arabian. The fellow’s nasty as a cock who’s been kicked out of the hen yard. He’s also as fast as the fox who managed to break in just last week and eat one of our best setters. He made a big mistake, however.” Jeremy laughed.

Tysen arched an eyebrow.

“He tried to bite Charlotte, and she smacked the toe of her boot against his nose.”

10

IT WAS TOO soon. Thomas knew he made her laugh, perhaps she’d even found his two kisses more than interesting, not that he could know for sure. Dammit. He forced himself back to the task at hand, making himself finish writing the letter to his steward.

He didn’t know what made him look up, but he did, and there she was, striding like a long-legged boy into his garden. He slowly rose, rounded his desk, and opened the French door. She was flushed, breathing hard, her breasts pumping up and down, a rather nice sight.

What the devil had happened? He opened the door wide.

“Mistress Sherbrooke,” he said formally, giving her a small bow, “do come into my humble estate room. I didn’t realize that small private gate still opened.”

“I forced it,” Meggie said. “Good afternoon, Thomas. It isn’t raining. Have you finally allowed Mr. Hengis some potato sticks?”

“No. Morgana informed me that Mr. Hengis—Benjie—was a poltroon, that you, little sweetling that you are, got a soaking because he misread his nose and you could have easily succumbed to an inflammation of the lungs.”

He watched her calm, even smile at his jest, regain her bearings. He said then, “Come in and sit down.”

She did, saying nothing more. She eased down in the leather chair across from the big mahogany desk.

He sat on the edge of his desk and swung his leg, content to watch her for a few moments. She was really quite upset.

“All right, tell me what happened before you spit nails on my carpet.”

“Nothing, dammit.”

He very nearly laughed. “You, the vicar’s daughter, shouldn’t tell lies, Meggie. You probably shouldn’t curse either. Something bad is bound to happen, like your tongue might rot off.”

“Why would you care? What is my tongue to you?” The instant the words were out of her mouth, she remembered all too well that kiss in Martins’ barn. “Never mind, don’t you dare say anything. All that tongue business was very improper. I am so angry, Thomas, I could kick something.”

“That moldering old hassock is at your disposal.”

Meggie leapt to her feet, gave the hassock a hard kick, so hard she nearly knocked herself backward. She turned and smiled at him. “Thank you.”

“A person should never allow ire to build to high levels. It clogs the body’s pathways and leads many times to bad things, such as cursing.”

“Blessed hell, surely that is nonsense.”

“Oh no. I once knew a man who worried all the time, even worried when he discovered that his watch was several minutes slow and how many people he’d offended by being late. He never said much, just walked about with a frown on his face and bucketfuls of worry in his heart. Finally, one day when he was worrying about how his hog would ever find enough mud to wallow in since there hadn’t been much rain, he just fell over dead, his pathways all clogged. So the moral to this tale is to spit it out when you’re upset about something and kick something. Now, would you like a bit of brandy?”

“Brandy? Goodness, I haven’t tasted brandy since Leo, Max, and I once stole Papa’s bottle, hid behind one of the big tombstones in the cemetery, and drank it empty. All three of us were vilely sick. Papa, as I remember, didn’t give us a hiding, just said that we now knew firsthand what stupidity tasted like.”

Thomas laughed. “A taste does not stupidity make.”

“Who said that?”

“Some long ago brilliant fellow.”

“You’re lying, but all right, I will try my first taste of brandy as a grown-up person.”

He poured her a bit and himself a bit more. He clicked his snifter to hers. “Here’s to the demise of the obnoxious person who made you angry enough to spit.”

She choked, spewing the mouthful of brandy all over the front of his white shirt. She dropped the snifter, and stared at the darkening stain on that pristine white shirt. “Oh no, I don’t believe I did that. This is awful, just look at that stain. It’s such a beautiful shirt and I’ve ruined it. I spit on you. I’ve never done that before. I’m so sorry, Thomas.”

He set down his own snifter and took her hands between his. “It’s all right. It’s just a shirt. No, Meggie, please don’t try to suck it clean like little Rory tried to do to your skirt that morning at the church.” She looked as if she would burst into tears and laughter, both at the same time.

He didn’t think, just leaned down and kissed her. He tasted brandy and that sweet scent of her that had tantalized him when he’d kissed her before, a scent he’d never before tasted on another woman.

He touched his tongue to her mouth, urging hers to open, and she did, just a bit. When he eased his tongue into her mouth, she jumped, pushed away from him, backed up three fast steps, tripped over the hassock she’d kicked and landed on her bottom not on the soft Axminster carpet, but onto the oak floor.

“Meggie! Are you all right?”

She blinked up at him. “I think I’ve jarred my innards,” she said, “but nothing that will kill me.”

“Your bottom is well padded. Your innards should be safe.”

She shook her head, came up to her knees, and stayed there a moment, looking fixedly into the corner of the estate room.

“Why did you jump away from me?”

“This time I just happened to leave my mouth open and you slid in your tongue. It’s very strange, well—very personal—you know what I mean?”

“If you will just hold still and give it a chance, just maybe you will like it. Meggie, why are you staring off across the room?”

“There’s a dead mouse in the corner.”

He laughed, the latest laugh in the long line of laughs that had come from deep within him since he’d come here and met this woman. He said, “That must mean that Tansie was making another quilt rather than cleaning properly. I will tell Morgana and she will either forbid Tansie potato sticks or have her go eat mushrooms in the forest.”

Meggie laughed. She just couldn’t help it. “I do wish you would stop that.”

“Stop what? Making you forget that you want to be angry and miserable and that your bottom hurts?”

“Yes, all of that.” She sighed and pulled herself up. He watched her rub her bottom, even as she chewed on her bottom lip and stared at one of his shirt buttons.

“The brandy has already stained your lovely shirt. I am so sorry. If anyone sees you they will believe you a drunkard. I will have to defend you, but alas, here is your shirt as a silent witness, and thus no one will believe me. So, may I take it back to Mrs. Priddle? She can remove any stain in Christendom.”

“If it means that much to you, and to save my reputation,” he said, and begun to unfasten his shirt.

Meggie grabbed his hands. “You can’t do that! What is wrong with you? You can’t take off your clothes in your estate room, particularly since I’m standing right in front of you. My father is the damned vicar!”

And he doubled over with laughter, and the feel of that laughter was deep and full and he was growing quite used to it. He said, knowing he shouldn’t, knew it was too soon, but unable to prevent the words from bursting out of his mouth, “Meggie, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

Meggie gaped at him. He wanted her to marry him? This was quite the strangest day—kicking a hassock, falling on her rump, and a marriage proposal. And then Meggie thought of Jeremy, thought of kicking him off the back of his prized Arabian stud, perhaps even kicking him off the edge of the earth. At least Jeremy had taught her a very important lesson. Ignorance of a man’s opinions could bring a woman low. She said, “I’m sorry, Thomas, but before I give this consideration I must question you first.”

“Question me? Oh, I see. No, Meggie, I’m not a wife beater. I would never strike a woman.”

“Neither is Jeremy and neither would he.”

Naturally he knew exactly who this Jeremy was, and he felt cold all the way to his toes as he said mildly, “This is your almost dratted cousin?”

“Yes, he is visiting. I wanted to smack him silly last night.”

“Ah, so he’s the one who caused your ire to rise to dangerous levels. He’s the one responsible for making you boot the stuffing in my hassock?”

“He’s the one. He’s also a man. I couldn’t believe what came out of his mouth, Thomas, and he’s only been married six months or so. I know my father isn’t at all like that, but I just don’t know about you, and so I must ask you. You see, if I married you and you turned into Jeremy, then I would have to shoot you. A vicar’s daughter isn’t allowed to do things like that.”

“I understand perfectly. Ask away.”

“Do you believe women are stupid?”

“No more stupid than men.”

“I personally believe we are far less stupid than men. I came to this belief quite objectively after raising Max and Leo. All right, so you claim to be even-handed. Now, do you believe it is a husband’s right to tell his wife she may not ride her mare when she becomes with child?”

He could but stare at her, her voice so very serious, so intense, and he remembered the anger that made her face red to her eyebrows. He said slowly, “If I had a wife and she was carrying a child, why then I would trust that she had the good sense not to do anything to endanger either herself or the babe. I would not want a wife who is a twit. I would not want a wife who needed instruction on something as obvious as that.”

“Excellent, just excellent,” Meggie said. “I knew you weren’t an idiot. Now, do you wish God hadn’t made women so that you wouldn’t have to deal with them when you wanted a child? You wish that He’d devised another way for men to acquire boy children?”

“No. Don’t tell me Jeremy could have intimated anything that ridiculous? Surely you mustn’t have heard correctly.”

“That was a very long question and your answer was very short. Would you care to elaborate?”

“No, Meggie, I wouldn’t. Have I passed your test?”

She stroked her jaw, frowned at the hassock that had laid her low, and said, sighing, “Actually, to be honest, I’m not sure that Jeremy really believes that. It’s just what I accused him of believing. Do you believe that husbands have the right to give orders to their wives?”

He said slowly, “I’ve never been married, Meggie. Would I ever give you orders? Yes, if you were in danger and I wanted to protect you.”

“That’s all right,” she said, staring again at the dead mouse in the far corner. “I would give you orders as well if I believed you were in danger. Also, you’re bigger than I am. If we ever were in any danger, surely your size would be useful.”

“I hope so.”

“I know all about horses, Thomas. I don’t know much about studs and how to manage them, but I know I’m smart enough to learn. If you had a stud, would you consider me too stupid to be useful, all of this based solely on the fact that I’m not a man?”

“You, the premier racing cat trainer, not useful? That’s ridiculous, Meggie. No man, not even an idiot, could say that.”

“He believes women are too stupid to know man sorts of things.”

“A moron,” Thomas said. “The man who said that is a moron. Jeremy, I take it? Would you like me to pound him, perhaps kick him off the cliffs into the Channel?”

She shook her head sadly. “No. If you did that, he would hit on the beach, not wash out at all, and his body would be quickly discovered and you would be hanged.” She sighed. “Anyway, if I’m not allowed to pound him, then it wouldn’t be fair to have you do it. Do you like women, Thomas?”

“Immensely.”

“Do you really wish to marry me?”

“Yes.”

“Why? You’ve known me no more than a month.”

“How odd. It seems like I’ve known you all my life.” He paused a moment, looked down at the floor, then out the window. Finally, he said, surprise in his voice, “The thing is, Meggie, you make me laugh.”

She walked up to him, hugged her arms around his back, and leaned her head back. “I can’t think of a better reason. All right, I’ll marry you.”

He nearly shook he was so relieved. He slowly closed his arms around her back. He didn’t kiss her, just held her. He would have to accustom himself to being a husband.

“Thomas?”

“Yes, Meggie.”

“If we were blessed, and I conceived, would you expect me to present you with a boy?”

Children, he thought, children, something he’d assumed were simply a part of married life, but he hadn’t thought of them, not as a reality, not as a natural result of making love to Meggie. “I could probably expect all I wanted. I don’t think one can predict these things.” He held her closer, closed his eyes, and tried not to think of anything outside of right now and the both of them standing very close in this room with a dead mouse in the corner.

He said against her left ear, “Perhaps I will set Tansie up in a quilt business.”

She laughed and lightly bit his collarbone, even as she groaned at the taste of the sticky brandy on the front of his shirt.

Jeremy Stanton-Greville left at nine o’clock the following morning, feeling just a bit guilty because Meggie was obviously still angry at him. He’d wanted to hug her and punch her arm, tell her that soon she would learn that men could be led about like pigs with rings in their noses. No, not a good image. Well, maybe some day he would tell her that he’d just been jesting. She’d been so defensive, so ready to tear his throat out at his steady stream of insults.

Fact was, he had insulted her and her sex quite thoroughly, but not when he’d said that a wife’s well-being should be the husband’s responsibility. When Meggie was married, she would learn that was one of the main uses for a husband. That and sex. He grinned vacuously and began whistling between his thoroughbred’s ears.

Not seven minutes later, Thomas Malcombe, seventh earl of Lancaster, knocked on the vicarage door.

Mary Rose, who was devoutly grateful that Jeremy had taken his leave, fearing that Meggie would go over the edge and try to stuff him up the chimney, blinked at the sight of Thomas Malcombe, beautifully garbed in riding clothes, so grateful that it was he and not Jeremy returning for some reason, that she nearly threw her arms around him and squeezed hard. He was carrying a riding crop in his right hand, his hat in his left. His dark hair was immaculate and she suspected that he hadn’t set that hat on his head at all this morning. He was, she realized, a very handsome man.

She gave him her hand. “Good morning, Thomas. What a delightful surprise. Meggie is visiting with Mrs. Beach, who suffers from asthma and was wheezing quite dreadfully all last night.”

“I am sorry about Mrs. Beach. However, I am here to see the vicar, Mary Rose.”

“Ah. May I ask why? You see, Tysen is dreadfully busy right now, or at least he’s trying to be busy. Every time he looks at Rory, he still must pick him up and toss him over his head just to hear him shriek with laughter. That’s why the sermon is lagging behind.”

“I don’t plan to keep him from either Rory or his sermon for very long. I just want to ask him if I can marry his daughter.”

Mary Rose didn’t hesitate, gave him a big smile, and said, “Oh, I am so very pleased, Thomas, so very pleased indeed. Meggie has been so unhappy, although you wouldn’t readily see it, but her father and I know her very well, and we’ve worried so much about her. Then you came and wooed her, and just look what has happened. Oh my, both Rory and Tysen will be delighted to see you. Come this way, Thomas.”

Thomas set his hands on her shoulders before she turned to dance away down the corridor. “I hope the vicar will accept me. He is a fine man. I think you would make a magnificent mother-in-law.”

“Now that’s a frightening thought,” Mary Rose said. “I will try not to become a shrew and a tyrant, like my own mother-in-law, who, I am convinced, will outlive even her grandchildren. Tysen! Come here, Thomas Malcombe wishes to speak to you.”

When Tysen asked her to come in a few minutes later, Mary Rose said, “We will have champagne, in just a moment. How delightful that Meggie will live here. We had always feared the day she wed that she would move to a faraway land and we would scarce see her.”

“Well,” Thomas said, “we won’t be living here all the time, Mary Rose. I have other homes.”

When Meggie followed the commotion into her father’s study, she realized that Thomas had already done the deed.

“Well,” she said from the doorway, dangling her straw bonnet by its ribbons, “will my father allow this business to proceed, Thomas?”

“Oh yes,” Mary Rose said, and rushed to enfold her stepdaughter in her arms.

The champagne was quite delicious. Rory, who’d never left the study, and who hadn’t really cared that he would gain his first and only brother-in-law, was allowed a small sip.

Tysen drank the champagne, smiled, said all the right things, but worried. He worried that he didn’t know a damned thing about Thomas Malcombe. He worried that Meggie was marrying the first acceptable man to ask her when she still loved Jeremy Stanton-Greville, something he wasn’t about to tell Mary Rose.

As for Thomas Malcombe, Tysen would find out everything about the damned man—down to any birthmark—before he allowed his precious daughter to walk to the altar. But Meggie was smiling, grinning like a fool, actually. She’d always had excellent instincts. He’d always trusted her, but this was for life, no reprieves if the man turned out to be a gambler or a womanizer. And what about her feelings for Jeremy? Had he put the nail in her feelings before he’d left? Were they gone now? Was this a sign of it? He wished he knew.

When he thought about it later, Tysen knew he would be very surprised if indeed he found a skeleton lurking in the back of one of Lord Lancaster’s closets. He was an excellent young man.

Still, he would look.

11

WHEN TYSEN FINALLY managed to snag his daughter away from the rest of the family, particularly Alec, who wanted to show her a new racing cat training technique that involved a bucket, he led her through the vicarage garden, to the gate, and down the path to the cemetery, where few parishioners chose to spend any time when not absolutely necessary. He needed privacy. He unlatched the very old black wrought-iron gate, slowly pulling it open for her to step onto the path that led into the depths of the cemetery.

The air was different here. Still and soft, as quiet as fingers stroking a racing cat’s back. Meggie stopped, breathed in deeply, and said over her shoulder, “You come here when you wish to think, Papa. I remember you sitting on that one particular bench from my youngest years. I used to wonder why you so admired Sir Vincent D’Egle, a medieval warrior who likely wasn’t an overly religious man. I picture him in battle, yelling and swinging his sword and finally being cleaved in two himself at far too young an age.”

“Cleaved in two? Actually, I also rather fancy that might have happened to him. However, no matter how he died, there is something about his grave that draws me back,” he said, smiling down at her as he took her hand. “I don’t know why this should be so, but I know that when I sit there, and I hear Mr. Peters ring the church bells, I feel peace and calm seep into my very bones. You still bring flowers to his grave.”

Meggie nodded, and said, “It will rain soon. Can you feel how heavy the air has suddenly become? How it is already wrapping itself about your head, wanting to soak you? I’ve decided that it rains too much in England. Everyone is so tired of feeling damp to their toes and—”

“Meggie, I must speak to you.”

“I know, Papa. You’re being very gentle with me. When you do that, I know there is something you’re dreading to tell me. I can take it. Has Leo done something awful at Oxford? Will I need to go there and fix things? Try to teach him what’s what?”

“I devoutly hope not. No, it’s something else, Meggie.”

She looked at him steadily. “This is about me, isn’t it? And about Thomas.”

“Oh Meggie, my sweet girl, let’s sit here beside Sir Vincent on his bench. Yes, this is about Thomas. I am your father and you know down to your bones that I will always want what is the very best for you.”

She didn’t say a word, just looked at him and waited for the ax to fall.

He realized in that moment that she just wasn’t ready to be blighted. He was willing to wait, and when he paused, she quickly said, her hand lightly closing over one of his, all forced smiles and enthusiasm, “I was listening to Mary Rose read Rory the story of Renard the Fox.”

“It is his favorite,” Tysen said, running his fingers over the smooth worn gray stone. “But Mary Rose must read it to him only in Latin.” He shook his head, looking a bit bewildered. “How very strange it is. We live in the modern world, yet two of my sons and my wife speak Latin. Latin. It boggles the mind, Meggie. Now, my dear—”

Meggie said quickly, “I meant to leave, but then she started reading him Chanticleer the Cock. Mary Rose can even cock-a-doodle-doo in Latin.”

“Rory is only four years old, Meggie. At least he doesn’t announce his age yet in Latin.”

Meggie laughed. “He will. Give him a couple more years. You know that Mary Rose is very smart, Papa. I believe she was learning Latin at Rory’s age.” Tysen looked at his daughter while she spoke, so Sherbrooke in her looks—blondish brownish hair with all the shades in between, and clear light blue eyes the color of the summer sky. In short, she looked like him, only her features were more finely drawn. Her chin, he thought, was very possibly more stubborn. As for her temperament, his daughter saw something that needed to be done, and she did it, no shilly-shallying about, no excuses, never procrastinating. She felt strongly about things, many times too strongly. No middle ground for her. He remembered she’d been three years old when she saw old Mrs. McGilly struggling with several packages on High Street and had immediately tried to help her. But she wasn’t strong enough, and so had fetched two men from the tavern to tote the bundles. One of them, Tysen remembered, had been very tipsy and proceeded to drop the packages. Meggie had scolded him.

He grinned with the memory. Yes, his Meggie knew only one direction—forward. In this, she was just like her aunt Sinjun. And, he knew, she wanted to move smartly forward with Thomas Malcombe, Lord Lancaster.

Meggie was saying now, “Did you know that Alec wants to be the Prussian Gebhard Leberecht von Blucher when he grows up? He can even say the whole name. And spell it. He’s had me play Napoleon more times than I can count. He’s chased me all over the graveyard and into the bell tower. Then he finds me and claims he’s not going to send me back to Elba. No, he’s going to send me some place where I will rot. In perpetuity. He actually says perpetuity.”

Tysen felt the tug in his heart, let it blossom a moment, flooding him with sweet memories of Meggie as a little girl, her finger in every village pie, her ear against every door, her opinion offered on every sermon. And that little girl had adored him since she’d come from her mother’s womb and smiled up at him. He said easily, “He always chases me and Mary Rose too. I have yet to be graced with perpetuity.” He took her hand in his, competent hands, beautiful long fingers. He said, “Meggie, you are only nineteen years old. You spent only one Season in London. You have lived all your life in Glenclose-in-Rowan.”

“I live in Scotland every year too, Papa.”

“Yes, well, that’s true.”

She turned to him then, took one of his hands between hers. “All right. I’m ready for whatever you have to tell me. Come, spit it out, Papa. What is wrong? What have you learned about Thomas?”

“I don’t wish you to misunderstand me,” Tysen said slowly. “I like Thomas Malcombe. He saved Rory’s life, I am quite convinced of that, as is Dr. Dreyfus. He is a charming young man. He seems intelligent, witty, responsible. From what I have heard from your uncle Douglas’s man in London, he was no pauper even before his father died and left him his holdings. Thomas’s business interests are evidently primarily in Italy, where he has grown rich in shipping, in a very short time. I could find out nothing about him that would make me worry.

“He wanted to pay me a dowry for you. Naturally I refused. You will not go to your husband empty-handed. You are not quite the heiress your aunt Sinjun was, but your dowry is really quite satisfactory. Lord Lancaster is assuredly not a fortune hunter.”

“Then what is Lord Lancaster?”

“Meggie, your dowry aside, you and I have known Lord Lancaster for only two months, maybe not even that long. I knew his father, didn’t particularly dislike the man. He was secretive, Meggie, very tight-fisted, didn’t speak well of anyone. He was not a man I would have easily trusted. Now, I don’t believe you know this. The old earl divorced his wife and kicked both her and her young son out of Bowden Close. Neither of them ever came back. I have heard rumors about a second wife, perhaps another child, but I don’t know if any of that is true.”

“None of that in any way redounds on Thomas.”

“No.”

“Thomas told me that there had been a falling out between his father and his mother, and she took Thomas and left. He didn’t mention a divorce. I didn’t press him. He doesn’t like to speak of it. I believe he’s been very hurt by it.”

“I asked Thomas as well. He told me much of the same thing, all said in a voice so emotionless that it smote me.”

“Poor Thomas. He finally told me that he remembered terrible fights between his parents. He did see his father a few times over the years, but never here, never at Bowden Close. It is all very sad. I believe he came to hate his father. His father never visited him at school, where he spent most of his growing-up years, only in London, at one of his father’s clubs. I know that Thomas doesn’t trust easily, certainly understandable. And I know that he was very hurt by his parents, not physically, mind you, but his soul. Naturally he will not admit to any of this. He merely pretends that he doesn’t care. Perhaps when we have been married for a while, he will grow to trust me more, to share his concerns, to share old secrets that have hurt him. He feels things deeply, that I do know. You did not see his face when he believed Rory would die. But there is this well of distrust that is very deep in him. These things take time, Papa.

“I do know that Thomas Malcombe is a principled man, a decent man. He told me he wants to marry me because I make him laugh. I cannot think of a better reason.”

Tysen lifted an eyebrow. “Actually, he could have told you he loved you.”

“Somehow,” Meggie said slowly, looking up at the beautiful old church tower, wishing Mr. Peters would ring the bell at this very moment, “I cannot imagine him saying those words, at least not now. Actually, I didn’t say them to him either.” Meggie paused a moment, looking down at her clasped hands, and Tysen knew all the way to his boots that Jeremy was still in her head, perhaps even in her heart. Damnation.

“Yes, Thomas laughs easily now, a smile nearly always near his mouth. I’ll never forget that first time when he laughed with me. I thought he sounded rusty, as if he were somehow surprised that such a sound could come from him. I’ve made great strides with him, Papa.”

“Meggie, you are not marrying him out of some sort of misguided sense of gratitude, are you?”

“For saving Rory’s life? No, Papa, but I was very grateful, and the result was that I spent more time with him initially than I normally would have. And I came to like him a great deal. He is an honorable man, I am quite sure about that.”

“You won’t be living here, Meggie. Thomas was evasive. He said he has two other houses, both outside of England.”

“One is in Genoa, Italy. He was living in Italy, making his fortune. He came back to England only to take over his father’s holdings. Can you imagine sailing to Italy, Papa? I should love to travel, to see other places, how other people do things, how they think. I wonder where his other house is.”

At least Thomas Malcombe hadn’t told him one thing, then told his daughter something else. There were no inconsistencies that meant a lie. But it wasn’t the point. Tysen kissed his child’s forehead, rose, and crossed his arms over his chest, the father now, the authority figure.

“Meggie, I am very sorry, but I must be blunt. I didn’t want you to find out about this, but now there is no choice. You have to know. I cannot believe that Thomas Malcombe is honorable, and therefore I cannot trust his word on anything of import and I certainly cannot trust him with you.”

“He saved your son’s life.”

“For that I owe him a debt that will never be repaid. However, I do not owe him my daughter.”

Meggie knew something bad was coming, she just knew it. She drew herself up. “I’m ready, Papa. Tell me.”

“As you know, Melissa Winters left last Thursday for an extended visit with her grandmother in Bury St. Edmonds. You know that, but not the reason for her leaving. I didn’t want to tell you this, I didn’t want to tell anyone this, and it is a confidence. I ask that you not betray it to anyone, even Mary Rose. Evidently Thomas Malcombe was in London before he came here. He met Melissa there. She was staying with her aunt and attending parties and such, sort of an informal come-out for her. There’s no easy way to say this, Meggie—he seduced her and got her with child. You and I and Melissa’s parents are now the only ones to know. And Lord Lancaster, of course.”

Meggie said slowly, “Thomas didn’t tell me he was in London before he came here.”

“He was. I asked. Because he wants to marry you, it was my responsibility to ask, to find out everything I could about him. Mr. Winters heard, of course, that you were to wed Thomas Malcombe. He searched me out. He told me about this, in confidence, just this morning. It was obvious he didn’t want to tell me, Meggie, but he has great liking for you and didn’t want you to be hurt.”

There was fire in her eyes as she said the fateful words he would have given anything not to hear, ever, “I don’t believe it. Melissa is lying. She wanted him. I know that Thomas must have rejected her, and thus this is her revenge. I know that Melissa—to punish Thomas—was intimate with another man, to make him jealous, perhaps, and this is the result. I am sorry for it, but Thomas is innocent. Papa, if Melissa were truly pregnant with his child, then why wouldn’t Thomas marry her?”

“You are not näıve, Meggie. You must know that Melissa’s birth isn’t high enough to tempt a man like Lord Lancaster, nor is her dowry an incentive to overlook her birth. Even though her mother is the daughter of a baron, her father is in trade. In short, there is nothing to induce Thomas Malcombe to tie himself forever to the Winters family.”

She was shaking her head, back and forth. “I am convinced that Thomas wouldn’t behave dishonorably, Papa. Truly, he is all that is kind and honest and—”

“Thomas Malcombe paid Melissa’s parents for the care of the child. Her father, although he was reluctant to do so, told me this. I have no reason to disbelieve Mr. Winters, Meggie. His pain over this was palpable. He tried his best to convince Thomas Malcombe to marry his daughter, but he wouldn’t do it.”

He watched her face pale, the light of battle fade from her eyes. He hated it, but now it was done.

“Oh dear,” Meggie whispered, “Oh dear.”

“I believe,” her father said, lightly touching her fingertips to her smooth check, “that now is an appropriate time for you to say blessed hell.”

Meggie just shook her head, pulled off her bonnet, and dashed her fingers through her hair, shining more blond than brown beneath the morning sun. There had been Jeremy, and she’d been sure her heart would never recover from that stomping. Then, thankfully, she’d seen Jeremy as a fatuous, self-aggrandizing clod, so superior to womankind, who would likely make Charlotte’s life miserable, something she probably richly deserved, unless she was a doormat and she’d met the ideal mate for her.

And then Thomas had come along, and she’d realized that here was indeed a man she could admire, a man who admired her, who didn’t denigrate her, who teased her and made her happy. The soul-eating melancholia that had pulled her down for nearly a year had vanished. She’d felt so very blessed for nearly a week. Six full days, no black clouds in the vicinity. And now this. She was cursed.

“Mary Rose and I would like you to visit Aunt Sinjun and Uncle Colin in Scotland.”

She turned on him, bitterness overflowing. “Won’t everyone think I’m pregnant?”

He hated the hurt in her, knew that rage would come, and he wished with all his heart that it didn’t have to be like this. “I’m sorry, Meggie, but there are men in this world who are simply not worthy. I am so very sorry that you had to meet one of them, trust one of them.”

Meggie felt pounded, felt the words hollowing her out, leaving her empty with only the bowing pain to fill her. She said as she slowly rose and shook out her skirts, “You know I must speak to Thomas, Papa. I must hear this from him.”

“Yes, Meggie, I know you must.”

“I will know the truth when I hear him speak.”

“I hope that you will.”

Meggie had turned away when he felt a sudden shaft of alarm, and called after her, “Do not go to a private spot with him, Meggie. I wish you wouldn’t go to Bowden Close without a chaperone, but I know that you feel you must. So be mindful. Do you promise me?”

“Yes,” Meggie said. “I promise.” She wasn’t about to tell him that she’d visited Thomas at his home alone before. She walked away, her head down, deep in thought. She wasn’t aware that her father was watching her, pain in his eyes for the pain he’d had to give her.

Tysen rose from the bench, stared down at Sir Vincent’s tombstone, and wondered what Sir Vincent D’Egle, that medieval warrior, would have done to Thomas Malcombe if Meggie had been his daughter. Probably lop off his head.

All Meggie could think about as she strode to Bowden Close was that she’d been wrong about him, that Thomas had fathered a child, that he’d professed to care for her when just a couple of months before he’d been intimate with another girl and fathered a child. That, Meggie knew, meant intimacy and that meant they’d caressed and kissed each other. Meggie stopped short. She touched her fingertips to the velvet of a blooming rose that climbed the wrought-iron fence that surrounded the cemetery. She knew in that moment that there was an explanation that would absolve him. She wanted that explanation and she wanted it pure and clean and straightforward, with no questions, no doubts, left behind.

12

Bowden Close

THOMAS WAS SMILING even before Meggie slipped into his library. It wasn’t at all proper that she came in through that old garden gate, but they would soon be married. Soon he would no longer have to concern himself with the vicar’s daughter bending society’s rules. It wouldn’t matter. That thought pleased him mightily.

Her hair was mussed, as if she’d been fretting about something and had yanked on it, her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes, so expressive, bright and vivid, so filled with what she felt—oh God, something was wrong. It was like a punch to the gut.

He was around his desk in an instant, his hands around her arms but a moment later, and he was actually shaking her. “What the devil is wrong? What happened? Did someone hurt you?”

She looked up at him and said, without preamble, “My father told me about Melissa Winters.”

A dark eyebrow went up, making him look like a satyr, emphasizing the arrogant tilt of his head, the go-to-the-devil look. His hands dropped away, his voice was suddenly colder than the Channel waters in February. “Your father, my dear, shouldn’t meddle.”

Meggie sent her fist as hard as she could into his belly. He’d had an instant to tighten his stomach muscles before her fist landed hard and his breath whooshed out. At least the punch didn’t bowl him over. He grabbed her wrist before she could hit him again.

“That hurt,” he said.

Meggie tried to pull away, but he held her wrist tightly. She was panting even as she shouted at him, “I’m glad it hurt. Let me go and I’ll do it again!”

He grabbed her other wrist and shook her. “Dammit, Meggie, what the devil is wrong with you?”

“Thomas Malcombe, don’t you dare pretend that you’re bored by all this, that you’re indifferent to it, that you have no idea what I’m talking about, what I’m enraged about. Lower that supercilious eyebrow. Listen to me, Thomas, my father is the vicar. It is my father’s duty to meddle, particularly since you wish to be his son-in-law. He wants to protect me.”

“All right, now it’s my turn to be angry. No, don’t try to get away from me. I’m going to hold you awhile longer, there’s still too much blood in your eyes. Now, your damned father should not have sullied your ears with this. It has nothing at all to do with you, Meggie, nothing at all. Melissa was a mistake, a very bad one, admittedly, but your father should not have told you about it.”

“The mistake, as you so indifferently call it, has cost Melissa dearly. Now there will be a child to live with the consequences of that mistake.”

He released her, walked over to the sideboard, and poured himself some brandy. She’d seen his indifferent act, then seen the anger gushing out, and now he was the controlled gentleman again. She watched him sip the brandy before he turned back to her. “I am sorry for it,” he said, all calm and smooth, “but it happened and I couldn’t prevent it from happening. If I’d known, I would have stopped it, but I didn’t know.”

All his male beauty disappeared in that instant, all his charm with it. Jeremy was an insufferable moron, but Thomas was worse by far. He was treacherous. She was appalled both at herself for her lack of wisdom, and at him, for his indifference, his utter lack of remorse for what he’d done. Her own anger, her outrage at what he’d done, was fast drowning out her pain at his betrayal. “You couldn’t prevent it from happening? If you had known what? Are you mad?”

“No, I’m not in the least mad. Won’t you sit down, Meggie?” His hand was shaking. He hated that. Even as he waved her toward a chair, he moved quickly behind his desk.

“I don’t want to sit down,” she said, strode to his desk, leaned toward him, splaying her hands flat. “I want you to tell me why you couldn’t prevent this mess from occurring. Surely you aren’t going to blame Melissa for all of it? She seduced you? She, woman of the world that she is, forced you to be intimate with her? Blessed hell, Thomas, please don’t tell me that.”

He remained standing behind his desk, leaned forward as well, his own palms flat on the desktop, his face not six inches from hers. He said slowly, “No, I won’t tell you that. You haven’t known me long, Meggie, but I had believed that you’d come to trust me. I gather your father told you that I am paying for the upbringing of Melissa’s child.”

“Yes.”

“I told you I had no control. I meant it. You see, I didn’t know what William had done until it was far too late. Hell, I didn’t even know he was in town.”

Meggie drew back, now standing ramrod straight. “William? Who the devil is William?”

“My younger brother, my half brother, actually. He is at Oxford. However, four months ago, he was in London, as I said, unbeknownst to me at the time. He and several of his friends decided to experiment with sin—whores and gaming hells. He did, unfortunately, attend one party, met Melissa, and things progressed rapidly from there.” He frowned at her, then the frown deepened as he stared beyond her to the enclosed garden. “You believed I was the one to impregnate Melissa Winters.”

“Yes, I did. That is what my father told me.”

“I did not. She is a child, a silly foolish girl.”

“We are the same age.”

“Only in years, Meggie, only in years. William didn’t admit it to me until Melissa’s father arrived here at Bowden Close to call me a philandering bastard. Of course, then I managed to figure out what must have happened.”

William. It was William, his half brother, and she hadn’t even known he’d existed.

It wasn’t Thomas.

Meggie felt the sun break over her head. The explanation—it had burst forth and it was clean and pure with no murky gray to muck things up. She felt such relief, such profound joy, she wanted to shout. She said, “How old is William?”

“He’s twenty-one, much younger for a male than it is for a female. Using myself as a measuring stick, I have determined that youth tends to encourage stupid behavior. Haven’t you done foolish things, Meggie?”

“Yes,” she said without hesitation, “but I have never searched out a boy to seduce him.”

This effortless charm of hers. It washed over him, whether he wanted it to or no. “No,” he said, “you wouldn’t.”

“Why did you let Mr. and Mrs. Winters believe you were the one?”

He shrugged. “Evidently Melissa was afraid to tell her parents the truth, so she told them it was me. Since I am now head of this family, I am responsible for William, and he knows it. He made a mistake. I have taken care of it. Hopefully, both he and Melissa are now a bit wiser.”

“My father always says that one must be accountable for one’s own mistakes.”

“Perhaps, but it is done and I cannot now change it. I will say, though, that William is on a much shorter leash now.”

“He should have married her.”

“He refused. However, I made it perfectly clear to him that if the child survived, then he would be its father. I told him I would cut him off if he did not agree to this. He agreed.”

“Well, that’s something. I am sorry, Thomas, but I am not going to much like William.”

“Perhaps not. I am hopeful that he will improve as he adds a few more years.” He paused a moment, then said, his voice every bit as austere as her father’s when faced with wickedness, “I am disappointed in you for not trusting me.”

“Don’t put on that righteous act with me, Thomas. Actually the evidence would have hanged you.”

She hadn’t apologized, just smacked him in the jaw with the unvarnished truth. “All right, I accept that. Now, would you like me to go reassure your father?”

Meggie gave him a brilliant smile. “Yes, please do, sir. Oh, Thomas, will we live in Italy?”

He said slowly, “Perhaps, Meggie. Perhaps. Would you like that?”

“Immensely.” She ran around his desk, went up on her tiptoes, kissed his check, then stared at him a moment, kissed his mouth, hers tightly seamed, and it didn’t matter a bit. He watched her rush out into the enclosed garden, her skirts rustling, her bonnet dangling from her fingertips nearly to the ground. He knew she would snag it on a rosebush, and she did, but again, it didn’t matter.

Glenclose-on-Rowan

April 1824

The wedding of Thomas Malcombe, earl of Lancaster, to Margaret Beatrice Lydia Sherbrooke, spinster, was attended by four hundred people, another hundred or so milling about outside the church for word of what was happening. The men who’d managed to beg off were in the tavern, drinking ale, listening to Mr. Mortimer Fulsome’s advice on married life, something none of them paid the least attention to since he’d buried four wives, none of them lasting more than two years, and he was eighty years old now and could barely be heard above the toasts.

Tysen led his daughter down the aisle to where Lord Lancaster and Bishop Arlington of Brighton waited, a twinkle in the bishop’s eye. He had known Tysen since he’d been born, Meggie as well. He was completely bald and the sunlight pouring through the stained-glass window above him sent a wash of colors across his head.

“He looks like God wearing a rainbow,” Meggie said out of the side of her mouth.

“He’s nearly blind,” Tysen said to his daughter as they walked past people who had known her all her life. “Stand as close as possible to him. Tell Thomas to do the same. And don’t stare at his head.”

It was a glorious Friday morning in mid-April, the air was fresh from a rain that had dutifully stopped at midnight the evening before. Clouds were strewn in a very blue sky.

Every Sherbrooke was present, including the earl of Ashburnham and his family come all the way from Scotland. And, of course, Oliver and Jenny from Kildrummy.

There was no one from Thomas Malcombe’s family, but if anyone remarked upon it, it didn’t get to Meggie’s ears. She, herself, believed it for the best. If William had shown up, she just might have kicked him. As for Thomas’s mother, he’d simply said she was ill and left it at that. He was so very alone, she thought that morning as all her aunts helped her dress in her wedding finery. But that would change.

The Vicarage was filled to capacity. Had there been ladders to the rafters, Thomas thought, there would be folk hanging off those as well. All of the boy cousins were staying with him at Bowden Close.

The Sherbrookes were a very popular family. No, it was more than that. Meggie was the daughter of the town, beloved by its denizens. He thought, as he watched her come closer and closer, that he’d never seen a more beautiful woman in his life. He smiled when she chanced to look at him.

Meggie didn’t look again at Bishop Arlington. She was staring at the man who would be her husband in not more than fifteen minutes from now.

Organ music swelled, so loud the windows rattled a bit. The air was still, fragrant with flowers, many from the Northcliffe Hall greenhouses, brought to Glenclose-on-Rowan by Uncle Douglas and Aunt Alex. So many people, all of them here to wish her well. She passed by the Winters family and felt a stab of concern. There were no smiles on their faces. Even though her father had told her they accepted that William Malcombe was the father of Melissa’s child, they still couldn’t bring themselves to like Thomas Malcombe.

All her boy cousins were seated in one row; Grayson, she knew, was memorizing everything, later to embroider a rousing tale, probably replete with a congregation that were really demons from some pit in Hell and the demons had sprung open the pit just recently, just for Meggie’s wedding. Leo and Max, both looking faintly worried, and she understood that. Everything was different now that they were all grown up. Now they realized just how many years separated all of them from childhood—her marriage underscored this. She wished she could have stopped a moment and hugged them, reassured them. She wanted to tell them that being a grown-up meant change, something to be desired not feared.

There were James and Jason, looking more beautiful than she did, both of them striving to look as austere and distinguished as their father, who, seated in the row ahead of them, looked every inch the powerful earl. Meggie gave him a big grin, which was returned, and which the twins didn’t see. They might have relaxed a bit if they’d seen that smile. Her aunt Alex gave her a small wave with her gloved hand.

Aunt Sophie and Uncle Ryder were to her left, and what with ten of the Beloved Ones coming to Glenclose-on-Rowan, they occupied an entire row, very tightly. Her uncle Ryder’s brilliant Sherbrooke eyes were still wicked, still so startling a blue, that ladies stopped in the middle of the street and stared at him and grinned like idiots. This behavior Aunt Sophie normally ignored, or poked her oblivious spouse in his ribs to make him stop being so damned delicious to the opposite sex. As for Aunt Sophie, she was solid as a rock, always calm no matter the trouble, no matter the pain.

And her godmother, Aunt Sinjun, sitting beside Uncle Colin, Fletcher and Dahling beside them, Dahling a young matron, married to a Scottish baron from the Highlands near Glen Coe way. Phillip was far away in Greece with the Royal Navy, Uncle Colin had told everyone. Phillip, it seemed, was a cartographer, something most all the male cousins had had to look up in the dictionary. Fletcher was now twelve, as magic with horses as Alec was with racing cats. She remembered so long ago how he had renamed her father’s horse. He spoke to horses and they spoke to him. What would he do when he grew up? Meggie wondered. She thought with a pang of his little sister, Jocelyn, who had died while still very young. Thank God Rory had survived.

Jeremy and Charlotte were there, Charlotte well into her pregnancy, smiling, looking utterly beautiful, glowing, Jeremy, so proud, so possessive of her, standing close by her, always. Meggie had greeted them warmly, so very warmly. As for Jeremy, he’d had time to say to her, “I need to speak to you sometime, Meggie.”

She’d nodded, having no intention whatsoever of listening to him lecture her on something, probably on copying dear Charlotte, the perfect obedient subservient wife.

Mary Rose sat between Alec and Rory on the very front row. She was trying to hold Rory still since he was bouncing up and down, wanting, Meggie knew, to walk along beside her. She’d seen him just the day before practicing how to walk. Meggie saw her father try to frown his son down, but then she realized he just couldn’t. It would be like scolding a racing kitten. When Tysen smiled at his son, Rory managed to pull away from his mother and dash to his father and Meggie. Laughter erupted from the congregation. Tysen swooped down and grabbed up his son, even as Rory tried to climb over him to get to Meggie.

Meggie took the little boy’s face between her gloved hands and kissed him, then said, “Rory, will you and our papa both give me away?”

And Rory beamed and said loud enough for everyone in the church to hear, “Oh yes, Meggie, let me, let me. Meggie, is that really you under that white sack?”

Meggie lifted a corner of her beautiful veil and winked at Rory.

There was laughter until finally Bishop Arlington raised his hands.

Rory stood proudly by Tysen until the bishop asked who was giving Meggie away, to which both males replied, “I do.”

More laughter. Meggie looked up to see that her groom was smiling, a relief since he was very pale, probably as scared as she was.

Bishop Arlington had a booming voice that probably reached even the folk down at the tavern. He spoke of all sorts of expectations for Meggie, all blessed and approved by God, which made Meggie want to roll her eyes. She peeked up at Thomas, saw that he was looking quite severe, and so didn’t make a sound.

The marriage service barely lasted fifteen minutes. Now, she, Meggie Sherbrooke, was a countess and Thomas, at Bishop Arlington’s kind direction, was pulling back her veil, kissing her, smiling, looking immensely relieved as he said close to her ear, “You’re mine now, Meggie. Mine.”

“And you are mine, Thomas. Forever.”

And something deep moved in his eyes as he stared down at her, something deep and thick and veiled. He kissed her again, a quick light kiss because there were many people avidly watching. They turned toward the congregation, both smiling so big some feared their jaws would crack.

Meggie said out of the corner of her mouth, “This is so very exciting. Do you think you will drink champagne out of my slipper?”

13

IT WASN’T UNTIL nearly six o’clock that evening when Mary Rose was fastening the small buttons of her traveling gown up Meggie’s back.

“Has Thomas told you where you are spending tonight?”

“No, the man has refused to tell me a thing. Not even a single hint. I have wheedled and promised all sorts of wicked favors if he would just give me one sentence, but he refused. I even offered to put my tongue in his mouth, but he refused to speak a word about it. Oh, forgive me, Mary Rose, I didn’t mean to embarrass you. It’s just that this tongue business—I think I like it. Ah, I do hope we’re on a packet to Calais, then to Paris. I should love to go to Paris again, Mary Rose. Remember when we went last time? I was thirteen and we walked in the Luxemburg Gardens and visited Versailles and Notre Dame, how magnificent that was, and—”

Mary Rose interrupted her, laughing, “Yes, love, I remember it well.” She sighed then. “I believe I would have preferred to have your father to myself, but I endured having my interfering stepdaughter along.” For just an instant Meggie didn’t laugh at her jest. Mary Rose took Meggie’s face between her hands and kissed her. “I loved you from the moment you rescued me and sneaked me into your bedchamber at Kildrummy. I loved you even more when I heard you try to convince your father that you were innocent as a shorn lamb, that you weren’t hiding a thing from him. And I loved all the excuses your father had to invent to keep you out of our bedchamber at night.

“You have grown into a splendid woman. I want you to be happy with Thomas. I also want a letter from you, but I will give you a week before you have to write it.”

She kissed her again, only to have Meggie’s arms go around her and hug her tight. “Oh goodness, now you will have your own bedchamber with your own husband. Time has gone so quickly, Meggie, so quickly. Savor every moment. Be happy, love.”

And Meggie said, “I knew I would adore you forever when I saw Papa carrying you over his shoulder back into the castle. I was trying desperately to pull your valise back inside, but it was so heavy because of the iron candlesticks.”

Mary Rose laughed. “They weren’t iron, Meggie!”

“I know, but they were very heavy, and I was only ten years old. I will miss you and Papa, Mary Rose. Oh goodness, what about Alec and Rory? Will you be able to manage them? Will—”

“Everything will be all right. They will miss you dreadfully and ask me every day when you are coming for a visit. Don’t worry, love. You are a married lady now and that is a very different thing. Er, Meggie, is there anything you wish perhaps to ask me?”

“About what? Has either of the boys done something you’re not sure about?”

“No, not today. When they are monsters I will simply lock them in the closet beneath the stairs. Now, Meggie—” She paused a moment, pumping herself up. “Would you like to ask me about marital sorts of things? I promised your father I would, er, inquire.”

“Oh. Oh my, Mary Rose, you’re embarrassed!” Meggie laughed, hugged her again as she said, “You know, I think it is rather exciting not knowing much of anything. Thomas does kiss very well. I assume he can continue this lovemaking business efficiently.”

“Yes,” Mary Rose said, her voice dry as the cherrywood armoire in the corner, “I believe that he will as well.”

Meggie said, suddenly appalled, “I cannot imagine speaking to Papa about those sorts of things.” Then she looked thoughtful. “But perhaps you could tell me. Is this tongue in each other’s mouths—is it the done thing? Do you and Papa do it?”

Mary Rose managed not to swallow her own tongue. “Well, as a matter of fact, if you are truly interested, and I suppose that you are since you have such an inquiring mind, well, I imagine that I would have to say yes, it is very much the done thing.” Mary Rose then smiled, flushed, looked at the ceiling, then at the floor, patted Meggie’s back, and picked up her traveling cloak, a rich burgundy velvet Thomas had given her for a wedding gift.

Thomas was waiting for her at the foot of the stairs. He wasn’t smiling. He was, obviously, anxious to be off. She saw all her relatives spread out behind them, all of them speaking and laughing, the dratted boy cousins being idiots, as always. So many beloved faces.

She hugged her father, and it seemed to everyone there that she didn’t want to let him go. Tysen saw that Thomas was looking utterly emotionless, but he’d known the young man long enough to realize that he wanted his new wife and he wanted her five minutes ago. He wanted her to himself, and that, Tysen thought, was something he would simply have to accustom himself to. He also saw Thomas looking several times at Jeremy, and again, there was no expression at all on his face. Tysen wondered, but he couldn’t do anything else. He kissed Meggie once, twice more, then patted her shoulder, and placed her hand on her husband’s arm.

“Be happy, sweetheart,” he said.

Meggie looked down to see Rory tugging on her skirt. She lifted him up high, gave him two smacking loud kisses, and said, “Say hello to your new brother-in-law, Rory.”

Rory looked over at Thomas, studied him for a very long time, and said finally, “You are the man who saved my life with that volcano medicine.”

“Yes, I suppose I am,” Thomas said.

“You will give Meggie everything she wants,” Rory said.

“I will,” Thomas said, and bowed his head.

Rory patted him on the shoulder. Meggie kissed the little boy one more time and handed him back to their father.

Her ribs sore from so many hugs, Thomas’s hand firm in the small of her back, Meggie was lifted into the carriage. She leaned out the window, waving, smiling until she was sure her mouth would break.

Glenclose-on Rowan was gone from her view in the next minute because Thomas had turned her around to face him, pulled her to him, and kissed her.

He released her even before she’d had a chance to think about that kiss and what she should do. She said, staring at his mouth, her fingertips on her lower lip, “You didn’t open your mouth. You didn’t give me time to do anything at all. Perhaps I would have liked to open my mouth a bit.”

“I never wish to begin something that I would be unable to finish.”

“I suppose you’re talking about lovemaking.”

He didn’t smile at her, just untied the bow beneath her jaw and pulled off her stylish bonnet. He laid it carefully on the opposite seat. “You have lovely hair, Meggie.”

“Thank you. So do you, Thomas, all dark as ancient sins, nearly as black as your eyes. At least they look black in this dim light. You and I are very different, Thomas, and I like it very much. I will thank God every day for fashioning you just as you are. Now, will you please tell me where we are going on our wedding trip?”

“No, not yet. You will see. All right, a small bit of a hint. I am taking you to one of my homes.”

She was nearly speechless with excitement. “We are sailing to Italy?”

“No. Not this time. You will see. Don’t fret. It will be dark soon. We will spend the night in Exeter.”

“We are traveling west.”

“Yes.”

She poked him very gently in his belly. He obligingly grunted for her. “I am your wife, sir. It isn’t healthy for you to keep secrets from me.”

He said nothing to that, and she leaned back as he pulled up the window against the chill evening air. “Are we going to Cornwall?”

“Yes, but it is not our final destination.”

“I saw you speaking to Uncle Ryder. Do you approve of him now?”

“I believe him an estimable man. I have also determined that it is wrong to listen to gossip, to lap it up as fast as a racing kitten with a bowl of milk.”

“That was well said.” Meggie took one of his hands between hers. “You are my husband now, Thomas. Isn’t that amazing?”

“I wanted you,” he said simply. “And now you are mine.”

“You make that sound like I was a prize that you somehow managed to win.”

“Yes. I would say that a wife is a prize.”

“Bosh. You also make it sound like I’m now some sort of possession. I don’t know if I like the sound of that.”

“You are chattel, though the word doesn’t bring particularly pleasant things to mind. Chattel is owned and so is a wife.”

She laughed, full rich, that laugh of hers, and he felt the tug of it. “That sounds just a bit like something Jeremy—the Jeremy who was the obnoxious superior one—would say. I pray you, Thomas, never treat me like I have a hollow room between my ears.”

He gave her a look that, she thought, was far too serious and said slowly, “I’ve never believed that.”

“Good. I’m sorry that William was unable to come. I promised myself that I would try to be polite to him even though I would have probably smacked him in the head.”

“I asked him not to come. It would have been awkward, particularly with the Winters family there. I did not wish to have today marred.”

“I am glad my father told them the truth.”

“I suppose it had to be done, else Mr. Winters might have shot me during our wedding.”

“Mr. Winters is a very fine shot.”

“Then your father saved my life.”

Meggie laughed. “Will I meet William soon? You know, since your mother and father didn’t live together, how was William conceived? He is five years younger than you?”

“Just four years. He is twenty-one. When he was born his father sent him and his mother away as well.”

“It is a dreadful thing, Thomas. I am so very sorry.”

He shrugged, said nothing.

“Will William be coming to the one of your houses where we’re going?”

“We will see,” Thomas said, folded his arms over his chest, and smiled at her. “You look quite beautiful, Meggie. I remarked upon it when you walked down the aisle toward me, when I was not remarking upon Rory, that is.”

She laughed. “As for Rory, isn’t he a little scamp?”

“Yes, he is. I’m very glad he survived that fever.”

“I cannot imagine what it would have been like if he had not. But enough of that. Rory is well and speaking Latin again. Now, you are the beautiful one, Thomas. I am ordinary compared to you.”

That made him laugh. He lightly ran his fingertip along her jaw. “A man is nothing more than a solid creature, Meggie, whose size allows him both to build and to bash heads together.”

“And to laugh and to eat peeled grapes like the Romans did.”

“At least to laugh. I haven’t seen many grapes where we’re going.”

“That reminds me. I’m very hungry. Mrs. Priddle packed us a basket. Should you like a bit of champagne? Some of our wedding cake? Or scones that she made for my uncle Colin? He’s the Scottish earl, you remember.”

“Yes, some champagne would be just the thing.” He raised a dark brow. “Should I drink some out of your slipper now?”

“No,” she said, looking at him straight in his eyes. “I would like you to sip it out of my mouth.”

Thomas refused to open the champagne.

Thomas had booked them the very best room in The Tipsy Nun’s Inn, a corner room with a lovely view of the English Channel. It was long dark when they finally arrived, but there was a full moon, and it shone down on the Channel water, making it glisten like the brilliant sapphire on Meggie’s third finger. The town was spread out behind them, silent and still.

“So beautiful,” Meggie said over her shoulder as she pulled back the lace curtain to peer out over the still water. Gentle waves curled onto the sand, then sprawled out like a coquette’s fan.

“Yes,” Thomas said.

She turned then, for he was still standing by the closed door, his arms crossed over his chest, just looking at her.

“Mary Rose asked me if I had any questions about marital sorts of things.”

If he felt any surprise, he didn’t show it, merely remarked, “Did she tell you what you wished to know?”

“Oh no. I told her that since you kissed very well, I imagined that you would do the rest of it quite adequately. I did ask her about this tongue business. After much skidding around the question, she finally admitted that it was the done thing.”

“Since she is your mother, I can well imagine that speaking of such intimate things would make her uncomfortable.”

“Do you know that she and my father are always touching and kissing, particularly when they don’t think any of the children are around?”

He really didn’t want to smile, but he did.

Meggie said, her voice all off-hand, “Perhaps, if we are blessed, we would also have to pay attention when we kiss so as not to embarrass our children.”

“It is much too soon to think about those sorts of things, Meggie.” He paused a moment, then said, his voice very deliberate, “You are mine now. No matter what happens, you are completely and irrevocably mine.”

She cocked her head at him. “You have said that several times now, Thomas.” Perhaps she shouldn’t have, but Meggie was never one to falter. She took one of his big hands between hers. “Listen to me. I am your wife. I am not like your father. I will not leave you. Since I am not a rug to be tread upon, I’m sure we will have fights and enough shouting to bring the roof down. If you haven’t noticed, we are both stubborn and have our own ideas about things, but no matter how much we yell at each other, or how loudly, I won’t go haring off in a snit, ever. Goodness, even my papa the vicar and Mary Rose occasionally yell at each other, but that’s nothing, Thomas, nothing at all. We will be together and hopefully life will dish us up more laughter than tears.”

He said, his voice cold, withdrawn, “That was very eloquent.”

She said slowly, “Was it?”

“And näıve.”

“It is true in my family.”

He merely shrugged, and kept his back against the door, his arms crossed over his chest. He said, “My father and mother—they are none of your concern. I do not need assurances from you to calm my disordered brain. You seem to think I’m suffering from long-ago pain dished out freely by my parents. I am not. About my parents—I only said what I did because you seemed to need to know, and, indeed, your father demanded to know. It really wasn’t his right to know.”

“Yes, it was. He is my father. It is his responsibility to protect me.”

“Your father wanted to refuse me your hand in marriage.”

“Of course he did. He believed you were a lecher. But it was William. I believe my father was very relieved when he learned the truth of the matter. He wants me to be happy, you see.”

Thomas said nothing. He looked as if he wasn’t certain what he should do now, as if he was nervous, undecided about something, and Meggie found it utterly appealing. She skipped to him, wrapped her arms around his back, and pressed her cheek to his shoulder. “Kiss me, Thomas. That is something I like very much.”

She raised her face, came up on her tiptoes, but for a moment, he hesitated, touched his fingertips to her cheek, so soft her skin, flushed now in excitement.

It was, after all, her wedding night.

She’d never done anything to harm him, he was thinking, and she was his wife. Slowly he brought his arms around her, holding her tightly against him. He didn’t kiss her, just held her. Actually, it was he who was holding on to her. She was half his size and he was burrowing onto her.

He lifted his head to look down at her. “You’re a virgin, Meggie.”

She lifted her face and gave him a very small smile, a nervous smile, and he knew it. “Well, yes. I’m supposed to be.”

In an austere voice he said, “Many women are not pure when they come to their husbands.”

“I had never thought of it. Are you certain? No, that’s all right. No one else has anything to do with us. Ah, Thomas, kiss me now.”

He was rubbing his hands up and down her arms. “Do you like your cloak?”

“It’s lovely. Do you like the onyx pen I gave you?”

“Yes.”

“Mary Rose believed it to be very masculine.”

“It is.”

“It is solid, like a man is supposed to be.”

“Yes.”

“Thomas, are you uncertain what to do? No, it’s all right, truly, you don’t have to say anything. I rather like that the two of us can begin everything together. I’m sure that we will be able to figure this business out.”

“You think I’m hesitating because I’m lacking in experience? That I just might also be a virgin?”

“It’s all right, Thomas.” She grabbed his face between her hands and kissed him, a girl’s kiss that made him laugh. Another damned laugh, and he’d even come to like the feel of it, alive and snaking warmth all the way to his gut, and that was alien to him.

“I’ll admit it, I’m nervous, yes, just a bit nervous,” she said between light nipping kisses, “but we are married now, and you belong to me, and I wish to see what all these marital things are about. Oh goodness, does that sound terribly loose?”

“A man doesn’t belong to a woman,” he said slowly, his voice suddenly remote, all laughter dried up. “A man is his own being.”

For an instant, Meggie was blank-brained. Whatever had happened? Had a woman hurt him badly in the past? He wasn’t old enough to have been hurt all that often, surely. “Thomas, how old are you, exactly?”

“I am twenty-five. I will be twenty-six in December. I was born the day after Christmas. I don’t think my mother ever forgave me for ruining her Christmas.”

He was making light of it. Well, no matter. If a woman had hurt him, had made him cynical, someday he would tell her and she would fix it. She kissed him again, this time a line of kisses all along his jaw. She said, all the feeling that was in her vibrant in her voice, “I will make you want to belong to me.”

And she kissed him again.

This time he kissed her back, hard, telling her to open her mouth, and she did and she felt his tongue sliding over her bottom lip, then inside. It was different, this kiss, urgent, on the wild side. He raised his head just a moment, and said, his hand suddenly cupping her breast, “Meggie, I’m not a virgin.”

14

MEGGIE, OVERWHELMED BY that kiss, that surprise attack that had ambushed her and made her want more, exactly of what she wasn’t certain, but she was eager to find out, managed to get herself together since this was obviously the way things were done, and said, “It’s all right that you’re not a virgin. I am not blind, Thomas. I believe that boys are somehow supposed to become experienced, that it is expected, that they aren’t viewed by other men as being manly unless they do this, perhaps quite frequently.

“I have also seen how boys do not seem to be able to control themselves when it comes to the fairer sex. They step near a girl and begin to stutter, their hands shake, and they say the stupidest things. Just look at what William did.”

“Men can control themselves. It is a matter of will, and a matter of character.”

“I know that you would never take advantage of a female, for yours is an excellent character. Are you also strong-willed when it comes to matters of the flesh, Thomas?”

“Yes, but that doesn’t matter. I must consummate our marriage or it isn’t really a marriage.”

“A good idea.” She saw him looking at her so sternly, as if he weren’t certain about something, and just couldn’t help herself. She kissed him again, his shirt fisted in her hands, and she was pulling him down toward her, kissing whatever part of him she could reach.

He said against her mouth, “I will take your virginity, make you bleed, and only then will you be safely wedded, not before. Then there is no going back, Meggie. You’re mine.”

That brought her kisses to a stop and a frown to her forehead. “I don’t know why you are worried about this, Thomas. I don’t want to go back. Wait, I don’t like the sound of this bleeding business. What bleeding business? What does that mean?”

“Oh God, Meggie, I wish you had asked your mother to explain this to you. Don’t you know anything at all?”

“I now know all about tongues, although it’s still a bit difficult for me to speak in them just yet.”

Speaking in tongues. He tried to smile at that, but couldn’t, and said, “But you don’t know what we are going to do?”

“Well, not in any sort of elaborate detail, no.”

“How about in a vague general sort of way?”

“I believe you must take your clothes off. I was swimming once when I was very young with my dratted boy cousins, and they took off their clothes. They were certainly different from me, but I don’t know how it all would work to make a baby.”

“I did ask, didn’t I?”

“Are you jesting with me, Thomas? Perhaps laughing at me?”

He seemed to think about this for a goodly number of seconds. He said more to himself than to her, “No, I wouldn’t jest about this, not at all. Now, it must be done, it must.” It was almost as if he was angry with her, Meggie thought, suddenly panicked. He said nothing more, didn’t kiss her, just picked her up in his arms and walked to the large tester bed. “I’ll be your maid,” he said, sat her down on the edge of the bed, realized the buttons on her dress were in the back and pulled her to her feet again. Thomas saw that she was pale, his exuberant Meggie looking a bit on the ragged edge, particularly since they were this close to the bed and his hands on her. He kissed her hard and fast, didn’t try to part her lips with his tongue because he thought she just might bite him in her nervousness, then turned her around. He unfastened the long line of buttons down her back.

She was looking over her shoulder at him. “Thomas, perhaps I could have a glass of water?”

“No, Meggie. Hush. Don’t worry about any of this. Let me do the worrying. It will be all right. Trust me.”

“You certainly are very efficient with all those buttons.”

He smiled, couldn’t help it. “Yes. Some men believe it to be a calling. Others must practice assiduously to be competent at it. Be quiet.”

“Thomas, is this going to be a nice thing? Despite the blood?”

At the sound of her quavery thin voice, his fingers stopped, three buttons from the bottom. He looked at her back, at the soft batiste chemise, the lace straps, all of it so feminine, so unlike him, alien from him, this soft creature who now belonged to him. Not to anyone else. To him. No, nothing hard about Meggie at all, particularly not her heart, and he knew it, but he didn’t want to let it matter. He had to be strong about it, couldn’t let her know. He couldn’t. A man had to have his pride. He said, “I will try to make it a nice thing.”

“All right, then I will try not to worry overly about this.”

Slowly he turned her to face him. He pulled the gown down until her arms were trapped against her sides. He lightly stroked his fingers over her jaw, her throat, came to rest lightly on her bare shoulders. She was so bloody soft. “Meggie?”

“This isn’t quite what I had expected, Thomas.”

“What did you expect?”

She shrugged, but he saw that she was embarrassed.

“Come, tell me.”

“Perhaps a small dinner by the fire, though it’s quite warm, isn’t it, so a fire might make us uncomfortable. All right then. We could leave the table by the window. We could speak quietly to each other, perhaps watch the moonlight play over the water, and comment on the feelings it brings to our souls.”

“That is a bit sentimental for my tastes.”

“I thought it might be. All right, some champagne then. You didn’t want any in the carriage. Were you afraid that I would become ill? Were you afraid I’d really force you to sip it out of my mouth?”

He just smiled down at her. So young, he thought, too young. She didn’t deserve that he maul her. He leaned down, pressed his forehead against hers. “You array yourself in your nightgown and I will go downstairs and order up a bit of food and champagne from Mrs. Miggs. I believe she is quite pleased that I chose her inn for our wedding night.”

“Maybe she was, but Mr. Miggs just grunted at me and stared down at his shoes.”

“It is Mrs. Miggs who deals with the patrons. Now, do you need a maid to help you?”

“No. I can reach the rest of the buttons.”

He turned to go.

“Thank you, Thomas.”

He paused a moment, and she wondered what he was thinking. At the moment she was afraid to ask.

Thirty minutes later they were seated opposite each other at a small table next to the window, Meggie wearing a very lovely peach silk peignoir that her aunt Sinjun had brought her from Edinburgh. Thomas, however, was still dressed in his very nice trousers and jacket and his beautifully polished boots. His cravat looked as fresh as it had in the church that morning. So many changes on this one single day. Tomorrow she wouldn’t wake up the same Meggie as she had just this morning. So few hours had passed, and yet her life had changed irrevocably. She wondered if Thomas felt the same way. Surely he must. Men couldn’t be that different from women.

“It’s strange,” she said, nibbling on a piece of bread, “to be sitting in my nightclothes across from a man who isn’t either my father or one of my brothers, or one of my dratted boy cousins, for that matter.”

“Come, Meggie, I cannot imagine you ever wearing that delicious confection to bed in the vicarage.”

“Well, you’re right about that, but still, you’re still dressed, Thomas, and I’m not.”

Thomas just smiled and held up a glass. “To our wedding night,” he said.

Meggie was slow, but at last she did tap her glass lightly against his.

He’d given her too much time to fret. He said, “After we have eaten and drunk just a bit more, what were you thinking would happen?”

“Since I don’t know anything specific beyond kissing, as you well know, I admit things get a bit muddled. All right, really muddled, perhaps even incoherent. Right now I know I’m happy and that you’re smiling. Do you think maybe that could be enough for you to go on?”

“There will be a lot more than just smiling, Meggie.”

“Like what?”

“You are endlessly curious, aren’t you?”

“Since this will involve me very personally, I don’t think it all that strange.”

“What will happen is pleasure, hopefully for both of us.”

“I have already felt pleasure when you kissed me.”

“Different, stronger pleasure.”

She looked very skeptical about that.

He didn’t move from the table until she’d drunk a half glass of champagne. He sat back, his hands laced over his lean belly. “Why don’t you get in bed, Meggie. I will blow out the candles.”

“Do you really wish to?”

“To what?”

“To blow out the candles.”

“Ah, a dollop of interest in me?”

“Well, yes, to be honest about it. It’s difficult to think about this, but since Mary Rose and my father are married and they do sleep in the same bed, I suppose they do see each other without their clothes. That is difficult for a daughter to imagine.”

“A son as well. Does this mean that you wish to see me naked?”

She met his dark eyes and very slowly she nodded. “I have been thinking some more about what I want to have happen. I want to add you to my fantasy. I want you to be my main character.” She gave him a nervous smile.

He didn’t say a word.

“All right, you force me to be blunt, Thomas. I want you to take all your clothes off.”

“And will you undress for me as well?”

She rose from her chair and walked over to the bed. She paused a moment, and said over her shoulder, trying to smile a siren’s smile, not all that successful, but she tried, “Well, this is my fantasy, not yours. However, to be fair, perhaps I can think about that later, much later. You are the one who knows what is going to happen. Let me at least decide how we will begin it.” She sat on the bed and let her feet dangle over the side.

He too rose and walked to the bed, stopping not three feet from her. He stood in front of her for a moment, then pulled off his beautiful buff jacket. “You say I’m beautiful, Meggie, but I’m about to prove you wrong. I’m a big hairy man.”

“I think since it is you, I shall quite like big and hairy. Show me.”

She watched him remove each and every item of clothing, fold each and every item and lay it neatly on a chair, watched him so closely that when he straightened, naked, he was already hard as the oak floorboards beneath his bare feet, and surely that would alarm any virgin.

She stared at him as he stood there, his arms at his sides. He wanted to ask her if she believed him to be as well-looking as Jeremy, but he couldn’t, of course, he wouldn’t.

“I was wrong,” she whispered, her eyes never looking away from his sex.

He was shaking, getting even harder, something he wished didn’t have to happen, but there was no hope for it, not with her staring at him like she wanted to—no, he wouldn’t think about her in front of him, her mouth on him. For God’s sake, she was a vicar’s daughter. But to the best of his memory no woman had ever looked at him like that. Now that he thought about it, neither had he ever before stripped off his clothes in front of a woman in order to advance her education. He cleared his throat. “What were you wrong about?”

“You aren’t beautiful, Thomas.”

“You see, I told you I was just a big hairy creature, and that—”

“You are magnificent. I did not know what a man really looked like. But I do know, all the way to my toes, that no man could be as fine as you.” And, really without thinking, she reached out her hand to touch him.

He closed his eyes, so tense he couldn’t breathe. He wanted to spring, jump right on her, but he held himself perfectly still. He felt her fingers lightly touch his belly, just stay there, not moving, her fingers warm, until he thought he’d yell with it, then she stroked her fingers down the line of black hair over his belly, lower and lower, tangling her fingers in the hair at his groin, moving, still moving until she touched him, so lightly, as if she didn’t know what to expect, but she didn’t stop. When her fingers went around him and he felt the warmth of her hand, his breath whooshed out, nearly bowing him to his knees. All things being equal, he didn’t want this ever to end. Yes, maybe her mouth as well as her fingers, oh God, this was too much, just too much.

He could stand it—a man could stand this sort of exquisite torture forever—maybe even beyond forever, but then, of course, he knew he couldn’t, and it nearly killed him when he gritted his teeth and whispered, in obvious pain, “Meggie, please remove your fingers. Back away. Get to safety. I simply cannot bear that.”

“I don’t want to, Thomas. You feel so very different from me. Your belly is all hard and hairy and it makes me feel very strange to touch you.”

That gave him a moment’s respite. “It does?”

“Yes, so let me keep—” Her grip tightened, moved up and down a bit.

He nearly lost control of himself. He couldn’t allow himself to spill his seed in her hands, he wasn’t that great of a clod. He groaned in despair, in utter misery, as he forced himself to pull away from those hands of hers, drew a very deep breath, knew it was going to be close. He couldn’t help himself, he had to be inside her, and it had to be now. He came down over her, nearly knocking the breath out of her. He was flat on top of her, pressed against her closed thighs, aware that she was stiff and so soft he just couldn’t stand it. He tried to smile. He knew she was worried about all this. And now he was naked and on top of her, and he was big and hairy, so much physically stronger than she was, and his control had gone into hiding, far away, on the other side of the planet.

“Oh God.”

She tried to rear up at the pain in his voice, but he was holding her down. “Thomas, whatever is the matter?”

“You’re still wearing your nightgown, Meggie. That will never do.”

“Perhaps I could leave it on for a little while longer?” She was afraid now, he heard it, but it just didn’t matter.

He pressed his forehead to hers, his breath hard and fast, his body pulsing with lust. “I’m in a bad way. Give me a moment, and I’ll give you a moment as well and then we’ll proceed.”

It wasn’t even a moment before all he felt was his climax building, building, overwhelming him, and he reared up, slid his hand between her legs and came down on his knees between them. “Sit up.”

“Well, I—”

He pulled her up, raised her hips off the bed, lifted her nightgown off her, and threw it over his shoulder. “Oh dear,” Meggie said, but he was kissing her, not looking at her, just kissing her and kissing her, her neck and her breasts, kissing each rib, going down her stomach and then he was actually between her legs and she felt his mouth touch her—no, surely that couldn’t be right—and he groaned, and then his breathing was sharp and he was looking down at her while his fingers were touching her, pressing against her, and she was staring up at him as he eased one of his fingers inside her. Actually inside her. She’d never imagined such a thing. It wasn’t nice at all.

It hurt.

She tried to push him off, but she couldn’t. “Meggie, Meggie, just lie still, relax, trust me.”

“No, no,” she said, trying frantically to scramble away from him, to get his finger out of her, “it’s far too late for any trust. This isn’t going to be nice, it’s going to be bad. That’s just your finger, Thomas. I held you between my hands. You are much more than just one of your fingers, and that’s what you’re going to do, isn’t it? You’re going to stick yourself inside me.”

He managed a “yes.” It was bad? What he was going to do to her was bad? He eased his finger a bit deeper, then stopped. Oh God, he wanted her so much he ached to his feet, and she was claiming his damned finger was bad? He wanted her this very instant, and by God, he wasn’t going to wait. He just couldn’t. He came over her, his eyes on himself and on her, and came slowly inside her. Slowly, he moved forward. She was stiffer than a board. Her hands were fisted at her sides. Well, damn. He went just a bit more, felt her maidenhead.

“Meggie.”

He looked down at her, really looked at her despite feeling like he would explode inside her at any instant, and this time he looked into those bright blue eyes of hers. Seemingly so guileless, those blue eyes of hers, filled with openness, no shadows lurking about anywhere at all in the depths of those eyes, but he knew it for a lie, a lie that had cut him to his knees, just hours before, but there was no going back. He hated her at that moment because of her goodness, because of her damned sense of honor, because of her betrayal. He hated the man she obviously still adored, hated that she adored him, and not her husband. She shouldn’t have led him on, shouldn’t have made him want her so quickly, so effortlessly, made him want to marry her. The fact was, she was betraying him in her heart and it was their wedding night. Was she thinking of him even as he pushed into her? He saw Jeremy’s face, heard Meggie’s voice. It all mixed with his lust and he butted her maidenhead. She yelled, struggling beneath him, trying to throw him off, but unable to. He paused for just an instant when he butted against her maidenhead.

“Thomas, no!”

She’d forced him into a life of lies. He looked into her eyes as he yelled his pain, his fury, his lust, and pushed through her maidenhead.

Meggie didn’t have the breath to yell again or to curse or the will to move. It was very simple, really. She knew he’d killed her, a body couldn’t continue after what he’d done. She realized that she’d been told a very big lie. Surely a man didn’t treat a woman like this if he loved her, surely. But then again Thomas had never said he loved her.

He suddenly stopped cold, and he was staring down at her again, looking right into her eyes, and he seemed to be fighting with himself about something she couldn’t begin to understand. He said, “No, I can’t do this. Not with you feeling the way you do. I can’t, just can’t.” And he moaned, deep in his throat even as he jerked out of her, came to his knees, stiffened, and climaxed. Then he hung there, his head bowed.

Meggie hurt inside, he’d made her bleed, she just knew it, and then he’d left her, rejected her. She yelled now, but not with pain, it wasn’t all that bad now, truth be told, but she yelled at the top of her lungs with resentment, with rage that she’d actually been excited, actually anticipated this lovemaking business, and just look what he’d done—he’d hurt her, then left her. A man wasn’t supposed to do that, was he?

He was breathing hard, his head bowed, and he’d not wanted to stay with her. And now she’d bleed. She should have demanded to know about the bleeding business before she’d even let him unfasten all those nice safe buttons on her gown. But no, she was an idiot, she’d trusted him, and now he was on his knees between her legs, heaving, looking at if he were dying. It was as if a sort of cataclysm had racked him all the way to the soles of his wretched feet.

He looked up at her then, and she saw that his jaw was locked, his eyes glazed, and all of him was pulsing madly. His seed was on himself, on the sheet, on her belly. It was an overwhelming upheaval that she couldn’t begin to understand, really didn’t want to understand, but she did know one thing for certain—he was a liar. It was obvious he knew very little about this lovemaking business.

She hurt really badly. She hated what he’d done to her and wanted to hurl him out of the window. And what had he meant that he couldn’t do it? Do what? Stay inside her? What was he talking about?

She didn’t care. Then he stopped his quivering, his shuddering, and just hung there over her, not breathing quite so hard now, his eyes closed, saying nothing, doing nothing.

She said loudly, right up into his face, “You shouldn’t have done what you did. It wasn’t right. You hurt me and then you just came out of me. I am going to kill you.”

15

THOMAS COULDN’T THINK, just couldn’t gather his wits together. He’d managed to come out of her, he’d actually managed to make his body obey his will, and he hated it.

Suddenly Meggie lurched up and bit his shoulder as hard as she could. She hoped she’d make him bleed.

That brought him back to his brain and miserable body. He managed to straighten. He blinked at her. “My God,” he said slowly, disbelieving, “you bit me.”

“Yes, you hurt me.”

“It happened.” She’d actually bit him. He’d come out of her, not his fault, he’d simply had to. Well, for the moment, he didn’t give a damn about her feelings, about that damnable Jeremy. He wanted to punish her for what she’d done to him. He came down hard over her and went inside her again just as she yelled, “Don’t you dare have the nerve to hurt me more, you bastard.”

Then she shuddered.

He felt her muscles clenching around him, he was deep inside her, it was driving him mad, and this time, the rage banked, the desire to punish, to gain revenge on her both for what she’d done and hadn’t done, fell to his own need, his own wild urgency and that was more powerful than anything else. He pushed again. “Oh God,” he said, panting until he thought his heart would burst from his chest, “I don’t want this. Damnation. This will kill me.”

“Probably not, you clod. Get off me, damn you!”

He fell forward, flattened her, kissed her and shoved hard again and again. It was over again in less than a minute. He was heaving and panting, nearly crying because his body felt so very fine—nothing but soul-deep satisfaction and the overwhelming urge to sleep, to forget what he’d just done. Damn him and damn her. At least no one could take her from him now. Damn her honor. He’d been rough with her. He was sorry he’d hurt her, but in the end, she would have to learn that whatever he did, she had no say in it.

He thought about that life-changing conversation between father and daughter he’d overheard in the vicarage gardens not three hours after she’d become his wife. His wife whom he’d wanted to pull behind a shrubbery and kiss her silly, but that hadn’t happened. He’d seen her father, taken a step forward to ask if he’d seen Meggie, but then he’d heard her say in a voice stumbling with pain, “I truly didn’t want him to speak to me, Papa, but Jeremy believed that since I’d married Thomas, he could now redeem himself because obviously I didn’t love him anymore and it bothered him that I believed he was an idiot. Papa, Jeremy is honorable. I should never have believed that wretched act of his. He did it to make me stop loving him, oh God—so noble and I hated him, scorned him.”

Her father had held her close and whispered against her hair, “It will be all right. You’ve got a fine husband. You will come to love him, dearest. You will see.”

And Meggie cried against her father’s shoulder, and Thomas Malcombe’s life, as he’d known it, as he’d anticipated it would be with his new wife, fell into pieces at his feet.

The candle was nearly gutted when he rolled off her onto his back. She was up in an instant, ready to clout him when, her fist hard and ready, ready to strike, he snored.

Meggie couldn’t believe it, just couldn’t. She wanted to kill him for what he had done, damn him a million times more than she’d already damned him.

She looked down at him, waved her fist not an inch from his nose, and whispered, “Blessed hell.”

Slowly she got off the other side of the bed and managed to stand straight. Every part of her hurt, but nothing compared to the pain deep inside her, where he’d poked and pushed and shoved, and no, she still wanted to kill him, very badly. She felt wet and sticky and her legs were shaking. She could barely stand up.

She’d trusted him.

She’d been an idiot.

Was this the way things were always done? First a man left a woman’s body and the second time he didn’t? Was it some sort of strange ritual? Did her father do this to Mary Rose? Her brain shied away from that. What about Jeremy? Had he done that to his precious Charlotte their wedding night? Meggie had been eaten up with jealousy at the thought of Jeremy kissing Charlotte, not her, but if it had led to this utter humiliation, then her jealousy was ridiculous. Meggie walked over to the small table that held a basin of clean water and washed herself. She winced at the pain and saw that the water was red with her blood. He’d done that to her the first time just before he’d jerked away from her.

Then she headed straight to the table where the remains of their meal still were, and immediately picked up the champagne bottle. Thank the good lord it wasn’t empty.

She downed the rest of it. Warm or not, bubbles or not, it was quickly down her throat. She didn’t stop drinking until the bottle was empty. Then she stood there, staring out over the English Channel, at the magnificent moonlight that was a wide swatch across the water, making it glitter. Hah, glitter. Here she was admiring the beauty of nature when that man who was her husband was lying on his back, naked, snoring, on that wretched bed where he’d behaved so strangely. Surely a husband wasn’t supposed to do that to his wife. She wouldn’t believe that Jeremy had done that to Charlotte, that that was simply the way men behaved. Very well, if men weren’t all like this, then why had Thomas done it to her? Because he didn’t love her and thus didn’t care if he hurt her or not? That just made no sense. He’d laughed with her, saved Rory’s life, wanted to marry her. Meggie just stood there looking out over the moon shining onto the water, and wondered what to do.

She tipped the champagne bottle again, but the wretched thing was empty. She wondered what the innkeeper would think if she ordered another bottle, and then she just didn’t care. She pulled on Thomas’s dressing gown that he’d tossed over the end of the bed, an old burgundy velvet, its elbows nearly worn through, and tied it tightly around her waist. She left the room, walked barefoot down the hall and down the stairs. Mrs. Miggs was the only person in the taproom. Her hair was coming out of the tight knot at the back of her head, her apron was spotted, but she was humming as she wiped a wet cloth over the wooden tabletops.

“Hello, Mrs. Miggs.”

“Oh my,” Mrs. Miggs said, startled, her hand holding the wet cloth, clutched over her breast. “Lady Lancaster? Goodness, it is nearly midnight. What is the problem?”

“I would like another bottle of champagne.”

Mrs. Miggs nearly dropped the cloth she was so surprised. Then she really looked at the tousled girl in front of her, barefoot, wearing a man’s dressing gown that dragged the floor, very pale in the dim candlelight, and said slowly, “It’s very late, my lady. I do not see your husband. You are obviously alone. Thank heavens I sent the rest of the men on their way a few minutes ago.”

“I’m glad, too. I wouldn’t have come in if there had been men. They’re dreadful, men are. May I have another bottle of champagne.”

“Why?”

Meggie looked down at her toes and said with no hesitation at all, “It’s my wedding night and I don’t feel very good about things at all. After I’ve drunk the champagne I’m wondering if I should bash my new husband over the head with the bottle. I finished the bottle upstairs, gripped it about its neck, tested its weight, but decided rather than killing him right at that moment, I wanted to drink some more champagne. To consider it more at length. What do you think?”

“What does your new husband have to say?”

“The clod is sleeping in the middle of the bed, snoring.”

“Let me get you the champagne.”

Meggie didn’t realize she was weaving about a bit when Mrs. Miggs returned with a very cold bottle, but Mrs. Miggs did. The young lady had been shocked to her bare toes, and her new husband obviously hadn’t behaved well. She was too pale, and that worried Mrs. Miggs. She said, “You just sit yourself down on that bench, that’s right, just slide right on in and I’ll open the bottle for you.” She popped the cork out efficiently, then put two glasses on a table. “Come, let us talk about this new marriage of yours. Shall, ah, we toast it?”

Meggie grumbled even as she slid across the wooden bench, but she quickly accepted a glass from Mrs. Miggs. “I don’t want to toast my marriage. There is nothing to toast. Please don’t call me ‘my lady.’ My name is Meggie and this is my wedding night. It was awful. I wasn’t expecting any of it. He ambushed me.”

Mrs. Miggs, thick in the middle now from birthing five children and her own excellent cooking, said, “Wedding nights can be bad sometimes for the woman.”

“He left me the first time and then the second time—goodness, it was only a minute or so later—he turned into an animal. I wasn’t expecting any of that. The kissing was nice, but that didn’t last for long. He kissed me before we were married and I really liked it. He put his tongue in my mouth. That was odd, but I knew I could get used to it.”

“Kissing usually is nice. Tongues, too.”

“Ah, but the rest of it—I was hopeful, I actually trusted him, and what happened? You truly do not want to know, Mrs. Miggs.”

Meggie clicked her glass to Mrs. Miggs’s. She said, “Here’s to this bottle of champagne and to the witching hour that will chime in not more than four minutes from now.”

“Hear, hear,” said Mrs. Miggs.

Meggie said, frowning at the bubbles in her glass, “Are men all like that lout upstairs snoring to the rafters? They get you all interested, and then they do as they please? They leave you and just hunch over you, gone from you, and shudder and shake and moan?”

“I don’t know what you mean about him being gone, my lady—Meggie.”

“He left me before he did anything.”

Mrs. Miggs frowned. “A man does that when he doesn’t wish to impregnate a woman.”

Meggie hadn’t thought of that. She shook her head as she said, “That can’t be right, Mrs. Miggs. We’re married. Why would he do that on our wedding night? It doesn’t make sense because then he did it, I mean he went all the way to the end with the business. I didn’t like it either time, not at all. It was like he was someone else, not Thomas.”

Mrs. Miggs drank, and said slowly, “Men are not a patient lot, so aye, just maybe many men are too rough and maybe too they change their minds, just can’t help themselves. After all, they’re really a weak lot, now aren’t they?”

Meggie didn’t know about that. He changed his mind? About her? About their marriage and he didn’t care if she liked this lovemaking business or not? “What about your wedding night, Mrs. Miggs?”

Mrs. Miggs poured each of them another glass. They clicked their glasses together again and drank.

“Well, let me see if I can remember that far back. A full long number of years ago that was. Hmmm, well, my Mr. Miggs, he was a big ’un, all full of fire and hops—because he always liked his ale—even when he was just a young man. We got hitched and the neighbors and our folks gave us a fine party and then Mr. Miggs lifted me up into the cart and off we went, to spend several days at my aunt’s house over in Fowey. Ah, but Mr. Miggs, he just couldn’t wait to get us to Fowey and to a bed. No, he—”

Meggie, mesmerized, held up her empty glass. Mrs. Miggs filled it to the top, then her own. She looked thoughtful.

“Come, tell me. What happened, Mrs. Miggs?”

“Mr. Miggs stopped the cart, patted that big mare on her rump, then jerked me over his shoulder and carried me into a field of wildflowers.”

“That sounds terribly romantic.”

“It was February.”

“Oh.”

“Aye, it was so cold I can’t believe now that Mr. Miggs managed to get himself upright, if you know what I mean.”

Meggie didn’t, but nodded just the same. She drank more champagne; so did Mrs. Miggs.

“Aye, he hauled me into that field, then yanked off his coat and laid me on it. Of course the coat wasn’t big enough and my lower parts were on the bare ground. It was over in under a half a minute and I was just lying there on my back, looking up into that cold gray sky and wanting to kick him. He looked like a blissful ass, just lying there on his back, maybe he was even whistling, I forget. I didn’t say a word to him. Instead, I got up, walked back to the cart, leaving him there panting and grinning like an idiot, so happy and pleased with himself. I yelled to him that he was a selfish pig, and then I drove away.”

Meggie was vastly impressed. She applauded after she’d carefully set her champagne glass down on the wooden table. She sighed, then said, “He might have been too rough, but he did get it done, didn’t he? That first time?”

“Aye, he got it done, all right.”

“Unfortunately I can’t leave my husband. I can’t imagine that our driver would be willing to leave his master here. We’re in a carriage pulled by two horses, and unfortunately I don’t know how to drive two horses.”

Mrs. Miggs nodded. “Have some more champagne.”

“Then what happened, Mrs. Miggs?”

“Mr. Miggs had to run after me even as he was pulling up his pants, hobbling about, looking like a fool until finally I slowed down that big old mare so’s he could climb in. The dear man never tried to do that again.”

“Was it better in Fowey?”

“Oh yes. You see, Mr. Miggs had learned his lesson.”

“So you’re saying that I must tell Thomas what’s what?”

“Aye. And you must ask him why he behaved as he did. Perhaps it’s some sort of tradition for the men in his family—well, I’ve never heard of it and that’s a fact, but men being men, it’s difficult to know what they hold dear and necessary.”

“I will ask him, but you know, I would rather do something like you did, Mrs. Miggs. You took action, and that was well done of you. You taught Mr. Miggs what was what right then and there. You didn’t give him the time to roll over and snore.”

“I doubt he could have slept, it was powerful cold in that open field.”

“That doesn’t matter, it’s a mere detail. Here’s to you, Mrs. Miggs,” Meggie said, and both women drank deeply. “What should I do to my new husband? I must show him that what he did was reprehensible, after I’ve gotten all his manly reasoning from him.” Meggie rested her chin on her hands, thinking hard. She said after a moment, “I mean, perhaps it wouldn’t be wise to hit him over the head with the champagne bottle. I might kill him. I really don’t want to hang. Also, my father is a vicar and that wouldn’t look good to his bishop or to his congregation. Ah, Bishop Arlington even conducted my wedding ceremony. He would be profoundly distressed.”

“A bishop, you say? My, that’s something. No, don’t take a chance of killing him, dearie. I don’t want you dumping cold water on him either, it would ruin my good bed.”

Meggie agreed and drank until her glass was empty. She looked at Mrs. Miggs. “Nothing feels bad now,” she said and burped and smiled at the same time. “As a matter of fact, I rather think I would like to dance.”

“Drink yourself one more glass, then go back upstairs to that husband of yours.”

“But what can I do besides ask him questions?”

“Hmmm. Let me think about this, Meggie. Are you leaving in the morning?”

“I think so. He won’t tell me anything, curse his eyes. He has really quite lovely eyes, you know, all dark and brooding, but then he’ll laugh and his eyes change and dance and lighten up and flash. I don’t think he wets his finger and dampens his eyelashes to make them look longer and thicker. Many girls do that, you know. No, his are naturally thick and long. Did you remark upon his beautiful eyes when we arrived? No, well, you can remark upon them in the morning. Ah, perhaps I could take a mail coach and just go back home. I wonder if he would run after me, tugging on his trousers.” Meggie frowned. “Somehow I cannot imagine Thomas running after anything, particularly if his trousers are down.”

“No, Meggie, forget about mail coaches. They aren’t for you.”

Meggie was forced to agree. But she really didn’t feel at all bad now, didn’t feel like Thomas would be better off dead. “I can play the fiddle a bit, Mrs. Miggs. If you have one I will play for you and we could both dance.”

“I’m sorry, no fiddle, Meggie. Do you play well?”

“No, but it is at least music. I thought I loved my dratted almost cousin Jeremy just last year. Actually, I would have sworn I would love him to my deathbed just three months ago, but then he opened his mouth and out came such obnoxious condescension. I saw the real him and it wasn’t a pretty sight.”

“Cousins can get under your skin, that’s true.”

“Then he spoke to me right after the ceremony. I didn’t want him to, but he insisted. He told me it was all a ruse, a performance he’d given just for me, and he apologized and said he didn’t want me to feel badly about him anymore, that he really wasn’t a pig. He was noble, Mrs. Miggs, and for a time this afternoon, I just couldn’t bear it. I’d loved him so very much, then despised him while loving him, and then he has to tell me he was noble all along. It gave me a headache. And now Thomas is upstairs, snoring, and I’m not particularly pleased about anything right now.”

“I know, but things will change. You will learn how to manage him, Meggie. A taste of the whip, a lick of honey, and you can have a man at your knees, his tongue out, ready to evict your mother-in-law. Now, here’s a last glass for you, dearie. Then you need to get yourself to bed. You’re slurring your words, which is a sure sign that you will wake up wanting to die yourself. You just send your new husband downstairs first thing and I’ll give him something that will set you to rights again.”

Meggie said to the now-empty champagne bottle, “He makes me bleed, leaves me, then finishes the business, and now that I’m feeling really quite fine, she tells me I’m going to feel awful again.”

“It’s the wages of drink, my dear.”

16

MRS. MIGGS WAS wrong. Meggie awoke alert, full of energy—no pounding head, no queasy stomach, not a single fuzzy residual thought in her brain. She felt strong and fit except for the ache between her legs and just a slight feeling of silliness. Actually, she believed she could still dance a bit. Had she really said she could play the fiddle for her and Mrs. Miggs?

Oh, dear.

Blessed hell. She’d forgotten—she was married. She had a husband, a husband who had behaved very peculiarly last night.

Meggie turned slowly, fully expecting to see Thomas lying beside her, on his back, still snoring, but Thomas was gone, none of him anywhere to be seen. And he’d been gone for a while. His pillow wasn’t even warm.

She looked at the small clock on the mantel. It was only seven o’clock in the morning. He’d left her very early indeed.

When she’d eased into bed long after midnight, her husband of one day—and one half of one night—had been sprawled on his belly, arms flung wide, taking up much more than half the bed. A single cover was to his waist, leaving him bare the rest of the way up. There was a lot of the rest of the way up to see. She’d seen the front of him and now she was seeing the back. Without considering what she was doing, Meggie raised her candle higher. He was a big man, long and smooth, not hairy on the back like he was on the front, very nicely made—she’d give him that—but nothing else. For a moment, no, just for the quickest of an instant, she wanted to pull the cover down, but she got her brain back, and backed away. She finally doused the candle, made herself into a ball, and hugged the side of the bed until her fuzzy brain became so vague, so empty of anything save visions of swimming in the sea, only she wasn’t really wet or even swimming, just there somehow in the water and it was cradling her, making her feel just fine. When she fell asleep, she slept deeply, not a single disagreeable dream to wake her in the night.

She sat up when she saw the door slowly opening, and there he was, her husband, just standing there, one booted foot inside the room, looking toward the bed, looking at her. A man had just opened the door to her chamber, hadn’t even bothered to knock and now he was in the same bedchamber as she was and he was looking at her. It was astounding, this husband business. The power it gave men over women and the most private parts of their lives. Actually, she’d had some power as well when he’d taken off his clothes for her to see him the previous night. Now that she thought about that, her skin turned warm, particularly the skin on her face.

“Meggie,” he said, not moving from the doorway.

He was smart, she thought, not to come any closer. “Shall I pack your dressing gown in my valise?”

“What?”

“Shall I pack—”

“Yes, I see that you’re wearing it. Shall I ask you why?”

“I couldn’t very well go downstairs to get more champagne wearing my nightgown, one, I might add, that didn’t make it past the bed and to safety and is thus spotted with my blood and with you as well.”

He appeared flummoxed for a moment at this stark talk, then said, “I see. You know, a girl shouldn’t speak so openly about intimate matters, particularly her virginal blood and her husband’s seed.”

He would swear he saw her lips form a word, and he knew that word was moron.

“Why did you go downstairs for more champagne?”

“You haven’t seen Mrs. Miggs this morning?”

He shook his head.

“I finished the champagne you ordered up for my fantasy dinner—actually my lovely fantasy dinner spun out of a stupid girl’s head. It turned into quite something else, didn’t it?”

“As to that, I don’t wish to speak of it. I, ah, washed out your nightgown when I awoke this morning and hung it over the back of the chair. It should be completely dry shortly.”

“Thank you. You have erased the evidence—very wise of you.”

“The champagne left on the table wasn’t enough for you?”

Meggie began swinging her legs over the side of the bed. Her toes were a good six inches off the floor. She said in a chatty voice, “How very odd. You sound all stiff and disapproving, like a father whose child has sadly disappointed him. Surely that is an absurdity after what you did.” He would swear again that her mouth formed the word moron. He also realized that she was on the edge of saying it, and knew he couldn’t allow it. Maybe he deserved it, but that wasn’t for her to decide.

He said, very quickly, “You are not my child. However, as my wife, you are my responsibility. Naturally I am distressed. It cannot be wise of you to drink so very much.”

“You are,” she said quite clearly, “a buffoon.”

He wondered if a buffoon was better or worse than a moron and said, “You shouldn’t insult your husband,” and knew it was pathetic. At that moment he wanted more than anything to yell at her, curse at her, demand why she’d married him when she loved her damned almost cousin Jeremy Stanton-Greville, who was already married, his wife pregnant. And then, of course, that was exactly the reason Meggie had married him. She couldn’t have Jeremy, so why not take a man who obviously wanted her? But he didn’t yell, didn’t curse her. He didn’t say anything at all. If a man didn’t have his pride, he didn’t have much of anything at all.

Meggie whistled, a nice fresh spring tune about a boy and a girl and a field full of violets.

“No,” he said slowly, “now that I’ve listened to your song, now that I see the blood in your eye, I suppose that the champagne wasn’t enough. You went downstairs to drink more champagne?”

“That’s right. Mrs. Miggs and I shared a bottle.”

She wished he would leave, maybe lend her the carriage and let Tim McCulver drive her back to Glenclose-on-Rowan. She was, she realized, succumbing again to melancholia, something she recognized very well ever since that fateful morning when Jeremy had met her in the park with perfect Charlotte at his side, a sinking of spirits made only more profound after Jeremy had confessed that his loud and obnoxious act had been for her benefit to ease her pain, damn him and damn her father for knowing of her pain in the first place. And Charlotte, of course, really was a goddess, blast her.

Was Thomas that different from Jeremy? Was he in fact the real ass while Jeremy was only the pretend ass? Had he hidden his true colors until he’d gotten her to the altar? Her spirits fell lower, if that were possible.

However, when he said, cold outrage in his voice, “May I ask how many men were in the taproom to see you swilling champagne, wearing nothing but my dressing gown?” Meggie immediately perked up.

She said in a voice more serious than her father the vicar’s when confronted with an unrepentant sinner as she tapped her fingertips against her chin, “Let me think. Oh, I don’t think there were more than ten men drinking in the taproom. Were there?” She tapped, tapped, tapped, all thoughtful. “You know, it was very late. Surely most men had gone to their homes, mauled their wives, sprawled out on their bellies, taking up most of the bed, happy as clams, snoring to the ceiling.”

“If they were on their bellies, then they would be snoring to the mattress.” He held up his hand knowing a fine display of wit was ready to burst from her mouth, “No, you don’t have to tell me—you were speaking metaphorically. Now, you’re telling me that you went downstairs wearing only my damned dressing gown, your damned feet bare—and you drank champagne with ten damned men looking on?”

“Ah, I can see from your spate of curses, repetitive but nonetheless curses just the same, that you’re winding yourself up to really blast me now. I pray you won’t forget that Mrs. Miggs was there.”

She was sneering at him, playing him for the fool, and doing it quite well. No hope for it and so he climbed down from his high horse and sighed. “No, you’re lying to me and you don’t do it well, Meggie. So there were no men there, then.”

“To be certain I’m not lying to you, you will have to ask Mrs. Miggs, won’t you?”

“No, I don’t think so. You’re not a very good liar. You will stop mocking me, Meggie. A wife shouldn’t be disrespectful to her husband.”

“Well, then, should a man be allowed to do whatever pleases him to do to his new wife?”

He wanted to yell out that damned Jeremy’s name to her, but he didn’t, said only, “I don’t wish to speak about that.”

“I see. You said a wife shouldn’t be disrespectful to her husband. Perhaps you could prepare a list for me for all these pesky things a wife shouldn’t do that would irritate her husband. Do you think that would assist you into whipping me into shape?”

“It isn’t a very long list.”

“A list for the goose. How about a list for the gander as well? Yes, a list is a very good idea. I shall prepare it for you immediately. Then we can trade lists. I certainly know what will be the very top item on the list. Enough respect for your wife so that you don’t maul her.”

He had mauled her. It hadn’t begun that way, but that’s the way it had ended. Didn’t she remember what she’d done, what she’d bleated out to her father? Damnation. He said, “As for mauling, that is quite absurd. I was merely overeager, that’s all, perhaps a bit over the edge, a bit out of control. As for the second time, perhaps that also was a bit too much, but it happened, it’s over, and you will forget about it.” He held up his hand. “No, don’t say anything. You are quite good at forgetting things, it seems, so you may forget this as well.”

“What have I ever forgotten? Come, tell me. Ah, you can’t. The truth is that I’m a veritable elephant, I simply never forget a single thing. You must fish in another stream, Thomas.”

“Stop your damned wit, Meggie. Listen to me, I was rough but I really didn’t mean to be. Everything was just too much, nothing more, just too much.”

“What reason could you possibly have to maul your bride on her wedding night?”

“I told you, I don’t wish to speak of it again. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I am sorry for that. Now, you will forget it.”

“Gone? Just like that? Very well.” Meggie snapped her fingers.

He stared at her, wondering what was in that frighteningly active brain of hers now.

She said, “Actually I would like to ask you a question, Thomas.”

A question? He didn’t want a question, but he couldn’t very well clap his hand over her mouth and leave it there. He nodded, unwillingly.

Meggie opened her mouth, then closed it. No, now wasn’t the time. She’d told him how she felt. It was enough. She said, “Still, I was wondering if perhaps all men fly out of control on their wedding nights. You know, they’ve been forced to contain themselves for such a very long time, controlling all their base desires, that when they finally have the right to open the door, so to speak, they can’t help themselves? They just fly right through, not pausing to perhaps even turn the doorknob?”

“That makes no sense.”

She sighed. “Of course it does. You just don’t like to see yourself in this light.”

“I don’t wish to speak of it. No more.”

And she snapped her fingers again. She said, “It is odd. Mrs. Miggs told me I wouldn’t feel at all well this morning, what with all the champagne, but she was wrong. Will you please leave, my lord? I wish to bathe and dress. Oh my, I should have respectfully inquired about your plans, which must, perforce, be mine as well since I am the adjunct here. Do you intend that we leave this morning?”

“Yes, as soon as you are able.”

“Ah, do you also have plans that aren’t any of my business?”

“We are on our wedding trip. Now, you will cease your ridiculous anger. A wife should not be angry with her husband.”

“That is on the list?”

“Among other things.”

“Go away, my lord. Go take a strap to one of the horses.”

“How much champagne did you drink?”

“Enough to want to play a fiddle and perhaps dance a bit with Mrs. Miggs. Enough to forget that I wanted to kill you. In any case, even drunk, I realized I would be hanged if I did you in, and that would be distressing to my father. Hmmm. Since I can’t ask my father about this, perhaps the next time I see Jeremy, I can inquire about this door business and a husband blasting through it on his wedding night.”

He went pale, then red to his hairline with rage. “You will not speak of him further, do you understand me? Oh yes, I would be more distressed than your father if you killed me.”

“No, you would be dead and not feel a thing.”

She simply didn’t know that he’d overheard her and her father, so how could she possibly know why he was so damned angry? Maybe that was a good thing. He said, “You honestly feel fine now?”

“I feel ready to take on the world. I feel more than ready to take you on, my lord.”

“I am your husband. My name is Thomas. A wife doesn’t take on a husband, if you mean by that to start an argument with him.”

She realized they’d done nothing but argue since he’d shown himself in the doorway. She said slowly, “Actually, I was thinking about hitting you in the nose.”

He said nothing to that, very wise of him to keep quiet, she thought. He believed in some self-preservation.

She looked at him a moment, wrapped his dressing gown more closely about her, then said slowly, “Actually, I feel very sore between my legs. Does a man regard that as an accomplishment, something he’s expected to do on his wedding night?”

“Since you are not riding, you will be fine by evening. It is nothing. There is no accomplishment here. Last night simply happened. Don’t speak of it again.”

“You are an expert then. You have done this particular business many times, at least enough times to know that my pain was and is a mere bagatelle. I don’t suppose you experienced any distress from your splendid performance last night?”

He shook his head, but he was lying, of course. When he had broken her maidenhead, he’d wanted to scream at her and howl from the intense pleasure that filled him.

“I see. So you didn’t realize what you were doing? Neither the first time nor the second time? You didn’t hurt me either time on purpose?”

“Be quiet, Meggie. It’s over.”

She looked up at the ceiling. “God is letting me down here.”

“Sometimes God forgives actions when they are justified.”

“Whatever that means. Would you care to clarify that a bit?”

“I don’t wish to discuss it further.”

“Yes, yes, don’t mention anything a husband might find thorny. I must relieve myself. Go away.”

He looked as if he would say more, but he didn’t, just turned and closed the door quietly behind him.

“Thomas.”

At the sound of his name, he turned slowly.

She’d poked her head out the door. “Here.” She threw his dressing gown to him.

She closed the door, leaned against it, covering her bare breasts with her hands, and sighed. She saw that he had indeed washed most the blood out of her nightgown. She folded the nightgown into a small square and stuffed it into her valise. She planned to look at it quite often, a reminder that expectations were quite different from reality.

She was downstairs within the hour, her bonnet ribbons tied beside her left ear, her pale green muslin morning dress, freshly pressed by Ann, one of Mrs. Miggs’s daughters, and Mrs. Miggs herself assisted Meggie to dress, marveling over and over how splendidly hard Meggie’s head was when the good Lord knew she should be moaning this morning, still in bed, the covers pulled over her head.

Meggie assured Mrs. Miggs that she felt dandy. As a matter of fact, she looked young and fresh and very innocent. She smiled when she said good-bye to Mrs. Miggs and heard the lady say into her ear as she hugged her, “Do not kill him. You would hang and I would be unhappy. If I were unhappy, then Mr. Miggs would be unhappy as well because I would see that he was. Not as unhappy as your family, but still, there would be some active discomfort.”

“No, I won’t kill him, even though he refused to answer any questions. No, I have other plans for the clod,” Meggie said, gave her another quick hug, saw her new husband’s dark eyebrow raised at this affection between his wife and the innkeeper, and helped her into the carriage.

17

St. Agnes Head

Cornwall

SPRING WAS SERIOUSLY in doubt on the northern coast of Cornwall. As they traveled to the northwest, it became more cold and blustery. The wind blew hard, making the tree branches moan and rustle in the darkness. The air off the Irish Sea tasted of brine and the smell of seaweed was strong.

Thomas didn’t call a halt until nearly eight-thirty in the evening. For the entire day he had ridden some fifty feet in front of the carriage, leaving her to stew alone. She’d been so bored, and finally so desperate to relieve herself, that she’d finally opened the carriage door, leaned out as far as she could, and shouted up to Tim McCulver, “Stop the bloody carriage or I’ll jump!”

The carriage stopped in under six seconds.

“Thank you,” Meggie said, climbed down, and walked into the stand of oak trees beside the road.

When she came out some minutes later, her new husband was sitting astride his horse, looking intently at her. “Are you all right?”

“As in was I careful not to attach any poison ivy to myself?”

“No, but were you careful about that as well?”

She nodded, paid him no more attention, and climbed back into the carriage. If he didn’t want to be lover-like, perhaps beg her pardon a dozen times, then she would do her part and ignore him.

Exactly two hours later Tim McCulver pulled the carriage to a stop, opened the carriage door, and said, “His Lordship asked me to see if you wished to stop for a moment and perhaps commune with nature.”

“Yes,” Meggie said. “Thank you.”

They didn’t stop for dinner. It was nearly twilight. Meggie was so bored, she couldn’t stand herself anymore. She didn’t think, just climbed out of the carriage window. Tim McCulver didn’t see her until she swung onto the top of the carriage, crawled over the low railing and slipped down onto the seat beside him. He was so startled, he dropped the reins and let out a yell.

“It’s all right, Tim. Goodness, the reins. Here, let me get them.”

Before Meggie could reach down for the horses’ reins, Tim squeaked, threw himself forward, nearly falling between the two horses, managed to snag the reins, and as Meggie nearly lifted him back into his seat, he was moaning.

“Are you all right?”

“It ain’t the done thing, milady, it jest ain’t the done thing. Ye’re here wi’ me, and his lordship will twist me ears off me head. Oh Lord, listen to me, yer favorite sinner needs yer good graces.”

“His lordship will do nothing of the kind. If there is any twisting to be done, let him just try it on my ears.”

And she laughed, feeling the wind tear at her bonnet.

It wasn’t until they drove into St. Agnes, a very small village one mile inland from the Irish Sea, that Thomas rode back to the carriage to see his wife seated beside Tim McCulver, who’d driven his mother since Thomas was five years old.

He couldn’t think of a thing to say. He saw Tim’s anguish, saw the grin on his wife’s face, not a sweet confiding grin, but rather a grin that dared him to make a scene. He wasn’t without sense. He kept his mouth shut. Later, he thought, later, he would take her apart. He pictured her hauling herself out of the carriage window and blanched.

There was some moon, but it was hidden behind dark bloated clouds.

Tim said, “It will rain before midnight, milord. I’m glad we didn’t get caught in it.”

“I just hope it will clear by tomorrow.”

“Why?” Meggie asked as she stuffed her windblown hair back under her bonnet and retied it.

Thomas said, “Traveling by boat is more difficult in bad weather. Women tend to moan and complain and puke their guts over the side.”

“What a perfectly happy thought,” Meggie said and climbed down without waiting for anyone to assist her. Her skirt snagged on the brake, and she very nearly went crashing to the ground. She said a small prayer of thanksgiving that she didn’t fall. She could just see him standing over her, legs spread, hands on hips, sneering at her, treating her like a nincompoop. She said, “How nice it must be for men not to get seasick. Do you think it is due to a man’s natural superiority? Or to a female’s frailty, her inherent weakness?”

“Dammit, some men get seasick.”

She said slowly, tapping her fingers to her chin, “Why did you admit that to me?”

“Because Tim is one of them and you would find out soon enough and point it out to me in a perfectly snide voice.”

“What a fine example of logic. You saved yourself from my ill manners. Goodness, it’s very cold here,” she said as she shook out her skirts.

“Yes, a bit,” Thomas said, then gave Tim instructions while he handed Pen’s reins to a stable boy who was staring at the big black horse. “He won’t hurt you. Just be firm and gentle with him. Tim, go along with the boy, see that everything is taken care of.”

“Pen is a very big horse,” she said, then sighed. “I will miss Survivor, but Rory and Alec need her.”

For the first time since they’d arrived, Meggie turned to look at the inn that was set behind some oak trees. She didn’t see much, just a flapping wooden sign that said The Hangman’s Noose beneath a lantern that hung over the inn door.

Meggie looked from the inn to Thomas. “This is very strange. We haven’t seen a soul except for the stable lad. This place looks utterly deserted. There is only the lantern over the front door and look, it seems there is just a single candle shining out that one front window.”

“This isn’t right at all,” Thomas said, and she heard the alarm in his voice. “No, usually, Bernard’s inn is very busy. Why didn’t the stable boy say anything? Good Lord, I wonder what has happened. I want you to stay here, Meggie.” She didn’t want to, but she saw him pull a pistol from inside his jacket. An eyebrow went up. There was no one else about in the inn yard.

What was going on here?

The sky was filled with rolling black clouds, obscuring any hint of light. She fastened her eyes on that single lone candle set in the window.

Then she knew something was very wrong when she saw Thomas break into a run to the inn, the pistol gripped firmly in his right hand.

She was just behind him in seconds. “I don’t like this.”

He stopped, turned. “I don’t want you here, Meggie. Go back there where it’s safe.”

“Safe with the stable lad? How do you know he’s safe? Where is he, by the way? You don’t think he’s hurt Tim, do you?”

“Don’t be absurd, but you’re right, surely he must know if there is something wrong. Why didn’t he say anything? Stay here. I will see to this. Obey me.”

“No,” she said and fell into step beside him. “This is a very important item on my wife’s list: Keep your husband from harm.”

A black eyebrow went up, but he didn’t say anything, just tried to get in front of her when they reached the inn door. Later he’d be inordinately pleased about what she’d said, but not now. Slowly he opened the door, shoving it slowly, inexorably inward. It creaked loudly, making Meggie’s hair stand up on the back of her neck, making her suck in her breath.

“I don’t like this at all,” she whispered against his shoulder.

“I don’t either. Dammit, stay behind me at least.”

“I’m scared.”

“I am too. Be quiet.”

Thomas walked into the small beam-ceilinged private parlor where the single candle was flickering in the window. It looked like it was a signal, but to whom?

Other than the candle, the room was empty. Thomas picked up the candle, saw that it was nearly burned all the way down. How long had it been lighted, and set in that particular spot? An hour? More?

Meggie moved to within two inches of her husband, came up onto her toes, and whispered in his ear, “Is there smuggling on the northern coast of Cornwell? Between Cornwall and Ireland?”

He shook his head, placed his fingers over his mouth.

He checked every inch of the room, then said, “I want you to remain in here, Meggie. I must check the rest of the inn.”

Meggie walked to the fireplace and lifted a poker from beside the mantel. It was big and soot-covered. “No,” she said. “Let’s go. The Hangman’s Noose. I don’t like the sound of that name. Who owns it?”

“Bernard Leach.” He said nothing more until they were across the hall and through the open door of the taproom. It was perfectly dark and smelled of years upon years of ale. “Keep your voice down. Bernard is a Cornishman I’ve known all my life. We need a light, I can’t see a damned thing. Stay put. I’m going to get the candle.”

He was back in a moment, the candlelight shining upward, setting his face in relief, making him look like the devil himself.

“I wouldn’t have married you if it were dark like this and you were holding a candle. You look evil, Thomas.”

“You hold it then,” he said, and then laughed low when he saw her pale face lighted by the candle flame. “You have the look of a succubus.”

“Not a good thing,” Meggie said and shuddered even as she walked toward the long bar and raised the candle to look behind it. “If I have a child, he or she will be a demon or a witch. Did you know that Merlin was supposedly spawned by an incubus? That’s a male succubus.”

“No, I didn’t know that,” he said.

“Where could everyone have gone? Perhaps there was an accident in the village.”

“It’s possible. St. Agnes village is still a half mile to the west. Bernard’s grandfather built the inn in an oak forest because he liked his privacy.”

They went through the entire downstairs, ending up in the small cramped kitchen. That was where they found Bernard Leach lying unconscious in the middle of a pile of flour, blood from his head seeping into the white flour.

Thomas went down beside him and felt for a pulse in his neck. “Bernard, wake up. Dammit, man, come on, wake up now!”

The man, older, grizzled gray hair, thin as a broom handle, a huge white apron wrapped around his middle, moaned, then opened his eyes. “Oh God, be it you, Thomas?”

“Aye, you old buzzard. You just gave me a mighty scare. Where is everyone? What the hell has happened?”

Bernard clutched at Thomas’s shirt. “Oh my lord, Thomas, it was the Grakers. You know about the Grakers, don’t you?”

“I think I’ve heard the name but now, I don’t know. Who are the Grakers?”

“Not who, Thomas. They’re not people. They’re not of this world. They come and they destroy and then they leave again.”

“All right, what are the Grakers? Where are they?”

“They’re like your English pixies, they live under rocks and in caves and only come out at night. But they’re not like pixies, they’re vicious, attacking if they’re displeased with you.”

“You’re telling me that some sort of evil pixie came to your inn, took you in dislike, and smashed you on the head?”

“It weren’t quite that simple,” Bernard said, and struggled to sit up. He moaned, gently rubbed his head.

Meggie said, “Let me get you some water, sir. How do you feel?”

“Is that a girl I hear? She shouldn’t be here, Thomas. God only knows what the Grakers left upstairs. They scared off all the guests, but I have this very bad feeling that they did something she’s not going to want to see. Aye, they’re mightily displeased with me. I kilt one of them. It was an accident, I swear it, but they don’t believe me. They came for their revenge.”

Thomas shook his head. “First things first.” Thomas took a wet cloth from Meggie, motioned for her to hold the candle closer, and examined the wound. “It isn’t bad, just a single blow. After I take care of you, Bernard, I’ll go upstairs and see if there’s anyone else here. Where’s Marie?”

“Marie?” Bernard frowned.

“Your wife, Bernard.”

“Oh my lord, I’m in a bad way here, my boy. Marie—I don’t know, I just don’t know. What if the Grakers hurt her, Thomas?”

“I will go search the rest of the inn. You will stay here and rest.”

“But who is this girl?”

“This is my wife.”

“Ah, your wife. Ain’t she a pretty one? Look at all the lovely hair, can’t make up its mind what color it wants to be.”

“That’s enough, Bernard. Your head should hurt too much for you to flirt with her. All right, I’m going to help you to that chair and you will rest until I see what’s going on here. Do you have a lantern?”

Once the lantern was lit, Thomas said, “Meggie, you will remain with Bernard to, er, protect him.”

“No, he’s not my husband. His head isn’t bleeding anymore. Mr. Leach, you don’t move. Thomas and I will find your wife. Don’t worry. Let’s go, Thomas.”

He could tie her down, he supposed, then just shrugged, raised the lantern high, and left the kitchen, Meggie on his heels.

Thirty minutes later, after looking into every bedchamber on the second floor, they went to the attic rooms where the servants stayed. There were no servants anywhere.

But they found Marie Leach hanging by the neck from a thick rope wrapped and knotted about a high beam in the far attic room. Meggie didn’t pause, just ran to the woman and lifted her up, trying to relieve the pressure of the rope around her neck. “Hurry, Thomas, hurry. I can’t hold on much longer.”

“I’m sorry, Meggie. It’s too late. She’s dead.”

She was holding a dead woman. Meggie gulped, slowly released her, and stepped back. She didn’t want to look, didn’t want to accept that she was seeing a dead woman, and such a horrible way to die, but she forced herself. She wouldn’t faint, she wouldn’t moan and groan, she wouldn’t be useless.

She might have weaved a bit, but managed to say in a fairly firm voice, “Tell me what to do, Thomas.”

“Please hold her up again, Meggie. I need to get the rope off her.”

Thomas managed to untie the rope around her neck. “The knot wasn’t well tied,” he said as he eased Marie down onto the single narrow cot in the small bedchamber. He paused a moment, lightly touched his fingers to the dead woman’s cheek, then drew the cover over her. He was silent for a moment.

“You knew her. Well.”

Thomas raised his head. “Yes, this is Bernard’s wife, Marie. I’ve known her since I was a small boy. This shouldn’t have happened, Meggie. Now, there’s nothing more we can do for her. Let’s go downstairs. I have to tell Bernard, and then we must fetch a magistrate.”

18

IT WAS NEARLY midnight when the housekeeper led Thomas and Meggie into a newly aired bedchamber at Squire Billings’s house at the head of Morgan Cove, just south of St. Agnes Head, a fine property some three miles distant from The Hangman’s Noose.

Once the housekeeper had left them, Thomas said, “Go to bed, Meggie. Squire Billings and I must speak about this further.”

She nodded, saying not a word. She’d not said a word, but she’d hurt and cried deep inside and let the shock burrow deeper than the tears, and now she was exhausted. Within five minutes she was stretched out on her back beneath a marvelous goose-down comforter.

Thomas came into the bedchamber to see that she was all right before going back down to Squire Billings’s library. He held the candle high and looked down at his wife. She was already asleep, her hair spread out about her head on the pristine white pillowcase. She looked so very young, untouched, but that wasn’t true. And now she was no longer innocent—she’d seen a woman hanging by the neck.

He didn’t like this at all. He turned on his heel and went back downstairs.

Meggie awoke the next morning, still alone. No sign of Thomas. She wondered if he’d even come to bed at all. Then she remembered what had happened.

She closed her eyes and tried not to think about Marie Leach. She looked about the bedchamber and didn’t like it. It was dark, the furnishings heavy, Spanish in flavor, she believed, having visited a Señor Alvarez in his home in London during her Season the past spring.

She looked toward the windows, not seeing the heavy draperies, but rather Marie Leach, and she was dead and it was perfectly horrible.

Thomas knocked lightly then quietly opened the door to see his wife sitting on the side of the bed, her face in her hands, sobbing, great ugly sobs that seemed to bow her utterly.

He strode to the bed, picked her up, and carried her to the large winged chair beside the fireplace. He sat down and settled her on his lap. He held her for a very long time.

She felt in those moments that she was once again with the man she’d enjoyed so very much before they’d married, the man who’d never hesitated to comfort her, to laugh with her, to simply appreciate what and who she was.

“Thank you,” she said, and straightened up. She was knuckling her eyes with her fists, and it made him smile.

“You’re welcome. It’s morning. A maid is waiting in the hall to assist you. We will spend the day here. This business with Bernard and his wife, it’s a mystery and Mr. Billings hasn’t a notion where to begin.”

“And you do?”

“Yes. I wish to speak at great length with Bernard. I will ask the local physician to look at Mrs. Leach.”

“But why? Didn’t she die by strangulation?”

“Perhaps not.”

“I will speak to the stable lad.”

A thorny problem, Thomas thought, and cleared his throat. He said, “That won’t be possible.”

“Why not?” She was off his lap in an instant, standing there in front of him, frowning, her hands on her hips, that white nightgown of hers flowing from the throat down to her toes. “I could question him as well as you could. I will even have Tim there with me.”

“The stable lad is gone. Tim is looking after Pen and the carriage horses. Tim said he must have left while he was asleep, probably fearing he’d be blamed.”

“Oh.”

“Sorry to take the wind out of your sails.”

“You have surprised me, true enough. Do you believe the stable lad knew what had happened even while he was leading your horse to the stables?”

“If he did, then it would mean that he must have been involved. I will ask Bernard about the lad’s family—”

“Ah, and then I will go speak to them, find out where he is.”

“Perhaps. Now, I will meet you downstairs for breakfast.”

Life had turned very strange, Meggie was thinking as the maid, Tossa—a Spanish name, she told Meggie when asked, handed down from an ancestor who’d been flung up on the southern Cornish coast during the wreck of the great Spanish Armada during the reign of Good Queen Bess—helped her bathe, arranged her hair and her clothes. Tossa told her Squire Billings was all bluff and no brain, but a good man even so. When Meggie emerged nearly an hour later, she looked like a lady, and it was a good feeling.

She heard Mr. Billings’s voice as she eased into the dining room.

“I say, my lord, I know all about the Grakers, they’re bad, there’s no question about that. I didn’t know that Bernard had killed one of them. However did he manage it? It’s rare to see one. I’ve never heard of actually catching one.”

“I will find out,” said Thomas. “Bernard told me it was an accident.”

“Ah, here’s some more eggs for you, my lord.”

“Thank you. This is my wife, Squire, Lady Lancaster. We appreciate your hospitality.” Thomas rose from his chair, followed by Squire Billings, who gave her a brief bow and a fat smile.

“Good morning,” Meggie said as she eased into the chair opposite her husband, held out for her by a butler with trembling hands, who was so pale he looked nearly dead. Squire Billings said matter-of-factly, seeing the countess’s alarm, “Elroy is distraught. He finds death, particularly violent unexpected death, very upsetting to his innards. Fetch her ladyship some eggs and toast, Elroy. Try not to think of Mrs. Leach, and whatever you do, don’t drop the tray anywhere close to her ladyship.”

“It were a bad thing, sir,” Elroy said, hands trembling even more, “a more terrible thing than I could imagine,” and left to fetch the food.

“You are newly wedded,” Squire Billings said between mouthfuls of kippers. “A miserable thing to have happen. Ah well, at least you had your first night together in relative peace and calm, eh?” Squire Billings actually leered, most of it, thankfully, behind his napkin, but Thomas still wanted to kick him.

Meggie realized what he’d said, fastened her eyes on the scrambled eggs, and said, “Ha.” She spent a good minute buttering her toast and decorating it with some gooseberry jam.

Thomas said, “I was taking my wife home this morning, but given what has happened, we will remain here at least for today.”

“I would indeed appreciate your assistance in this dreadful matter, my lord. Nothing like this has ever happened before.”

Thomas nodded, took a final drink of coffee, neatly folded his napkin, and laid it beside his plate. He rose, saying, “Meggie I don’t know how long this will take. You will amuse yourself.”

She wanted to shoot him, but she merely smiled, tossed her own napkin down, and rose as well. “I have decided to accompany you, Thomas.” And the look she gave him dared him to order her to stay, like a damned dog.

She turned to their host. “Thank you very much for your hospitality, Squire Billings. Do you wish to accompany my husband and me on our inquiries? There are so many people to speak to who might know about what happened last night at the Hangman’s Noose.”

Squire Billings sputtered his coffee onto his necktie. “Well, as for that, I’m not a young man, you know, my lady, and who’s to say what—”

“If it is not too difficult for you, I would ask that you speak to your staff, sir,” Thomas said as smooth as the butter he’d spread on his toast. “This evening we will all compare what we have learned. Meggie, fetch your cloak and bonnet.”

That evening at eight o’clock, Squire Billings knew nothing more than what he’d known at breakfast. He’d had to hunt, he told Lord and Lady Lancaster, looking not a whit apologetic, aye, a full day of it, and he’d been desperately fatigued upon his return and had to nap before dinner. He had asked Elroy to conduct interviews with the staff, but the butler was still too overcome, and besides, what would his staff know?

Everything, Meggie wanted to say, but wisely kept quiet.

As for Thomas and Meggie, they’d found out two things: the local doctor had told them that Marie Leach was unconscious from a blow to the head before she was hung, maybe even already dead, and Bernard Leach had packed up and left the Hangman’s Noose suddenly, and no one knew where he’d gone. Nothing more. Even the stable lad had gone missing.

“Did Bernard go missing because he murdered his wife or because he was too scared to stay?”

It was an excellent question, the only one Thomas had ever heard from Squire Billing, and there was no answer.

It was late when Thomas came into the bedchamber. Meggie was sitting up in the big heavy bed, three pillows behind her back, a candle burning on a small table at her elbow. She appeared to be reading.

She looked up when he came into the room, watched him close the door quietly behind him, watched him set his candle down on the dressing table, then straighten and turn to face her.

She cocked her head to one side and said, “Hello, my lord. What do you want?”

“What are you reading?”

“John Locke. He isn’t very amusing.”

“No.”

“What do you want?” she asked again.

“You,” he said. “I want you, Meggie. Take off your nightgown.”

“I believe some specifics are in order here, my lord.”

“My name is Thomas.” He said again, his voice cold and remote this time, “I said that I wanted you. That is quite specific enough.”

“Do you mean that you want to maul me again?”

His hands stilled on the top button of his trousers. It was a good question. He had mauled her, rutting bastard that he was, but it wasn’t really his fault. If she hadn’t said those things, hadn’t rubbed his nose in the fact that she didn’t love him—no, that was a lie if he’d ever told himself one, which, of course he had. He’d known she hadn’t loved him and he’d believed it wouldn’t matter, that he would make her love him soon enough.

Damnation.

He stripped off his clothes, knowing she was watching, looking at him, pointedly. Surely that could be seen as a good thing, perhaps.

When he was naked, he walked to the bed and sat beside her. He looked into those Sherbrooke eyes of hers, beautiful light blue eyes, vivid as the summer sky—and said, “I will not hurt you tonight. I will come into you and you will like it. I’m going to teach you pleasure, Meggie.” I will be the teacher, the lover, not that bastard Jeremy, and you’ll learn to love my hands and mouth, and stop your dreams about him.

“That’s very hard to believe that it can actually be nice.”

“I’m going to make you grin like a loon, make your eyes go vague. Eventually I’ll even let you go to sleep.” He said nothing more, just drew her against him. “Kiss me, Meggie.”

“All right.” When his tongue was in her mouth, when she’d eased, when he knew she was becoming interested in what he was doing, he threw the pillows on the floor and came down beside her. “You’re beautiful,” he said into her mouth. “And you’re mine, Meggie. You will never forget that. No one else’s, mine.”

She gave him a clear look and said, “Of course I’m yours, Thomas, and you are mine. I pray you will not forget that either.”

That warmed him to his toes, then made him cold again, on the outside. Meggie might not love him, but she was loyal. He wanted her loyalty true enough, but he wanted her to love him too, it was just that simple. He wanted everything. Well, damnation.

When her nightgown was on the floor and he was on top of her, kissing his way down the length of her, he knew it would be difficult to keep himself in check, but he wouldn’t allow a repeat of their wedding.

Thomas’s heart was racing, the blood was pumping through him, hot and heavy, and he hurt with urgency. Then he kissed her white belly, feeling her muscles tense, knowing she was excited, knowing that she was ignorant as a post, but was beginning to enjoy herself and wanted to yell with it. He would make her love him, make her want him above all men, above that damned Jeremy, make her yield her soul to him, whisper his name in her dreams. He smiled when he came between her legs, wanting her, wanting her, lifted her in his hands, and gave her his mouth.

Meggie’s brain shut down. Yes, he was actually touching her there, with his mouth, his teeth, his tongue. Then she lifted off the bed, so embarrassed when she tried to yell at him, she could only stutter. She tried to jerk away from him, shoving at his shoulders, yanking on his hair, but he just raised his mouth a bit, looked at her straight in her Sherbrooke eyes, and said, his breath hot against her flesh, “Lie down, Meggie. Close your eyes and let yourself enjoy what I’m doing to you. It’s the done thing, just like the tongues. Relax. I’m your husband. This gives me great pleasure. Don’t deny me my pleasure, Meggie.”

“Oh no, oh goodness, but, Thomas—”

“Be quiet,” he said and blew his hot breath against her.

Meggie lurched up and yelled.

He eased a finger inside her and she yelled again, only this time, he knew she’d shoot him if he stopped. Good, he had her now. He pushed her until—“Come now, Meggie. Just let go. Come along, come to me—”

Meggie didn’t understand what was happening to her, but she knew she’d simply shatter into pieces if anything or anyone tried to stop it happening, whatever it was. She was quaking, stuttering she was so frantic, so maddened by the feelings building and building until—she arched her back, fisted her hands in his hair, and screamed to the beamed ceiling.

He pushed her and pushed her until he felt every bit of tension, every frantic need from deep inside her finally quiet, leaving her utterly limp, utterly his. He gave a shout of satisfaction as he came into her hard, deep and deeper still, and she raised her hips, something that nearly sent him right over the edge. No, he wouldn’t leave her this quickly, it wasn’t fair to either of them. Where had she gotten the energy to want him more? Then he looked down at them, saw himself going deeper inside her, and trembled like a tree branch in a high wind.

Those long legs of hers went around his flanks, and she moaned, and he tried, he truly tried to slow himself, to come out of her a bit until he managed to grab on to just a bit of control, but then he just couldn’t, couldn’t do anything but go forward and he did, touching her womb. Her womb, he was part of her. Oh God. Even then he gritted his teeth, trying desperately to hold himself still, not to move even a small little bit, but it did no good. He went right over the edge when she bit his shoulder, then licked where she’d bitten.

He yelled louder than his wife had, then collapsed on top of her.

Meggie, flattened by a very big sweaty male body, didn’t mind a bit. So this was pleasure. She bit his shoulder again, licked it, and grinned. She was astounded. She’d wanted to sing and dance with the champagne, but it was nothing compared to this. Now she wanted to whirl about in a fast waltz, she wanted to stomp her feet to some wild music that the gypsies played. She was filled with energy, with power, and all because of him, because of Thomas, her husband.

“Thank you,” she whispered against his ear, and squeezed her arms around his back.

He was breathing hard, his face beside hers, and she’d brought him to this.

“I was very good, wasn’t I?” she said, and bit his ear-lobe this time. “Just look at you, my lord, felled like a tree, breathing so hard I fear an attack of apoplexy, and all because I’m me and I did it to you.”

“I’m going to die,” he said finally, tried to bring himself up on his elbow but failing. He fell on her again.

“Perhaps I should give lessons, do you think?”

“Meggie, aren’t you at all tired? Utterly relaxed? Your limbs weak and useless? Your brain ready to nap?”

“I want to dance, Thomas. Waltz with me. Then may we do this again?”

He groaned, and managed to pull himself up on his elbows. He was still inside her, and when he moved, he felt himself harden again. It was amazing. He didn’t want to waltz, oh no. “Meggie, I don’t think we are quite finished yet. Do you mind if we dance a bit later?”

She stared up at him, her head cocked to the side. “I must be truly amazing,” she said, and lifted her hips. She felt him hard now, as hard as he’d been before he’d reached his climax. It felt wonderful. “All right. We will waltz after. Do something, Thomas, please.”

And he did, grinning even as he kissed her mouth, the underside of her breast, her hipbone, the inside of her left knee. He kissed her until she moaned in his mouth, and he thought, You’re mine, not his, just mine. It didn’t take long since he was already far gone. He shuddered and quaked and threw his head back and moaned long and deep. Then when he managed to focus on her face again, he saw that she wasn’t unconscious from pleasure as she should be. He didn’t pause, pulled out of her, took her with his mouth, and sent her right over the edge, again. She didn’t manage a moan or a yell, but just heaved and jerked about like a puppet, then sighed deeply, and reached for him. Before Thomas fell asleep, he brought her close against him, felt her breath against his flesh, knew the instant she was asleep, and he thought, I am really excellent at this. Perhaps even better than my bride. He smiled, knew that Jeremy hadn’t intruded this time, and closed his eyes. He was gone in just under two seconds.

19

Off the coast of southwestern Ireland

Between Cork Harbour and Kinsale

MEGGIE DECIDED SHE loved the Celtic Sea. This morning it looked like the English Channel on a very bad day, a gray raucous day, water whipped up by the wind, tearing and whipping about the boat. Today the sea was as rough and pure and wild as the frigid North Sea that slammed into the rocks near her home Kildrummy Castle in Scotland.

Then, suddenly, a gleaming sliver of sun slid through a sky full of fat gray clouds, knifing into the high waves just ahead of their boat. As for the boat—The Kelpie—it rocked madly, lifted to the top of a wave, then slammed down hard into a deep trough. It was like slicing a knife into bread, fast and deep. Then holding steady, a long pause, as if the boat were holding its breath, then up again, towering on top of the cresting waves.

She’d never experienced anything like this. It was magnificent, exciting, and she loved every instant of it. She thought she’d even go so far as to say that she loved it as much as she’d loved the pleasure she’d wallowed in the previous night. Then, of course, morning had come as it always did, and even though one just wanted to lie there and smile and do nothing at all, except reach for her husband and begin it all again, it wasn’t possible because her husband had been gone. Long gone and it was only six o’clock in the morning, a stormy morning that would have made staying in bed, sipping chocolate, and kissing until her mouth was numb, a very lovely thing indeed.

It was not to be, dammit. And then he was there beside her, looking up at the billowing storm clouds overhead, feeling the harsh sea wind whip his hair around his face.

He said, “We’ll be landing soon in Cork Harbour.”

She had her hand firmly on her bonnet. She turned to see her husband, his dark eyes watering from the sea winds whipping about his head. He looked immensely wonderful, but he had changed again. This wasn’t the man who’d groaned and yelled and kissed her numb the previous night. What was wrong with men? Were they all like this—utterly unpredictable, without a single idea how nice it would be to smile and kiss?

“I hope it storms before we land. I love storms.”

“The horses don’t. They don’t like this pitching about a bit. Add rain to the mix and they would want to stomp until they toppled into the sea.”

“It is a pity that they don’t have thumbs—then they could hang on to something.”

He smiled, remembering how he’d hated to leave her, she’d been so warm and soft, a slight smile playing about her mouth. She’d opened her eyes then, looked at him and saw only him, he knew it, smiled at only him. He’d had to leave her, there was so much to be done.

He said, “Pendragon lies only two hours south, right on the coast, at the end of a short promontory. It was built four centuries ago, a sentinel at the edge of the land to watch for enemies. It was burned by Cromwell because the Kavanaghs refused to surrender, then rebuilt by Charles II.”

“The Kavanaghs?”

“My great-uncle, Rodney Malcombe, my grandfather’s younger brother, bought Pendragon with his inheritance when the Kavanaghs found themselves betrayed by the French toward the end of the last century.”

“Napoleon betrayed them?”

Thomas nodded. “It was a question of turning on their neighbors. It was said that the Kavanaghs would butcher a neighbor’s cattle without thinking twice about it, but they simply would not kill the neighbors’ families. The French made them promises, then broke them. The Kavanaghs took what money my uncle paid for Pendragon and went to the Colonies, to a town called Boston, I believe. Pendragon is a grand old place, Meggie.”

Her eyes were shining with excitement even as the wind whipped her bonnet off her head.

Thomas caught it before it whirled overboard and set it back onto her tangled hair. He lightly patted her cheek, leaned down, and kissed her. “I wish I could have stayed with you this morning,” he said, and kissed her again.

Meggie leaned into him, licked his bottom lip, and he stepped back to tie her ribbons beneath her chin. “It simply won’t do for the earl of Lancaster to make love to his bride on the deck of a pitching boat.”

“Why not?”

“Be quiet, Meggie,” he said, stroked his knuckles over her jaw, and grinned at her. He cleared his throat. “We have our own small harbour where our local fishermen moor their boats. We have a small village, Pendragon, that sports a few small shops for the hundred or so people who live around us. Mostly we ride to Kinsale for supplies, just to the south of us.”

“Pendragon,” she said. “It has taste, that word, the taste of adventure and secrets and old passages that no one knows about.” She rolled the name around in her mouth, said it out loud again. “Pendragon. My cousin Jeremy’s home in Fowey is called Dragon’s Jaw. Isn’t that a marvelous name as well? I so wanted to—well, that’s silly, now isn’t it? No, I wanted to visit Dragon’s Jaw. There are these sharp rocks at the base of the cliff just below the house and thus, its name.”

If Jeremy had magically appeared, Thomas would have hurled him overboard without a second thought. She was thinking about living at his home. He was so angry he wanted to curse the billowing sails down, but he knew he couldn’t, and so he said, “Pendragon is very old. It was once very important. Now it is simply beautiful. Now it simply endures.”

Meggie frowned up at him. “What’s wrong, Thomas? You sound as cold and sharp as my grandmother Lady Lydia who can both slice ham and a witless neighbor with just a single glare. She lives at Northcliffe Hall with my uncle Douglas and aunt Alex. She couldn’t come to our wedding because she was ill. However, given the letter she wrote me, she is very pleased that I married an earl who’s an Englishman, not a dreaded Scot like my uncle Colin. Still, given five minutes she could still find something significant lacking in your character.

“And so don’t you look down that very elegant nose of yours at me, just like she does. Don’t forget, my lord, that I gave you remarkable pleasure last night if your grunts and groans are any measure of pleasure, which they are, I know that firsthand.” She gave him a smile that made him want to jump on her and take her down to the deck.

She said, “One would think you would perhaps wish to reminisce a bit, perhaps smile a bit vacantly, but here you are, thin-lipped, and I have no idea why.”

All right. He would forget Jeremy for a moment and his ridiculous house in Fowey. Dragon’s Jaw, a really stupid name, so precious it was nauseating. He didn’t want her to guess that he was beyond jealous. He looked at her, saw the wind had burned her cheeks bright red. He also saw that she was so proud of herself, and now that he thought about it, she had pushed him right over the edge, and he’d happily fallen and fallen yet again, until he wouldn’t have cared if the bloody roof of Squire Billings’s house had come crashing down on his back.

He took her mittened hand and looked toward the distant shore, listened to the wind howl and poor Tim McCulver vomiting over the side of the boat, thankfully downwind.

“Yes,” Meggie said after a moment. “Pendragon—it is a vastly romantic name, just flows off the tongue and makes you shiver with the feel of it—so unlike our home in Scotland—Kildrummy Castle. That is utterly pragmatic and down-to-earth, feet firmly planted. Tell me about it.”

“I much prefer it to Bowden Close. You will see it yourself this afternoon.”

“Where did the name Pendragon come from? Is it named after an ancient Irish warrior?”

“No. My great-uncle changed the name from Belleek Castle to Pendragon. Uther Pendragon wasn’t Irish, he was Celtic or early English, the father of King Arthur. My great-uncle was obsessed with King Arthur. I believe he dreamed of finding Arthur’s burial site on Pendragon land. I heard rumors a couple of years back that North Nightingale, Lord Chilton, had found King Arthur’s sword Excalibur when a cliff wall collapsed into an ancient cave. Probably nonsense, but I would like to meet him someday and ask about it.

“My great-uncle always used to say that Tintagal was nothing but a heap of rocks, that Arthur could have easily sailed to Ireland, to Pendragon, and spent his final days there. But I wonder.”

“Oh, I remember that now. Pendragon.” She grinned at him. “Let me roll it about on my tongue for a moment.”

He watched her and her tongue rolling around, could practically feel her tongue rolling about on and in his own mouth, and got harder than the mast.

She said, “Do you plan to live most of the time at Pendragon?”

“I haven’t yet decided. Bowden Close is now also my responsibility. Your family is there. We will visit often.”

“That’s good. I would miss my family.”

“Yes, I know. As I said, I don’t wish Bowden Close to be left only in a steward’s hands.”

“My uncle Douglas says that a man is a fool if he ignores what is his.”

“I agree.”

“My father agrees too, which is why he traveled to Kildrummy Castle when he inherited it. We couldn’t live there, however, and we were very lucky. Oliver manages Kildrummy Castle. Actually now it is as much his home as it is ours. Did you know that Oliver was one of my uncle Ryder’s first Beloved Ones?”

“Yes. Your uncle Ryder found him trying to pull himself out of an alley so he could beg for food. His leg was badly broken, you see, and he couldn’t walk.”

“My uncle took care of him until he was eighteen, and then he went to Oxford. He was going to be my uncle Douglas’s steward, but the instant he saw Kildrummy Castle, he fell in love with it. Oliver is very smart and married my uncle’s daughter, Jenny. You met Jenny and Oliver at the wedding. They are very happy.”

Meggie shook his sleeve. “Now, my lord, when will you thank me for last night? When are you going to sing my praises? Tell me you have never experienced such a woman as I? Goodness, Thomas, I laid you lower than a slug.”

“I don’t like the sound of that. You do know that you’re ignorant as a stick,” he added, and lightly touched his palm to her the underside of her breast. “But I have high hopes.”

Meggie didn’t move, became still as a statue and looked up at him, not saying a word. Then she leaned forward, pressing her breast into his palm. Thomas’s breath hitched. He saw one of the sailors coming and regretfully dropped his hand to his side. “Yes,” he said, “lower than a slug. Now, let’s think about the pleasure I gave you. Meggie, the look on your face when I kissed you.”

“Well, I love to kiss you. You make my mouth tingle.”

“No, not on the mouth, Meggie.”

He laughed when she turned even redder, none of it from windburn.

He couldn’t help himself. He smiled down at her, at the loose hair pulled from beneath her bonnet, whipping against her face. “If I hadn’t pleasured you, would you have shot me after you felled me?”

She pursed her lips and he knew, knew all the way to his boots, that she was giving this due thought. Finally she said, “Well, that’s a real possibility. Who knows what you would have demanded to do? Our wedding night was memorable, but I wouldn’t precisely say that it was a memory that I will cherish when I am an old woman. Yes, I might have shot you.”

She was so likable, so damned open and giving. Not a reticent bone in that ever so white body of hers. Her body. No, he wouldn’t think about that, not now, not on board a wildly rocking boat.

He looked out over the billowing wave that would slap the side of the boat in another instant. He waited, put his arm on hers to keep her steady, and felt the taste of the water in his mouth from the wild spray.

He said after a moment, “My mother lives at Pendragon.”

“I shouldn’t be surprised,” she said slowly, “but you hadn’t told me where she was living. Remember I asked you if your mother would come to our wedding, and you just shook your head and said something about her being ill.”

“That is true. She was ill, just like your grandmother. As a rule she dislikes leaving Pendragon. When I was five, she took me to her brother’s home, to Pendragon. I was raised there.”

“I look forward to meeting her,” Meggie said.

Thomas said not another word.

They turned into Cork Harbour within the hour, where the water was much calmer because of the long curving mole that broke the storm’s might.

A mother-in-law, Meggie was thinking. She hadn’t given the actual flesh-and-blood lady much thought until now that she was going to meet her in a very short time. She thought of her grandmother Lady Lydia and spent a good five minutes praying hard.

20

Pendragon Castle

“SO YOU ARE my son’s new wife.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Meggie smiled as she stepped up to the older woman, who looked a great deal like Thomas, from her dark hair and eyes to her olive complexion. Her mother-in-law, something she’d never had before, someone who was now more a part of her life than her own parents. If Thomas’s mother hadn’t come to their wedding because of ill health, she certainly looked as fit as a top-form racing cat to Meggie now.

Best to begin the way she meant to go on. Meggie gave her a big smile, oozing with respect and goodwill, and offered her a curtsy only a duchess deserved—a royal duchess.

Her mother-in-law said, after looking her up and down, “From my son’s letter, I thought you would look much better. You are not presentable. You are wet. Perhaps even on the frowzy side. The feather on your bonnet is drooping badly.”

“Mother, as you can see, both Meggie and I are soaked to the skin. Just before we managed to steer into the harbor, a big wave struck the port side of the boat. Even Pen got wet, and I can assure you that he wasn’t happy about it. I will take Meggie to our bedchamber now so she may change.”

“My son wrote that you have your family’s eyes.”

“Yes, my lady,” Meggie said. “They’re the Sherbrooke eyes.”

“Blue as a summer sky,” Thomas said, and Meggie, inordinately pleased with this remarkable male offering, turned to him and gave him a dazzling smile. “Thank you,” she said.

“I’m not a ‘my lady,’ ” Thomas’s mother said, her voice all sharp, “not since Lord Lancaster divorced me. But now he’s dead, so I suppose I can now be a dowager countess since my son is the new earl.”

“I see nothing at all amiss with that,” Meggie said, then just couldn’t prevent herself asking, “Thomas really wrote to you about my Sherbrooke eyes?”

“Among other things, as, for instance, the amount of your dowry, which is quite adequate. A healthy dowry goes far in assuring a young bride’s reception. He might have remarked upon things that aren’t quite so adequate, I cannot remember.”

Thomas rolled his eyes. She was his mother and he knew her well, and now he rather wished that—well, forget it. She would never change.

She continued after just a moment of the blank silence, “However, none of this is here nor there for the moment, young lady. Now, as to the other, you may continue to call me my lady.”

“I’m sorry, my lady, that you were ill and could not come to our wedding.”

“That is nonsense. I am never ill.”

Thomas had known from the age of ten that a lie, one with meat on it that promised consequences if discovered, always came to light, and the perpetrator always came to a bad end.

“But why then didn’t you come?”

“Meggie,” Thomas said. “Let it go.” He squeezed her hand. Deep water, she thought, and nodded.

“It is nearly teatime,” the dowager countess said, and pulled out a monocle and placed it against her right eye. It was a rather frightening sight. She said, “Bring her back then, Thomas.”

Meggie thought that her mother-in-law could have spoken to her rather than through her. Not a very good beginning.

“I believe we will both be ready for some tea in a short time,” Thomas said, and turned to Meggie.

She said, “Yes, my lady, I will be delighted to be brought back for tea.”

Meggie said not another word as she trailed Thomas out of the large, cold, dismal drawing room with its tattered furnishings and thick heavy draperies that tightly covered all the windows.

What a dreadful room.

“My mother is perhaps a bit eccentric,” Thomas said, not looking at her.

“Maybe she should meet my grandmother,” Meggie said, not dropping a bit of her good cheer. “I will probably be able to tell you in a week who would win that battle. I was rather hoping that since she believed my dowry was adequate, I would be treated better.”

“Perhaps it wasn’t entirely ill health that kept her away from our wedding.”

To his surprise and relief, Meggie giggled. “You were trying to save my feelings, and so you told me a very blameless lie.” She sighed. “You did it well, but still, you were caught out. I always am as well. I don’t suppose you’ll tell me what those things you wrote to her about me that aren’t so adequate?”

“I wrote only that you were a brilliant flower ready to be plucked.”

“That’s nauseating.”

“Yes, I thought you’d like that. Truth is, she didn’t want to come because she is the most perverse woman in England. I could have been marrying a princess, and she still would have sniffed and stuck her nose in the air.”

“That’s all right then. Perversity is interesting.”

“I just hope you will still think that in a week from now.” Thomas nodded to a desiccated old man who looked like he was in horrible pain. He was walking slowly toward them, his back terribly bent, an occasional moan slipping out of his mouth.

“My lord,” the old man said, rolling the lord around on his tongue. “Aye, what a lovely sound that be.”

Thomas said, “Barnacle, do see to our luggage.”

“Aye, my lord, but it will be an awesome struggle, as ye well know, since ye have cracked my poor back for me many times for me over the years.”

“I know, Barnacle. What I meant was, get Ennis to fetch the luggage and you will instruct him as to how to carry it and where to place it.”

“It is good of ye to be more specific, my lord. Be she the new ladyship?”

“Aye,” Meggie said. “That I be.”

“Yer pretty, all that hair what can’t make up its mind what color it is. Yer not all that big, leastwise not as big as his lordship has become. Mayhap ye’d walk on my back for me when it gets all knotted up?”

“I would be delighted to walk on your back, Barnacle.”

The old man nodded, threw back his head, and yelled, “Ennis! Get yer skinny buttocks and yer strong back in here, lad.”

Meggie was sure she saw one corner of Thomas’s mouth turn up a bit, but he said nothing.

Barnacle made his way slowly back to the front door.

Meggie said, “Barnacle looks as if he’s nearly dying with pain, Thomas. How bad is it?”

“Not at all bad.”

“But he looks like he’s ready to yowl in agony. I even heard him moaning. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Few people have. Actually, I’ve seen him practicing his agony in front of the mirror. He nearly caught me because I laughed, I just couldn’t help it. I was about fourteen at the time. I don’t doubt that his back bothers him a bit, but most of it’s a sham. He’s done it since before I was born. The old bugger will doubtless outlive all of us, even with his back nearly bent like a horseshoe.”

“That look of his does have a potent effect,” Meggie said.

“You sound impressed.”

“Oh, I am. He looks to be a splendid old man. Did you ever walk on his back for him?”

“When I was a boy. Now it’s your turn. He will grunt and groan and enjoy himself immensely, and complain the whole time.”

“He is an unusual butler, Thomas. Ah, I wonder what you will think when you meet Hollis, my uncle Douglas’s butler. He’s more distinguished than the king.”

“It wouldn’t require all that much.”

She smiled and said, “Barnacle. That is a very strange name.”

“You haven’t begun to see all the strangeness at Pendragon yet, Meggie.”

“Thomas, why didn’t your mother wish to come to our wedding? Besides just being perverse?”

He looked her straight in the eye and said, “She didn’t want me to marry.”

“Me?”

“No, anyone. She believes I’m too young, but she’ll come to love you, Meggie. How could she not?”

“Maybe she doesn’t like the fact that my father is a vicar. Maybe she thinks I’m not well enough born for her son the earl.”

“No,” her son said with a goodly dose of cynicism, “she just doesn’t want to relinquish the reins of control here at Pendragon.”

“Well, I don’t have to, you know, I—”

“Meggie, you are my wife, the countess of Lancaster, the mistress of Pendragon. Pendragon is your responsibility. Don’t forget about what your uncle said about responsibility.”

“No,” Meggie said slowly, “I won’t.” She turned and looked around the entrance hall. It wasn’t dreadful at all. It was cold and dismal, like the drawing room, but it had some majesty to it, soaring up three stories to the blackened beamed roof. There was a huge old chandelier hanging down from that immense height. Meggie hoped the rope holding it was very sturdy indeed and wondered when it had last been checked and cleaned. Probably not since it had been rebuilt after Cromwell had burned it down. She looked down when her heels clicked on the marble floor. Those black-and-white tiles were lovely. All they needed was a good scrubbing, maybe three good scrubbings. The filth didn’t hide how impressive they still were. Suits of armor lined one wall, one after the other, and at least a half dozen sconces soldiered along in a straight line above them. The sconces and the armor looked like they hadn’t been used or cleaned or polished for at least a century, maybe two.

Thomas seemed to see nothing amiss. He said with a negligent wave, “The armor—it’s Flemish, for the most part, fifteenth century. My uncle bought them from a viscount in Surrey who’d lost all his money, and had them carted here.”

Then he said as he pointed to the huge oak staircase that could accommodate a near battalion marching side by side, “The house is old. Since it was originally built in the late fourteen hundreds by the Kavanaghs, it was added to over the years, then destroyed, rebuilt, and ended up looking like this. Both my great-uncle and my uncle did very little. You will find it somewhat drafty. Now that I have access to unexpected funds I will finish off all the necessary repairs.”

“Is that why you married me, Thomas? You needed my dowry?”

“Yes, that’s exactly the reason.”

“Good. I hope there is enough for everything you wish to do.”

He said, “You amaze me, Meggie, the way your brain works. No, I didn’t marry you for your damned dowry. You will forget that.”

“I never thought that you did.” She was looking at his mouth. He started, then took a step back. He pointed to the very old paintings climbing up the wall beside the staircase. Meggie, engaged, said, “Are these your ancestors or Kavanaghs?”

“My uncle claimed they were all Malcombes. They are so old, no one, however, really cares. In the master’s bedchamber there are portraits of Malcombes. A gloomy bunch. A couple of rogues, an out-and-out scoundrel, a womanizer, and a prominent member of the House of Lords.”

“Now you are the earl. You will do something amazing, Thomas, I just know it. You have a strong sense of duty, your brain is quite fit, and you don’t indulge yourself overly.”

He appeared startled. “You really believe that?” he asked slowly, stopping on the stairs and looking down at her. You believe that my brain is better than that damned Jeremy’s? Is my sense of duty greater?

“Oh yes, certainly. I’m your wife and I should know all your good points as well as your bad. Now, your uncle was, of course, your father’s younger brother?”

“That’s right. He made his money in trade, something my mother doesn’t like to speak of, but his brain served him well. I happen to agree with him. Making money all on your own isn’t a bad thing. In my case, it was necessary because there wasn’t much.”

Meggie looked down at the stair railing that needed polish very badly. “Actually, I’ve never really had to think about money or the lack of it. My uncle the earl manages vast estates and is very rich, but it all comes from old wealth, you understand. Uncle Douglas is an excellent caretaker and more, he has added to the coffers through his fine management. At least that’s what I overheard his estate manager saying.”

“However would you, a female, know of that?”

She said without guile, “I have told you, have I not, that I have been a great eavesdropper in my time? My father would sometimes come to me if he suspected something and needed it verified. I just wish I’d eavesdropped when Jeremy and my father—no, never mind that, it isn’t at all important.”

Thomas wished Jeremy were here right at this moment, standing on the stair next to him. He’d pick him up and hurl him to the marble floor, then stomp him. He wanted to hear his jaw snap when his fist hit him.

He said, “Whereever did you get this eavesdropping tendency?”

She said easily, thinking everything was just fine, “I inherited it from my aunt Sinjun. I fear it is a lifelong habit, my lord.”

“I will keep that to myself. I will also be watchful of what I say when you don’t appear to be around.”

“Wise of you. Now, my uncle Ryder inherited a huge amount of money from my great-uncle Brandon as well as a sugar plantation in Jamaica. As for my father, thanks to Uncle Douglas, who has always tended his money, he is also rich. Then Kildrummy Castle came into our lives and that brought more money into my father’s pockets. Not that he ever noticed or spoke of it.” Meggie looked at him closely. “If you did marry me for my money, why then, I think you made a very wise investment.”

“Thank you. I agree. It was actually far more that I’d expected.”

“How much was it?”

He stopped again, looked down at her, and said slowly, “One doesn’t speak of that to a lady, surely you know that.”

“No, I don’t know that at all. I was bought. Isn’t it fair that I know my price?”

“You weren’t bought.”

“My father paid for me, thus I was bought. Come on, now. Spit it out. How much, Thomas?”

“Dammit. Ten thousand pounds.”

He wanted to kick himself for just spitting that out. He arched a brow and tried to look supercilious. “Do you think you’re worth ten thousand pounds?”

She sighed. “I’ve lived all my life never knowing hunger or want. If I saw a bolt of material that pleased me, I would order it. My father spent so much money on my Season in London and I never even thought about it.” She sighed. “I didn’t even find a husband. After Jeremy—” Her voice dropped like a stone off a cliff.

21

HE SAID, VERY carefully, unable to help himself, “What do you mean, ‘after Jeremy’?”

“Forget Jeremy. He’s just an almost dratted cousin, nothing more. The fact is that I’m pitiful, Thomas, and I never realized it until now. No, truth be told, I’m not worth anywhere near that many groats. I think you got a pig in a poke.”

“No,” he said, “I got a Sherbrooke with beautiful blue eyes that she’ll pass along to our children.”

“Yes, I will try. I’m sorry, Thomas.”

Thomas stopped, looked at her, an eyebrow arched up. “Whyever are you sorry?”

“I’m very sorry if you were poor after your father divorced your mother.”

“Never hunger or real want, Meggie. My uncle was at low ebb the last twenty years of his life, but he took my mother and me in, and he did it gladly, generously. He was a fine man. I will tell you something though. It’s a sorry thing when there are people depending on you and you have to think and scheme and dicker with all sorts of very distasteful men to get together enough money to see to their needs. That was true for me until two years ago. That was when my first ship arrived back in Genoa from China.” He took her arm and they continued up the stairs. The stairs creaked beneath their feet. There was a thread-worn Turkish carpet tacked down to the steps. Ancient, by the looks of it. “I wonder how many feet have walked on this rug?”

That got his attention. “I’ve wondered that myself. I think when I was about thirteen years old I decided that several armies had stayed here, bringing the feet up to at least five thousand.”

“That sounds about right. Two armies?”

“Cromwell came twice. The first time he failed, but not the second time.”

“Oh. I didn’t tell you that my aunt Sinjun was an heiress. Actually she was one of the premiere heiresses in all of England. She married a Scottish earl who was so poor his castle was near to falling down about his ears. She saved him. Do you think perhaps that I am saving you just a bit? You could consider me another one of your ships sailing into port, all loaded with wonderful goods?”

“You’re more than one ship, Meggie. When I think of your goods, my toes curl.” He gave her the wickedest grin imaginable.

“I like the sound of that. Now, about your goods—”

He kissed her hard and fast, then straightened. “Also, my father was very well off, Meggie. Together, you have made me rich indeed. Generations to come will bless your dowry.”

Down at the very end of a long, dim, very wide corridor that echoed and another threadbare Turkish carpet over oak planks that creaked, lay the master bedchamber. Actually, it was a suite of rooms, she heard Thomas say from behind her. The master bedchamber, she saw, was so dismal that she had to swallow and seam her lips together to keep back a moan of disappointment. She shouldn’t have been surprised after that drawing room. But still, she was. The large room was filled with heavy old furniture, tattered draperies, miles and miles of bare oak plank floor leading to a mammoth bed that sat on a three-foot dais. If anything, it was more depressing than the drawing room. She said finally, her arms crossed over her chest, “It is certainly a very big room, Thomas. There is an extraordinary amount of floor.”

“There is a dressing room in there with a nice big copper tub, then another bedchamber beyond, which would be your bedchamber, I suppose.”

The dressing room was small and dark and smelled of camphor balls. The bedchamber beyond surprised her. When she opened the door, she had to blink because the sun was flooding in so brightly. Where had the storm gone? She would have sworn it was still battering the area, given the dankness of every other room she’d seen in Pendragon, but not this room. It was white, pure white, no other color, and it made you want to fling your arms out and whirl about.

She walked to the middle of the room, standing on a thick white carpet that covered nearly all the floor in this airy room. “Oh my,” she said.

“You weren’t expecting this. It’s called, originally enough, the White Room.”

“No. I like it very much, Thomas.” She paused a moment, not knowing exactly how one spoke of this, and Thomas said, “Just spit it out, Meggie.”

“My father and Mary Rose share a bedchamber. So do my uncles and their wives. I’ve seen Uncle Colin carry Aunt Sinjun into his bedchamber over his shoulder. I’ve always believed that was the way things were done. Do you think we could do that as well?”

“You wish to share a bedchamber with me?” he asked slowly, and knew he was stupid to feel the leap of hope.

“Well, yes. How can I improve upon you if I don’t have you with me?”

“It would be well nigh impossible. I need improvement?”

“Oh yes, but I will say that I truly believe in ten years you will become the perfect man.”

“Only ten years?”

“I’ve always been an optimist.”

He walked to her and cupped her face in his palm. “Yes, I knew you were the moment I met you.”

Meggie went up on her tiptoes and looked right at his mouth.

“You want me to kiss you?”

“Yes,” she said, nuzzling his chin. “If you have to ask me that, then I’m afraid that it will constitute an additional improvement. We’re perhaps talking more than ten years here, Thomas.”

He ducked his head down and kissed her. Her mouth was so bloody warm and soft, just like the rest of her—both inside and out—and that included her loyal heart, damn her. He lifted his head and continued to cup her cheek. “Your face is very expressive, Meggie. You hate my bedchamber, don’t you?”

“It could be improved upon—”

“Just like me.”

“No, I expect you’ll be much easier. I propose that we use this lovely white bedchamber until I have managed to make the larger one more inhabitable.”

He said even more slowly, his fingers lightly stroking her jaw, “I have never heard of husbands and wives sharing a bedchamber unless they were forced to. Certainly it is difficult for me to imagine that my father and mother ever shared the same bed. I mean, certain husbands and wives share a bed long enough to, well, perform intimacies, but not the entire night. Are you certain that all your male relatives share with their wives?”

“Oh yes.”

He said slowly, “I think I need to think about this, Meggie.”

“I don’t think I snore,” she said. “You do, though, at least you did that first night. However, that first night was undoubtedly a strain on you, so I should not be too swift with a conclusion here.”

He dropped his hand from her face. “Perhaps snoring is one reason husbands and wives don’t sleep together the entire night.”

“I think Mary Rose just shoves my father over on his side when he snores. I heard her speaking of it once to him.”

“I will think about it, Meggie.”

Well, Thomas hadn’t mentioned love, but still, she thought, two people who were not only married but also enjoyed the other’s company, as she and Thomas did, except for their debacle of a wedding night, should surely wish to sleep together. She gave him a long thoughtful look, and said only, “Do that,” and walked to the huge white-painted armoire. When she opened the doors, she saw a row of gowns. Shoes of all sorts lined the bottom of the armoire. Slowly she pulled out one of the dresses. It was high-waisted and looked to be rather old. She turned, holding the dress, her head cocked to the side in question.

“I suppose the gowns belonged to my uncle’s wife, Aunt Sarah. She died back in 1810, in the winter. She was always cold, didn’t matter if it was deep summer. My uncle painted this room white and built more windows so when there was bright sun, as there is now, she would feel it on her face and be warm.”

“When did your uncle die?”

“Two years ago. I was living in Italy at the time, in Genoa, immersing myself in shipping. At least before he died, he knew that I was making enough money to assure that Pendragon would be revitalized, that all his dependents would be taken care of.”

“Then your father died six months ago. You were in Italy at that time as well?”

“Yes. I’m in business with the earl of Clare, a man I much admire. His boys are your age and a bit younger.”

“How many does he have?”

“Six.”

Meggie’s eyes widened at that. “Six boys? Goodness, Thomas, his poor wife.”

“Lady Rayna rules all of them with an iron fist. He is also in business with his brother-in-law, Kamal, who is half European and half Muslim. He was at one time the Bey of Oran—a king in his own right, loaded down with a palace and a harem, master of all he surveyed. He married Arabella Welles, the earl’s sister. She is one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen.”

“Does she have six daughters?”

“No, two girls and two boys. All of them come to England once a year, in the early fall. You will meet them.”

“And will we travel to Italy?”

Ah, she wanted to, he saw it on her face, heard it in her voice. It was something he could give her that Jeremy couldn’t. “I don’t see why not. It’s quite beautiful in the early fall. Now, I will tell Ennis to put my valises in the master bedchamber for the time being. You may have this room. I can see that it pleases you.”

“It pleases me,” Meggie said in a perfectly pleasant voice, “because it isn’t dark and dank and dismal, like that big room just yon that you really should let me fix before you move in there for just one day.”

“I will think about it,” he said yet again and left her standing there, staring at the empty doorway to the dressing room. He knew all the way to the soles of his big feet that if she were to whisper Jeremy’s name in her dreams, and he was there beside her to hear it, he would be worth nothing much at all after that.

Thirty minutes later Meggie found her way back down the huge oak staircase, pausing a moment to admire the carving on the newel post on the top of the banister. She also wanted to admire the plastered ceiling, but it was dirty, in bad need of painting. She walked to the drawing room. She paused when she heard raised voices—the loudest one belonging to her mother-in-law. It was probably about her, since she was the only new specimen about. Meggie practiced her smile. Getting that smile all the way to her eyes, however, was another matter.

When she walked into the drawing room, it was to see not only her husband and her mother-in-law, but also another lady of indeterminate years, sitting on a faded brocade sofa opposite her mother-in-law. This lady was as plump as Thomas’s mother was thin. Her hair, probably once richly blond, was now faded, threads of silver weaving in and out of the fat braids that sat atop her head, unlike Thomas’s mother, whose hair was very dark, heavily laced with snowy white strands of hair. This lady was very fair, her skin as pale as a new snowfall, her eyes light blue, deep dimples in her cheeks. She was really quite pretty, and she was also yelling. “By God, Madeleine, this is nonsense! Tell me you do not mean that!”

So her mother-in-law’s name was Madeleine. That was very pretty.

“I mean it all right, Libby, so you may shut your trap. I tell you, he’s—Ah, here’s my new daughter-in-law with her blue eyes, nice eyes, if one considers the size of her dowry. However, she smiles too much.”

That really made Meggie feel low as a chunk of dirt. I smile too much? Meggie wiped the smile off her face and walked stiff as a soldier at attention to the center of the horrible drawing room and looked first to her husband, then to her mother-in-law, and finally to the plump Libby with her fat blond braids and very pretty smile.

“Hello,” she said, then turned to her husband and nodded. “My lord.”

Thomas said, “I would like a cup of tea, Meggie. Just a bit of lemon for me. Mother? Would you like Meggie to pour for you? Aunt Libby?”

Aunt Libby?

Madeleine puffed up, no other way to put it. She swelled inside her dark blue gown, pushed out her cheeks. “You want her to pour, Thomas? I am your mother. I was the first person ever to pour tea down your little gullet.”

“Meggie is now the countess of Lancaster, Mother, and the mistress of Pendragon. It is her responsibility to pour the tea down both your gullets and now mine as well. Sit back and ease yourself into the cushions and let her serve you.”

“She isn’t smiling now, showing off all those white teeth of hers, so I suppose it would be all right.” She gave a regal nod to Meggie. “I like sugar and milk.”

Meggie merely nodded, not smiling, but looking as serious as Mary Rose when she was trying to outdo Max with a new Latin aphorism. She said toward Libby, “And you, ma’am? Would you like tea?”

“Certainly not. I wish to have sherry, as Madeleine knows very well. Thomas, fetch me sherry. I will pour it down my own gullet, thank you.”

Thomas, looking immensely patient, walked to the sideboard and poured Aunt Libby a large dose of sherry.

Meggie poured and distributed the tea.

“It isn’t sweet enough,” said Madeleine after taking one tiny sip.

Meggie added another spoonful of sugar to the cup and watched her mother-in-law stir it until surely the tea was cold.

This wasn’t at all promising. Meggie sipped her own tea, looking toward her husband, who was standing beside the fireplace, his back against the wall. He’d set his teacup on the mantel and crossed his arms over his chest.

Barnacle tottered into the drawing room, looking to be in agony, and gasped out, “Ennis has delivered yer luggage to yer rooms, my lord. He didn’t do it well, even though I instructed him thoroughly all along the way. My lady, I will be ready for yer ministrations in an hour.”

“Her what, Barnacle?” Libby asked, and poured the rest of her sherry down, holding out her empty glass even as she thrust it toward Thomas.

“Her ladyship, the one wot’s married to our new lordship here,” said Barnacle, screwing up his face into even more agony, “is going to walk on my back, since both ye and the dowager countess are too heavy and would surely break me in two.”

No one said a word. Meggie was the only one who watched Barnacle totter out of the drawing room. The two women were arguing again, but low now, and Meggie couldn’t make out what they were saying.

This was surely the strangest household Meggie had ever visited. No, not visited. She lived here. Blessed hell. Then she remembered Glenda Strapthorpe, who’d gone to great lengths to try to trap Meggie’s father into marriage, and knew she’d have to think about this before making a judgment. Perhaps every household was strange in its own way. She thought of her grandmother Lydia and sighed. She kept her eyes on her teacup.

Not many minutes later Barnacle was standing again in the open doorway to the drawing room. He said in a very formal voice to Thomas, “Lord Kipper is here, my lord. Since ye are now an earl and he is only a baron, he isn’t worthy enough to be shown into the drawing room unless ye expressly wish him to.”

“You’re right. He is only a baron. What do you think we should do with him?”

“Lock him in a bedchamber with a half dozen maids and see if he emerges alive.”

“Hmmm. A creative idea, but just think of the maids, Barnacle. Bring him in and we will pretend he is worthy enough to be in my presence.”

22

MADELEINE AND LIBBY were laughing even before Barnacle was out of the drawing room, and Barnacle knew it, bowing his shoulders and tottering even more.

When Barnacle and his back were out of sight, Thomas ignored the laughing women and said to his wife, “Lord Kipper is an old smuggler who was knighted by George way back in 1809 when he accidently managed to sink a French warship. He really believed it was a boat of English soldiers bent on taking him to Newgate.”

“You’re making that up,” Meggie said.

“Young lady, my son never makes anything up,” Madeleine said. “Lord Kipper is a very brave man, not like that wretched Lord Lancaster, who, thankfully, is finally six feet underground. Had I been there, I would not have worn mourning nor thrown a rose atop his casket. I would have spit.”

“Meggie’s father, the vicar of Glenclose-on-Rowan, gave the service. He surely wouldn’t have appreciated that, Mother.”

“My lord. Ladies.”

Meggie looked up to see a man stride into the drawing room. He was as tall as Thomas and twice his age. He was very possibly one of the most beautiful men Meggie had ever seen in her life. He looked like a fallen angel, fair and blond, but the compelling strength in his face, the planes and shadows of the bones, the blueness of his eyes, the way all of him fit together was incredible. She imagined that Uncle Douglas’s twin sons, James and Jason, would be as beautiful as Lord Kipper when they were his age, and that was saying something indeed since her dratted cousins had been so beautiful since early boyhood that her uncle Douglas and aunt Alex had been constantly bombarded with gifts from all the girls in the neighborhood, hoping to be noticed by the twins.

It was amazing, this male beauty. Lord Kipper looked toward her and smiled, an absolutely devastating smile, all white teeth and intimacy, and it made her toes curl in appreciation. Six maids with him in a locked bedchamber? Hmmm.

“I am Meggie Sherbrooke—”

“You are now a Malcombe. I am her husband, Niles.”

“And he’s an earl now, not just a mangy baron,” Barnacle said from just on the other side of the still-open drawing room doors.

Lord Kipper laughed. “I was always too big to walk Barnacle’s back,” he said, “and he’s never forgiven me.” In that moment Meggie knew to her toes that he was as outrageous and as charming as both of her uncles. She wondered what her uncle Ryder would have to say about the six maids in a locked bedchamber.

As Lord Kipper walked across the wide expanse of dismal drawing room, Meggie noticed that he limped. When he reached her, he gave her an intimate smile again, devastating it was, took her hand and slowly raised it to his lips, never looking away from her face. “Meggie. What a lovely name, my dear.”

“You will not try to seduce my wife, Niles,” Thomas said, just the barest hint of menace showing through the amusement in his voice. “Drop her hand this instant.”

Lord Kipper didn’t drop her hand, rather, he very gently lowered it until it was nearly touching her breast. Then he eased free, pressing her fingers lightly downward until she was touching herself. He smiled. Meggie was so shocked, so utterly mesmerized by what he’d done, that she just stood there like an idiot, gaping at him.

“You are such a tease,” Libby said, a wealth of knowledge and a touch of coyness in her voice, Meggie wasn’t mistaken about that. And a dollop of jealousy perhaps because Lord Kipper hadn’t done it to her?

“Do you have a wife, sir?” Meggie asked, pulling herself together by the simple act of taking three steps away from this dangerous man.

“Oh no, my dear. Well, there was Nell. She gave me my heir, then departed to her reward very shortly thereafter, bless her, and she did it quickly, with little fuss. Unfortunately my heir died at the age of six. I admit I worried about an heir for a while, but no longer. No, I decided I didn’t want another wife. Far too confining, you know. Since I am English and I have money, why, I much enjoy keeping a mistress now and again. My nephew is my heir, a good boy, at Oxford now, and so he isn’t around to sniff after them.”

Meggie knew he was now looking at her bosom, and she was so disconcerted she said, “You are speaking of your mistress, sir, in polite company?”

“Ah, this group isn’t at all polite,” Lord Kipper said. “Just ask that husband of yours, one of the wickedest young men I’ve met in a long time.”

He grinned over at Thomas, who’d taken a step away from the fireplace when he’d threatened to kill Lord Kipper, now moved back, relaxing again against the mantelpiece, his arms crossed over his chest.

“Thomas isn’t wicked,” Meggie said, frowned and paused, tilting her head to one side. “At least I don’t think he is. We haven’t known each other all that long, you see.”

“Yes,” Lord Kipper said, “I see.”

“Niles hasn’t ever changed his stripes,” Thomas said to his wife. “He was a terror when he was a boy, sowed more wild oats than an entire class at Oxford, and decided he quite liked it. Meggie, I am not wicked at all. He is the master and he’s always wanted a student to follow in his path, but it isn’t me. I doubt not that Niles will go to his grave a terror.”

“Praise the Lord,” Libby said. “Thomas, you are teasing your bride. My dear, he is quite wicked enough. Now, Niles, who is your latest mistress?”

“Well,” said Lord Kipper, “I just dismissed a young lady who returned last week to her home in St. Ives.” He looked down at his hands for a moment, utterly distracted. Was he still thinking about her?

“Ah, yes, Melinda,” he said. “I expect I shall miss her, particularly as the days grow longer and there is so much light to see and to enjoy and—well, perhaps with the addition of your wife, Thomas, the company is polite enough now to forego specificity.”

Meggie looked frankly disappointed. Her husband grinned at her.

“Then why did you let her go?” Madeleine asked.

“Unfortunately my nephew paid me a surprise visit and nearly lost what few wits he possessed when he saw her. He refused to go back to England, read poor Melinda love poetry from below her window, standing in the rain. I was afraid he would catch an inflammation of the lung, so what was I to do?”

“Send the fool packing,” Thomas said. “Not Melinda.”

“Ah, well, such a pity I didn’t think of that at the time. What’s done is done. Now, I am on the lookout, you could say.” He paused a moment, stroking his long fingers over his jaw. “I think I just might be in the market for an older, more experienced female person. Will you consider it, Libby?”

“Will I have to lose flesh?”

“I have decided that a bit of strategic padding on a woman’s body isn’t as distasteful as I have always believed. How could a man dislike such a lovely expanse of white flesh? No, my dearest Libby, you may continue eating to your heart’s content. I will come back on the morrow and we will discuss how this is to be accomplished.”

Libby nodded and bowed her head, a lovely smile on her mouth. She was humming under her breath.

Meggie’s uncles were outrageous, no doubt about that, even though they did try to keep their hands off their wives and keep all their drawing comments to a whisper when any of the children were near. But since she was the next generation eavesdropper after her aunt Sinjun, she’d heard quite a bit over the years, but never anything like this. She stared at her husband. He had no expression at all on his face. No, that wasn’t right. He was looking a bit amused, maybe a touch of irony mirrored in those dark eyes of his. She wanted to go to the stable, find herself a stout horse, and ride back to Cork Harbour. Maybe there would be a boat headed back to England.

Thomas said abruptly, “Niles, you remember Bernard Leach, do you not? He and his wife own the Hangman’s Noose near St. Agnes?”

“Oh yes, a tippler is Bernard, tried to cheat me once about ten years ago. I kicked him but good in his ribs, his wife holding him down for me, all the while cursing him from Cornwall to Scotland. Marie’s a good woman. Why do you ask?”

“His wife, Marie, was murdered—hanged—and Bernard is missing. Before he disappeared, he told me the Grakers did it.”

“Marie is dead? Murdered? Oh no.” He sighed deeply and everyone in the room knew he was much affected. “How we enjoyed each other whenever I managed to sneak into the inn, usually right under Bernard’s nose. Now, what is this about Grakers? Cornish pixies? Why, those little mites wouldn’t harm a soul. Whenever I am in England I swear I can hear them singing in the yew bushes. Bernard is lying. He killed her, the bastard.”

Lord Kipper had slept with Mr. Leach’s wife? “Evidently Grakers can be vicious,” Meggie said, knowing in that moment that she’d been thrown into Bedlam.

Niles shrugged. “That’s a tale. You say that Bernard disappeared? Come now, Thomas, where could he possibly disappear to?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t join the search for him because I needed to come home to Pendragon. Stay away from my wife, Niles, or I will break your leg, not your lame one, your very fit one.”

Niles, Lord Kipper, sighed, and toasted Meggie with his teacup when she handed it to him and said, “I shall miss Marie. Lovely woman, although her tongue had grown sharper over the years. I hope they catch old Bernard and stretch his neck.”

Alvy Shanahan, Meggie’s fifteen-year-old maid, was small, pert, her hair was as black as Thomas’s, and she had the most beautiful lilting accent Meggie had ever heard.

And she heard a lot of that lilt because Alvy didn’t stop talking, not for a single moment, from handing Meggie her chemise to the final pat on her hair, Alvy talked. And she talked of only one person—Thomas Malcombe, how very handsome he was, and ah, so very big and manly, and all that lovely black hair, and those forearms of his, thick with muscle and brown from the sun with black hair on them, and don’t forget those lovely dark eyes of his, that ye could just fall into.

Oh dear, Meggie thought, she didn’t want her maid to be in love with her husband.

Just after nine o’clock that evening, Thomas led her into the White Room, dismissed Alvy, ignoring her look of abject adoration, and said, “I have decided to sleep with you, Meggie.”

“Good. Then I can begin improvements on you immediately.”

He laughed even as he unfastened the long march of buttons down her back. “Cook—Mrs. Mullins—came here to Pendragon with my mother. That’s why you had English fare.”

Another area needing improvement. “You liked the beef, Thomas?”

“Oh no, but no matter. She has been with us as long as I’ve been on the earth. When I am really hungry, I ride into Kinsale to visit a friend and beg my dinner. However, you will have a pleasant surprise at breakfast.”

“Perhaps I can give her some new recipes that will improve upon the meals.”

“Just go easy, that’s all I ask, Meggie.” He pulled her sleeves down to her elbows, trapping her arms to her sides. Slowly he turned her to face him. “I like the dark blue against all this white. A splash of color in the snow.”

She raised her face and he kissed her.

“Oh my,” she said when he finally raised his head some time later. “Oh my. That is so very nice, Thomas. Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps you are wicked, in the very best of ways.”

He was pleased with his wickedness when he brought her to orgasm some fifteen minutes later, had her shuddering with such deep pleasure that she looked ready to expire from it. She lay panting on the beautiful white bed with its white counterpane and white sheets with him still deep inside her, and she loved the feel of him, the sound of his voice as he said love words to her and sex words, many of which she didn’t understand, for after all, she was a vicar’s daughter. Many of them, however, she did understand because she was, after all, also her uncles’ niece.

“Thomas,” she whispered against his shoulder, then lightly bit him and licked his salty flesh.

“Ah, don’t,” he said, but it was already too late. He groaned, harsh and low that groan that bespoke his innards were being stomped on as he spilled his seed so wonderfully deep inside her.

When he was breathing again, his eyes focused on her face, she said, “That was very nice, too, Thomas, very nice indeed.”

A vast understatement. He was too far gone to talk. How could she manage to speak coherently?

After some time, Thomas managed to lean over and douse the row of candles in the filthy silver holder. When it was dark, when she was lying on her back, staring up at the white ceiling which she now couldn’t see, she said, “I like children. I remember I was so pleased when Mary Rose birthed Alec and—”

“Go to sleep, Meggie.”

“The ten years—perhaps I can accomplish it in nine years.”

“What ten years? Nine years? What are you talking about?”

“To make you the perfect man.”

He laughed and pulled her against him. He felt her warm breath on his flesh. He was asleep long before she was. He didn’t snore.

The next morning when Meggie walked down to the small family dining room that Alvy told her about, in between more choice comments about the new earl, she heard a man’s voice. It wasn’t Thomas.

Barnacle said from behind her, “Ye didn’t walk on me back, milady, now did ye? Ye forgot.”

“I’m sorry, Barnacle. After breakfast I will meet you in the kitchen. I will walk on your back in there.”

He gave her a nod, a small salute, and staggered back to the front door.

She should have asked him who was in the dining room. She walked in the small dark room. What a dreadful room, what with the curtains drawn tightly over the two bay windows that gave onto something, what, she had no clue, and she found herself staring at a young man who looked a great deal like Aunt Libby.

He saw her, rose slowly from his chair, and said, “You are Thomas’s new wife.”

She nodded, walked to the draperies and pulled them open, fastening them with the wide golden ropes. Light flooded into the room. It made it look even worse, but at least now she could see outdoors.

She looked at the fine-looking young man. He was blond and fresh-faced, tall, not as tall as Thomas, but very nearly, and he was giving her a fat smile. “Yes, I’m Meggie Malcombe. And who are you?”

“Oh, I’m William Malcombe, Thomas’s half brother.”

He was, Meggie realized in that moment, as she looked across the table, Aunt Libby’s son. He was the young man who had impregnated Melissa Winters and let Thomas take the blame and the responsibility.

What was going on here?

23

“MY WILLIAM ARRIVED late last night,” Aunt Libby said, and patted his arm. “Sit down, my love, and let me serve you some nice bacon that’s just barely been waved over a flame, just as you like it. My, look at all the light in here. I had no idea there was even any sun to be had. Does it make me look wrinkled?”

“No, Mother, you look beautiful,” William said, and took his seat again beside her. “You always do.”

“What a sweet boy you are, William.”

“No one else ever says that to me, Mother.”

Meggie certainly believed that. She saw that Madeleine was eating at a fine clip, not paying any attention, and eased herself into the empty chair next to what she assumed was Thomas’s chair.

She said, “Does anyone mind that I opened the draperies?”

“You are doubtless trying to show us all that you are the important one here now,” Madeleine said, her mouth full of eggs.

“No, ma’am, I’m not, truly. It’s just that I would like to see who is at the breakfast table this morning and what is on my plate.”

Cook suddenly appeared out of the wall. No, it was a narrow door cut very cleverly into the wall, its seams fitted perfectly to the striped wallpaper, her arms filled with covered trays. “Och, the new countess. Hello, milady. It’s a fine breakfast I’ve made for you, now isn’t it?” And without another word, Cook broke into song as she served Meggie’s plate, piling it high with scrambled eggs with four nutty buns arranged around the eggs.

“Hey Ho—it’s a fine day for the nutty buns!

Hey Ho, Hey Ho—here come the Nutty Buns!

Hey Ho, Hey Ho, Hey Ho—NUTTY BUNS!”

A new experience for a Sherbrooke at a breakfast table, Meggie thought, wanting to laugh, but she only smiled, nodding toward Mrs. Mullins. “That was lovely. Thank you, Cook. May I have a cup of tea?”

Cook continued singing even as she poured the tea. Soon every nutty bun was in capital letters. Then, with a final hey ho, she disappeared back through the wall.

No one saw anything amiss with anything. Just another breakfast at Pendragon.

Meggie ate. The eggs were delicious, as were the nutty buns. So Cook made a perfectly wonderful breakfast, just as Thomas had told her, but why, then, was the dinner so abysmal? She would write to Mary Rose immediately for recipes. Wait, maybe she needed to have a song to accompany the dinner dishes she prepared. Hmmm. Meggie hadn’t ever tried to write a song before, but now she would.

William Malcombe said, a limp piece of bacon draped over one finger, “You’re a very pretty girl.”

“Thank you, William. You are a very nice-looking boy. You look like your mother. Are you really sweet?”

Libby said, “A pretty compliment. Madeleine, did you hear that?”

“I heard. Where is Thomas, young lady? Did you exhaust him last night?”

Thomas said in a very loud voice from the doorway, “Mother, forgive me for being late. I wanted to see that Pen was all right after his soaking yesterday. He is. Meggie, you have met William, I see. He is visiting us from Oxford. A surprise visit.”

“Yes, I have met William.”

She said nothing while Cook served Thomas scrambled eggs and nutty buns. She wasn’t singing now. Meggie continued to say nothing when Madeleine said, “What are your plans today, Thomas?”

“I am taking Meggie about the property. Would you like to introduce her to Mrs. Black?” He added to his bride, “She is our housekeeper.”

“Here from before you were born?”

“That’s right,” he said, all pleasant and easy, and ate a nutty bun.

“I will need a horse,” Meggie said.

“I have selected Aisling for you. That means ‘dream’ in Gaelic. She is a bay with one white stocking, and on a good day she can beat Pen in a race.”

“Prepare, my lord, to eat dirt.”

He laughed. “After Survivor, I couldn’t very well provide you with a nag, now could I?”

Closer to two hours later, since Meggie had agreed to walk on Barnacle’s back in the kitchen, she joined her husband at the Pendragon stables to meet her new mare, Aisling, and give her two carrots.

When they were riding down the long drive, the sun hot overhead, she said, “I met Mrs. Black in the kitchen. She is very nice. She is also nearly blind, Thomas.”

“Yes.”

“She can’t see dirt.”

“No, probably not much.”

“Then why hasn’t your mother seen to it that Pendragon is cleaned and the furniture waxed and the draperies replaced since Mrs. Black is blind?”

“I never asked. However, now you will see to it. At last I will have a clean house.” She was so startled she nearly got knocked off Aisling’s back when the mare swerved too close to an oak tree branch.

“Have a care, Meggie.”

“Oh yes, I’m sorry, Aisling. Goodness, you have noticed that the place is a mess then?”

“Mrs. Black is nearly blind, not I. I was hoping that you would notice and wish to take a hand in fixing things. There is enough money to make any reparations you wish to. I have already done quite a bit of work on our tenant cottages and outbuildings. You have but to ask Paddy, my steward, and he will see to it. He will be about this afternoon. I ask only that you tread diplomatically around my mother and all the servants. Change is usually very difficult for people.”

Meggie nodded. “Maybe your mother believed there wasn’t enough money and that was why she didn’t do anything.”

Thomas raised an eyebrow to that. “You’re kind to make that excuse, Meggie. However, as you know, cleaning really doesn’t require much money. No, she merely doesn’t care. She has always hated Pendragon. Her home was Bowden Close. I imagine that she might want to go live there now that it belongs to me. She spends all her time producing endless journals, recording all her woes in both English and French.”

“You have read her journals?”

“No, that would be abusing her privacy. She speaks of them quite freely, reads them during tea. No matter she doesn’t like you, she will still see you as fresh ears and insist upon reading to you in the evenings. If you wish to escape, you will wink at me or roll your eyes in a discreet manner. You understand?”

Meggie nodded.

“Why doesn’t she like me, Thomas?”

“She truly believes I’m too young to be wed. She’s afraid I’ve inherited some of my father’s more dreadful propensities. She told me last night that she’d prayed I’d spend more time in Italy. There are mistresses to be had there, no need to take a wife to relieve my man’s lust. Yes, my age is too tender, too easily hurt by a conscienceless woman. She will get over it, Meggie. Don’t worry.”

Easy for you to say, Meggie thought.

They came to the end of the promontory, and Meggie looked out, speechless, over the Irish Sea and the magnificent coastline, rugged hunks of land chipped inward or thrusting out like long fingers into the sea, the shore lined with scored and barren rocks.

She slipped off Aisling’s back, shook out her riding skirts, and made her way to the edge. The water sparkled beneath the morning sun. It was very calm, low tide, the waves collapsing gently against the dirty sand, fanning out, then easing back again to be swallowed into the next wave. She became aware that Thomas was looking at her. She turned slowly, feeling him close to her, feeling the pull of him, the pull she’d felt when she’d first met him, even though her mind had been full of Jeremy. Jeremy, now at Dragon’s Jaws with his pregnant wife. No, she wouldn’t think about either of them.

“Thomas,” she said.

He crossed the distance between them in an instant and pulled her up against him. The wind was mild, but still it plastered her riding skirts to her legs.

He didn’t kiss her, just held her and looked down at her. “You’re so bloody innocent.”

“Well, yes. Could you expect much else given my father is a vicar?”

He kissed the tip of her nose and pulled her about so she leaned her back against him. She loved the feel of him, the strength, the heat. She’d never really thought about the heat of men, but now she did, and those wicked thoughts heated her as well.

She said slowly, feeling his arms cross over her chest, pulling her closer to him, “Can I trust you, Thomas?”

His arms tightened. He rested his chin on top of her head for a moment, said without hesitation, “Yes.”

She said, her voice clear and calm, “You can trust me too, Thomas.”

“Meggie—”

She turned then and lightly touched her fingertips to his jaw, to his lips. “It’s all right. I made vows before God, as did you. I keep my promises, Thomas. You are my husband. I will be with you until the day I die. I will never leave you. I haven’t made you laugh in a while. I will work on that. You have a beautiful smile. It pleases me to see it.”

“A beautiful smile?” She wouldn’t leave him and he had her loyalty. It wasn’t enough, dammit.

“Oh yes.”

He looked away, but not before she saw something flash in those eyes of his, something she couldn’t begin to understand.

And, at the very bottom of things, she knew she didn’t know him very well at all.

She pulled away and looked back toward Pendragon, a magnificent heap of gray stone fashioned into a lasting structure that was more a castle than not. It was big, overpowering, it would surely make an enemy pause, and they had held Cromwell off the first time. Yes, Pendragon dominated everything around it, including nature, and it was, she thought, watching a dark cloud chase across it, menacing. It had secrets, perhaps even secret passages. One could only hope. She shivered, but she was smiling.

Meggie lay in her bed, wide-awake. Thomas had loved her, then leaned over her and said, “I think I want to sleep in my own bed tonight. Good night.”

And he’d kissed her mouth one last time and left her.

There was moonlight spilling in through the windows, and it was beautiful. It was also frightening, that moonlight. It cast strange shadows on all those white walls.

Why had he changed his mind? He’d made love with her, and she’d felt flooded with pleasure and with something that was deeper, something that made her want to cry with the power of it. She’d thought he’d felt the same things. Evidently not.

She shivered beneath the thick covers. It was turning cold, a storm was coming, and very soon now, a big storm with lightning, pounding thunder and torrents of wild rain. But the moon was still so bright. She felt tears sting her eyes and swallowed. She wanted him beside her. What was wrong?

“Damn you, Thomas,” she said, then willed herself to sleep. She’d written to her father and Mary Rose, telling them about Pendragon, the lovely stretch of coastline, asking for recipes, asking Alec and Rory to write a cooking song for her, praising, for example, a buttock of beef done in the French way. She’d sounded happy because she penned her words to make it seem that way, but she wasn’t, not completely. So many strange people here at Pendragon.

Her mother-in-law had read from her journal, dated from the fall of 1808, for two hours, without pause. Unfortunately it was in French and Meggie understood perhaps one word in five. She’d finally rolled her eyes toward her husband, and he had stood up and taken her hand. “Meggie is very tired, Mother.”

They’d left William, his mother and Madeleine, her journal still open, in the drawing room. Barnacle was hovering just outside. He said, shaking his head, “I remember it was five years ago now, she read those very same pages. It was 1808, was it not?”

“It was,” Meggie said. “You’ve an excellent memory, Barnacle. Do you speak French?”

“One must when one’s back hurts this much,” and he screwed up his face into such agony, that Meggie automatically stepped forward.

“I’ll walk on your back tomorrow, if you wish, Barnacle. Did today help?”

“A bit, milady, a meager bit. Naturally I speak French.”

Meggie fell asleep. She didn’t know what woke her, but it was something she hadn’t heard before in this strange house. A mouse scurrying across the wooden floor? A moth trapped against the windowpane? Just the crackle and heaviness of thunder in the air, not quite ready to strike yet?

She was suddenly very afraid.

24

MEGGIE LAY THERE, eyes wide open, perfectly still, adjusting her hearing, her vision. Waiting, waiting for another sound. The moonlight no longer sliced into the white room. There were only clouds now cloaking the sky, thick, bloated, black as the bottom of a cauldron. It was nearly black inside the bedchamber. The storm was here, the wind coming hard through the partially open window, too cold now. Rain would begin any time now. She’d heard nothing, for how long now?

She’d been a fool. She started to get up to close the window when she heard it again. It wasn’t a scurrying sound, it was quite something else. It was close, very close. Too close. She didn’t see anything. But that didn’t matter. She rolled to the side of the bed that gave onto the dressing room, and when she jumped up, she tangled in the covers. She staggered, fighting to get free of the covers, when suddenly lightning lit up the black sky, once, again, and then the thunder rolled and boomed, making Pendragon shudder as those huge hits shook it to the ground. She heard someone’s intake of breath, and that someone was right behind her, she could hear the breathing, low and fast and something else, something—She yelled even as she whirled about to see who was there.

She saw something, it was black, a figure, and then something struck her hard on the side of her head. She slid down into the pile of covers that she’d pulled off the bed.

“Meggie!”

She thought she heard a man’s voice, but she wasn’t all that sure and what’s more, she didn’t really care. She felt warm and safe and there was nothing to touch her, nothing at all.

“Meggie! Damnation, wake up! What the hell’s wrong? Wake up!”

The man slapped her face, and not light taps either, he really smacked her good, and it made her so mad that she reared right up and said in his face, “Don’t hit me again or I’ll clout you back.”

Thomas said, “Good, that’s better. Please don’t clout me. Are you all right?”

“I must think about that.”

“Jesus, Meggie, I heard you scream, thought the thunder and lightning frightened you. I’m sorry I slapped you so hard, but I was scared, you wouldn’t wake up.” He grabbed her against him. She felt his pounding heart beneath her cheek.

She said against his shoulder, “You really heard me scream? I didn’t know if I managed to get it out before whoever it was hit me on the side of the head with something hard.”

His breath caught in his throat and he coughed, and continued to cough until Meggie got herself together enough to hit him on the back.

“What did you say?” he finally got out, his voice a croak. “Oh God, you’re bleeding.” He stared at her blood, wetting two of his fingers. He was up in a flash, hauling her in his arms and gently laying her out on the bed, as if for burial. She expected him to fold her hands over her breast, but he didn’t. “Don’t move.” And off he went, lit a candle, then searched every inch of the White Room. He closed the window, as rain was blowing into the room. A huge strike of lightning filled the room with light. He still saw nothing. He pulled the draperies closed over the battering rain. Then he opened the bedchamber door and went into the corridor. It was some minutes before he was back.

“No sign of anyone.” He placed the candle on the small table just beside the bed, and leaned over to gently ease her hair away from the wound.

He cursed, fluently, with great variety, she thought, and she asked, “Did you make those things up?”

“Make what up? Are you all right, Meggie?”

“The curses, all those incredible uses of animal body parts, did you make them up?”

He grinned, just couldn’t help himself. “No. All of those words have been around for a very very long time. Does this hurt?”

Meggie bit her bottom lip and yelped. “I’m sorry, just a bit, not bad—”

“All right. Be quiet, I’m going to get you cleaned up. Don’t move, Meggie.”

She didn’t. Her head was starting to pound and truth be told, she felt light-headed. The wispy candlelight was wavering, the white walls were shimmying a bit, now leaning to the right.

“Oh dear,” she said, and held up her hand in front of her face.

“Meggie, what are you doing?”

“I want to see if I can count my fingers.”

“Damn,” he said, then pulled the covers over her. “Whoever hit you, knocked you out, and that can be dangerous. Now, count my fingers. How many am I holding up?”

“I believe there are three fingers there. Do you know, Thomas, all of those fingers you’re waving about have touched me very intimately?”

“Well, yes, I suppose that’s true.”

“Particularly that middle finger of yours—it’s rather long—goodness, I remember just a couple of hours ago when you—”

“Yes, yes, Meggie, I remember everything about that finger. Now, do you hurt?”

She nodded, and that small movement nearly sent her into oblivion. She managed to hold really still until the pain let up. She said then, “You shouldn’t have left me. I was kissing you all over your face, and you told me you wanted to sleep in your own bed. Why did you do that, Thomas?”

“You want the truth? No, don’t frown like that, you’ll just scramble your brains. Lie still and relax. All right, I’ll spit it out. I left because I’m afraid of storms, have been since I was a little boy. I didn’t want you to see your strong manly husband cowering when lightning filled the sky and thunder sounded like cannon fire, in fear for his life.”

“It’s not all that bad. Whatever happened when you were a boy, I’ll make you forget it. I’ll hold you close. You can cower all you want.”

“You’ll pat my back?”

“Oh yes. I could even sing you to sleep. Just don’t leave me again, Thomas.”

“I won’t. Now that you know about my weakness, there’s no reason to go hide.” He stood. “I’m going to get the physician.”

“Will I have to walk on his back?”

“Dr. Pilchart? Why no, his back is in grand shape.”

“Will I have to lose flesh?”

For a moment, he didn’t know what she was talking about, then he remembered Aunt Libby saying that to Lord Kipper.

“Actually, you need to gain a bit of flesh, not much, mind you, I’ve always liked skinny girls. Meggie, when you’re struck on the head you don’t usually remember anything leading up to it. Do you remember more than you told me?”

“I’ll tell you if you don’t get Dr. Pilchart.”

“But you might be seriously hurt.”

“But what could he do? Would he break open my head and look inside? Even if he did, would he know what he was looking at?”

“I guess not. All right, for the moment, I’ll stay right here with you. Now, do you remember anything more?”

“Oh yes,” Meggie said, “I remember everything.” She stopped every few moments, closing her eyes against those slashes of pain in her head. Finally she said, “It was the lightning, the thunder, I heard him draw in his breath, really sharp. It scared him. When I turned about, then he struck me.”

“You know it was a man?”

“No. But whoever it was wasn’t small. All in black, Thomas, he was all in black, his head, everything, covered.” She cocked an eye open. “Please don’t fetch Squire Billings to assist you in finding the culprit.”

He smiled. “I won’t. Actually, I’m the magistrate around here.”

“I made you smile,” she said, and brought up her fingertips to lightly touch his mouth, “but I didn’t really mean to.”

“Meggie, I want you to stay awake a bit longer. Head injuries are unpredictable.”

“I’m really tired, Thomas.”

“I know, but hold on.” He took her hand and said, “I’ll help you stay awake. Listen to me now. Let me tell you about my first ship, mostly financed by the earl of Clare, which went all the way to India. It was due back the first week of October. It didn’t come. I tell you, I was down at the harbor in Genoa at dawn every single morning, scanning the horizon until I was cross-eyed, but no Star of Genoa. Every night I was there, until it was so dark I couldn’t even see the water. Adam Welles—the earl of Clare—found me one night on my own private hill overlooking the Mediterranean, drinking brandy. I was so drunk, so despairing, I was ready to go down to the wharf in Genoa and bust heads together, a very stupid thing to consider because there are more miscreants down at the dock than you can imagine.

“Adam stood over me, hands on hips, and said, ‘All right, you young fool, enough is enough. If the bloody ship has sunk, you will simply raise money to finance another. Get up or I’ll knock you in the head.’ ”

“What happened?”

“I got up and jumped on him.”

“You hit him?”

“I surely tried. I wanted to kill him, at least maim him. It was a very good fight, until he got me in the stomach and all that brandy—I thought I was going to die there for a while.”

“What happened?”

“The Star of Genoa arrived in Genoa the following Tuesday afternoon. As I recall, I think I kissed her hull. There’d been a vicious storm just outside of Gibraltar, but she’d managed to survive it. I immediately financed another ship. I’ve lost only one ship in the past three years. I have three ships out right now and, thank God, excellent men in Genoa I trust to oversee things.”

“What did the earl of Clare have to say about the one lost ship?”

“He bought me a case of brandy, said he didn’t want to see a single bottle drunk for at least six months or he’d hit me in the belly again.”

Meggie laughed, she just couldn’t help it even though it made her sure her brains would rattle right out of her head.

“Did you wait six months?”

“Actually, the entire case is still intact. I haven’t had any brandy since that night.”

“Oh Thomas, that’s a wonderful tale. Our children will enjoy it. Did you sail one of your ships here to England when you came back to Glenclose-on-Rowan?”

“Yes, she’s in between trips right now. We decided some English goods bound for the West Indies would be an excellent thing. She’s being fitted and goods bought as we speak.”

“What is the name of your ship?”

“The Hope.”

“I can’t wait to see her. How much longer will she be here?”

“Another week, in Portsmouth.”

“I am so very proud of you.”

He flushed, just couldn’t help it.

“You will see, everything will be all right. Oh dear, please find the person who struck me on the head.”

“Yes,” he said slowly, giving her some laudanum now in a glass of water, “I will.”

25

“WHY IS WILLIAM here?”

Thomas said, “I asked him. He said he’d heard that I’d married and he wanted to meet you.”

“What does he want to meet me for? Perhaps to seduce me?”

“Meggie—”

“He’s a rotter, Thomas.”

“He’s young, Meggie, very young.”

“So are you and so am I, and I know that neither of us would have done something as dishonorable as what he did. Just imagine, he let you shoulder all the blame for getting Melissa Winters with child. He probably fully expected you to shoulder all the blame. I’m afraid it will be difficult for me ever to come to accept him, Thomas.”

He looked bemused, and said slowly, going to what was the most important thing to him, “You really believe I’m honorable?”

“Well, of course. I wouldn’t have married you otherwise. Would you ever, Thomas, let someone else accept the consequences for something you did?”

He said, his voice still deep and slow, “No, I don’t believe I would ever do that.”

“He doesn’t know that I know what he did to you? To Melissa Winters?”

Thomas shook his head.

“Who hit me?”

He sighed. “I don’t know. Everyone claims to have been sleeping until the storm started last night. Everyone also claims to have woken up when the lightning and thunder struck and the rain started coming down in torrents. It was so heavy, a couple of windowpanes were blown in. No one heard anything at all. What would you expect, Meggie?”

“Why would someone want to hurt me, Thomas?”

There it was, stark and clear, in the open, heavy and frightening, deadening the air between them.

Thomas rose from her bed and began pacing the White Room. He looked back to see his bride sitting up, white covers pulled to her waist, a white nightgown spilling lovely lace from her shoulders, and a white bandage around her head. And she was in the middle of a stark white room. He shook his head. “You look like a virgin who protesteth too much.”

It took her an instant to understand him, and then she laughed, raising a hand to hold her head because laughing made it hurt. “Too much virginal white, I guess you mean. The good Lord knows I’m not a virgin anymore. Did I tell you that I’m pleased not being a virgin anymore, Thomas, in fact—” She paused a moment, and he knew, just knew all the way to his boots, that she was thinking about him kissing her, probably on top of her, going wild, and he shook with it.

“Don’t look at me like that, Meggie. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Oh, you mean my head.”

“Yes.” He was as hard as the heavy door latch, but he grinned, just couldn’t help himself. “Yes, I mean your head.” It seemed as every day passed, he had to simply think of her and he wanted her. It was unnerving, particularly now. And mixed with that lust he felt just thinking her name, just seeing that vivid hair of hers in his mind’s eye, mixed with that was the fact that someone in the dark of night had sneaked into the White Room and hit her on the head.

And he had no idea who it was.

He said, wanting it to be true, willing it to be true just by saying the words, “It has to be someone from outside, Meggie. Someone who doesn’t like me, someone who wants revenge, someone who’s lived here and knows Pendragon, how to get in and how to get out again.”

“Do you have any ideas about who it could be?”

“I’ve thought and thought about it, but no, I really can’t think of anyone. But that’s not saying much. Every old castle has shadows, mysteries, if you will, things hidden for a very long time, but—” He shrugged, then there was a fierce look in those dark eyes of his. “I won’t let anything else happen to you, Meggie, I swear it.”

“If you had slept with me, Thomas, maybe you would have been the one hurt, maybe the person who did this believed we did sleep in here together. Maybe you were the one he was after. Oh dear, I want you safe, Thomas. All right, here it is. I’ve decided that I want you to continue to sleep in your bedchamber and I will lock the door between our rooms. That way no one can get to you.”

He felt intense pleasure flow through him as he said very matter-of-factly, “Don’t be an idiot, Meggie. The person hit you, not me. It was your bedchamber, not mine. I dare say that that person now knows that you were quite alone. No, Meggie, we will sleep together, but we will make certain the doors are locked.” He cocked his head to her, swallowed as he said, “I am considering sleeping on top of you to further protect you.”

“Oh my.”

He swallowed again, cleared his throat, mumbled under his breath, “Sorry, forget I said that. Now isn’t the time.”

That was a pity. “Maybe,” Meggie said, wrapping her arms around her knees, unable to get that image out of her mind, “just maybe there are some secret passages in this wonderful old place. What do you think? Are there any you know about?”

Thomas plowed his fingers through his hair, making it stand on end. For an instant she was sure he looked frightened. “No, no,” he said at last. “There have been rumors about passages, my uncle occasionally whispered about them, but I’ve never actually seen one.”

“Your mother doesn’t particularly seem enthralled with me. You have my dowry and maybe she thinks I’m no longer necessary. Then there’s William. Maybe he’s found out that I know what he did to Melissa Winters, maybe—”

“My mother is eccentric, that’s for certain, but to the best of my knowledge she wouldn’t even kill my father, and she hated him more than one can imagine. As for William, I can’t imagine he would care if all of Cork and Kinsale knew he was a little lecher. Why would he care if you knew or not?”

Meggie sighed. “I wish to get up now, Thomas. I’m bored and my head hurts only a bit. Also, someone could simply open the bedchamber door, take one step inside, and shoot me. I’m rather helpless here, amidst all this virginal white.”

His eyes nearly crossed. God, he wanted her, right now, and he didn’t want to leave her, he wanted to pump into her, deeper and deeper and yell his pleasure to the rafters of this drafty old castle and fill her with his seed. And lie on top of her, to protect her. He was in a bad way and he knew it. And she didn’t. It was amazing. He said, “No one is going to come in here and shoot you, all this white or no.” Then, because he just couldn’t help himself, he said, “By God, you look delicious.”

This was interesting and she gave him what she believed to be a very warm smile, one filled with the promise of wicked things.

He didn’t move a muscle.

He was being noble, bless him. Truth be told, her particular place in the world didn’t feel all that steady right now. She realized she was scared, but she wasn’t about to say that out loud. She said, “I’m getting up now.”

He looked like he would protest, then shook his head, at himself, not at her. “I’ll send Alvy to you.” And he was gone. Guilt had driven him away, of that she was certain. He didn’t want to take a chance of hurting her head anymore. Yes, he wanted her and now that Meggie knew what this wanting was all about, she wished he would come back. He could leave her aching head to her. She smiled as she swung her legs over the side of that stark white bed. Yes, she was quite certain his eyes had become glazed, fixed on her face. She wondered if she were the first of all the cousins to make love, then frowned. All her dratted cousins were boys, and outrageous, just like their fathers, even her brothers, Max and Leo, seemed to know things, yes, even Max the Latin scholar. She’d seen him speaking to Leo just a couple of months ago, there had been this fixed smile on his face, really a rather stupid smile, and she hadn’t understood then. Now she did. She’d worn that stupid smile a couple of times now; she’d seen it in the mirror.

Ah, marital sorts of things were all well and good, but when all was said and done, when everything was right there, ready to smack her in the face, what was important was that someone had hit her on her head. As he’d said, an old place like Pendragon was filled with secrets, with mysteries. It was up to her to discover if any of them had come out of hiding and didn’t like seeing her as the countess sleeping in the White Room.

Meggie began pacing her bedchamber, her white nightgown disappearing amongst all the other white, the only thing keeping her set apart from the furnishings was the flapping gown at her ankles as she paced.

His mother, Meggie thought. She had to be the keeper of Pendragon secrets. Madeleine, who didn’t like her and didn’t bother to hide it. Madeleine, who wrote journals in both French and English. Why not beard the lioness in her den?

Was his mother mad?

She was becoming hysterical, just like Maude Freeberry, whose wails could be heard every third night throughout Glenclose-on-Rowan when her husband stumbled home drunk.

Well, if Madeleine wasn’t mad, she certainly was unpleasant, and perhaps, just perhaps—

“Why,” Meggie said aloud to the empty white room, stripping off her virginal white nightgown, “is Aunt Libby living here at Pendragon?”

Two hours later, after taking a very brief walk on Barnacle’s back, each step accompanied by groans and complaints and sighs, Meggie found Madeleine in her bedchamber, penning in her journal. She wondered if she was in a French mood or an English mood today.

“My lady,” Meggie said from the door, then stepped into the room. It wasn’t like any other room she’d seen at Pendragon. The room looked as fine as a London salon. It was large and airy, furnished in the Egyptian style, out-of-date, but distinctive and quite interesting, what with the sphinx feet on the sofas and the bird claws on the arms. Her mother-in-law sat behind a lovely antique ladies’ writing desk, perfectly positioned to get most of the sunlight coming through the very clean windows.

Madeleine was chewing on the end of her pen. She said, “Oh? It’s you, is it? Well, come in, don’t dawdle. You don’t look at all ill. Thomas said someone hit you on the head. I see no sign of it. I dare say that a real lady who’d been struck would be lying in her bed, pale as death.”

“Sorry. If I’d realized you needed some proof, I wouldn’t have taken off the bandage.”

“You’ve a very smart mouth, don’t you? It’s a pity. Mrs. Black told me that you had six women hired from Kinsale to come to Pendragon to clean. What is this all about?”

“I would have told you myself, ma’am, but someone hit me on the head last night and I was a bit fuzzy for a while. I’m fine now.”

“I think you’re the sort of girl who demands attention, and when she doesn’t receive the attention she believes she deserves, she enacts a scene.”

Meggie struck a pose, said, “Now why didn’t I think of that?”

“You might amuse my son on rare occasion, miss, but you don’t amuse me.”

“Actually, I’m a Mrs. Actually, I’m a countess. Come to think of it, I’m even a ‘my lady.’ Even more to think about—I would precede you at an official function. What do you think of that?”

“Not much.”

Meggie sighed and said slowly, looking at her mother-in-law dead on, “You asked what this is all about. It’s quite simple and straightforward. I want Pendragon to be clean. I want the foundation of the castle to shudder from all the cleanliness, the smell of lemon wax, the smell of plain soap. I want Pendragon to sparkle just like your room sparkles. I want all the windows so clean they squeak to the touch, just like I’m sure your windows do. I want to destroy all those dirty old draperies that are frayed and have moth holes in them and let the sun shine into all the rooms. I want that ancient chandelier in the entrance hall to glitter. I want no more dust flying around when one walks on the carpets.”

“You want too much. It is absurd.”

“Why, may I ask, ma’am, is your room so lovely and the rest of Pendragon sporting dirt from the last century?” Hmmm, she wasn’t treating Thomas’s mother with much solicitude, but blessed hell, this was beyond too much. The dollop of sarcasm tasted good. The woman seemed to hate her anyway, no matter if she snarled or smiled. It made no sense.

Madeleine said, holding the black pen in her hand as if she wished it were a stiletto, “I want Pendragon to remain just the way it is. Be quiet and stay in your room. Wrap the bandage around your head again. Take to your bed and stay there, perhaps a week should do it.”

“Do what?”

Madeleine only shrugged.

Meggie said, “Pendragon is a beautiful old castle. It deserves to be cared for. I am now mistress here. It will be beautiful once again, just like your room.”

“There is little sun. It won’t matter.”

“It seems to matter to you, at least in here. Please tell me, ma’am, what is going on here?”

Madeleine looked up for a moment, her eyes focused not on the present, but somewhere in the past, and they weren’t good memories. She said at last, “I like the two heads of the coin—one light, the other dark. It is alternately satisfying and mysterious.”

“Or perhaps you mean a Janus head?”

Madeleine merely cocked her head to one side. Her black hair with its rich white strands was very shiny today. She looked lovely. Hers was the cast from which Thomas’s face was molded, except, Meggie believed, his face more pure, the lines more stark, more finely chiseled. There was no wildness in his dark eyes, except when he was kissing her.

“No,” Madeleine said, shaking her head. “Not Janus. A Janus head has two faces—one evil, one good. But with light and darkness, there is both good and evil in both, don’t you think?”

“Things are never that simple, ma’am.”

“Naturally they are. No, I don’t wish there to be evil at Pendragon, but evil comes in all shapes and forms, doesn’t it? No, I wish to have both light and darkness and I have achieved it. Leave things alone.”

Meggie sighed and sat down on a spindle-legged chair from early in this new century, one with what looked like lion’s paws with long toenails filed to sharp points, and said slowly, “No, I will not leave things as they are. Pendragon is now my responsibility and I won’t let it continue to molder. If you do not wish to help me, I pray you will keep still. I do not wish Thomas to be at odds with his mother.”

“He would be at odds with you, not me.”

“The women,” Meggie said, looking out those crystal-clear windows onto lush gardens beyond that were badly in need of a gardener, “are working well. Men will come in to rehang the chandelier. All the draperies will be replaced as well as most of the furnishings. Pendragon will look like it did three hundred years ago right after it was rebuilt, only better. It will be done.”

“I have but to tell Mrs. Black to send them back to the village”—Madeleine snapped her fingers—“and it will be done.”

Just you try it, Meggie wanted to tell her, but instead, she said with all goodwill and exquisite calm, “Mrs. Black is very happy that Pendragon is being tidied up, those were her words. She may be almost blind, but I fancy she’s smelled the neglect, felt it with her housekeeper’s special touch. She has even given her own cleaning solutions to everyone. She’s supervising all the help with a fine eye, albeit a blind one.”

“Someone should stop you.”

Meggie said, “Someone tried last night. Are you really certain it wasn’t you, ma’am?”

“No, I was sleeping, dreaming beautiful dreams. Actually, Lord Kipper was in one of them.”

Meggie wasn’t about to touch that, at least not now. She said, “Your son wanted me to marry him. He didn’t know my dowry was so magnificent until he actually spoke to my father when he asked for my hand.”

“Men, including my son, always manage to sniff these things out. That’s exactly what he did—married you to get his hands on all that lovely money of yours. And now he has it. What are you saying, Miss—Mrs.? You now want to accuse my son of hitting you on the head in the middle of the night so he can be rid of you since he now has your dowry?”

“Oh no. There is one thing I am very sure of. Thomas is as honorable as my father, as are my uncles. I would never have married him otherwise. No, ma’am. Your son will protect me. He cares for me.” Not love, Meggie thought, he hadn’t yet said a word about love. On the other hand, she hadn’t either. She said, “I have come to realize that there is a lot going on here that I don’t understand. Perhaps after you dreamed of Lord Kipper, you moved along to dream you struck me on the head last night? You perhaps dreamed it was you who tried to stop me?”

“I don’t want you dead, you little idiot, either dreaming or awake. There weren’t any dreams after Lord Kipper. You’re a fool, Meggie Sherbrooke.”

“My name is Meggie Malcombe. Goodness, I hadn’t thought about the alliteration before. It sounds rather nice to say, doesn’t it? Just imagine, I’m now Meggie Malcombe.”

“No, it sounds ridiculous.”

“Let’s just say that you did indeed dream that you hit me. Tell me then, why would you want to hurt me? To make me less foolish?”

“If I had hit you, I would have done it right. I have no idea who struck you. It was probably Mrs. Black. I told you she wants things left the way they are. Aye, she’s the one who wants to stop you in your tracks.”

What did that mean, she would have done it right? Madeleine would have hit her hard enough to kill her?

“Go away. This is none of your affair.”

“I don’t wish to die, ma’am.”

“Then keep your nose out of things that aren’t your business. Are you with child yet?”

That made Meggie nearly fall out of her chair. “I have no idea. We’ve been married for a very short time.”

“You knew my son for at least three months before your married him.”

That was a shocker. Meggie said slowly, “Thomas is a gentleman. He would never seduce me before we were married.”

“Well, my son needs an heir now that he is the earl of Lancaster. If he passes without an heir, why then, William would take his place. I cannot stomach that. Prove you are worth something, and see to it.”

“William,” Meggie said slowly, “Libby is his mother. I don’t understand this, ma’am. Did the earl of Lancaster divorce both his wives?”

“Yes, the foul wretch. There was a terrifying sickness in his brain. He desperately wanted a wife who would be loyal to him. I was as loyal as a tick, but it didn’t matter. This sickness ate at him, you see, and he became utterly convinced that I had deceived him. Then he married Libby and it began all over again.” Madeleine snorted. “I suppose we are lucky—the old bastard might have married and divorced a third wife and all of us would be here, sharing tea.”

“I have never heard of such a sickness.”

“I was told that his mother deceived his father and no one was certain that he was indeed his father’s son. It corroded his soul. I would have been strong enough to have overcome this, but he wasn’t. You cannot imagine the thousands of pounds he spent—mainly bribes, you know—to secure both divorces. All those lords laughed at him behind his back as they stuffed his groats in their pockets. Now, you’ve seen William. Although I am quite fond of Libby, her son is quite paltry. He would make a very bad earl of Lancaster and master of Pendragon.”

“Yes, I’ve seen William. I must admit that I was shocked to see the two wives living together. Both wives.”

“Yes, of course. Why not? That wretched man left us with sons to raise and little money to do it. He was furious when his younger brother Edward took me and Thomas in. Naturally Libby came here when he booted her out, small William with her.”

“And now Libby will have an affaire with Lord Kipper?”

Madeleine smiled at that. “Libby is the only woman in these parts he hasn’t taken as a lover. At least I think that’s true. With Niles one can never be certain of anything. Isn’t he a delicious man? Of course you would like to have a liaison with him, but you aren’t stupid. You will wait until you present my son with his heir.”

Meggie only sighed. “Ma’am, like you, I will stick like a tick to Thomas. As for Lord Kipper, he is older than my father. Perhaps I would knit him a pair of socks for Christmas, but nothing beyond that.”

“Ha,” said Madeleine. “You’re young. You see everything, yet you know nothing at all.”

“This is all passing strange, ma’am.”

“Mind your own business and stop thinking about it. Why did you ask about Libby and Niles? I know you want Lord Kipper for yourself.”

“In only a few years I could call him Grandfather.”

“What is your point? He is a glorious man.”

“Well, yes, he is quite beautiful. You’re right about that. However, I much prefer your son.”

“Ah, go away now and send all those women back to the village. I wish you to be pregnant soon. See to it. Perhaps you will be so ill that you will leave the dust where it collects.”

Meggie slowly rose from the chair and shook out her skirts. “As to my becoming with child, ma’am, both Thomas and I would like to have a child.” Did he really? Actually, they hadn’t spoken of children.

“I wouldn’t put it past you to deny him.”

Meggie’s head began to ache. She stood a moment outside Madeleine’s bedchamber, leaning against the wall. A picture frame caught her shoulder and she moved over a bit. She closed her eyes and thought, How long have I been married now? Four days? And already I have a lump on my head. Surely marriage isn’t supposed to begin like this. She remembered stories of her aunt Sinjun’s trials when she’d first gone to Vere Castle with Uncle Colin in Scotland. They’d sounded so romantic, so adventurous, and Meggie had dined on those stories for days and nights at a time. She realized now that she’d been a fool. There was nothing romantic about this; there was only fear of every sound she heard and every shadow she saw.

26

MEGGIE WENT DOWNSTAIRS to the estate room, a small back room, that gave onto a small garden that would give her stepmother, Mary Rose, heart pains to see what bad shape it was in. She wanted to find the steward, Paddy. She had things to do.

Paddy walked in just as she was about to give up. He was shorter than she was, round as a cannonball, a head thick with riotous red hair, and blue, blue eyes, darker than hers. He had lovely white teeth and a ready smile. “My lady,” he said, bowing to her. “At last I meet you. Is it really you now? What a pleasure, a vicar’s daughter, the niece of a duke—”

“He’s an earl, actually, just like Thomas.”

“Aye, niece of an earl. Ah, his lordship—it has a fine sound to it, doesn’t it now? He deserves the title and the money. A good man is Thomas Malcombe, albeit very young to wield such power.”

“Yes,” Meggie said. “He is a good man. I don’t think age has anything to do with it.”

“Well, he’s your new husband, now, isn’t he? I am to meet his lordship here in just a moment. We have more repairs to consider.”

“I want that ancient chandelier to be rehung, Paddy, before it crashes down and mashes one of our heads. And there are stairs to be replaced. Also, I need a score of gardeners, not people who see a weed and step on it, but people who know their way about a garden and a lawn.”

“I always go around that chandelier, don’t you know?” Paddy said, shaking his head. “I’ll do that, my lady, don’t worry about it. And the gardens, I’ll find the best men in the area. Mrs. Black is singing, so happy she is with the women we brought in from the village. Ah, here’s his new lordship.”

“Paddy, I must speak to my wife in private for a moment. Please come back in a half hour.” The door no sooner closed on Paddy than Thomas said without preamble, “My mother trapped me in the corridor just beneath a portrait of my great-great-uncle Mortimer who went to Wales just after his elder brother came into the title, so furious that he went into a coal mine and the roof caved in on him and killed him.”

“She’s your mother. I suppose that she has a right to trap you whenever she wishes to.”

“She did. She demanded to know if I was trying my best to get you pregnant.”

Meggie gave him the wickedest smile. No daughter of a vicar should smile like that. “Are you, Thomas? Trying your very best?”

“Dammit,” he said, and grabbed her. He moaned in her mouth, and that sweet sound, the taste of him, made her wild. Her hands were on his britches’ buttons before he managed to pull away. He leaned his forehead against hers. He was breathing very hard, trying to get hold of himself. “Oh God,” he whispered, leaned down to kiss her, cursed, and took four steps back.

“Why did you dismiss Paddy if you didn’t want to kiss me until I jumped on you and carried you to the floor?”

He laughed, just couldn’t help himself. “I dismissed Paddy because I wanted to know what you spoke to my mother about. Her eyes were nearly red, Meggie, so furious with you she was sputtering.”

“So she’s angry, is she?”

“Yes. You sound very pleased with yourself.”

Meggie felt a jab of unworthiness. “Don’t worry about it, Thomas. She and I will learn to deal with each other. Ah, did she tell you exactly what she was angry about?”

“She just said you needed discipline and I was to beat you, that it was obvious I hadn’t brought you to heel yet.”

“Well,” Meggie said, giving him a sunny smile. “Perhaps you can bring me to heel if we go riding.”

“Your head, Meggie. You shouldn’t ride until tomorrow at the earliest. You should lie down now and rest.”

He was right and she said, “Blessed Hell, all right.” Her hair was long and curling to the middle of her back, tied back with a length of black velvet ribbon. He knew, knew all the way to the oak floor beneath his feet, that she was distracted because she wanted him, and she wanted to hit him because he’d pulled away from her. She might not love him, but she wanted him and surely that was an excellent beginning. He would have her yet, or he didn’t know what he’d do. He was an optimistic man. He had to hold to that. He heard her say, a bit of a sulk in her voice, “Yes, I will feed Aisling carrots and explore Pendragon grounds. I wish to plant more trees. I must see what sort grow well here.”

“Meggie—”

When she turned, her eyebrow up, he looked at her closely for a very long moment, then slowly shook his head. Let her stew. “Please, be careful and don’t walk too far from the castle.” He didn’t tell her that one of the smaller stable lads would be following her everywhere at a discreet distance.

“Ah, that person who struck me last night might be lurking about to do it again?”

“Everyone is accounted for,” he said, lying easily. “No, I just don’t want you to overdo.” Actually, he knew the exact location of everyone in the castle, including Mrs. Black and Barnacle, who was currently lying on his back on the kitchen floor, arms flung out, groaning. Mrs. Black merely stepped over him.

She left him. She wanted to kiss him again, feel that moan of his in her mouth.

Lord Kipper found Meggie in the center of a maze that had fallen to ruin at least twenty years before. She was standing there, staring about at all the yew bushes, wondering how she could fix it, when she heard him say from behind her, “Ah, my beautiful young bride.”

She raised an eyebrow up at that, knew he’d said it exactly that way on purpose, and said, “Thank you, Lord Kipper.”

“I wish I had seen you first, but alas, I didn’t.”

“My father would have howled had you inquired about me, sir, since you are even his senior by many years.”

“When it involves men and women, years don’t matter.”

“I shouldn’t like to be a widow at twenty-one because my husband died of old age.”

“How old are you now?”

“I am nineteen. That would give us two years of bliss before you croaked it.”

He stared at her, as if she were, Meggie thought, some strange bird that had just dropped out of the sky, as if he didn’t know whether to shoot her or stroke her feathers. Then he laughed, threw back his head and laughed and laughed.

Meggie just looked at this beautiful man, and now that he was laughing, he looked more than beautiful, he looked dazzling, surrounded by overgrown yew bushes, a watery sun shining down on his head.

“I understand that Libby isn’t at all certain that you are serious about admiring her.”

He was still grinning when he said, “That’s true. But we will see, won’t we?”

“You will, certainly. What do you want, Lord Kipper? You are certainly far afield from the castle as well as far afield from your own home.”

“I heard that someone struck you on the head. You saw absolutely nothing at all?”

“I heard some harsh breathing when the thunder had just boomed and the lightning had just lit up the bedchamber, and I saw a shadow of someone, wearing black. Nothing more. Why? Were you the one in my bedchamber, Lord Kipper?”

That remark sent one of his perfectly slanted eyebrows straight up. “I? No, my dear, I was sleeping, as I recall, in the arms of a very pleasant young woman in Cork.”

“I did ask, didn’t I?” Meggie looked heavenward.

“Yes, you did. You are not at all what I would expect from a vicar’s daughter.” He paused, his eyes darkened. “Thomas doesn’t deserve to be a widower when he is so young.”

Meggie laughed, just couldn’t help herself. “Indeed he doesn’t. You have been a terror, haven’t you, sir?”

“Oh yes,” he said, and looked around. “I am still able to, thank God.” He looked about for a moment, then pointed. “There was a lovely old bench here at one time. It’s quite a mess, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Ah, there’s the bench, but it’s very dirty.”

“No matter.” Lord Kipper pulled a clean handkerchief from his pocket and wiped off the bench. “Do sit down, my lady.”

Meggie sat.

“Does your head hurt?”

“Just a bit now. Do you know what is happening here at Pendragon, sir?”

“Call me Niles. No, I don’t.”

“Someone tried to kill me. I’ve only been here two days. Surely that’s too short a time to make anyone hate me enough to crack open my head. I have been thinking about this. Someone knew I was coming and because I was me—Meggie Sherbrooke—I was hated enough for that someone to want to kill me. Does that make sense?”

“You mean,” Lord Kipper said slowly, looking deeply into her Sherbrooke blue eyes, “that someone hated you before they even met you?”

“Or hated my family perhaps. Or the person believed Thomas would be with me, only he wasn’t. I am very worried that this person is after Thomas, not me.”

“I also heard that Madeleine wants you pregnant, by tomorrow if that’s possible. She was even mumbling about putting an aphrodisiac in your tea. She even asked me to give you advice on how to seduce Thomas if he tired after only one or two encounters.”

Meggie nearly fell off the bench she was so shocked. “I—sir, you can’t speak like that, surely. An aphrodisiac? You’re making that up just to make me turn red and stutter.”

“Oh no. Thomas’s mother, you know, she’s always told me everything, asked my advice endlessly, even things I had no interest in. She is single-minded, is Madeleine.”

“Have you been her lover, too?”

“Of course.”

Meggie slowly got to her feet. Her head was pounding. She felt light-headed. The morning sun had disappeared behind a mass of soft gray clouds. It would rain soon.

He was beside her in an instant. “Meggie, lean against me. I can see you’re not well.”

She didn’t want to. His hands were around her arms, pulling her closer, then she jerked away, fell to her knees, and vomited. There was little enough in her belly, so her body shook with dry heaves. She felt as though she were jerking apart, from the inside out. She just wanted to fall over and not move, maybe for the rest of the morning, or maybe for the entire day. The thought of her mother-in-law putting an aphrodisiac in her tea made her dry-heave some more.

She was aware that Lord Kipper was holding her hair back. “I’m sorry, but I don’t have another clean handkerchief,” he said. “Let me help you back to the castle.”

Meggie didn’t make it. They reached the entrance to the maze when she felt so dizzy she couldn’t stand up. She was shaking, her teeth chattering. She heard him say her name, then she didn’t hear anything at all.

Thomas was with William when he saw Lord Kipper striding toward them, Meggie in his arms. Thomas ran.

“I say, Thomas, what’s—”

Thomas had her in his own arms in just a moment, so scared he thought he’d choke on it.

“She vomited, then fell over, Thomas,” Lord Kipper said. “Put her to bed, my boy. I’ll fetch Dr. Pritchart.”

When Meggie awoke, it was to see her husband not two inches from her nose. He looked very worried. No, it was more. She saw a thick veil of anger in his eyes.

She raised her hand to his cheek. “Thomas,” she said, her voice as thin as gruel. “I’m all right.”

He took her hand in his and held it. “Just rest, Meggie. Be quiet. Don’t talk now. Damnation, what happened?”

“I nearly shook myself apart I got so sick, then I tottered beside Lord Kipper a bit, then just collapsed. I’m sorry, Thomas.”

“Dr. Pritchart will be here soon. Just hang on.”

“Thomas, I don’t want to die.”

His breathing hitched. He hated this, couldn’t bear it anymore. “You won’t die, Meggie, I swear it.” The stable lad had been so scared, he’d nearly followed Thomas into the bedchamber.

She closed her eyes against the pain. He held her hand, spoke nonsense to her until Dr. Pritchart arrived.

“Go away, my lord,” he said, and Thomas reluctantly left the White Room.

He heard voices coming from the drawing room. When he neared the open door, he heard his mother say, “What a weak-kneed chit. Just a small blow to the head and here she is whining and carrying on.”

Then Aunt Libby said, “I wonder if perhaps she wasn’t trying to flirt with Niles. Did she follow him into the maze? The foolish stable lad wouldn’t say anything, just that Lord Kipper had seen him watching her ladyship.”

Thomas said as he walked into the room, “This will stop right now. Enough from both of you.” He paused a moment, then attacked. “Mother, I think you’re the person who struck Meggie. You have yet to tell me why.”

Madeleine slowly rose to her feet, her face pale, her eyes darkening. “No, Thomas, I didn’t strike her.”

“Is she going to die, Thomas?”

“No, William,” he said, turning briefly to his half-brother, who’d just come into the room, “she isn’t going to die.”

Barnacle tottered into the dim drawing room. He had to yell over the sudden blast of thunder that made the crystals on the overhead chandelier shimmer and hit against each other. “My lord, Dr. Pritchart wants you upstairs for her ladyship. Oh dear, I do hope this doesn’t send her underground. I only just found her. She’s the perfect size to walk on my back.”

Thomas, who dearly loved the old man, wanted at that moment to shoot him. He was back in the White Room in not more than forty seconds. Meggie was sitting up, leaning against a pillow, smiling at him. He nearly shouted he was so relieved.

Dr. Pritchart, seeing that His Lordship just might leap on his bride he was so thankful, moved to block him, saying, “I have told her to remain in bed the rest of the day. We will see tomorrow how her head feels.”

Meggie jumped when more thunder rolled overhead. Rain slashed hard against the windows. “I’m all right, Thomas. Don’t be frightened.”

But he was. After he’d shown Dr. Pritchart out, he sat beside her on the bed and pulled her into his arms. He pressed his face into her hair. He kissed her temple, said low and deep into her ear, “You scared every ounce of wickedness out of me. I will become more reverent than your father. He will be so impressed with me he will ask me to give one of his sermons.”

She turned her head slightly, moving very slowly, and kissed his neck. “I should like to see you in my father’s pulpit. Please don’t lose all the wickedness, Thomas. I do like it. I can’t bear this either. Don’t leave me, please don’t.”

He closed his eyes as he held her, kissed her hair, the tip of her nose, felt the softness of her through her muslin gown. “Let me get you into your nightgown.”

27

MEGGIE WATCHED MISS Crittenden run to the end of the long kitchen, come to an almost instant stop, then wheel about and race back toward her.

“By all that’s wonderful,” Meggie said in awe to Mrs. Black, “that was amazing.”

“Demned Cat’s been acting like that since the big tom, McGuffy, went to sea with the Midland’s youngest boy, Davey,” Mrs. Black said, narrowing her eyes to better see Miss Crittenden flashing by, but it didn’t help much, and Meggie saw that it didn’t. “Running everywhere to find him, but he’s no where to be found. And now it’s just habit with her.”

“So she started all this marvelous running trying to find Davey. Hmmm. Maybe you’ve hit upon a new training technique. Mrs. Black, have you asked Dr. Pritchart about glasses?” she asked.

“Oh aye, my lady. Dr. Pritchart has tried everything. He says it’s the cataracts that are like veils over my eyes, that they will just thicken and thicken until there won’t even be shadows. He calls it white eyes.”

“I’m very sorry.”

“It’s just that I would like to see Miss Crittenden race about Cook’s jugs of flour and sugar. Many the times I’ve nearly tripped over her. So many changes you’re bringing, my lady, and all of them exciting. Do you know I can smell how clean Pendragon is now? It’s a blessed thing, it is. Now, why are you interested in Miss Crittenden and how she runs?”

“Have you ever heard of cat racing?”

Cook came into the huge kitchen and said, “Cat racing? Now, that’s a loony thing, it is.”

“Not at all, Mrs. Mullins,” Meggie said, and since neither of them had heard of such a thing, for the next ten minutes, Meggie told them about the history of cat racing, begun at the Mountvale Mews in the last century, brought to its premiere place in the racing world by the Harker brothers, the major trainers for two decades now. “The McCaulty Racetrack is the major venue for cat racing,” she said. “The meets are held from April to October. Mr. Cork is the current champion. He from the Vicarage Mews and I trained him.”

“You really trained a cat to race?” Barnacle said, dragging himself into the kitchen, and one eyebrow arched up so high he looked like a bit of a demon, in agony, of course.

“I most certainly did. I think Miss Crittenden just might take to the sport. What do you think? Cat racing at Pendragon?”

“Oh, aye, that would be something, now wouldn’t it?” Mrs. Black beamed.

Cook harrumphed. “It’s loony, now isn’t it?”

“There’s nothing like seeing those sleek bodies flying by,” Meggie said. “It makes your heart gallop.”

“Meggie.”

She turned to see Thomas striding into the kitchen. He was carrying a package under his arm. “Here you are.” He didn’t sound at all surprised. During the past week, once he’d let her out of bed, she’d been everywhere in Pendragon, overseeing everything and everyone, and that pleased him all the way to his gut.

“Oh, my lord,” Barnacle said and creaked into a semblance of a bow, adding a little moan as he straightened, his face a hideous mask of pain. “Mrs. Black, it’s his lordship.”

Mrs. Black, instantly flustered that the master was in the kitchen, of all places, curtsied and knocked a teacup off the table.

“No harm done,” Meggie said as she snagged the falling cup out of the air, and added to her husband, “Miss Crittenden just might be a racing cat. What do you think?”

Thomas looked over at the large calico, sitting in a slice of sunlight in a corner of the kitchen bathing herself. “She’s huge.”

“Well, I think most of it is muscle. I just watched her run. She’s amazing, Thomas. She will lean down a bit during training.”

“Cat races at Pendragon. Let me think about that, Meggie.” He handed her the package. “This is from your family.”

“Oh my,” Meggie said, clutched the package to her bosom, and nearly ran from the kitchen.

“But I want to see what’s in that package!” Barnacle yelled from behind her.

She just laughed and ran all the way to the White Room, Thomas on her heels.

“I took it out of the wooden packing box,” Thomas said, standing against the wall watching her, his arms crossed over his chest. “You feel all right, Meggie?”

“I’m all right,” she said, not looking up from the paper she was tearing. “Really, no headache at all now. Oh goodness, my father must have sent this right after we left. What could it be? I just realized, he didn’t know where we were going, did he?”

“Well, yes, naturally I told him. I didn’t want him or your stepmother to worry.”

“But you wouldn’t tell me anything.”

“No, that’s the way it’s done.”

She pulled away the last bit of paper and lifted out a beautifully carved wooden cat. It was a perfect likeness of Mr. Cork, even the size. There was a plaque at the bottom with Mr. Cork’s name, his sire and dam, and the dates of his racing wins beautifully etched into the wood.

Meggie held it close, then burst into tears.

“Meggie! What’s wrong? It’s a statue of Mr. Cork. It’s a very nice statue, but tears? What is this?”

“I miss him so much, and Cleopatra, too. All the cats, Thomas, they would run and jump, meow their heads off, or sit there and tell you, without words, that they weren’t going to move a paw, no matter what you did.”

“I think,” he said slowly, watching her dance around the room clutching the wooden Mr. Cork to her chest, “that just maybe we should introduce cat racing to Pendragon. Did your father carve this exquisite piece?”

“No, Jeremy.”

“I see,” he said and wanted to howl. Couldn’t the mangy bastard just leave her alone?

After Thomas left her to go downstairs to see Paddy, Meggie was humming as she dusted off Mr. Cork’s fine statue. Suddenly she stopped cold. At least an hour had passed since she’d thought about the person who’d slammed whatever it had been down on her head. Just the thought of it now brought a flash of pain. Even when Thomas had mentioned it, she’d been too excited about her present and hadn’t heeded it.

She winced, walked slowly to the window, and looked at the breezy spring day. It was cloudy, but at least right now it wasn’t raining.

She picked up her father’s letter and read it through again. “My dearest girl, Jeremy sent this wedding present to me since he didn’t know where you would be. I am enclosing his letter.”

Meggie didn’t want to read Jeremy’s letter, she really didn’t, but nonetheless, now that Thomas was gone and she was alone, she slowly unfolded the single sheet of paper, pressed it out with her palm, and read, “Dear Almost Cousin Meggie, I wish you and your new husband the very best. Charlotte and I would welcome a visit from you. I hope you enjoy this rendition of Mr. Cork. It took me a while to carve it which is why it was late.” And it was signed just Jeremy. His direction was written on a separate piece of foolscap. Jeremy. Jeremy and Charlotte. She walked slowly to the fireplace and stood there, staring at the three stacked logs, bits of paper stuffed around them. She shredded the letter and tossed the pieces in amongst the kindling. Then she lit the fire and watched it burn. She heard Alvy moving about behind her, but didn’t move.

“Dr. Pritchart is here to see you, my lady.”

She frowned, not realizing at first why he would come to Pendragon. Oh, her head. She turned and smiled at Alvy. “I will see him shortly in the drawing room. Please let Barnacle know, Alvy.”

Ten minutes later Meggie, Thomas beside her, greeted Dr. Pritchart, who was sipping at a cup of Cook’s tea and scratching his ear.

“There is a rash on your ear, Dr. Pritchart,” Meggie said, walking to him. “Is it all right?”

He paused and looked at her, for a very long time, didn’t say anything, just looked. “You’ll do,” he said, snapped the cup into its saucer, and gave her a brief bow. He said to Thomas, “If she suffers a relapse, you will call me. Good day to you both. The rash comes twice a year, one of those times is right now, in April. It’s nothing at all.” And he was gone.

“Well,” Meggie said. “I wonder how much his bill will be for that visit.”

“He thinks you’re fine. That’s all I wanted to know. He’s had that rash twice a year since for as long as I can remember.” He crossed to her, pulled her against him, and kissed her.

Meggie was nothing loathe and kissed him back. She said into his mouth, “This is so much nicer than those dreadful things you did to me on our wedding night.” She pulled back and looked up into his face. “I know, you don’t want to talk about it.”

“No,” he said against her ear, then stroked his thumb along her jawline. His hands were on her hips when there was a clearing voice from the doorway. Thomas slowly raised his head. “Damnation.”

He turned to see his mother standing there, and she didn’t look at all happy.

“Yes, Mother?”

“Lord Kipper has decided to take Libby for a ride in his curricle. He told her he had a very lovely spot to show her and that she would truly appreciate it, especially since it wasn’t raining. He told her how much he admired her. I told her he was lying, that he didn’t like women with as much flesh as she has. He was just going to drive her to this nice spot and bed her on a blanket just because there was no one else about for the moment, no one with less flesh than she has. She was merely a temporary convenience, I told her, surely she realized that. She called me horrid nasty names and slammed out of the castle. It was unforgivable. I’m thinking of having her live elsewhere.”

Thomas stared at his mother, then laughed.

Meggie, fascinated, said, “What did she call you, ma’am?”

“She had the absolute gall to call me a pernicious old tart. Can you imagine?”

“Well, no, I can’t,” Meggie said.

“Imagine calling me a tart. I never slept with any man other than your father and Lord Kipper, and who wouldn’t bed him if they had a chance? He was beautiful twenty years ago and he’s beautiful today, and ever so talented. I’ll wager that little wife of yours would take him to her bed in an instant if he crooked his finger at her.”

“Niles enjoys life too much to try that, Mother.”

“You would shoot him if your wife here were unfaithful to you?”

“In an instant.”

“And what, may I ask, would be her punishment?”

“Since this will never happen, then I really don’t have to think of one, do I?”

“I saw her looking at Lord Kipper, Thomas, just like Miss Crittenden looked at that bit of sea bass Cook served for dinner before you arrived.”

Thomas just smiled, but there was something in his eyes, something dark and hidden from her. Meggie frowned.

“I didn’t realize Libby knew such a deadly word as pernicious,” he said.

Madeleine said, “I didn’t either. Pernicious. I am here to look it up in that dictionary on your desk. I hope I have the spelling right. I ask you, what good is a dictionary if you don’t already now how to spell the word? Stand aside.”

Thomas took Meggie’s hand and led her from the estate room. They were half a dozen steps beyond the room when they heard his mother squawk.

“Let’s hurry,” Thomas said.

“Thank you, Thomas.”

He turned to smile down at her. “For what? Dragging you out of the room before she found pernicious?”

“For telling your mother that I wouldn’t ever betray you.”

“Yes,” he said slowly, turning away from her to look out over the Irish Sea, “I did say that, didn’t I?”

That night a storm blew in, rain slammed hard against the windows, and the black of the night was absolute.

“Oh God, Meggie,” he said against her mouth, felt the world tilt and every muscle in his body scream, and managed to pull out of her just in time. He hung over her, panting, so beyond himself, that for many moments it was very close.

“Thomas? What’s wrong?”

“You weren’t with me,” he said, low and harsh, and gave her his mouth.

When she arched her back and yelled to the ceiling, he came into her again, hard, deep and deeper still, and harder than he should have, but he just couldn’t help himself.

Some time later Thomas was lying on his back, his breathing slow and calm now, his wife’s breath warm against his bare chest. Suddenly he felt her jerk, and tightened his arm around her.

“Meggie,” he said against her hair, kissing her. “You’re dreaming. Come, wake up.”

She moaned quietly, pressing closer to him, and her breath was hot against his flesh, wheezing in and out. Something bad was happening. She sucked in a deep breath, shuddered. He started to shake her awake when she moaned, “Jeremy, no, no. Blessed Hell, no. Jeremy.”

He didn’t shake her. He didn’t do anything for a very long time, just let her thrash about and moan, deep in her throat.

When finally she was calm again, when she hadn’t moaned his name again for at least five minutes, Thomas eased away from his wife, and rolled off the side of the bed. He came up to stand over her. He couldn’t see her well because of the storm, the blanket of rain that obscured any outside light, the blackness of the room. But yet again he heard her moan his name; it wouldn’t leave his brain. Over and over he heard her say that bastard’s name: Jeremy. He wished he had the sod right here, right now. He wanted to choke the life out of him. He knew he wouldn’t hesitate a minute to kill him.

And she’d said his name, damn her. Said it again and yet again. Just as she’d spoken of Jeremy to her father, and she’d been married to him not more than two hours.

It was as he’d told his mother—Meggie would never betray him. He knew it all the way to his gut. No, Meggie would never make an assignation with another man and break her marriage vows.

But the fact was he also knew that she already had—in her mind, in her heart, and he believed to his soul that betrayal in the heart was the worse. She’d married him under false pretenses. He’d forgiven her, knowing she liked him, perhaps admired him, knowing he could make her love him, want him as he’d wanted her since the first time he ever saw her. She certainly liked bedding him. He’d let himself grow complacent, secure in her. He’d let it all fade from his mind. Until now. She’d dreamed about the bloody sod. He didn’t think he could bear it.

He didn’t leave her, although he wanted to. He couldn’t. There was a madman out there who wanted her dead. He couldn’t leave her alone.

But he wanted to. He wanted to hoard his misery, wallow in his misery by himself. He didn’t want to hear her breathing beside him, feel her body pressed against him and know that he would be hard in an instant, and know too that she could be dreaming of that bastard.

Then something happened, something hard and vicious and he recognized it. It was rage and it was what he’d felt on his wedding night.

He wouldn’t let his rage overwhelm him, he was a man who could control himself. He wouldn’t ravage her again like he had on their wedding night. But he itched to punish her, to hurt her the way she’d hurt him.

He took one of the blankets, carried a chair to the windows and watched the dawn break through the gray rain.

28

Pendragon

Two weeks later

WILLIAM WAS ON his knees, trying to pet Miss Crittenden’s head. She snarled and tried to bite him. “There now, nice kitty,” he said, and stuck out his hand again. Meggie gave him a disgusted look.

“She is a racer, not some lazy creature to sit on your lap and take treats from you, William. Take care or she’ll nip off the end of your finger. What are you doing here? I’m busy.”

He rose and dusted off his hands on his tan riding pants. “You don’t like me, Meggie.”

“No,” she said, not looking up from the brushing she was giving Miss Crittenden, a reward for her excellent leaping, this time a running start that kept her in the air for a good two seconds and an amazing distance of over four feet.

“Why? Whatever did I do to you?”

Meggie said, “Why haven’t you left to go back to Oxford, William? Perhaps a serious bit of study would improve you.”

“Well, I can’t go back. You see, I didn’t tell Thomas the precise truth. I was sent down, but just for this term. I will go back again, it’s just a matter of time.”

“Why were you sent down?”

He flushed, turned, and tried to pet Oscar DeGrasse, one of Lord Kipper’s mousers, long, lean, short-haired, black as a moonless night, with a chewed-up left ear. Oscar arched his back and purred.

Meggie didn’t have much hope for Oscar. True racing cats were born with a goodly amount of arrogance, a cold and snarling sense of self, and woe be to any other cat who challenged him. They were disdainful, they were tough. They would burst their hearts to win. Oscar was asking to be petted. It wasn’t a good sign. She’d asked Lord Kipper why the name DeGrasse, and he’d said, quite in a straightforward way, that it was the last name of one of his long-ago mistresses who’d been an excellent mouser in her own right, very dedicated to catching her prey and consuming it. When Meggie had asked him what that meant, he’d just laughed, and lightly touched his fingertip to her mouth. “A roundabout allusion to something you should know about by now.”

She’d jerked away. He was a dangerous man; it was stupid ever to be alone with him. Unfortunately he was undoubtedly one of the guards who, when he visited, stuck close to her. Too close for Meggie’s comfort. There were always two guards, not just one. Meggie sighed. She wished William would go away. She wanted Thomas. She wanted him to smile at her, kiss her, tell her what had happened to make him go away from her.

She wondered where he was right now. During the day she was never alone, thus here was William. And, of course, Thomas slept with her every night. She would lie there on her side of the bed listening to his deep smooth breathing.

He hadn’t touched her in two weeks. She’d tried only once to initiate lovemaking with him, and he’d pulled away, saying only, “I’m tired, Meggie. I’m also not interested. Go to sleep.”

It was worse than a slap in the face. She wanted to scream, perhaps even yell right in his face, but in the end, she whispered, “What’s wrong, Thomas? I don’t understand.”

And he’d said his favorite litany, “I don’t wish to speak of it. Go to sleep.”

She hadn’t touched him since. He had fast become a stranger who stayed close to her at night, to protect her. At least he didn’t want her dead. He just didn’t want her for a wife either.

And now here was William hanging about her, and she knew that Thomas had set him to be another guard.

“Why were you sent down, William?” she asked again even as she thought of Ezra, big, fast, and gray with a white face, from Horton Manor. The squire’s wife claimed he could fly faster and straighter than an arrow on the wing. What she’d seen of Ezra’s talents the day Thomas took her to visit was him rolling across the floor with one of the squire’s children. She decided that she would simply have to set up a competition of sorts to see how many country folk hereabouts were interested.

William was still stroking Oscar, now on his back, all four paws sticking into the air. “That’s disgraceful,” Meggie said, frowning at the cat. “That cat has no sense of self-worth. Why were you sent down?”

William cleared his throat when he saw her eyebrow arched at him.

“I, er, got a local girl pregnant, maybe, one really never knows, and her father wanted to kill me.”

“Not an uncommon reaction, I should say. Was she prettier than Melissa Winters?”

William’s jaw dropped. He tried to say something, then shut his mouth fast as a clam trap.

“You are a miserable human being, William,” Meggie said, so furious with her half brother-in-law that if she wouldn’t hang for it, she would have cheerfully stomped him into the ground. “You probably should have been strangled at birth. Saved everyone a lot of difficulties, particularly the female of the species.”

“But it wasn’t my fault,” William said, and Meggie knew a whine when she heard it, having four brothers and so many dratted boy cousins about. She was so furious with him that she jumped to her feet, her fists at the ready. She wanted to fight him, to sock him in the jaw.

“The girls just hold you down, William, and rip off your clothes?”

He looked shocked that she, a vicar’s daughter, would speak so bluntly. She just stared him down until he said, shrugging, “Well, no, but they’re the kind of girls who are with ever so many men, and I’m just the one who always gets caught. It wasn’t my fault. But you didn’t like me before you saw me, Meggie. Why?”

“Melissa Winters, you dolt. I know all about how you blamed Thomas for that. You’re a dishonorable cretin, William.”

“But it was Thomas who got her with child,” William said. “At the time I was in Glasgow with Aunt Augusta.”

Meggie couldn’t help herself. She slammed her fist into his jaw, a really solid hit that sent him reeling backward, his flailing arms nearly hitting Oscar DeGrasse. Oscar screeched and leaped straight up and backward, an amazing feat that Meggie couldn’t help but admire. William couldn’t catch himself and went crashing down on his back. He didn’t move, just stared up at her, trying to catch his breath.

“Thomas is honorable,” she said between fiercely gritted teeth. “You ever say something like that again, and I will kick you in the ribs after I’ve knocked you down.”

William whimpered and didn’t move.

“Thank you.”

Meggie whirled about to see her husband standing in the doorway to this big sparsely furnished room, his arms crossed over his chest, one of his favorite poses. The irony of that thank-you had hit her square in the nose. She raised her chin. “You are many things, Thomas, but dishonorable isn’t one of them.”

“No,” he said. “I’m not.” He walked over to William and held out his hand. William looked at that hand, and Meggie thought for a moment that William would whimper. She said, “Oh, for goodness’ sake, William, be a man and take your brother’s hand. He won’t kill you. He is more civilized about things like that than I.”

“But you still might.”

“That is true. Go away. I’m trying to train these cats.”

William dusted himself off, gave his brother a very uncertain look, and was out of the room very quickly.

Thomas said slowly, “You defended me.”

“What would you expect me to do? Tell your dim-witted half brother that you ignore your new wife, that you treat her like she bores you silly, and thus he can say anything at all he likes about you?”

“No. You’re not like that.”

“Is it possible that another man did impregnate Melissa Winters?”

“No.”

“William said he was in Glasgow with Aunt Augusta.”

“He was. I sent him there after I beat him to within an inch of his life.”

“Well, good.” Meggie wiped her hands on her skirt, looked over at Oscar, who was now curled into a tight ball, sleeping in a corner. “He doesn’t look like much of a winner, does he?”

“Niles says he’s fast.”

“Did you see him execute that backward leap?”

“I wasn’t looking at him at the time.”

“What’s wrong, Thomas?”

“I came to get you for tea, Meggie. My mother, Libby, and Lord Kipper are in the drawing room. Cook has already brought the tea and cakes. You’re the only one missing.”

“And William.”

“Undoubtedly Barnacle will nab him.”

“I see. All right,” Meggie said, then looked over to see Barnacle grimacing toward them, his face contorted in awful agony.

She just looked at him, an eyebrow arched. “You’re supposed to nab William.”

“I’ll nab him all right, but this is more important. It’s vital to set things in their proper order and his lordship—our lordship, that is, my lady—is the most important thing hereabouts in any order. He has told me to tell you that he wishes to see you at your convenience in the estate room. And here he is telling you all by himself—and here I am doing the telling as well, but no matter. Two times is better than a chance on none doing the telling.”

“I am very afraid, Barnacle,” Thomas said, “that I understood you.”

Barnacle beamed at him before he remembered, and reset his face into a fearful grimace.

Meggie gave the old man a smile and a very light pat on the back. “Yes, he has told me himself, Barnacle, and now so have you. I surely haven’t a chance of forgetting now. Thank you.” When he hobbled out, moaning with each stiff step, Meggie turned again to her husband. “You said tea. Barnacle said you wanted to see me in the estate room. What’s going on, Thomas?”

“I just wanted to tell you that there is another package from your family.” He paused a moment, examined his fingernails, and said easily, “Perhaps it’s another gift from your almost cousin.”

“Jeremy? Another gift? Probably not.”

Then Meggie paused. There’d been something different in his voice when he’d said that, something just out of her reach.

“Tea or the package first, my lord?”

“That would depend on how excited you are about receiving another present from your almost cousin.”

This time it smacked her in the nose. Jeremy, he was jealous of Jeremy. Had he heard something? No, surely neither her father nor Mary Rose would have said anything. Goodness, Mary Rose didn’t even know. She was shaking her head even as she knew that he couldn’t know, just couldn’t. Then what was going on?

“His name is Jeremy Stanton-Greville,” she said. “You met him at our wedding. He is five years older than you. He is married, his wife expecting a child. It is no more likely to be a present from him than from any other cousin or uncle or aunt or brother.”

“I see,” he said, and she wanted to hit him for that snide tone.

“I must go now and straighten myself before presenting myself in the drawing room with your blessed mother. I will look at my package later.”

“Take care, Meggie. Five minutes, no more. Otherwise I will send someone for you.”

“I doubt someone will try to bash me on the head on my way to my bedchamber.”

“Five minutes.”

She merely nodded and stalked out of the room. How could he possibly be jealous of Jeremy? It made no sense at all. But his voice had been different. She sighed. She just didn’t know, had no idea, and she’d thought and thought about what she could have done to alienate him so very much. All she could figure out was that her husband had gotten himself in a snit because Jeremy sent her a carving of Mr. Cork. It was ridiculous.

She nearly knocked over her mother-in-law she was so deeply immersed in her own thoughts.

“Watch your direction, Missy!”

“What? Oh, ma’am, sorry I nearly plowed you down. It would surely be different if I’d meant to, but I didn’t.”

“You are entirely too smart for your own good. Just look at that dreadful chandelier overhead with all that raw-looking rope holding it up. My ancestors are thumping in their graves.”

“You don’t have any ancestors to thump here, ma’am. It’s the Kavanaughs, don’t you remember?”

“A low lot, the Kavanaughs,” Madeleine said, staring at that rope, “so low they don’t deserve to have ancestors here. No matter. Now, as for you, Missy—”

“It’s my lady.”

“Bah. I can tell that my dearest son is already tired of you. He keeps his distance from you, just plain avoids you, everyone has noticed it. Didn’t take him long, did it? You are boring, obviously, you no longer amuse him, and he bitterly regrets marrying you. At least he got a lovely big dowry out of it. Well, are you pregnant yet?”

“Ask your son, ma’am,” Meggie said, and nearly knocked her mother-in-law down on purpose this time. She managed to hold her temper, and forced herself to breathe in the wonderful fresh lemon wax that had shined up every bit of furniture and armor in the castle. There wasn’t a single cobweb in any corner. Everything shone. Even though Mrs. Black couldn’t see into any corners, she claimed she could always hear spiders weaving their webs and she didn’t hear a single thing now.

Meggie was smiling as she strode away from her mother-in-law, shoulders finely squared, her step light until she thought of Thomas and knew that his mother was right. He was bored with her, tired of her, whatever. What had happened? What had she done? Surely it couldn’t have anything to do with Jeremy.

I’m not boring, she thought, and pulled an early blooming rose from a vase that sparkled with cleanliness and crushed it in her fist. I train champion cat racers. How can that be boring?

Madeleine called after her, “I will prove to you that I can train racing cats better than you can.”

Meggie didn’t even pause. But she did smile, just for a moment. Madeleine just didn’t give up.

The package from home—it was a painting of her family. She wasn’t aware that she was crying until Thomas said, all stiff and hard, “It is a fairly good painting. I do believe though that Mary Rose’s hair is not quite as red as that rendered by the artist. Also, Max has a sharper chin. As for Leo, he looks ready to vault over a fence and race around the fields. All in all, it is excellent. Stop crying.”

Meggie sniffed, then set the painting on a table against the wall, backed up, and stared at it. “It’s just excellent. My father knew I would be terribly homesick. He’s the best father in the world.”

Thomas didn’t say anything. “Shall we take it downstairs and show it to everyone? Too bad your uncle the earl isn’t in it. My mother would surely appreciate you more if reminded of your high-ranking relatives. I forgot to tell her that your aunt is the daughter of a duke. Hmmm. Maybe you can salvage her yet.”

“She still calls me Missy. I’ve corrected her twice, just a bit on the snide side. I don’t think she’ll ever stop.”

Thomas nodded. “Probably not. Let’s go.” He carried the painting all the way to the drawing room, set it atop the mantel, and stepped back.

Libby said, “Goodness, Meggie, your father is a fine figure of a man. Does he truly have silver wings in his hair?”

“I believe so,” Meggie said.

“She is too young to be your mother,” Lord Kipper said, both his eyes on Mary Rose. “Wonderful features, interesting the way she is leaning toward your father, you can feel it, even though she appears to be sitting straight.”

“You cannot seduce her, Niles,” Madeleine said.

Lord Kipper turned and smiled. “Would you like to wager on that, my dear?”

“Mary Rose is Meggie’s stepmother. She’s Scottish,” Thomas said, turned from the painting, and added toward his wife, “Would you be so kind as to serve us tea?”

And so she did. She knew everyone’s taste in tea now and moved quickly. Cook had made scones for her, and they were really quite good. Cook now made, besides a brilliant breakfast, a very acceptable luncheon. She never sang except delivering the nutty buns to the breakfast table each morning. Dinner, however, still strained her abilities. She needed a song, Meggie knew, and felt guilty because she hadn’t thought about it.

She said more to herself than to Thomas, “I should be receiving some more recipes from Mary Rose soon now.”

“Cook will butcher them,” William said, coming into the drawing room. “Give her a haunch of beef and she will turn it into a fence rail.” So saying, he cast Meggie a wary look.

Meggie frowned at him and began rearranging the scones on the platter. “Oh, stop looking like a whipped dog, William. Would you like tea?”

He nodded and managed to slink all the way across the huge room to stand behind a very old wing chair that Meggie planned to replace just as soon as—She frowned into her teacup. She had to go to Dublin to the Gibbs Furniture Warehouse. She wondered what her husband of three weeks would say when she asked him about that.

“I say, that’s your father, Meggie. The vicar.”

“That’s right. You caused a very fine mess, William, and he was the one to resolve it, he and your brother.”

“What is this?” Libby said. “What did you do this time, dearest?”

“Mother, I haven’t done a single thing since I’ve gotten home. Lord Kipper, you promised you would show me your new hunter. I should very much like to see it, sir.”

“Since your mother bought it off me for your birthday, I suppose you can see it.”

“The new hunter, Mother?” At Libby’s nod, William swooped down on her and nearly crushed her into the sofa, so exuberant was he with his hugs.

“You are a good boy, William,” she said, kissing his cheek, “you always have been.”

Meggie nearly turned blue she held her breath so long so that she wouldn’t say anything.

Near midnight, when Thomas finally came into her bed, making his way quietly from his own bedchamber, Meggie said from the depths of the goose down, “Thomas, we must go to the furniture warehouse in Dublin.”

He jumped a good foot.

To her delight, after he paced the room three times, he turned back toward the bed on his bare heel, frowned, and nodded. “All right. You’ll probably be safer in Dublin than here. Make your lists, Meggie, and we will leave when you’re ready.”

“Would you like to come lie beside me and we can discuss it?”

He looked over at his wife. She was sitting up now and she wasn’t wearing one of her usual white muslin nightgowns. She was wearing something that looked sinful, the color of a peach, and fit her so well he could clearly see her breasts. He was so hard he hurt. By the time he reached the bed, he was harder than Lord Kipper’s pipe stem.

He stopped cold. “No.”

“No what?”

“I want you, Meggie. You can look at me and I am incapable of hiding it from you.”

“I am your wife. I want you as well. Please, Thomas, if you can’t tell me what’s bothering you, can’t you at least come here and make love to me?”

He felt himself shaking, beginning at his feet, those shakes working their way up. “You’re trying to seduce me,” he said slowly, the shakes now to his knees.

“Well, yes,” she said, and smiled at him. “If you won’t talk to me about what’s bothering you, why then, I might as well enjoy you in other ways.”

She’d brushed her hair out and it was curling and falling down her back and over her right shoulder, framing her right breast, her hair and that wicked nightgown she was wearing that was now in danger of falling off her right shoulder.

He swallowed. “If a man doesn’t have pride, he has very little.”

“Pride? Whatever are you talking about?”

He said at nearly a shout because it had been festering inside him for so very long now, and he just couldn’t hold it in anymore, it was corroding his innards, “Jeremy, that damned almost cousin of yours! That’s what I’m talking about, as if you didn’t know.

“You betrayed me in your heart, Meggie. You married me when you knew you loved him, and you still love that damned bastard, and here he is married and will have a child soon. You married me because you couldn’t have him and thus it didn’t matter to you. I knew you didn’t love me, but I thought I could bring you around. But it had nothing to do with anything, did it?

“I was the fool who was ready to offer you everything. Did you even hesitate, Meggie? Did you feel the least bit guilty when you agreed to marry me? I don’t think much of you for doing that, Meggie, I really don’t.”

29

MEGGIE SAID, HER voice dull and accepting, “I loved him beginning when I was thirteen years old.”

“Why did you marry me, dammit, when you loved another man?”

“I liked you very much, Thomas, you pleased me, you made me laugh, better still, I made you laugh. I esteemed you. I admired you and knew you were honorable. I wanted to marry you.”

“You loved another man.”

Slowly she nodded. “You didn’t love me either.”

“How do you know?” He slashed his hand through the air. “Not that it matters. Is that your defense? Let me tell you, Meggie, I wasn’t cherishing some other woman in my heart, which is balderdash, naturally, but that is the way one says it, I suppose. I didn’t marry you under false pretenses.”

Meggie felt her heart pounding slow deep strokes. Her mouth felt dry. “May I ask how you know about Jeremy?”

“Yes, I’ll tell you. We had been married all of an hour when I happened to overhear you speaking to your father about how very noble Jeremy was, how you admired him, how you would have loved him forever, if only he hadn’t met Charlotte.”

Meggie squeezed her eyes closed, remembering each word, feeling the pain each one brought her, pain that just by saying them had flowed over her husband. “You remember so very much. I’m sorry, Thomas. You see, my father was very worried about me and about you as well. He didn’t want either of us to be disappointed. When he asked, I admitted that I knew Jeremy had been playacting when he’d come to the vicarage, that he’d just told me he wasn’t really obnoxious at all, that it had all been an act to help me get over my feelings for him. He was telling me then since it wasn’t important any longer since I’d just married, and he didn’t want me to dislike him anymore.”

Thomas wanted to yell down the moon, which was bright overhead tonight, not a single cloud in the Irish sky, a perfect spring night, the air soft and fragrant with the scent of new flowers, but he didn’t want her anymore now. His sense of betrayal was greater now that she’d admitted to it.

“Well, damn you, you didn’t get over your feelings for the bastard. Then you married me.”

“Yes, I did.”

“But he was married and he didn’t want you?”

“No, but he was betrothed, something I didn’t know about until it was too late.”

“I see. If Jeremy walked through that door this very instant, told you he wanted you, would you go with him?”

“No.”

“Because you’re a damned vicar’s daughter.”

“Because I don’t break my promises.”

He plowed his hand through his hair, making it stand straight up. Meggie smiled.

“So I am stuck with a wife who loves another man,” he said finally, and hated the words as they poured out of his mouth, hated them to his gut. They were stark and ugly, those damnable words, sounded like nails in a coffin lid.

“Listen to me, Thomas. I have a very high regard for you. I very much like it when you kiss me, when you love me. You have given me great pleasure just as, I trust, I have given you. Jeremy isn’t part of my life now. Only you are. I am your wife and I will protect you and honor you until I die.”

“Wonderful,” Thomas said, and began pacing, his dressing gown flapping at his ankles. “Just bloody wonderful. An honorable wife who’s already betrayed me. Damnation.” The fingers went through the hair again.

She said suddenly, “That is why you were so very rough with me on our wedding night, wasn’t it? You were thinking about Jeremy and you wanted to punish me.”

“I’m not proud of it, but yes. I heard you talking about him and I couldn’t bear it. I hurt you.” He paced again. She could feel anger radiating off him. She realized fully what she’d done to him.

“I’m very sorry, Thomas.”

“Yes, naturally you are because you’re so damned honorable and you recognize that you’ve done a very wrong thing.”

“Yes, but you are my husband, Thomas, forever.”

“Isn’t that just dandy?”

“Why did you withdraw from me again? Two weeks ago.”

“You dreamed about him. You said his name aloud.” He slammed his fist against the wall. “Damn you, Meggie, I had just given you immense pleasure and you dreamed about that damned bastard! I wanted to kill him—I still do.”

“What do you want to do to me?”

“I don’t know. I’ve thought about it, but I just don’t know. I don’t want to hurt you again, not with sex. Never with sex again.”

“I don’t remember dreaming about Jeremy. To be perfectly honest here, Thomas, I don’t think of him all that often anymore. You are my husband. Pendragon is my home. I want to be your wife, in all ways. I hate that you distrust me, that you blame me, that you don’t want me anymore.”

“Oh, God knows I want you, Meggie. I am a young man, young men are randier than goats, and I have grown up hearing that goats will bed anything that wags a tail or chews a boot.”

“That’s vulgar,” Meggie said, and laughed. It dried up very quickly. She said slowly, looking at him intently, “Do you think perhaps that we can start over, Thomas?”

“Start over? Start over what? This sham of a marriage?”

She’d been wallowing in guilt, knowing she’d been profoundly wrong. She’d been trying to exert reason and logic, trying to make him see how hideously sorry she was, but now she felt anger filling her, coming right out of her mouth. “This isn’t a sham marriage! Blessed Hell, Thomas, I wouldn’t let a man do what you do to me, and I surely wouldn’t let a man hear me scream in pleasure, if this were a damned sham marriage! I am your bloody wife. Do you hear me? I will grow old with you. Get used to it!”

She was breathing so hard that she was panting now. She realized in that instant that he was looking at her breasts, heaving and pressing against that wicked peach satin. She, the vicar’s daughter, straightened her shoulders, stuck her chest out, and said, “So what are you going to do about it, Thomas?”

He slammed out of the White Room.

Meggie stared at the still vibrating door. This was not good. She knew she’d hurt him very badly. But she couldn’t control her dreams. She tried and tried, but she simply couldn’t remember even dreaming about Jeremy. Oh yes, it had been after he’d sent her the carved statue of Mr. Cork. What could it have been?

And then she remembered.

She bounded out of bed and burst through the adjoining door into his grand and massive and very gloomy bedchamber, which she’d had cleaned, but not really paid much attention to since Thomas spent so little time in here. He was standing by one of the long skinny windows, staring out over the sea.

“Thomas, I remember.”

He turned slowly. “You follow me, even into my bedchamber, where I should have privacy if I wish it?”

“Climb down from your hobbyhorse, you ass. I remember the dream about Jeremy.”

“You have had time to make something up, Meggie.”

She ran straight across the room, right at him, and grabbed his dressing gown lapels. She stood on her tiptoes and said right into his face, “I haven’t made up a single thing. Listen to me. I dreamed about him right after he sent me Mr. Cork. Naturally he was on my mind, but not in the way you think. I dreamed about a cat race.”

“Ha.”

“Shut your trap, curse you. I dreamed that Mr. Cork was running, he was way ahead of the other racing cats. Then he began changing—he turned black, his eyes were bright orange, and then, he was suddenly fat, his belly nearly hanging to the ground. I just couldn’t believe it. And then Jeremy was saying that he would have to rewhittle him, make me a whole new statue and it would take him more time than he had, but he had to so he could be faithful to the real Mr. Cork. And I was begging him not to. I wanted my own Mr. Cork back, not this monstrous thing.”

“Do you honestly want me to believe that, Meggie?” He spoke very quietly.

She backed away from him, a good two steps. She said slowly, “Have I ever lied to you?”

“You lied by omission.”

“Ah, that’s a grand sin, isn’t it? Will you chew on that until your jaw locks? No, that was rhetorical. Have I ever lied to you, Thomas?”

He was silent. She opened her mouth, but he raised his hand. “No, be quiet. I’m thinking. We were together a goodly amount of time before we married. I’m trying to remember if you lied to me.”

Now it was Meggie who began pacing that dismal gloomy room. It was filled with shadows and every step she took sent her into deeper gloom. She hated gloom, she knew too well how it felt inside her. He turned to look out the window again, at the beautiful moon that glistened over the water.

It was magic, a night like this.

“No,” he said at last. “I don’t remember you ever lying to me.”

“Well, good,” she said, nearly at a loss for words since she’d fully expected him to come up with something. She was only human, after all. “Then may we please try to begin again, Thomas?”

“Meggie,” he said, staying where he was, which was very far away from her indeed, “what if I loved another woman and couldn’t have her, then I married you, all without telling you a thing about her?”

Meggie stopped cold. She was shaking her head, then she stopped that too. She stared across the gloom at him. “Oh dear,” she whispered. “Oh dear.”

“Yes,” he said. “There is that, isn’t there?”

“I would throttle you if I found out. I would stomp you into the mud. I would shave your head and blacken your eyes, both of them. Oh dear. I hadn’t thought of the shoe on the other foot.”

He was pleased, but he wasn’t about to let her see it. “What I did to you was bad enough—forcing you on our wedding night.”

“No, what was worse was the last time when you just went away from me and didn’t say a single thing. That is horrid, Thomas. Please, don’t do that again. If you want to stomp me, I will allow it.”

She’d walked into the moonlight again, and that peach thing she was wearing shimmered all the way from her breasts to the floor. He could see too much of her.

“If I slam out of this room, I will be in the White Room again, your room.”

“Please don’t leave me,” she said and came up to him. She didn’t touch him, just stopped an inch short and looked up at him. “Thomas, why did you marry me?”

“Because I love you, you twit, because I believed you loved me as well.”

“But you never said anything about love to me.”

“No.”

“Why?”

He said very slowly, “Because there was just something about you, Meggie, something that made me understand how very young you were, how very innocent, untouched. You weren’t ready for that.”

“All that young and innocent, yet you believed I loved you? That it wasn’t some sort of schoolgirl infatuation?”

“I sometimes hate the way your brain works.”

“So does my family.” She sighed. “There is so much going on here at Pendragon. There is the someone who doesn’t want me here, enough to try to kill me. Then there’s you, Thomas. You don’t know whether you want to strangle me or kiss me or just slam out of the room.”

“If you are giving me a choice, then I would prefer to kiss you.” He had to touch her breasts, had to mold his fingers around her through that satin, and so he did and he closed his eyes as he cupped her in his palms, as his fingers roved over her.

He felt her pushing against his hands, and he opened his eyes. He smiled down at her. “I believe you want me as badly as I want you.”

“More,” Meggie said. “You taught me, Thomas, and you taught me well.” She went up on her tiptoes and kissed his mouth. “Please open to me,” she whispered and he did, and all his heat, all the strength of him, all his passion and the immense hurt she’d dished out to him, it was all in that kiss, in the way he held her so tightly, she believed her ribs would crack, and then she just didn’t care.

The huge old bed was only ten feet away. When he lay her on the Aubusson carpet that was so threadbare she felt pricks of cold air touching her shoulder blades, he forced himself to stop, just for a moment, and said, his voice thick and deep and guttural, “I want this to be hard and fast, Meggie.”

Meggie couldn’t think of a single word, she was thrumming, mewling like her racing cats she was so excited, she felt so very urgent, it was beyond anything she could begin to understand. She grabbed him around his neck and pulled him down to her. “Please, now, Thomas. Now.”

He was a wild man, all over her, not a touch of gentleness, and Meggie hummed with power and urgency. She also hummed with something else, but she didn’t know what it was.

Meggie would swear that the gloomy room lightened, that the air itself lifted and fluttered when she yelled to those beams in the darkened ceiling. But he wasn’t through, bless him, and within a very short time, she was breathing hard again, beside herself, her hands all over him, pulling and caressing and hitting, and her cries heaved out of her mouth against his shoulder.

“I’m going to die now,” she said, “a happy woman,” and she didn’t move a single muscle.

He grunted beside her.

“I felled you.”

He grunted again, and she would swear she felt a smile on his mouth before he kissed her hair and collapsed again.

“Will you give me another chance, Thomas?”

“Your timing is excellent,” he said, and was asleep, sprawled naked on the Aubusson carpet, a smile on his face.

Meggie’s brain began to function again only when she realized she was shivering from cold. She came up on her elbow over her husband, looked down into his hard face, not so hard now in sleep, and said, “Thomas, how am I going to get you into bed?”

He grunted, then opened a dark eye and looked up into her shadowed face. “If I really concentrate on this, I can move.”

“What will I do,” she said, lightly caressing his shoulder, kissing his face, light nipping, sweet kisses, “when you are an old man and we end up on the carpet?”

“You will just roll me up in the carpet and leave me be.”

She laughed even as he scooped her into his arms and carried her into the White Room. She kissed his shoulder, whispered against his neck, “Are you willing to let me perhaps kiss your belly the way you kiss mine?”

His breath whooshed out and he ran through the adjoining door, nearly knocked Meggie in the head when he ran too close to the wall. He was laughing until her hair cascaded over his belly and she touched him with her mouth. He nearly heaved himself off the bed. Nothing could be better than this, he thought, and nearly expired. Dear God, her mouth.

His last thought before he fell into a blessedly numb sleep was that his wife, the vicar’s daughter, would come to love him. He was smart and he was persistent. He was also determined.

The following morning, however, Thomas wasn’t smiling.

30

“YOU DAMNED IDIOT, you’ve been home only a fortnight and you’ve already done this?”

William didn’t feel well, he really didn’t, and here was his too-sober half-brother, his voice black as the misery William was feeling, each word staccato, colder than an Irish winter morning, slamming right into his ear. He wanted to bolt behind the wainscoting. He wanted to seal up his ears until he knew his head wouldn’t explode.

Thomas said, “Teddy MacGraff was here, fists at the ready, his face so red I was afraid he would fall over with apoplexy, that or come up here to your bedchamber and wring your damned neck.”

“Let him,” William said. “I want to die.”

“Damn you, you’re a man, get up and face this!”

Thomas jerked his half-brother from his bed and dragged him across his bedchamber to his dressing table, where there sat a pitcher filled of water, waiting for soap and his razor.

Thomas poured the water over William’s head. William howled, flopped about, but it didn’t matter.

Thomas let him slide to the floor, then called for his valet. “Wring the little sot out, Dickie. When you have poured enough coffee down his throat, bring him to me in the estate room. Oh, and don’t let him out of your sight, he’s liable to slink out of here and try to hide.”

He heard Dickie say in a far-too-kind voice, “Come along, Master William. It’s not a good thing you’ve done and you’re in for it. Best face it like a man.”

William moaned.

Thomas was shaking his head, wondering how he was going to handle this one, when he nearly ran into Meggie, who was dancing down the corridor, humming an arpeggio. He grabbed her arm to keep her upright. She squeaked in surprise, looked up at him, blushed—it was that blush that alerted him—then gave him a fat smile, and he knew, knew all the way to his belly, exactly what she was thinking, saw it clearly in his mind. She was kneeling over him and her mouth was on him. And her hands. And the feel of her hair on his belly. Oh God. He couldn’t bear it. He was shaking.

“Good morning.” He kissed her hard and fast, then straightened, took two steps away from her. When she reached for him, he said, “Don’t, Meggie, I can do nothing about it, at least for the next couple of hours. William has gotten another girl pregnant. Her father came here, fully prepared to send William all the way to Botany Bay. In a boat without a paddle. Perhaps without a boat as well.”

“That’s it, Thomas. I’m going to kill the little sod, right now.”

He managed to grab her before she ran around him. She was breathing hard.

“No, sweetheart, you can’t.”

“Of course I can. Just watch me.”

“I mean, since I’m the magistrate and I would be a witness to the crime, I would have to take you to the gaol in Dublin.”

But Meggie had already moved ahead. “But how can William have gotten another girl pregnant? He’s only been here a matter of weeks.”

Thomas sighed. “The little sod was home before.”

“This is just too much, Thomas. Let me go. I will get a gun. I will shoot him in the feet, make him crawl away from Pendragon. You won’t have to be a witness and arrest me.”

“No, Meggie, keep away from William. If you would, please ask Aunt Libby to come to the drawing room. It is time that she faced what William is, what he has done, what he’s obviously done every chance he’s gotten since he was old enough to figure out what to do.”

“Aunt Libby doesn’t know about any of the other girls? She doesn’t know what he’s like?”

He shook his head. “I don’t see how she could. William certainly would never tell her, you can wager your last groat on that, and I’ve kept quiet, protecting her. But now this cannot continue. She needs to know. If she has any control, any influence over him, now’s the time she used it.”

“I’ll fetch her, Thomas.”

At least, Meggie thought, watching her husband stride down the corridor, head down, hopefully planning punishments for William, he wasn’t thinking about Jeremy.

Jeremy. Meggie paused a moment, and blinked. It was strange. For the first time since she’d known him, Jeremy wasn’t all that clear in her head. How odd that she could be so very fickle.

Odd but good. She had honestly believed he was her world, believed that when he had married Charlotte that her world had come to an end, at least all the fun part of it.

But no longer.

She found Aunt Libby in her bedchamber, humming as she carefully selected a sweetmeat and popped it into her mouth. She closed her eyes as she chewed. Meggie also saw that Libby was writing something. She quickly slid the piece of foolscap beneath several books—both of them, Meggie saw, were Lord Byron. Now, what was this all about?

Meggie hated this room. It was as dark and dismal as the rest of Pendragon, except, of course, for Madeleine’s room.

Meggie looked around as she said, “Are you certain, Aunt Libby, that you don’t wish me to make your bedchamber a bit more cheerful? Perhaps more light could come in if we took away those dark draperies. Thomas and I will be going to Dublin soon to visit the furniture warehouses. You could accompany us, if you would like to.”

Libby just shook her head, her smile never faltering. “Isn’t it a beautiful morning, Meggie? Would you care for a sweetmeat? The almond ones are exquisite. Niles tells me they have no substance to them at all so I can eat as many as I wish without gaining flesh. As for having more light in this room, goodness no. A woman of a certain age looks much fresher if there isn’t too much ghastly sunlight showing all the imperfections, don’t you agree?”

“Yes,” Meggie said and stared at Libby. She knew to her toes that Libby had been with Lord Kipper. She recognized that very self-satisfied look, that air of utter complacency, that sparkle that came from somewhere in the inside that made one want to hum and smile and fold one’s hands across one’s lap and do nothing at all except enjoy the sweet flow of life. She’d seen it on her own face when she’d looked in the mirror that morning. If William weren’t such a rotter, she’d still have that smile on her face, damn him.

“Thank you, but I’m not all that fond of almonds, Aunt Libby.”

Libby stopped humming. She rose slowly, shook out her skirts. “What is wrong, Meggie?”

“It’s William.”

“Oh my God—my precious boy is hurt? Someone has harmed him? Oh no. Don’t keep me waiting, Meggie, spit it out.”

“No, your precious boy is just fine. However, he has done a very bad thing.”

“Not just a simple bad thing? A very bad thing? That’s impossible. He is delightful. He is perfect, or nearly so. Now, what is this all about?”

“Come downstairs with me and I will let Thomas tell you.”

“Thomas is a man. Thus he will be rough and not at all conciliatory. You will tell me.”

“William has evidently gotten a local girl pregnant. Her father was here and quite enraged. He wanted to kill William. Thomas told the father that he would see to things, and so he will.”

“Oh, is that all?” Libby heaved a huge sigh of relief and sat herself down again. “Thomas can give the father a bit of money, tell him boys will be boys, and all will be well. You frightened me, Meggie. It wasn’t well done of you. Do tell Mrs. Black to bring me a bit of tea. Thank you.”

“But, ma’am—”

“Go away, Meggie.”

Meggie went. Pendragon Castle—it sounded so very wonderfully gothic, so very mysterious, filled with romantic legend. It sounded as if ancient memories and perhaps a sprinkling of magic could make their way into your bones if you lived here.

Surely Pendragon Castle hadn’t expected to have such a strange concatenation of people living in it, giving it not a whit of mystery, romance, or magic. What would future generations believe permeated the castle walls after this crew departed?

Thomas was pacing the estate room. He looked harassed. He looked to be talking to himself.

Meggie said from the doorway, “Aunt Libby doesn’t care. She doesn’t think it’s anything at all. She says you’ll just give the father a bit of money and that will be that.”

Thomas looked heavenward in utter weariness and said, “Why am I not surprised?” He sighed, plowed his fingers through his hair, which made her smile even through the dark cloud of misery William had brought into the castle.

Meggie said thoughtfully, “I suppose you could have him gelded, like a horse.”

“Now, there’s a good thought. Who would we get to do it?”

“The girl’s father,” Meggie said without any hesitation at all.

Thomas walked over to her and pulled her against him. “This is a damnable situation,” he said against her hair. Her hair—it smelled of some sort of flower, he didn’t know which. He found himself rubbing his nose in her hair, realized what he was doing, and pulled back.

“I am going to tell William that he will marry the girl, if, that is, she and her father will have him. I will also give her a dowry. And I will tell William if he doesn’t change his colors and become a decent husband, I will have him join the King’s navy. What do you think? I will also cut him off without a cent. That will doubtless provide his biggest incentive to keep his male parts at home with his wife.”

“William doesn’t have any money? From his mother?”

“Oh no, my father kicked her out not long after William was born, didn’t give her a sou. I have paid for Oxford, for tutors.”

“That’s a wonderful idea, Thomas. It should keep him in line.” She went up on her tiptoes and kissed his mouth, running her fingertips over his black, black eyebrows. “If I were the girl’s father, I’m not so sure I’d want William as a son-in-law.”

“I think Teddy MacGraff will be quite pleased. He’ll see William as being completely in his power, which he will be.”

She thought about that a moment. “Is Teddy MacGraff big and tough?”

“Very.”

“Let’s do it. We can announce it this evening.”

“Perhaps we can even tell Aunt Libby that she will shortly be a grandmother. It will rile her no end to have a grandchild before Madeleine.” He laughed.

“Good heavens, why?”

“She is very vain, just like my mother. Only thing is, Libby is younger than my mother by two years. Yes, my mother is going to be delighted.”

Lord Kipper came to dinner, as he did nearly every evening since he and Libby had become involved in an affaire. At the end of the meal that still wasn’t very good, even though Cook swore she’d followed Mary Rose’s recipe for the stewed mutton down to the dash of thyme, Thomas rose and tapped his fork on his wineglass to gain everyone’s attention. “William,” he said to his younger brother, “you look less dead this evening than you did this morning.”

William raised hopeful eyes at the sound of his half-brother’s jovial voice. “Yes, I am fine now, Thomas.”

“You will be more than fine very shortly. Actually, very shortly you will be a married man. You will wed Jenny MacGraff right here next Sunday. You and Jenny will live here, of course. I will provide Jenny a dowry.”

With surprising agility, Libby jumped to her feet, nearly knocking her chair over she came up so quickly. “You cannot mean this, Thomas. It is absurd. The idiot girl’s pregnant, who cares? It happens all the time. Give Teddy MacGraff a couple of pounds, he’ll go away happy.”

Madeleine said, “Thomas, Libby’s right. This can’t be the best way to solve this problem. The MacGraffs are nothings—nobodies! Goodness, Teddy MacGraff is a merchant! Oh, wait a moment—goodness me, can you believe it? Libby, you will be a grandmother! Ah, what a terrible thing, just terrible.”

“No, I will not be a bloody grandmother! I do not recognize this child as William’s. Indeed, I imagine he isn’t the father at all. She drew him in, seduced him. He is a boy, incapable of producing a child.”

Thomas laughed, he just couldn’t help himself. He looked over at William, who was pale as the tablecloth, his fingers clutched around his wineglass, his eyes glazed.

Thomas said, “Yes, you will indeed be a grandmother, Aunt Libby. And yes, William is the father. The wedding will take place next Sunday right here at Pendragon or—please listen to me, William. Are you?”

William jerked his eyes up from the wine that was such a lovely red. “I am listening, Thomas.”

“You will marry Jenny MacGraff. You will be a good husband to her and a good father—at least better than our own father, which isn’t saying much at all—or you will never again be welcome here at Pendragon. I will also cut you off without a sou. That is your choice. William, it is your decision. What say you?”

William looked from his mother back down to his wineglass. He picked up his fork and played with it, then slumped down in his chair. He raised pitiful eyes to Thomas. “Perhaps it isn’t my child, Thomas. Perhaps Jenny has bedded many men and—”

“Don’t be a fool, William. She was a virgin. Or will you try to tell me that she wasn’t?”

“Perhaps a girl can have many virginities, perhaps she can develop a new one to lure in young men—”

“Which will it be, William?” Thomas asked with great patience, his voice implacable. Thomas had said earlier to Meggie that he couldn’t imagine why any girl would want William, but the girl did. As for her father, Teddy had rubbed his hands together and smiled. It hadn’t been a nice smile. “I’ll see to it the lad behaves himself,” Teddy had said, and Thomas believed him. He then gave Thomas a ferocious smile and shook his hand to seal the bargain.

“Marriage,” William said into his lower lip. “I choose marriage.”

“And you swear you will do your best to be a good husband and a good father?”

“I swear.”

“Good. Niles, will you attend William’s wedding?”

Lord Kipper raised a sleek brow, smiled, and raised his wineglass. “It will be a very nice wedding,” he said. “To William and—what’s-her-name?”

“Jenny MacGraff.”

“To William and Jenny.”

Everyone drank except Libby and William, who both moaned into their glasses.

“It’s done,” Thomas said when he and Meggie were finally alone some two hours later in the White Room, the door closed and locked. “It’s been a very long day. Now, at last, I can concentrate on you. I’ve been thinking about this since this morning.”

“Yes, it’s done. Let me tell you, Thomas, Mrs. Black is thrilled about it. Your mother is chortling because Libby will have a low-born daughter-in-law and be a grandmother before she will. Really? Since this morning?”

“Remember when you were dancing down the corridor and I ran into you? Yes, since that moment when I saw exactly what you were thinking. Your eyes tell me everything, Meggie. Everything. Come here.”

Meggie went, nearly skipping to him since she was so very eager. It was much a repeat of the previous night, but better, Meggie thought, grinning down at her husband, who looked nearly dead. She felt so good she wanted to sing, perhaps write a ditty for Mrs. Mullins about Mary Rose’s stewed fish stew.

She whispered against her husband’s ear, “Perhaps we could hold a cat race to celebrate the wedding.”

Life, Thomas thought, would never be boring with Meggie in it. He kissed her temple and wondered what the future would bring. More lovemaking, that was what he wanted, much more.

“Should you like to go to Italy, Meggie?”

“I should love it above all things.”

“Soon,” he said. “Soon.” He pressed his forehead against hers, breathed in her scent, unique to Meggie. “I was just wondering what life would bring us.”

“Lots of good things, I hope,” she said, and kissed his chin. “You know, Thomas, when I take you into my mouth like that and you—”

He jerked. He was hard that instant, something he’d sworn was beyond him for the next twelve hours. When she was moaning into his mouth, he was the one who wanted to sing with the pleasure of it.

31

MEGGIE WAS WALKING along the trail that led to the Pendragon cliffs, whistling, occasionally flinging a stick for Brutus to retrieve, which he did with great enthusiasm. “Too bad,” she said, scrubbing behind his ears, “that there can’t be dog racing, but it just isn’t possible. Can you imagine racing, Brutus? No, you’d just sit there wagging your tail, wouldn’t you, or rush to bring back sticks. Your brain just isn’t fashioned for racing.” And she’d throw the stick again. Brutus was one of Thomas’s dogs, an exuberant terrier who looked more like a Clara, in truth, than a Brutus. One stick flew too close to the edge of the cliff. Brutus skidded at the edge and slunk down onto his haunches, whining softly. He would go no farther.

“What’s the matter? Oh, I see, you’re afraid the ground isn’t steady and you’ll go right over. You’re right. I’m too strong in my throwing. Let me get this stick, Brutus, and I’ll hurl it in the other direction.” She leaned down to get the stick when she heard a snicker of sound right beside her. She turned, then there was another snicker of sound and this one landed in her shoulder, hurling her backward off the cliff.

She screamed, loud, wailing, and hit the water below. She struck the water flat on her back and sank like a stone. She was sure she’d broken her back. She hit the bottom, but thankfully not hard. Waves washed over her head, rocks and sand tore her clothes and scraped her skin. She swallowed water, gagged.

It was the gagging that brought her right back up. The water was just over her head, and even though her clothes were heavy, she managed to struggle to shore. She was wheezing, choking, gagging on the harsh salt water, trying to get her breath and ignore her back, which felt like a large sofa was sitting atop her from striking the water so hard. Think about now, just about now. She pulled herself out of the water and fell on her face onto the sand.

She vomited up all the seawater. She was shaking so badly that she could barely catch her breath. Then she realized that blood was dripping onto the wet sand.

She stared at the blood, at first not understanding. Blood, it was her blood. She hadn’t seen her own blood since she’d gotten scratched by Tiny Tom. It was faded, all that blood, since is was mixed with water. It had turned the bodice of her blue muslin gown into a faint pink color, and now, it was oozing out of her, snaking downward. She swallowed, realizing now that the strange snicking sound—it had been a bullet and it had gone into her body, hurled her backward over the cliff and into the sea below.

Thank God it had been high tide, otherwise she would be dead now.

She didn’t want to think about that.

She tried to straighten, to push herself back onto her knees, so she could stand up, but ferocious pain suddenly ripped through her shoulder, and she groaned with the shock of it, the unexpected clout of pain, and fell back onto her face. I’ve got to move, got to move. Someone tried to kill me and he can do it again. I’ve got to get away.

She heard Brutus barking his head off above her on the cliff edge.

She had to get up. She had to get back to Pendragon. She just couldn’t remain here. Where was the person who should be close by protecting her?

Oh, God, the person who had shot her could simply walk down the cliff walk and shoot her again. This time, dead. She wouldn’t stand a chance.

She couldn’t, wouldn’t, do that to Thomas.

Get up, get up.

Slowly, her chest blazing with such pain she was gasping with it, Meggie managed to come up onto her hands and knees. She looked up. There was someone up there, she felt it. Then she heard Brutus growling, then barking loud and louder still.

She saw movement, then a shadow through the bright morning sunlight, saw a gun, a hand was raising it, raising it and pointing it downward, toward her. Meggie crawled toward a boulder, managed to fall flat behind it. A chip of the rock flew off.

Oh God, he was going to kill her. At least he was up there and not down here.

Was it really a he?

She didn’t know.

She lay there, panting, trying to control the pain, listening to Brutus barking louder and louder, then heard the dog cry out.

The bastard had hit Brutus.

Silence.

Where was he? Was he coming down that path? She had to move, she had to do something, but there was nowhere to go, just miles of beach strewn with heavy boulders, seaweed drying on chunks of driftwood. No place, no cave, where she could hide. She could arm herself, yes, that was it. She looked around to find a rock. Too small. No, that one she couldn’t begin to lift even if she hadn’t been injured.

There was one. She managed to pull herself within reach of a round black rock, sitting just beyond her fingertips, all by itself, as if waiting for her. She pulled herself toward that rock, then got her hand around it. It felt nice and heavy. She gripped it against herself, then managed to get back up onto her knees. She pressed against the boulder, then slowly, carefully, eased her face around to look toward the cliff path.

She didn’t see anything, didn’t hear anyone climbing down.

She didn’t hear Brutus.

She hurt, but she kept her eyes on the cliff trail. She ripped a long strip of wet material off her skirt and wrapped it as tightly as she could around her shoulder. It wasn’t a very good job since she had only one hand, but it was the best she could do.

Time passed. She blinked, cursed herself, tried to hum a song, anything to stay alert, but it was hard, her shoulder hurt so badly. She felt tears trail down her cheeks, couldn’t stop them. She tasted her tears mixed with the salt water.

More time passed.

Where was Brutus? She prayed he hadn’t been shot.

Then she heard a man’s voice yelling her name. She nearly shattered from fear until she realized it was Thomas. She tried to call back to him, but just a very thin whisper came out of her mouth. It didn’t matter. He would come to her. She smiled even as she sank down to rest her cheek against the wet sand.

She saw his shadow over her, felt his hands on her, and opened her eyes. “Is Brutus all right?”

“Oh yes, the man just knocked him in the head, but he’s all right. As for you—”

She heard him say her name, faintly, faintly, then she was gone, away from the pain, away from the fear. Everything would be all right now. Thomas was here.

Panic nearly sent Thomas over the edge. He pressed his hand against her chest, felt the smooth, slow beat of her heart. She was unconscious. He lifted his hand, covered with her blood. He gently tied the ripped material more tightly over her shoulder.

He prayed she would remain unconscious. He lifted her into his arms and began the long trek back up the narrow cliff path.

He was going to kill William.

“She’ll live, but it’s bad enough, my lord.”

Thomas couldn’t stand it. She was still unconscious, so pale she looked dead, her flesh so cold. He pulled another blanket over her. Every few moments he lightly laid his palm on her chest to feel her heart.

He stared up at Dr. Pritchart with haggard eyes. “You swear she will live?”

Dr. Pritchart rubbed his palm over his forehead. “I think so. The bullet went through her, high on her shoulder, which is a good thing, less chance of infection, which would most certainly kill her. Now, I must set in stitches, both in her shoulder and in her back.”

Meggie moaned and opened her eyes.

Thomas cursed. Meggie frowned. “What’s wrong? Oh, Blessed Hell, something hurts, Thomas, hurts really bad.”

“I know, sweetheart. Just hold on.”

“Give her some brandy, that will help. Then hold her down, my lord.”

When Dr. Pritchart had finished setting the black stitches, Thomas stared down at her white flesh, the blood and black thread all mixed together, and he couldn’t bear it.

Her eyes were closed. She’d said not a word while Dr. Pritchart was stitching her flesh together. Not made a sound, but she’d clutched his hands so tightly they hurt. He’d wished she’d pass out, but she hadn’t. She said now, “I’m going to be all right, Thomas. Stop worrying. I heard you saying over and over that you were going to kill William. Why? Did he get another girl pregnant?”

“Not that I know of. No, Meggie, he was supposed to stay with you. Since he was worried you would try to stomp him into the ground if he stayed too close, he said he would keep his distance. Didn’t you wonder?”

“Well, I saw Jem the stable boy walking just behind me, and I thought he was the one who was to make sure no one came close.”

“Yes, Jem was to stay fairly close as well. However, he got sick to his stomach and had to come back to the stable. I had also told William to stick close to you.”

“He wasn’t there?”

Thomas shook his head, brought her hand to his mouth, kissed her fingers.

“Maybe he was the one who shot me.”

“He could have, but why would he do it? He knows you dislike him, but why would he want you dead? That makes no sense, Meggie. Now, here’s some more laudanum for you. Dr. Pritchart says just a few more drops of this will send you off into a very nice place where there isn’t any more pain.”

“That would be good,” she said and drank down the barley water laced with laudanum.

“Will the girl live?”

“Yes,” Thomas said to his mother, and walked to the sideboard to pour himself some brandy. “Her name is Meggie, not ‘the girl,’ and she is your daughter-in-law. Speak of her properly, Mother.”

“You should hear what Libby calls her.”

“And what would that be?”

“A little ingrate.”

Thomas’s eyebrow shot up. “Why would Aunt Libby call her that?”

“She believes it is Meggie who is forcing you to have William marry that worthless girl. All because she’s a vicar’s daughter and is very rigid in her morality, too rigid obviously. Libby also says she likely highly disapproves of her liaison with Lord Kipper, and she has no right.”

“I will tell Aunt Libby otherwise,” Thomas said. “Surely you corrected her, assured her that I am even more staid than my wife.”

“No I did not. I don’t wish you to be staid. A bit of wickedness from you wouldn’t be amiss, Thomas.”

“William has performed enough wickedness for the both of us.”

“His is just a boy’s wickedness.”

“William is a man,” he said, then just shrugged. His mother many times baffled him. He said, “Barnacle told me that Lord Kipper was here asking about Meggie.”

“He doesn’t think William should marry until your sweet wife is able to attend. He is afraid she will die and then poor William would be attending both a funeral and his own wedding, which will be, you must admit, like a second funeral.”

Thomas sighed. There was so much to be done here at Pendragon, but none of it was important. The only thing that was important was Meggie. He had to find out who had shot her. He had a very bad feeling about a third attempt. He left his mother, went to the small estate room, and wrote a letter to Meggie’s father. It was his right to know there was trouble. It was the hardest letter he’d had to write in his life.

“Open your mouth, Meggie.”

Meggie obeyed, but she didn’t open her eyes. It was potato soup and it was delicious. She kept eating until Thomas said, “You ate the entire bowl. I’m proud of you. Now, how does your shoulder feel?”

“Not as bad as yesterday.”

“Good. There’s no infection, no fever. You’ve got grit and guts, that’s what Dr. Pritchart said. You’re so strong, he doesn’t believe he’ll have to coddle you even when you birth our children.”

The last was said with a good deal of satisfaction, and Meggie smiled, now opening her eyes to look up at him. She frowned. “You’ve lost weight, Thomas. You should have eaten some of that soup.”

“Now that I know you’re not going to heaven before your time, I will get food down my gullet again.” He lightly traced his fingertips over her cheeks, her brows, smoothed her hair behind her ears, leaned down, and kissed her.

“You scared me out of a good year of life.”

“I was afraid of that. I knew I couldn’t die, knew it would flatten you. You feel things so very deeply.”

A black brow shot up a good inch. He felt things deeply? “What do you mean?” he asked slowly.

“I mean that if something final happened to me, you wouldn’t recover. You would feel guilty and it would gnaw at you.”

“It would be warranted. It’s more than that, Meggie. Perhaps you finally realize how important you are to me.”

“Oh yes. Possibly as important as you are to me.”

She yawned even as those words of hers floated through the still air to his ears. He went still. He wanted to ask her what she meant, but he didn’t. He watched as her eyes closed. He listened as her breathing evened into a light sleep. He thanked God she’d survived.

“It must be luncheon potato soup.”

He didn’t have any idea what she was talking about. For a moment, he feared she was losing her wits. “What about Mrs. Mullins’s soup?”

“It was delicious. Since she still can’t manage a tasty dinner, this must be for luncheon. I’m very grateful. Please thank her for me, Thomas.”

“I did hear her singing.”

“That’s it, then. She’s come up with an ode to the potato.”

32

TWO DAYS LATER Meggie was sitting up in her bed, smiling. A beautiful smile, Thomas thought, balancing a tray on his arms. On that tray were Cook’s famous nutty buns, smelling like cinnamon and butter.

Meggie’s mouth watered. She even began singing Cook’s Nutty Bun song. She clutched the tray to her chest, had one of those nutty buns to her mouth within a second. While she ate, Thomas said, “The wedding will go forward. I have decided that no more time will be wasted. I will carry you downstairs. What do you think?”

“I agree. Get that miserable William on the straight and narrow. I’d do it now, today.”

He laughed. “Dearest, if I could get the preacher here, I would, but upon inquiry, he was seeing to a very ill uncle in Cork. On Sunday it will happen, as planned. Now, this afternoon I have invited Jenny MacGraff to come for tea. You will wish to get to know her as she will be your sister-in-law. I think you will like her, Meggie. She’s honest and straightforward, a pretty girl with a nice smile and a good heart. The only thing in question is her taste and her good sense, since she succumbed to William. Damn his eyes, if he would only realize it, he’s a lucky man.”

Meggie yawned, took another bite of the nutty bun. “I look forward to it. Will you tell your mother and Aunt Libby to be kind to her?”

“I will make suitable threats to keep them reasonably civil.”

“William came to see me,” Meggie said as she swallowed the last of a nutty bun and reached for another. “He was all sorts of apologetic, told me he’d had to see about a wedding present for Jenny and had trusted Jem to stay with me and that was why he hadn’t been watching over me that day.”

“Yes,” Thomas said. “That is what he told me as well.”

“You don’t believe him?”

Thomas rose and began his familiar pacing. Meggie looked forward to the day when he wouldn’t have to pace more often than, say, once a month.

“I don’t know,” he said over his shoulder. “He could have shot you, just like you said to me, but again, why?”

“My lord.”

It was Barnacle. For once, there was no look of agony on his face. For once, he was standing straight, his shoulders squared.

Thomas was over to him in an instant. “Oh God, something dreadful has happened. Out with it, Barnacle. I can take it.”

“I’m very sorry, my lord, but Teddy MacGraff is here. His daughter is missing.”

Thomas just stared down at him blankly. “Jenny is missing? What is this?”

“That is all Mr. MacGraff said, my lord. His daughter is simply missing. This is a conundrum that will unsettle us all. Mrs. Black has done away into one of her silences, something she has not done in a very long time. Everyone knows there is something very wrong here, and now this. Jenny is much liked, my lord.”

Thomas merely nodded. “Thank you, Barnacle. Tell Teddy that I will be down shortly and we will immediately start a search.”

“Yes, my lord.” Barnacle turned toward Meggie, saw that she was pale, and said, “You just ate some nutty buns and that is good. You must be certain my lady, that you must keep enough heft so it will help me when you walk on my back.”

“I will have her walk on your back when she is carrying my child, Barnacle. Then we’ll hear you yell.”

“Aye, my lord, that you will. I will go stay with Teddy MacGraff.”

Thomas nodded, then turned back to his wife. “I want you to remain here in bed, Meggie. I don’t want you to rest, I want you to think about this. I am going to find William.”

William was standing by the far wall in the drawing room, at least twenty feet between him and his future father-in-law.

Teddy MacGraff yelled so loud a crystal shepherdess nearly shook herself off the mantel. “Where is she, you little puke?”

“I don’t know, sir, I swear it on my late father’s grave.”

“That old blighter? From everything I’ve heard about him, he was a rank one, the old lord. Kicked you and your mother right out, he did, his lordship and his mother before you. Aye, obviously the old earl was a grand one, he was, and you’re his spawn, now aren’t you? If I were you I would certainly swear at his bloody grave, but never on it.” Teddy wanted to spit, but knew he couldn’t, not in the drawing room of Pendragon. He was scared, more scared than he’d been when his wife had struggled so hard to birth Jenny. She hadn’t made it the second time, curse him for his lust. Jenny, his pride and joy, now missing. Where? Someone took her, he knew it.

William took a very small step farther away. “Perhaps, sir, she didn’t want to marry me, sir. Perhaps she’s run away to Dublin.”

“I don’t think so, William,” Thomas said from the doorway. “When did you realize she was gone, Mr. MacGraff?”

“She always makes me lunch at exactly twelve. I walk into our cottage on exactly the last stroke of the village clock and there my lovely Jenny is, smiling and leading me to the table. She wasn’t there. There was no food.”

“You’ve spoken to all the neighbors?”

“Of course, my lord. There was no reason for her to leave. She was whistling—whistling—last night, all dreamy-eyed because she was going to marry him, that little bastard.” Teddy MacGraff took an angry step toward William.

“I didn’t harm her, Mr. MacGraff. I swear it to you.”

“Where were you last night, William?” Thomas asked mildly.

William looked down at his feet. “I was with Lord Kipper, sir. I fear I was a bit drunk.”

“Will Lord Kipper tell me this is the truth?”

“It is the truth, Thomas. I wouldn’t hurt Jenny. Really, I wouldn’t. I like her.”

“All of her clothes were still there, Teddy?”

“Mrs. Ezra said they were, my lord. I had her check Jenny’s room and all her gewgaws that belonged to her dear mother. Everything were still there, and in place.”

“We will organize a search immediately,” Thomas said. “William, you will lead the search.”

“What will you do, my lord?”

“I am going to speak to Lord Kipper.”

An hour later Thomas was standing in Lord Kipper’s drawing room, an elegant eighteenth-century array of gilt and white furnishings that dazzled the eye. Lord Kipper looked right at home amidst the fabulous beauty.

“What William said is true, Thomas. He was with me. I was trying to, er, reconcile him to his fate, not a bad one, I assured him. Perhaps a wife would steady him, that’s what I told him.”

“Did he get drunk?”

“Just a little. I don’t like to see young men drink too much, Thomas, you know that.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Well, it’s a fact. William didn’t leave until well after midnight. He returned this morning at about ten o’clock. I had a gift for him, a wedding present.”

“What would that be?”

“A lovely epergne that belonged to my mother, to set in the middle of his table. Ah yes, I realize it will be, in fact, in the middle of your table, but it is nonetheless a lovely gift that his bride will cherish.”

“That is very kind of you, Niles.”

Lord Kipper just nodded. “Where do you think the girl is, Thomas?”

“I don’t know.”

“Ah, in case you’re wondering, my man, Trupper, saw William arrive. He showed him in here. My servants don’t lie, Thomas. As you know, Trupper was at Waterloo. The man wouldn’t accept a lie from anyone.”

Thomas knew it was true. He nodded.

“Where is the epergne?”

“William took it back to Pendragon. It was very well wrapped because he was riding and wanted it protected.”

Now that he recalled, Thomas had seen a bundle set just inside the front doors of Pendragon.

Well, damnation.

Thomas returned to Pendragon. Teddy MacGraff said Jenny hadn’t been found as yet. The search for her continued, William leading it.

Thomas went to see his wife, who appeared to be deep in thought. He watched her from the doorway for a moment, so grateful that she would be all right, so absolutely grateful to every power that be that she hadn’t been killed, that he nearly shouted with it.

He said, swallowing, “Meggie.”

She looked up, her brow clearing. “Did you find out anything?”

He shook his head.

She chewed her bottom lip a moment, then whispered, “Could you perhaps come here and hold me for a little while?”

He held her until she lightly shoved against his chest. He eased her back down against her pillow.

He told her what Lord Kipper had said.

“So William couldn’t have anything to do with her disappearance.”

“It appears not.”

“Who, Thomas? Who could have taken her?”

He shook his head. He knew it was driving her mad. It was driving him mad as well.

Two days later Meggie was reclining on the once gold sofa, now showing as dismal grayish yellow in the sunlight that filled the drawing room, when her father and Mary Rose appeared in the doorway.

She started to jump up, realized if she did, it wouldn’t be a good thing, and gave them her biggest smile.

Tysen felt a leap of love and relief at that beautiful smile. She was alive; she would be all right. He’d had to see her, see that smile of hers, to really believe she would be all right. He made it to that ugly sofa in under two seconds. He held his daughter gingerly, then more closely when he realized it was her left shoulder that was bandaged. He kissed her cheek and breathed in the rose scent of her.

“Oh God, I prayed and prayed, Meggie.” He kissed her forehead, her nose, hugged her as close as he could without hurting her. “Everything will be fine now. You’re coming home with Mary Rose and me.”

“I’m very glad to see both of you.” Meggie raised her face from her father’s neck and smiled at Mary Rose. “Are the boys all well?”

“Oh yes. They can’t wait to see you. They hounded us to let them come, but I didn’t want to take any chances.”

“You look beautiful, Mary Rose.”

“Thank you, Meggie, but that’s just my outsides. My insides have been a boiling cauldron of mushy fear for you. You’re looking much better than I’d thought you would, thank the good Lord.”

“Meggie.”

Meggie slowly raised her head at the sound of that voice. Jeremy was standing in the doorway, Thomas behind him. There was absolutely no expression on her husband’s face, but those dark eyes of his were as flat as a calm sea.

“Jeremy.”

“We are relieved to see you alive.”

“I am as well.” She got hold of herself. “Now, what are you doing here?” And she cursed the fact that he was here. She wasn’t glad to see him. However, the sight of him hadn’t made her heart speed up, hadn’t made her want to cry with the endless wanting of him. No, seeing him had made her want to frown, and tell him to go away.

It was quite true. She savored the lack of feelings for this man she’d believed she would love forever.

“I wrote them about what happened,” Thomas said.

Tysen said, “Thomas also wants us to take you back with us to the vicarage.”

“Oh no,” Meggie said, separating herself from her father. “Thomas wants me right here. He’s just afraid that this person will get me on the third try. I’m not leaving Pendragon.”

Thomas said nothing, merely walked to the sideboard.

“Come with me to Fowey then,” Jeremy said, and Thomas stiffened but didn’t turn. “I have some stable cats, tough and mean, all of them. You can train them to race. If that bores you, then I’ve some horses that could use your fine touch.”

“No, thank you, Jeremy. Pendragon is my home. I’m not leaving my home. Now, how is Charlotte?”

He smiled, splitting his face from nearly ear to ear, and Thomas turned to see it, and imagined Meggie crumbling in pain at that smile, in the knowledge that another woman was responsible for that smile, but she didn’t appear to be at all disturbed. He frowned. Yes, she was simply looking at her almost cousin with a slight smile on her own face. It was an affectionate smile, no question about that, but he didn’t see anything else.

“She is very pregnant,” Jeremy said, and Meggie thought he would rub his hands together, he was that proud of himself. “She tells me she is fat and ugly and I just laugh at her and kiss her.”

Meggie turned to her husband, who looked more like a statue than a breathing man, and said, “Thomas, will you laugh and kiss me when I am fat and complain?”

He nearly dropped the brandy bottle. “Yes,” he said slowly, “I will. I think you would be safer back at the vicarage, Meggie, or at Fowey.”

“That is possible. However, I’m not going anywhere. If you’ve forgotten, I’m not yet quite well enough to get up to dance with you just yet, so I would imagine that travel is equally beyond me as yet.”

She was loyal to her toes, he thought, and poured the gentlemen some brandy. He’d eyed Jeremy Stanton-Greville, seen he was still a handsome man, a man he would probably like in any other circumstance, but not this one. No, he would just as soon stick a sword through his belly, curse him and curse Meggie, who was trying her best to show him that she still didn’t love the bastard. Hmm. The fact was, she wasn’t acting at all like her heart was in danger of crumbling. Not at all.

When Jeremy walked toward him to get his brandy, Thomas saw that he limped. He supposed that he’d noticed before, but it hadn’t registered in his brain. Now he wondered why, and hoped it was from nothing that a female would consider vastly romantic.

“Meggie, love,” Tysen said, stroking her hair, “we all think that you should come back home, just for a little while, until all this is resolved.”

Meggie looked into her father’s beloved face, then at Mary Rose, who was nearly wringing her hands she was so very worried for her, and smiled. “I love you both for coming here. I will be fine. Thomas will make certain that I will remain fine.” She looked over at him, standing there so still, holding a glass of brandy in each of his hands. One for her father and one for himself, she supposed.

“Won’t I, Thomas?”

Slowly Thomas shook his head. “I think you should go back to Glenclose-on-Rowan, Meggie. You will be well enough by next week. If you wish, you can stay at Bowden Close. The servants will take very good care of you.”

Then Meggie looked straight at Jeremy. She was aware that Thomas had stiffened. She smiled at her almost cousin. “Tell me something, Jeremy, and tell me the truth. Would Charlotte leave you?”

“If I told her to, she would,” Jeremy said, and it was said with arrogance, those words. He sounded infinitely obnoxious.

Meggie just grinned at him. “Give over, Jeremy. You can’t pull that ruse on me anymore. The truth now.”

Jeremy gave it up and said, without hesitation, “She would stand beside me and fight to the death.”

Meggie said, “Good for her. You know, truth be told, I did hate her. I wanted to remove her from England entirely, perhaps even smack her in the jaw before I had her kidnapped aboard a ship bound for far-distant places. But now she doesn’t seem so bad at all. I dare say I will even come to like her a lot, particularly if she’s as fierce as you say she is.

“When you and she visit us here at Pendragon, Jeremy, I dare say we will have tea and I will tell her about the racing cat competition we’re going to hold here, just as soon as all this mess is cleared up.”

“Perhaps,” Thomas said slowly, never taking his dark eyes off his wife, “you will have some entrants in the competition.”

“You never know,” Jeremy said, shook his head at Meggie, and laughed.

“I’m not leaving, Papa. However, I would very much like for you to remain here for a while. With all of you here, why, what could possibly happen to me? Now, I cannot wait for you to meet my mother-in-law, not to mention William and Aunt Libby. Oh dear, Jenny is missing. Nothing is going well at the moment.” And Meggie lowered her face into her hands and sobbed.

Thomas handed both snifters of brandy to his father-in-law and gathered his wife onto his lap. He lay his cheek against her hair and rocked her. “Everything will be all right, Meggie, you will see. We will find Jenny.”

There was no sign of Jenny MacGraff by dark that night. The search was called off until dawn the next morning. In the meantime, Thomas sent Paddy to question everyone in the village. Surely someone must have seen something. Jenny couldn’t simply have disappeared.

33

REVEREND TYSEN SHERBROOKE, Baron Barthwaite of Kildrummy in Scotland, looked at Thomas’s mother, his head cocked ever so slightly, and said in his deep elegant voice, one brow arched, “I beg your pardon, ma’am, I am not exactly sure I heard what you said.”

“I said, my lord, that your daughter—well, perhaps it would be for the best if your darling daughter did go back to England with you, don’t you think? It simply isn’t safe for her to remain here, now is it? No, she’d be far better off away from Pendragon.”

Compared to what his mother had first said, this was a capitulation indeed, Thomas thought, turning an admiring eye to Meggie’s father. Just maybe her father could turn Madeleine into a diplomat. That thought would surely give him a headache.

“Evidently not,” Mary Rose said, ready to hit the old harridan in the nose even though Tysen had managed to get her to change her tune quickly enough. “However, I am very certain that you, ma’am, have made her welcome.”

“I would welcome her even more excessively if she would just get herself pregnant.”

“Quite a feat that would be,” Thomas said, rising. “Now, Mother, I don’t think you should embarrass Meggie’s father in exactly this way. You need to learn to pick your moments. Until that happens, why don’t you sip your tea until it is time for you to partner Mr. Jeremy Stanton-Greville in whist. I understand all three of our guests are superb players. You are always saying that you would like some competition. You have it. Sir,” he added to Tysen, “thank you for coming. Now, I will bid you all good night and see that Meggie is settled in.”

Thomas nodded to his three guests and took himself upstairs. He was whistling when he went into the White Room to see Meggie lying on her back, her hair spread on the pillow, lace and satin to her chin, her eyes closed.

He sat quietly in a chair beside her, crossed his legs, and thoughtfully began tapping his fingers as he looked at her face.

“Stop that.”

He’d thought she was asleep and jumped at the sound of her voice. “How do you know what I’m doing?” he asked.

“You’re watching me.”

“It gives me great pleasure to watch you, Meggie.” He paused a moment, continued to tap those long fingers of his together slowly, saying thoughtfully after a few moments, “When I arrived in Glenclose-on-Rowan to assume my father’s responsibilities, to fit myself into my new title, the last thing on my mind was taking a wife. However, it seems that when I saw you, everything just seemed to fall into place.”

Her heart was pounding, slow deep strokes. She didn’t say a word.

“The first time I saw you, you were peeling your little brother’s sticky fingers off your skirt. Evidently you would give him candy to keep him quiet during your father’s service.”

“I remember. It was a new gown. Poor Rory, he was so dismayed that he’d upset me. Oh goodness, then he tried to lick the sticky stuff off the skirt.”

“Yes, and you laughed and laughed, held him close, and the sun burst upon my head.”

Meggie’s heart felt suddenly so very full that she wanted to cry. She wanted to leap from the bed and tell him he was a wonderful man, that she would never leave him, that he was hers, forever. But that meant telling him straight in his beautiful dark eyes that she loved him. She wouldn’t lie, not about something so utterly important as that. But she knew she wanted him, wanted him to be happy, with her. She knew he was as fine a man as her father was, as her uncles were. He made her wild—no question about that. But the other—that heart-wrenching excitement when she saw Jeremy for that first time so very long ago in London, that soul-wrenching near-pain when he’d smiled at her—no, she’d never felt that with Thomas. She’d never felt it with anyone but Jeremy.

On the other hand, she hadn’t felt any of that heart-pounding, near-nausea, light-headed, utterly out-of-control excitement when Jeremy had walked into the drawing room this afternoon. Not a bit of it. Nothing at all. She said to her husband, “Thank you for making me remember that wonderful moment. I also thank you for writing to my father and for telling me that the sun burst upon your head.”

“You’re welcome on all three counts. I hate this, but I really do think you should return with them, Meggie. Actually, I’m here to talk you into it.”

“Very well, I’m not stupid. I don’t wish to be shot again; maybe the next time it would be just my luck to be low tide. I agree. I will do as everyone wishes.”

“I don’t believe you,” he said slowly, staring at her. “You would never agree to leave me.”

Meggie laughed. “It’s about time you believed that down to the soles of your big feet. You’re perfectly right. But don’t you see? It is very easy to agree. By the time I am well enough to travel, all this will be resolved.”

“That is another thing about you—you are an optimist beyond anything I have ever seen.”

“No, listen, Thomas. The person responsible for all this misery, he or she must be becoming quite frantic—nothing has worked. I’m alive and three more people are here to watch over me. I have this feeling that something is going to happen very soon simply because this person will burst if he doesn’t try to finish it. Now, come to bed, Thomas, if, that is, you can swear to me that there isn’t murder being committed in the drawing room.”

“Actually, there might be, depending on how competitive your father and mother are when playing whist.”

“Oh dear. Your mother is partnering Jeremy?”

“Yes.”

“They will win; my parents don’t stand a chance. You see, Papa and Mary Rose will keep laughing and comparing hands and gossiping about this and that. It drives serious players quite mad.”

“I don’t like the sound of that. My mother is very serious about her journals and about whist. What about Jeremy?”

“He’s a killer at whist. I do hope that Charlotte plays well.”

She sounded like Jeremy was nothing more than an acquaintance, perhaps a distant relation. It made him feel very good indeed. He said, his voice light, easy, “Isn’t it nice that we’re not involved in any of it?”

“Very nice.” She smiled at him.

Thomas eyed her one last time, rose and stripped off his clothes. When he was naked, he walked back toward the bed, in truth, thinking about where they would search tomorrow at dawn for Jenny MacGraff and also trying to come up with some way to draw out the killer and stop the madness.

“Oh my.”

Those two very short words brought him back immediately to the fact that he was standing naked and that his wife was staring at his groin. He looked down at himself. Predictably, he was hard as the peach pit he’d seen Barnacle throw across the entrance hall for Miss Crittenden to chase down this afternoon. A training technique her ladyship would surely approve, Barnacle had told him.

Thomas took a step back. He stayed hard, got even harder. He was very pleased that his wife admired his body. He was now so hard he hurt. He wanted to weep as he said, “You’re not well, Meggie. Forget all your lustful thoughts. To help you get a grip on your self, remember that your father, who just happens to be a vicar, is seated downstairs in our drawing room.”

She smiled at him, a smile he didn’t trust for a minute. Well, damnation, who cared?

She said, “You’re right. At least you will hold me, will you not?”

Oh yes, he would certainly hold her, dammit.

When she was settled against his side, her breath warm against his flesh, no, her breath was really quite hot now, he felt her hand glide down his belly.

Oh God. “Meggie, you really don’t want to do that.”

“Do be quiet, my lord,” she said, and he nearly wept again at the sound of those wonderful words of hers.

He had to be noble, he had to stop her. It nearly killed him, but he said, “But you’re still not well enough, you’re not—”

“It’s just my hand, Thomas. I won’t hurt myself.”

“All right.”

“I’ve been thinking quite a bit of taking advantage of you,” and she did.

Before he fell asleep, Thomas found himself thinking for the first time that his mother could be the one who wanted Meggie dead. She could be determined and vicious, he’d seen it too many times over the years. Her mind didn’t really work like other people’s did. She went to extremes, both in her speech and in her actions. But why would she hate Meggie enough to kill her? And if she did have a reason, why then, who would she have hired to shoot Meggie off the cliff?

No answer.

At the end of the next day there was still no sign of Jenny MacGraff. No one believed she had run away to Dublin. Everyone believed she was dead. Everyone believed that someone had killed her.

It became clear that everyone believed it was William Malcombe who had lured Jenny from the MacGraff cottage and killed her.

Since Meggie was still weak, Thomas carried her to the drawing room, where his mother served everyone afternoon tea.

It was a quiet group. Every few minutes Madeleine said, “I had rotten cards last night. You, Vicar, never should have won.”

“That is indeed true,” Tysen agreed pleasantly for the third time, giving his hostess his best social smile.

Mary Rose, her beautiful red hair corking out about her head, was pacing, something Thomas did with great regularity, more now since all the bad things had started happening. Every once in a while Mary Rose paused, looked at Meggie, who was, in truth, still on the pale side, still suffering some pain in her shoulder, and still refusing to take more laudanum. Mary Rose looked nearly desperate. Thomas knew the feeling well.

He also had finally come up with an idea.

Mary Rose turned toward Lord Kipper when he came into the drawing room. He said, standing on the threshold, “Barnacle seems to have taken a brief conge from his post at the front door, Thomas, so I allowed myself to come in.”

“Welcome, Niles,” Thomas said. “You are just in time for tea.”

Lord Kipper opened his mouth, doubtless to say something amusing, when he stopped cold. He stared at Mary Rose, who was standing with her back to the window. The afternoon sun was pouring in, making her hair look like fire.

“By God you are beautiful,” he said slowly, and strode toward her. “Who are you? Where have you been? I—”

Tysen rose and stepped in front of his wife. “Excuse me, sir, she is my wife. I am Lord Barthwaite, Meggie’s father.”

Lord Kipper came to a complete and very chagrinned halt in the middle of the drawing room.

“Ah, your wife. I see.”

Meggie, who had never before heard her father introduce himself by his Scottish title, gaped. Here was her father, facing down another man who very much wanted to poach on his preserves. Every bit of Sherbrooke arrogance sounded in his voice, every ounce of Sherbrooke blood in him was ready to boil. Her father, she realized, was ready to take Lord Kipper apart. It was an amazing thing.

Mary Rose suddenly leapt into action. She held out her hand. “I am Lady Barthwaite, sir. And you are?”

Thomas said, “This is Lord Kipper, everyone. Niles, you will doubtless meet Meggie’s almost cousin a bit later. He is right now at the stables, eyeing my stock.”

It was then that Lord Kipper noticed Libby was there, seated quietly some twelve feet away. She didn’t look at all happy with him. Actually she looked ready to shoot him. Lord Kipper was a man of great experience, a particularly fine thing when, upon rare occasion, he made a sterling gaff, such as now. He didn’t pause a moment, didn’t appear the least embarrassed. He swept down upon Libby, took her hand, caressed her fingers, lightly touched his fingertips to her lips.

“He is amazing,” Meggie said to the room at large.

“Of course,” Madeleine said. “What would you expect?”

When finally everyone was drinking their tea, Thomas cleared his throat and said, “Mother, why do you think someone wants Meggie dead?”

The sound of sudden silence was deafening. Everyone froze in place and stared blankly at Thomas.

Thomas didn’t look away from his mother. She slowly set her cup back onto its saucer. “I have thought about it,” she said at last, the look in her eyes very sharp, very cold, “as I’m sure everyone else has as well. I think it must be a man who followed her here from her home. He is jealous because she chose Thomas over him. It is this man who is now enraged because she won’t leave you, my son. He wants her dead. He is deranged. Ask her, my son, who this man is.”

Thomas said, “Meggie, who is this man?”

“I haven’t seen him, Thomas. If he had followed me, surely I would have seen him. Also, wouldn’t a stranger stick out like a Stonehenge boulder around here? No, it can’t be him.”

“She is mocking me, and I won’t have it.”

“Forgive me, ma’am,” Meggie said, “you’re right. That wasn’t well done of me. However, there is no man.”

“Humph. What about this Jeremy Stanton-Greville who plays whist very well but had rotten cards, just as I did last night?”

“No, ma’am. It isn’t Jeremy. He’s quite in love with his wife.”

Thomas felt positively mellow at that.

“Aunt Libby,” Thomas said, “why do you think someone is trying to kill Meggie?”

“Madeleine is the one,” Libby said with a voice filled with spite, “but she’s torn about it. She doesn’t want to be replaced, particularly by a little twit like Meggie, who’s always laughing, and is young and beautiful. However, she also wants you to have an heir. She is betwixt and between. Perhaps Meggie is still alive because Madeleine is uncertain about what she really wants.”

“You witch!” Madeleine yelled, leaping up from her chair. “You betraying cow! I want you to leave Pendragon this very instant, your murdering son with you! You called me a pernicious tart, and now this! Out, out, I say!”

“Actually,” Libby said, “I called you a pernicious old tart.”

“This,” Thomas said to his wife, an eyebrow elevated upward a good inch, “isn’t turning out to be quite what I expected.”

Tysen Sherbrooke held up a beautiful hand and said in his deep compelling vicar’s voice that brought immediate silence, all eyes now on him, “I think it could be very helpful, Thomas. I would like as well to hear what everyone has to say. Lord Kipper, why do you think someone is trying to kill my daughter?”

Lord Kipper walked to the fireplace, where he leaned his shoulders against the mantel. He looked immaculate in his riding clothes, those black riding boots of his so shiny he could see his face. He looked as calm as the sea at dawn, and utterly beautiful. He said, “I believe it to be someone who perhaps despises Thomas, someone who wishes him ill, someone who knows that if he kills Thomas, he will be discovered, thus he is trying to kill Thomas’s wife, in order to have Thomas blamed for it. That is the most likely. Perhaps it is revenge this man wants. Even though he is very young, Thomas has certainly made enemies, inevitable since he is ruthless and successful, particularly in his shipping endeavors.”

Tysen said, “Can you think of anyone in your business dealings who would wish you ill, Thomas? Who would hurt my daughter rather than you? As punishment or revenge?”

“No,” Thomas said.

Tysen turned to William, who was standing still as a stick of furniture against the far wall, obviously wanting to go unnoticed. He said, “What do you think, William?”

“I don’t know, sir. But I do believe that it must have something to do with Jenny’s disappearance. Don’t you think?”

“It seems likely,” Tysen said slowly, “since everything is happening at the same time.”

“Perhaps this someone,” William said, more forcefully now, the worry plain on his face, “didn’t want Thomas to marry, but since he did, now he’s trying to get rid of Meggie. In my case, he doesn’t want me to marry either, thus he’s taken Jenny away. But who would want both Thomas and me not to be married?”

“That,” Thomas said, giving his half-brother a look of respect, “is a very good question.”

“I agree with William,” Meggie said, and that set both Madeleine and Libby off. “Someone wants two unmarried men in the house. But why?”

“Perhaps the two mothers,” William said, and took three more steps away from his own mother. Predictably, voices went up, tempers rose and tangled, a teacup smashed to the floor.

Once again Tysen said in a voice of honey and iron, “That is quite enough. Thomas has given us a lot to consider. I suggest we do just that.” He paused a moment, looked briefly at his son-in-law, and said, “One of the persons in this room is very deeply involved in this. I wonder which one of you it is.”

There were dark mutterings.

The party broke up quickly after that.

34

THAT NIGHT MEGGIE’S shoulder hurt, to be expected Dr. Pritchart had assured her, but still Thomas was worried. But he didn’t say anything, simply poured a tincture of laudanum in some barley water and handed it to her. He didn’t move until she’d emptied the glass.

He held her until she eased into sleep.

It was very late, dark clouds obscuring the quarter moon that cast a watery light through the window when the cloth slammed down over his mouth. It took him only an instant to realize that it wasn’t a dream. He lurched up, ready to fight, but something struck him hard on the head and he slumped back. The cloth was back, covering his nose and mouth. He was aware, on some level, that he was breathing in a sickeningly sweet odor that seemed to fill his lungs, that snaked to his belly, and that odor, even more than the blow, sent him deeper and deeper until he knew no more.

Meggie felt heavy, as if her body weighed more than one of the boulders on the Pendragon beach and someone was sitting on top of it. She didn’t think she could move. She wanted to move. She managed to lift a hand, moan, and then her eyes flew open.

She felt light-headed and dizzy, a bitter taste in her mouth. At first she thought she was simply waking up in her own bed. She quickly realized she was wrong.

She didn’t want to open her eyes, but she did, finally, and looked up into a man’s face. At first she didn’t recognize him. Then she said slowly, “The last time I saw you, you were lying on your kitchen floor, blood on your head and flour all over your apron.”

“Ye’re right smart, yer ladyship. Aye, the Grakers got me, now didn’t they?”

“You’re Bernard Leach of the Hangman’s Noose at St. Agnes.”

“Good memory in yer smart head. I remember thinking how purty ye were, and all fresh and innocent since ye’d been married jest the day before.”

“We were going to stay at your inn. But it was deserted, just one lit candle in a front room. Thomas and I discovered your wife murdered, hanged. There was no one else there, just you, lying unconscious on the kitchen floor. It was the Grakers who did it, you said, then and you said it again. Then the next day you disappeared and so did the stable lad. Thomas and I remained with Squire Billings, but we couldn’t find out anything more. Why are you here? Where are we?”

“Aye, it was the Grakers what brought ye here,” Bernard said, and laughed, deep in his throat, and that laugh led quickly to a cough, a nasty watery cough that made Maggie’s insides crawl.

“Them Grakers—bothersome little pixies, the lot of them. Don’t they travel a lot, eh?” And he laughed some more. He started to cough again, stopped his laughter fast.

He looked even skinnier than he had before, his gray hair even more tufted and grizzled, so dirty and lank with oil it was matted to his head. He wasn’t wearing a huge white apron now, but rough homespun that bagged on him. He wiped his hand over his mouth, trying to catch his breath, and Meggie saw a streak of blood on his palm. She said, “You’re sick, Mr. Leach.”

“Aye, that’s as may be, but at least I’m not dead, not like ye will be, my little lady. It shouldn’t o’ been high tide, but it was. Then ye should o’ broke yer back when ye hit the water. Bloody hell, that bullet should have laid ye out, but it didn’t, now did it? Yer too lucky by far, ye are. Funny how I never considered high tide. A mistake, sure enough. Aye, I should have shot ye right through yer heart, but I didn’t manage it. Nothing went right. Nothing seems to be going right for me these days. It’s a right puzzle.”

“My husband has known you all his life. Why would you wish to harm him by killing me?”

“Well, ye see, it’s like this—”

“Do be quiet, Bernard.”

Meggie looked beyond Bernard Leach’s right shoulder to see Lord Kipper standing just inside the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest, wearing riding clothes, holding a single lit candle in one hand.

“Eh, she woke up, milord.”

“Yes, I see that she did. You may go keep watch, Bernard. Oh, by the way, did you kill Thomas?”

Bernard Leach grunted, not looking at Lord Kipper.

“Did you, Bernard? While he was sleeping? While it was so easy since he was helpless, at your mercy?”

Bernard Leach darted a look at Lord Kipper, then his eyes slid away again. He was shaking his head, back and forth. “Oh no, my lord, I jest couldn’t do that. Known him all his life, little Thomas. A fine boy, an excellent man. Only her, my lord, only her, and here she is. Not Thomas, I’ll never kill Thomas. I’ll jest not do it.”

Lord Kipper sighed deeply. “We will speak of this later, Bernard. Go keep guard.”

Thomas was alive. Meggie was so relieved, so very grateful to Bernard Leach that she would have given him everything she owned. Because he’d refused to kill Thomas even though Lord Kipper had ordered him to.

Bernard Leach nodded and took himself out of the room. It was a single room, rude, bare boards forming the walls and ceiling. A cottage of some sort, likely abandoned given the filth she now saw. It was dawn and gray light was seeping through the dirty windows. Years upon years of dirt.

“Where is this place?”

“Actually, you are in a storeroom just behind my stables. No, don’t think you’ll be rescued. No one ever comes here, particularly the men searching for Jenny MacGraff. Why would they? I am Lord Kipper, you know.”

“Why do you want both Thomas and me dead?”

Lord Kipper shrugged. “I realized yesterday when Thomas and your father went around to ask each of us why we believed someone was trying to kill you that everything was collapsing about me. Someone, sooner now rather than later, would realize it had to be me.”

“Someone?”

“Yes, Libby, of course. Even though I have her in my bed again, I knew I couldn’t completely trust her to keep quiet if she did realize what I was doing. She’s got an odd streak of honor. It only shows itself on rare occasion, but I really couldn’t take the chance.”

“I don’t understand. Why did you think Libby in particular would realize the truth?”

He only smiled at her. “It’s been a very long night, a night that has kept me quite on edge. I’m really not used to that. But the night is over and soon all this will be as well.”

Meggie heard a noise. It was a soft moan, just a soft whisper really, the sound of someone barely conscious, moving around just a bit. Meggie tried to sit up, but her shoulder hurt very badly and she fell back. The dizziness hit her again, hard, made her feel as if she were floating for a moment. When the dizziness finally eased, when she saw him clearly again, Lord Kipper no longer looked remotely beautiful. His eyes looked dark and flat, he looked a bit mad. Lord Kipper, the person responsible for all this misery. At least it wasn’t either of the mothers, thank God.

She licked her dry lips. “Who was that?”

“That was Jenny MacGraff.”

Thank God was all she could think, Thank God. Jenny was still alive. “Why did you take her? Why is she here? Did Jenny discover what you were doing and you were afraid she would tell everyone?”

Lord Kipper laughed. He pinched out the candle because the room was filled with the dirty light filtered through the filthy windows. “Jenny MacGraff is incapable of finding out anything, as you mean it. No, she is merely a simple merchant’s daughter. She knows nothing, she is nothing. Nothing at all. Well, she is reasonably pretty and clean, her brain not too dulled by her breeding, and that does surprise me. No, she didn’t discover anything. I merely wished to kill both of you together, when all the damned searching was finally over. I even plan to bury you together. I think that is quite fitting.”

No, she wouldn’t let his words freeze her, terrify her into madness, she wouldn’t, but the paralyzing fear was there, deep inside her, taking hold, growing, getting stronger. Thomas knew she was missing. He would figure it out. She just had to stay alive. She had to use her wits. What were wits anyway? She had to try. Meggie drew a deep breath, said, “I don’t understand, Lord Kipper. Why the two of us? Was William right? For some reason, you don’t want either of the men of the house to be married?”

“William was close enough, actually too close, which surprised me, and perhaps, even remotely worried me. Yes, it was just a matter of time until the truth was out. But now, your time, my dear, has finally come to an end. As has Jenny MacGraff’s.”

Thomas wanted to kill the man who was shaking him so hard he knew his brains would fly right out of his head. He knew it was a man; the bastard had big hands and he was strong. Nausea rose in his throat, momentarily choking him. His belly was on fire. And then there was the damned voice that nearly sent him back into oblivion—too loud, too loud, that voice.

“Thomas, dammit, wake up! Someone struck you. Oh please, Thomas, open your eyes!”

Finally, giving it up, Thomas managed to open his eyes. He stared up at William.

“Stop pounding me or I will kill you.”

“I have to pound you. Wake up. You must wake up, Thomas. Now.”

Reason seeped back into his brain. He said, his voice raw, his words slurred, “What’s wrong?” What the devil had happened to him?

“You’re what’s wrong, dammit. There’s blood on your head. There’s this cloth on the floor that smells like something vile and sweet—some sort of drug. No, Thomas, get yourself together. Meggie’s gone. Do you want me to get Reverend Sherbrooke?”

“Yes. No. Just a moment. Help me sit up. Oh God, Meggie. She’s gone? How is that possible?”

“It’s the truth. She’s gone, I just told you that.”

His head ached like the very devil, but now who cared? Nothing mattered but Meggie. Gone? Someone had come into the White Room, struck him, and taken her? Then he knew, of course. It was because of yesterday at tea, because he’d scared the person responsible into acting immediately.

“Damnation. What time is it?”

“It’s just past dawn. I was awake, just couldn’t go back to sleep. I’ve been thinking and thinking about all this, and I wanted to see if you were awake so we could discuss it. God, Thomas, and here you were unconscious and bloody and Meggie was gone. What shall we do?”

“I’m going to dress. Get Meggie’s father. Quickly, William.”

William was out the door on a dead run, slamming it behind him. Thomas managed to pull himself out of the bed. He stood there a moment, realized he had blood on his head and face, and walked to the commode. He gingerly washed the wound with the cold water in the basin. At least now the blood was clotted and wouldn’t run down his face anymore.

He closed his eyes a moment, Meggie’s laughing face in his mind’s eye. Oh God—she’d been taken, right out of their bed, and it was his fault that it happened. He hadn’t been vigilant, taking not a single precaution, even though he’d known he’d stirred the viper’s nest. Maybe she was already dead, maybe shot again, hurled over the cliffs. No, no, dammit. He had to stop it. She was alive, he knew it to his soul.

Why hadn’t the person killed or taken him as well? Had the person who’d struck him believed him dead and just left him be in the bed? Why take Meggie?

Thank God William had come.

A few moments later the door burst open and Tysen Sherbrooke ran into the room, Mary Rose and William at his heels. Thomas had just fastened his breeches. He sat down to pull on his boots. He said, cold, calm, in control now, “I was struck down while I was sleeping. Meggie was taken. During our afternoon tea yesterday, someone said something that was close enough to the truth, so that person was forced to act immediately. Now, I think I know who it was and why he’s doing this. I think William does, too. Let’s go see my mother and Aunt Libby.”

“No, Thomas, I don’t know, not really.”

“I think someplace deep inside you, William, you know. It’s simply too painful to admit it. Everything is going to come clear soon enough.” He took his half-brother’s hand. “It will be all right. No matter what the truth is, I won’t let you stand alone. Trust me.”

William looked pale as death; slowly he nodded.

Tysen awakened Jeremy, helped Mary Rose fasten her gown, then herded the three of them to the dining room. Barnacle, Cook, and Mrs. Black were there as well, lined up like troops ready to be deployed.

Thomas said without preamble, “Aunt Libby, who is William’s father?”

“His father was the earl of Lancaster, Thomas. He is a Malcombe, just as you are a Malcombe. The only pity here is that he is the younger, not you. He could have been the earl, not you, but Madeleine came along too quickly. That was an impertinent question. You will apologize.”

“Mother, it’s too late now,” William said quietly and laid his hand on her shoulder. He was ready to face it now, had to be ready. He added, his voice thick, “Mother, please, it’s time for the truth. If for no one else, then for me.”

“My dear boy, Thomas is lying. Your father is the earl of Lancaster.”

“Aunt Libby,” Thomas said patiently, “you know that neither William nor I in any way resemble the earl of Lancaster. Both of us look more like our mothers than anyone else. It is up to you, ma’am. Who is William’s father, Aunt Libby? Tell us now. Tell William now. There’s really not much time. Meggie’s gone and we must find her before it is too late.”

She stubbornly shook her head.

“Madam,” Tysen said, rising from his chair. “My daughter is in grave danger. You will tell us the truth now or I will do something I will probably regret. Now, madam, the truth, if you please.”

William said very quietly, pain and dread mixed in his voice, “It is Lord Kipper, isn’t it, Mother?”

She turned utterly white, froze in her place, her eyes fastened on her folded hands.

“Lord Kipper,” Tysen repeated slowly.

“Yes, William,” Thomas said, “I believe he is your father and that explains everything, now doesn’t it?”

Madeleine said, “But William is not beautiful like Lord Kipper is. What a wretched thing. How very unfair.”

“But, Thomas,” William said, ignoring her, “I was with him, I swear it to you, when Jenny was taken. That’s why I believed I must be wrong. You see, I was beginning to wonder why he gave me so much attention, wonder why he always inquired so closely into what I wanted to do, how I felt about things. He was acting like—a man who was related to me, like a man who wanted to claim me somehow, to teach me, to guide me.”

“Like a father,” Thomas said.

“Yes, and it scared me to my toes. That’s why I came to your bedchamber early this morning. I knew I couldn’t wait. But I wanted you to tell me it was nonsense, I really did.”

“Yes,” Thomas said, “I know Lord Kipper was with you. That just means that he hired someone else to help him.”

Libby said very quietly, “I didn’t want to believe it, truly, I didn’t. I forced myself not to think about it. When Jenny MacGraff disappeared, I was relieved, pleased that she was gone, that she wouldn’t drag your name down by marrying you. I wanted her to have run off to Dublin. I prayed it was true. I was lying to myself. And look at what has happened. I’m very sorry.” She looked up at her son, closed her hand over his. “I’m very, very sorry.”

William was shaking his head, not looking at his mother.

Libby said, “Niles has had Bernard Leach here for a good long time now.”

Thomas said, cocking his head to the side, his voice puzzled, “But Lord Kipper bedded Marie Leach, he said so, said that Bernard was a sot and a clod. It was obvious to me that Lord Kipper had nothing but contempt for Bernard Leach. Why would he let Bernard stay with him?”

Libby shrugged. “I saw Bernard. I wasn’t supposed to, but I did, out by the stables one morning when I was leaving. Why was he there? I don’t know.”

“He was there as Lord Kipper’s tool,” Thomas said. “That’s it, then. We know enough. William, sir, Jeremy, are you ready?”

35

THOMAS WOULD COME, her father with him. Perhaps even Jeremy. She had to keep herself alive, just had to. She remembered she’d sworn to Thomas she would never leave him. She wasn’t about to break that promise.

Lord Kipper had fallen silent. He was standing over Jenny MacGraff, a thoughtful expression on his face. He looked suddenly vicious. She watched him lift one of his riding boots and kick her in the ribs.

Meggie saw red, reared up onto her elbows. It hurt, but she didn’t care. “You bastard, don’t do that again. Damn you, you miserable coward!”

Lord Kipper ignored her. He said, both his voice and his expression utterly dismissive, and listened to Jenny moan, “She is so very common. I could not allow her to marry William. A travesty, that’s what it would have been.”

Meggie saw that Jenny was lying on her side, huddled in on herself on the bare floor. She was slight, her hair pale, her skin very white. She was very young and very pretty. She was also alarmingly pale. She was wearing a simple muslin gown that was twisted about her knees, woolen stockings, and one black slipper. The other one had come off her foot and was lying several feet away from her.

“No,” Lord Kipper said, his voice meditative now, as if he were speaking to himself, “I could not allow her to marry William.” Then he looked over at Meggie. “Don’t you understand yet? This merchant’s daughter couldn’t be the next countess of Lancaster. Any fool in his right mind would realize what a bitter jest that would be. Thomas forced my hand when he ordered William to marry her on Sunday. I had to do something, and so I did. And then yesterday at the damned tea party your husband set up—William was so very close. And I saw that everyone else was now thinking about that. Everything would soon come down on my head and I couldn’t have that, not until I’d fixed everything.”

Meggie said slowly, “You are willing to kill three innocent people because you want William to be the next earl of Lancaster? Blessed Hell, why would you care who is the earl of Lancaster? It’s nothing to do with you.”

“What a stupid question, Meggie. Haven’t you yet realized that I am William’s father?”

Meggie said nothing for a full minute, then quietly, nodding slowly, “You should be ever so pleased then that he got Jenny pregnant. He also got another girl in Glenclose-on-Rowan pregnant. He is just like you, isn’t he? Like father like son. Do you hate the women you have despoiled?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Women are women, they are to be used, to be enjoyed. All of you are silly creatures, at least most of you are. As for my son, in that William much likes to bed women, yes, he is like me, actually like practically all men, truth be told. Some of us are masters at it, most aren’t. Unfortunately, William is one of the latter. He does not have my charm or my brain, but I will teach him. Surely he will improve once he knows that I am his father, once he knows what I have given him. Yes, once William knows that the old earl of Lancaster was so obsessed, so gripped with the belief that he could not trust a woman to bear his son and not another man’s, he will thank me, he will bless fate that gave me him as his father and not that miserable old man. Interesting, isn’t it? The old earl sewed the seeds of his own destruction. His father was the same way, I understand.”

“Evidently, the old earl was right not to trust Libby, wasn’t he?”

“He shouldn’t have distrusted her, she never gave him a reason. Our brief liaison was discreet, William the result. No, Titus Malcombe was a mad, stupid man. At least I had Libby come here to Pendragon after he booted her and William out. I’ve looked after both her and William over the years. I expect William will be so relieved that Lord Lancaster isn’t his father that he will fall upon my neck.” Lord Kipper grinned at that thought, and for just an instant, there was a warmth in his eyes. “I will bring him to live with me for a while, to complete his education.”

“The earl of Lancaster was Thomas’s father, wasn’t he?”

Lord Kipper shrugged, eyes dead again. “I know that Madeleine played him false one time. Was he Thomas’s father or was his father Madeleine’s lover? I don’t know. I don’t really care. Yes, William will learn everything from me, his real father. He is still very young. He will not disappoint me.”

Meggie said, “If he doesn’t learn, will you kill him, too?”

“Shut up, you stupid girl. You paint me as a monster, but I’m not. I want my son to have what should be his. I’ve been planning this for a very long time. Once he is the earl of Lancaster, I will marry Libby and adopt William, so that when I die, he will also gain my title and lands. No one will ever know that he is a bastard. It will be our little family secret.”

“Is William, I wonder, bereft of any sort of human decency, like you, his father?”

He stepped toward her, his fist raised, then stopped. He shrugged. “It doesn’t matter what you think, what you say. I merely do what I must, no more, no less. Actually, as it turned out, it wasn’t such a bad thing that Thomas met you and fell in love with you—ah, that’s a stupidity, isn’t it? This love business that doesn’t exist in this benighted world. But that’s not at all to the point. You brought him a splendid dowry—that is what’s important—and that will mean all the more money for William and his heirs.”

“I will wager you that right this minute Thomas knows you are the evil behind all this. He is right now searching for you.”

“No, you’re wrong, not yet, not yet. But it will be close. I will mourn your loss, Meggie, you may count on that. Yes, I must move quickly now. I’m sorry for your death, but in the long run you’re not really important.” He saw that she was shaking her head at him, that she was so pale, she already looked dead. Such a pity, but no choice. “Listen to me,” he said. “I could not allow you to have a child, and the good Lord knows that would certainly be the outcome since the two of you are consumed with lust for each other. And imagine, you a vicar’s daughter. Yes, you having a child, that would have complicated matters far too much. You must die now, Meggie, common Jenny with you.

“Thomas, well, I suppose I myself must see to his removal since Bernard doesn’t have the guts to. Perhaps I will let him go easily, an accident in his curricle, perhaps. That will do nicely. Yes, Bernard is a coward, when all is said and done.”

Talk, she had to keep talking, slow down time itself. “What really happened to Marie?”

“Ah, I forgot that you and Thomas were both there, witnesses to our little drama. It was I who had to string Marie up by her neck after that fool Bernard had killed her when she dished out too many insults on his head—not that he didn’t deserve all her rage—the lazy sod. No, he strangled her, then didn’t have the guts to hang her up. He cried and carried on the whole time. Then when I saw the carriage stop outside the inn, I hit him on the head and left him on the kitchen floor for you to find. Imagine, it was Thomas and his new bride who walked in the inn. I have smiled a bit over that.”

“You decided to blame it on the Grakers.”

“That is what Bernard wanted to do. I told him no one could be so stupid as to believe any of that nonsense, but he insisted, said the legends claimed the Grakers hanged their enemies. The next day he was evidently consumed by guilt and got himself blithering drunk, and spewed it all out, luckily only to that wretched stable boy, and he knew he had to escape, and so he did. He came here. I will remove Bernard when all this is done and over.”

“What happened to the stable lad?”

Lord Kipper shrugged. “Bernard strangled him and buried him behind the stable, at least that is what he told me. Now, enough, Meggie. It’s time for you to say farewell to this life. Your father is a vicar, a man of God. I assume he raised you in his beliefs. Do you believe in God, Meggie? Do you believe in a splendid afterlife for all those who are worthy?”

“Yes.”

“I’m glad you will have some comfort. Now, I will shoot cleanly this time, and then it will be over.”

“I don’t believe you. It was you who killed Marie, wasn’t it, not poor Bernard.”

“No, she pushed him over the edge, finally. Now, you’re trying to distract me, and it is a paltry attempt. It’s over now, Meggie.”

Meggie stared at that black ugly gun he was lifting in his hand. She couldn’t look away from it. She didn’t want to die, she didn’t. With all her strength, she lunged toward him, her hands out, clutching for that gun. She managed to grab his hand, twisted it upward as he pulled the trigger. It was an immense explosion in that small room. She heard a chunk of the wall explode.

He slammed her back with his fist. He was cursing her, hitting her again, hard on the jaw, and Meggie knew she was moaning, knew that she was nearly unconscious, pain from her shoulder ripping through her. She was panting, panting, so afraid, and now she watched him through pain-blurred eyes as he walked out of the cottage. He was leaving? No, he was getting Bernard’s gun.

She tried to rise, but couldn’t, she was just too weak. She lay there, wanting to cry because she’d failed, because all she’d done was just put off the inevitable.

Too soon, too soon she watched him come back into the room, and in his hand he held not a gun, but some stout string. He was wrapping it around his hands, pulling on it, testing its strength. She didn’t want to be strangled, but now there wouldn’t be a choice.

He came closer and closer. “Bernard always carries this stout string. He did kill Marie, this is what he likes to do, strangle women.”

He dropped a knee onto the cot and leaned over her. “Now it’s over,” he said, and lifted her head. She tried to fight him, tried to twist out of the way. She felt the string, knots along its length close around her neck. She was so weak but still she had to try. She was trying desperately to pull the string loose from her neck, jerk his hands away, but it didn’t slow him at all. There was no more strength, none at all now. She felt his hands tightening the string, felt the knots digging into her flesh. Obscene sounds filled the room, gurgling sounds, and she was light-headed, the pain in her neck building and building.

She couldn’t die, just couldn’t, but there was nothing left now, nothing she could do.

Then, suddenly the knots weren’t digging so deeply, the string was becoming slack. Meggie opened her eyes to look up at him. His face was a mask of surprise and shock. He huffed out a breath and fell sideways, crashing to the floor.

Jenny MacGraff stood over him, his empty gun held in her hand. He moaned and both women froze. Jenny very calmly went down on her knees and struck him hard against the temple. When she rose, she said to Meggie, “We’ve won. What a horrible man. Are you all right, my lady?”

“Yes, thank you.” Her voice was a croak, and she was pulling frantically at the knotted string. She had to get it off her, had to. Her voice was raw, painful, but there was no hope for it. “We haven’t won yet. There is still Bernard. Quickly, Jenny, he’s outside.”

Jenny nodded and crept toward the door. She opened it, saw Bernard was riding away.

She turned. “He’s run again,” she said, then walked slowly over to where Lord Kipper lay. She raised her foot and kicked him hard in the ribs.

“Is he dead?”

Jenny shook her head. “No. But he should be. I hit him hard enough that second time.”

“Don’t you end it, Jenny. Let him hang,” Meggie whispered since it hurt so badly. “Yes, let him hang.” Then she held out her hand to Jenny MacGraff. “I am so glad you will be my new sister. Thank you, Jenny. I am Meggie. I would have welcomed you to Pendragon, but that bastard took you first.”

“How do you feel? Your voice sounds a little bit better, thank God.”

“Yes, it’s not quite so bad now. Sit here beside me. Thomas will come soon.”

When Thomas, William, Tysen, and Jeremy arrived a half hour later, bursting through the door into the cottage, they saw Jenny sitting on a narrow dirty cot holding Meggie’s hand. Lord Kipper lay unconscious on the floor, his wrists bound with the knotted string he’d used to strangle Meggie, his shirt ripped off him, the remnants tying his ankles together.

Thomas walked to the cot, stood there over her, saying not a word until Jenny eased out of the way.

Meggie smiled, a very big smile, and said, her voice not as raw now, “Jenny saved us. She hit him over the head when he was strangling me.”

Strangling her. Oh God, he was trembling, he just couldn’t help it. He stood there like a palsied man, trembling, so weak with relief, with gratitude to Jenny MacGraff that he wanted to shout with it.

Meggie smiled when her father shoved Thomas out of the way, came down to sit beside her on the cot, and held her close. He buried his face in her hair. “My dearest heart, you’re alive. This was too close, Meggie. Far too close. Your voice—that will probably take some time to heal. Are you all right?”

“Oh yes,” Meggie said, “I’m just fine now,” and she looked toward her husband, who was staring down at her, and that look on his face was one of hunger, immense hunger. “Let me see my husband, Father,” and Tysen smiled, hugged her one last time and went to stand by William, who was holding Jenny tightly against his side, and there was Jeremy, smiling toward her, nodding, and there was gratitude and immense relief in his eyes.

“Thomas,” she said, everything she felt in her voice, shining on her face. “Please come and hold me.”

When his arms went around her, when she was pressed against his shoulder, breathing in his scent, when she felt him trembling, she knew everything was going to be all right. She realized in that instant that she felt whole and somehow new. Life was different now because she was different. She saw things in a way she never had before. She knew what was important now, knew it all the way to her soul. It was her husband. It was Thomas. She looked again at Jeremy, saw a man she would like and admire for the rest of her life, her children playing with his, this man, her almost dratted cousin, who cared enough about her to come with her father and Mary Rose to Pendragon.

He was Jeremy now. He was exactly what he should be.

She felt Thomas easing her back in his arms, and she smiled up at him, touching her fingertips to his lips, seeing all of him now, seeing the endless love for her in his dark eyes, the fear that he’d almost lost her this one final time. He was hers now, and she wanted him with all her spirit and heart.

She said, wishing she didn’t still sound so very much like a croaking toad, “My throat will be all right. I’m very sorry that you’ve been so scared for me.”

He pressed his forehead against hers. “Don’t talk. I don’t want you in more pain.”

“Believe me, it doesn’t hurt me to tell you how I feel. I have never been more pleased to see anyone in my whole life. When you came bursting through that door, I knew that our life would never be the same again. There would be no more doubts, no more suspicions, you would never again wonder about what your wife thought and felt. I saw you, Thomas, really saw you. I realized that I love you. With all my heart. I love you more than I could ever imagine loving anyone, ever.”

He hurt her he hugged her so tightly against him, but Meggie didn’t mind. She closed her eyes, kissed his neck, and felt his heart beating, steady and strong, against hers. She looked over at William, who was still hugging Jenny tightly, whispering against her temple, kissing her hair. It made Meggie wonder if just perhaps there might be something worth saving in William after all. One thing she knew for sure, no one would ever know that he wasn’t the earl of Lancaster’s second son.

Epilogue

IT WAS A beautiful summer morning in late July. Just outside Kinsale, at the edge of Pendragon land, lay the freshly prepared Pendragon Racetrack, newly initiated this very day. The dowager countess of Lancaster, Madeleine Malcombe, was the mistress of ceremonies. Like Lady Dauntry of the famed McCaulty Racetrack, she stood on a dais, surrounded by at least one hundred people.

Cats heaved and panted and tried to escape their trainers’ arms.

She called out, loud enough to be heard all the way to Cork, “CATS READY!”

Miss Crittenden of the Pendragon mews, who’d been meowing her head off, struggling to get free of Thomas, her secondary trainer, the only one strong enough to hold her steady, suddenly stiffened like a cannon, every muscle tensed. She was ready to run.

“CATS SET!”

There were twelve new racing cats, some confused, some eager for whatever was going to happen, some bored, some wishing there was food in their trainers’ hands, some wanting just to bathe themselves or sleep in a nice shady spot under a bush.

None of the participants, none of the attendees, none of the trainers, particularly Meggie, had any idea at all of what was going to happen.

Madeleine yelled, her hands cupping her mouth, “FREE THE CATS!”

They were off, at least five of them were, Miss Crittenden among them, thank the good Lord else Meggie’s credibility would have been sorely in question. She was running behind Jubilee, a howling black beast with witch green eyes, from Jenny Malcombe’s new, exclusive training mews, who was running straight and fast.

Meggie felt a moment of base envy. Jenny shouldn’t know success this quickly, it wouldn’t be fair, not after all Meggie’s work, all her dedication.

Meggie yelled, “Run, Miss Crittenden! Get Jubilee, pull him down, chew his neck! Run!”

The crowd, until this moment, not really knowing what to do, took up chants for the racing cat each of them was rooting for to win.

The noise was deafening. This was both good and bad. The noise made Jubilee and Miss Crittenden run all the faster because Meggie had shared with Jenny that they must accustom the cats to cheering, and so they had until all the stable lads were hoarse.

Two of the cats, calico sisters, nearly three years old and fast, suddenly stopped dead in their tracks, sat back on their haunches, stared a moment at all the ridiculous shouting and jumping people, and began licking each other, even though their ears were forward, taking in all the cheering. Meggie knew this was their way of coping with this unexpected chaos.

Butch, a lean and hungry black-and-white spotted mouser from the Witcherly mews, suddenly rose straight in the air, his hair sticking up, an impressive distance up since he was a longhair, and fell flat onto his side, evidently insensible from all the excitement.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, came Brutus, Thomas’s dog. He burst onto the track, right behind Miss Crittenden and Jubilee. Both Jenny and Meggie were now standing at the finish line, frozen in horror as Brutus caught up with Miss Crittenden, grabbed her tail in his teeth, and hurled her a good six feet off the track.

No one had thought to mention that a dog anywhere near a cat racetrack wasn’t to be allowed.

Thomas shouted at the dog, but Brutus wasn’t about to stop this new sport.

Thomas shook his head, looked toward his appalled wife, and said, “Oops.” He ran after Brutus.

Jubilee, an intense, sober cat, saw the dog’s shadow, knew time was short, girded her loins, and leapt—at least six feet off the track to land on top of small Liam MacBail’s back. Brutus was blocked by Liam’s mother, who smacked him in the head. Jubilee jerked her claws out of Liam, ran back toward the track, then stopped, confused, until she heard Jenny’s voice yelling, “Come to me, Jubilee, you can do it, come to me, run, you little critter!”

As for Miss Crittenden, she was flailing her tail about, thankfully still attached, back on the track now and running straight at Meggie, who appeared to be her only savior amid the chaos and the wildly barking dog she heard behind her.

Meggie hated to admit it, but this was a new training technique to be carefully considered. A dog chasing a cat. It did add motivation. In this case Miss Crittenden had never run so fast in her life.

Brutus was panting, his tongue lolling, hurtling down the track after her, shaking his head now, doubtless to clear it from the smack he’d gotten from Liam’s mother, Thomas right behind him.

Miss Crittenden leapt the last four feet, sailed high in the air, and landed right into Meggie’s arms, nearly knocking her backward. Brutus barked loudly, and before Thomas could stop him, leapt at Meggie.

Everyone went down in a welter of arms and legs, flying fur and yowls.

Brutus was licking Meggie’s face, then barking, then licking some more, then eyeing Miss Crittenden and barking even more loudly, as he tried to get to her.

Madeleine shouted, cupping her hands over her mouth to be heard, “Miss Crittenden is the winner!”

Thomas managed to pull a very excited Brutus off Meggie, peel Miss Crittenden from beneath Meggie’s arm, and helped his laughing wife up, whose face was shiny from Brutus’s licking.

Meggie looked around at all the loudly cheering crowd of neighbors and villagers. There were yells and shouts; some people were laughing so hard they were holding their sides.

She hugged Thomas to her. She was grinning so wildly her face threatened to split. “Our first cat race. And there was an actual winner. Isn’t this splendid, Thomas? Our Miss Crittenden won, she really won. She beat Jubilee, and let me tell you, I was worried about that cat.”

He couldn’t help himself. He lifted his wife and whirled her around him. Meggie suddenly yowled as loud as any racing cat. Miss Crittenden was climbing her skirt, fast.

“No obstacle is too great,” Thomas said as he eased both his wife and Miss Crittenden down, “for a true racing cat to surmount.”

Madeleine yelled out, “The soon-to-be legendary prize for the winner of the quarter-of-a-mile race, is a magnificent set of collars, handmade by none other than the other dowager countess of Lancaster.”

More cheering.

Libby bowed and walked sedately to where Meggie had finally gotten herself together and was holding a more composed Miss Crittenden in her arms.

Jenny was standing beside her, holding Jubilee, who looked disgruntled, occasionally spitting toward Miss Crittenden, a very natural thing, Meggie assured her even as she was grinning like a fool. William was patting Jenny’s head in commiseration, in much the same way as he patted his new wife’s growing belly in pleasure.

“Very easy for you to say since you’re the winner,” Jenny said. “That damned dog just about scared Jubilee out of her fur.”

Brutus sat on his haunches, his tail a steady metronome, fluffing up dirt, Thomas holding him firmly. He was eyeing the cat collar as Meggie fastened it around Miss Crittenden’s neck. There were small emeralds sewn into the collar, as green as Ireland’s hills after a summer rain.

It was a beautiful day on the coast of southwestern Ireland, the first day a cat race had ever been run there. It wouldn’t be the last.

And luckily, there had actually been a winner.

Dear Reader:

Are you ever in for a reading treat—Jaclyn Reding’s The Pretender. You’ll meet Douglas MacKinnon, an earl on the Isle of Skye, the first of three Highland Lords you’ll read about in the Highland Heroes Trilogy.

We’re back in 1746, after the Battle of Culloden. Douglas finds himself married to an English duke’s bluestocking daughter, Elizabeth, and the chances for peace and harmony in this mismatch, don’t look so good.

You will really enjoy The Pretender. Write yourself a reminder so you don’t miss it when it comes out in March 2002.

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

The Sherbrooke Twins

A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author

All rights reserved.

Copyright © 2004 by Catherine Coulter

This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.

For information address:

The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is

http://www.penguinputnam.com

ISBN: 978-1-1012-1469-5

A JOVE BOOK®

Jove Books first published by The Jove Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

JOVE and the “J” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.

Electronic edition: June, 2004

Dear Reader:

The Sherbrooke family saga continues with James and Jason Sherbrooke, identical male twins who look exactly like their beautiful Aunt Melissande, and not at all like their father, the earl, which riles him to no end.

James, twenty-eight minutes older than his brother, is the heir. He is solid, is James. He’s a student of astronomy, rides like a centaur, and unlike his brother, Jason, enjoys learning the ropes of managing his father’s estates. He no longer sows excessive wild oats, as his neighbor, Corrie Tybourne-Barrett, a brat he’s known since she was three years old, looks forward to doing since she turned eighteen. When she nearly shoves him off a cliff, sneering all the while, James hauls off and spanks her.

A promising start. Then, unfortunately, the earl, Douglas Sherbrooke, is shot at. This leads to Georges Cadoudal, a Frenchman in the employ of the English War Ministry with whom Douglas had dealings some years before. But Cadoudal died in 1815, fifteen years earlier. Were there children who might want revenge against Douglas? But the question is why: Georges and Douglas parted friends—at least Douglas believed that they had.

Adventures compound; Corrie hurls herself into the thick of things. As for Jason, he swims like a fish, loves horses, wants to start a stud farm, still sows more oats than a man should be allowed, but finally meets a girl who stops him in his tracks. And then what happens?

You will have to read the book to find out. I hope you enjoy yourself. The characters are rich, colorful, and a hoot to boot. The mystery will confound you.

Do let me know what you think. Write me at P.O. Box 17, Mill Valley, CA, 94942 or e-mail me at readmoi@aol.com. Keep an eye on my website at www.CatherineCoulter.com.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

Who can refute a sneer?

WILLIAM PALEY

NORTHCLIFFE HALL

AUGUST 1830

James Sherbrooke, Lord Hammersmith, twenty-eight minutes older than his brother, wondered if Jason was swimming in the North Sea off the coast of Stonehaven. His brother swam like a fish, no matter if the water froze his parts or cradled him in a warm bath. He’d say while he shook himself like their hound Tulip, “Now, James, that doesn’t matter, does it? It’s rather like making love. You can be on a grainy beach with cold waves nipping your toes, or wallowing in a feather tick—in the end the pleasure’s the same.”

James had never made love on a grainy beach, but he supposed his twin was right. Jason had a way of putting things that amused you even as you nodded in agreement. Jason had inherited this gift, if that’s what it really was, from their mother, who’d once said as she’d looked lovingly at James, that she’d delivered one gift from God and now it was time to grit her teeth and deliver the other gift. This had gained her looks of sheer amazement from her sons, and, of course, nods, at which point, their father gave them both a look of acute dislike, snorted, and said, “Gifts from the Devil, more like.”

“My precious boys,” she’d say, “it’s such a pity you’re so beautiful, isn’t it? It really annoys your father.”

They’d stare at her, but again, they’d nod.

James sighed and stepped away from the cliff that overlooked the Poe Valley, a lovely stretch of undulating green, dotted with maple and lime trees and divided by ancient fences. The Poe Valley was protected on all sides by the low-lying Trelow hills; James always believed that some of those long, rounded hills were ancient barrows. He and Jason had built countless adventures about the possible inhabitants of those barrows—Jason had always liked to be the warrior who wore bearskins, painted his face blue, and ate raw meat. As for James, he was the shaman who flicked his fingers and made smoke spiral into the sky and rained flame down on the warriors.

James stepped back from the edge. He’d fallen off that cliff once because he and Jason had been fighting with swords, and Jason had flattened his sword button against James’s gullet, and James had grabbed his neck and flailed about—all drama and no style, Jason told him later. He’d lost his footing and tumbled down the hill, his brother’s yells blasting. “You stupid bloody bleater, don’t you dare kill yourself! It was only a neck wound!”

He’d been laughing even as he’d landed. Hard. But thankfully he’d survived with just a mass of bruises on his face and ribs, which made his Aunt Melissande, who’d been visiting Northcliffe Hall, shriek as she’d run her hands over his face. “Oh my dear boy, you must take care of your exquisite and perfect face, and I should know since it’s mine.” And his father, the earl, had said to the heavens, “How could such a thing have happened?”

It was true. James and Jason were the image of their glorious Aunt Melissande, not a single red hair from their mother’s head or a single dark eye from their father. All their features were from their Aunt Melissande, which made no sense to anyone. Except their size, thank God. They were both near the size of their father, and that pleased him inordinately. Their mother had actually said something to the effect that, “A boy should be almost as big as his father and almost as smart; it’s what all fathers want. Possibly mothers too.” And her boys had blinked at her and nodded.

James had heard a rumor many years before that his father had wanted to marry his Aunt Melissande, and would have, if it hadn’t been for his Uncle Tony, who’d up and stolen her. James couldn’t imagine such a thing. Not that his Uncle Tony had stolen her, but that his Aunt Melissande hadn’t preferred his father. His mother had stepped into the breach, luckily for James and Jason, who, although they found their aunt very interesting, loved their mother to their toes. Fortunately, they had the Sherbrooke brains. Their father had told them many times, “Brains are more important than your damned beautiful faces. If either of you ever forget that, I’ll pound you into the ground.”

“Ah, but their beautiful faces are extraordinarily manly,” their mother had hastened to add, and patted them both.

James was grinning at that memory when he heard a shout and turned to see Corrie Tybourne-Barrett, an annoyance who’d been in his life nearly as long as she’d been in hers, riding like a boy with more guts than brains up the slope, bringing her mare Darlene to an abrupt stop not two feet from the cliff edge and only one foot from him. To his credit, James didn’t even twitch. He looked up at her, so angry he wanted to hurl her to the ground. But he managed to say in a fairly calm voice, “That was stupid. It rained yesterday and the ground isn’t all that firm. You’re not ten years old anymore, Corrie. You must stop acting like a boy with mud between his ears. Now back up Darlene, slow and easy. If you’re not worried about killing yourself, you might want to think about your mare.”

Corrie stared down at him and said, “I admire how you can speak so calmly when smoke is coming out of your ears. You don’t fool me for one minute, James Sherbrooke.” She sneered down at him, and click-clicked her mare right into him, nearly knocking him over. He side-stepped, patted Darlene’s nose, and said, “You’re right. Smoke is coming out of my ears. Do you remember that day you wanted to prove how skilled you were and rode that half-wild stallion my father had just bought? That damned horse nearly killed me when I was trying to save you, which, fool that I was, I did.”

“I didn’t need you to save me, James. I was skilled, even at twelve.”

“I suppose you planned to have your legs wrapped around that horse’s neck, hanging on, screaming. Ah, that was a measure of your skill, wasn’t it? And don’t forget the time you told my father that I had seduced a Don’s wife at Oxford, knowing he’d be furious at me.”

“That’s not true, James. He wasn’t furious, at least not at first. He first wanted proof because he said he couldn’t imagine you being that stupid.”

“I wasn’t stupid, damn you. It took me a good two months to convince Father that it was all your doing, and you whimpered and whined that it was just a wee bit of a little joke.”

She smiled. “I even found out the name of one of the Dons’ wives to make it more believable.”

He shuddered, remembering clearly the look on his father’s face. “You want to know something, Corrie? I think it’s long past due that someone explained manners to you.” Without warning, he grabbed her arm and pulled her down off Darlene’s back and dragged her over to a rock. He sat down and pulled her between his legs. “This thrashing is long overdue.” Before she could begin to imagine what he was going to do, James flipped her over on her belly across his legs and brought the flat of his hand down hard on her breeched bottom. She gasped and yowled and struggled, but he was strong, more than determined, and held her easily. “If you had on a riding skirt,” smack, smack, smack, “this wouldn’t hurt because you’d have a half dozen petticoats to pad you.” Smack, smack, smack.

Corrie fought him, twisting, and yelling, “Stop this now, James! You can’t do this, you idiot! I’m a girl, and I’m not even your bloody sister.”

“Thank God for that. Do you remember the time you slipped that medicine in my tea and my bowels were water for a day and a half?”

“I didn’t think it would last so long. Stop, James, this isn’t proper!”

“Oh, now that’s rich. It isn’t proper, you say? I’ve been saddled with you all your blessed life. I remember seeing your skinny little backside when you were swimming in Trenton’s pond. All the rest of you as well.”

“I was eight years old!”

“You don’t act much older now. This, Corrie, is long overdue discipline. Just consider me acting in your Uncle Simon’s place.”

James stopped. He just couldn’t wallop her again, despite the overflowing memories of atrocious things she’d done to him over the years. He started to roll her off his lap, then saw the rocks on the ground. “Oh damnation, brat,” he said, and lifted her off his legs to set her on her feet. She stood there, rubbing her bottom, staring at him. If looks could kill, he’d be dead at her feet. He rose and shook a finger at her, much in the same manner as a long-ago tutor, Mr. Boniface. “Don’t be such a pitiful little sissy. Your bottom smarts a little, nothing more.” He looked fixedly at his boots a moment, then said, “How old are you, Corrie? I forget.”

She sniveled, wiped her hand across her running nose, stuck her chin up, and said, “I’m eighteen.”

He whipped his head up, appalled. “No, no, that’s impossible. Just look at you, a hairless young man who just happens to have a round butt beneath those ridiculous britches that no self-respecting young man would ever want. Well, I didn’t mean to say it exactly like that.”

“I am eighteen years old. Do you hear me, James Sherbrooke? What’s so impossible about that? And do you know what else?”

He stared down at her, slowly shaking his head.

“I’ve had a round backside for at least three years now! And do you know what else?”

“How was I ever to notice, what with the breeches you wear, bagging off your bottom. What else?”

“This is important, James. I am having a sort of practice season this fall. Aunt Maybella says it’s called the Little Season. And that means I’ll wear fancy gowns and silk stockings with garters to hold them up, and shoes that will raise me off the ground a good two inches. It means I’m now a grown-up. I will put my hair up, smear cream all over me so I’ll be soft, and show off my bosom.”

“It will take buckets of cream.”

“Just maybe. But I’ll soften up sooner or later and then it will take less. So what?”

“Show off what bosom?”

To his absolute horror, James believed for one second that she was going to rip her shirt open and show him her breasts, but thankfully reason prevailed and she said, eyes slits now, “I have a bosom, a very nice one that just happens to be hidden right now.”

“Hidden where?” He looked around.

She actually flushed. James would have apologized if he hadn’t known her all her life—seen her as a five-year-old with no front teeth trying to figure out how to bite into an apple, assured her she wasn’t dying when she’d begun her woman’s monthly flow at thirteen, and been the recipient of that sneer of hers too many times in recent years.

She poked her fingers against her chest. “They’re all in here, smashed down. But when I unsmash them and frame them with satin and lace, a dozen gentlemen will very likely swoon.”

He tried on one of her sneers and found that it fit him well enough. “Only in your twit’s dreams will you be able to unsmash that much. Good Lord, I’m picturing a board with knots on it.”

“A board with knots? That’s very mean of you, James.”

“Very well, you’re right. I apologize. What I should have said was that the thought of your unsmashed chest boggles my mind.”

“There’s nothing but swamp water in your mind.” She drew herself up, threw back her shoulders, stuck out her chest, and said, “My Aunt Maybella assured me this will happen.”

Since James had known Maybella Ambrose, Lady Montague, practically since his birth, he didn’t believe this for an instant. “What did she really say?”

“Very well, Aunt Maybella said something about when I was cleaned up properly I shouldn’t disgrace them. As long as I wear blue, just like her.”

“That sounds more like it.”

“Don’t you slap me in the face with your insults, James Sherbrooke. You know my aunt, she’s a veritable mistress of understatement. What she really means is that I will knock them down in the street when I ride by in my very own curricle, holding, perhaps, a poodle on my lap.”

“The only way you would knock down gentlemen is if you were driving.”

It was a meaty insult. Shaking her fist in his face, she bellowed at him, “You listen to me, you codsbreath! I drive as well as you do, maybe better. I have heard it remarked many times—I have the better eye.”

That was so patently absurd that James just rolled his own eyes. “All right, name one person who remarked that.”

“Your father, for one.”

“Impossible. My father taught me to drive. My eye is as good as his, probably better now since he’s getting old.”

She gave him a beatific smile. “Your father taught me to drive as well. And he’s not old at all. What he is is very handsome and wicked—I heard Aunt Maybella saying that to her friend, Mrs. Hubbard.”

That nearly made him puke. As for her driving, James remembered seeing the girl sitting proudly beside his father, hanging on his every word. He remembered feeling a stab of jealousy. It was mean-spirited, particularly since both Corrie’s father and mother had been killed in a riot right after Napoleon’s defeat at Waterloo. It was an unfortunate accident that happened during an official visit by Corrie’s father, diplomatic envoy Benjamin Tybourne-Barrett, Viscount Plessante, to Paris to discuss the second restoration of the Bourbons with Talleyrand and Fouché.

Talleyrand had seen to it that Corrie, not yet three years old, was returned to England to her mother’s sister in the company of her dead mother’s heartbroken maid, and six French soldiers, who were not warmly treated.

When James finally brought his brain back, it was to hear her say, “And my uncle will have fits trying to decide which gentleman is good enough for me. I shall have my pick, you know, and that immensely lucky man will be strong and handsome and very rich, and nothing like you, James.” Another sneer, this one very refined, meant to make him shake with rage. “Just look at your eyelashes, all thick and poking out a good inch, like a Spanish lady’s fan. Even a little curl on the ends. Yes, you’ve got a girl’s eyelashes.”

He’d only been ten years old when his mother had come up with the right answer for him, and so he smiled now and said easily, “You’re wrong about that. I’ve never met a girl who had eyelashes as long and as thick as mine.”

She was silent, her mouth open. She couldn’t think of a thing to say. He laughed. “Leave my face out of this, brat. It has nothing to do with your bosom. Bosom, for God’s sake. Men don’t say bosom.”

“What do men say?”

“Never you mind. You’re too young. And you’re a lady. Well, not really, but you should be since you’re eighteen. No, I can’t believe you’re eighteen. That means nearly twenty, which would place you in the same decade as I am. It’s just not possible.”

“You bought me a birthday present just two weeks ago.”

He gave her a perfectly blank look.

Corrie smacked her palm to her forehead. “Oh, I see now, your mother bought the present and put your name on it.”

“Well, that’s not really what happened, it’s—”

“All right. Then what did you get me?”

“Well, you know, Corrie, it’s been a long time.”

“Two weeks, you bloody sod.”

“Watch your mouth, my girl, or I’ll smack you again. You talk like a damned boy. I should have gotten a riding crop for your birthday so I could use it on you when the need arose. Like right now.”

He took a menacing step toward her, got hold of himself, and stopped. To his amazement, she walked right up to him, stood toe-to-toe, sneered up at him, and said in his face, “A riding crop? You just try it. I’ll take it away from you, rip off your shirt, and whip you with it.”

“Now that’s a sight I’d like to see.”

“Well, maybe I’d leave your shirt on you. After all, I’m a gently bred young lady and it wouldn’t do for me to see a half-naked man.”

He was laughing so hard he nearly fell backward off the damned cliff.

She wasn’t done, humiliation ripe in her voice. “You used your hand when you whipped me—your naked hand. I’ll wager I’m scarred for life, you bully.”

He grinned down at her. “Your bottom still smarting a bit?”

To his amazement, she blushed.

“Is your face turning red as well?”

She opened her mouth, then tears welled up in her eyes, and she jerked away, climbed into Darlene’s saddle, and straightened. She gave him a long, emotionless look, twitched Darlene’s reins, making her rear on her hind legs, sending James stumbling back. He heard her shout, “I will ask my uncle what men call a bosom.”

He devoutly hoped she wouldn’t. He could picture her Uncle Simon’s eyes rolling back as he keeled over in his chair, his glasses sliding off his face. Uncle Simon was at home with his collection of leaves. He had leaves, carefully dried and pressed, from every tree found in Britain, France, and even two from Greece, one of them from an ancient olive tree near the Oracle of Delphi. Leaves, but not females. Uncle Simon wasn’t at home at all with females. James watched her ride away, not even looking at him to see if he’d survived her attack. Her long hair, tied up tight in a fat braid, slapped up and down on her back.

James dusted himself off, then shook his head. He’d grown up with the little twit. Since the day she arrived at Twyley Grange, home of her mother’s sister and husband, she’d followed him—not Jason, never Jason—only him, and how could a little girl possibly tell them apart? But she had. She’d even followed him once to the bushes when he went to relieve himself, an incident that had left him red-faced and sputtering with furious embarrassment when Corrie had said from off to his left side, “Goodness, you don’t do that like I do. Would you just look at that thing you’re holding! Why, I can’t imagine how to do—”

He was only fifteen, humiliated, his breeches still unbuttoned, and he’d yelled down at the child who was all of eight years old, “You’re nothing but a stupid worthless little girl!” and stomped off to his horse, and proceeded to nearly kill himself when a mail coach had come around a curve, spooking his horse, who threw him to the ground, senseless. His father had come to fetch him from the inn where he’d been taken. He’d held him close while the doctor had peered into his ears, for what purpose, his father told him later, he had no clue. James had settled against him and said in a slurred voice, “Papa, I relieved myself, but I used the wrong bush because Corrie was there and she watched me, and said things.” His father, without hesitation, replied, “Little girls happen, James, and then they become big girls, and you forget about the wrong bush. Don’t dwell on it.” And so James hadn’t. He let his father take care of him. He felt safe, his humiliation wafting out the open window.

Life, James thought now, was something that seemed to happen when you weren’t paying enough attention. It seemed to him that what you did right this minute became a memory all too quickly, just like Corrie turning eighteen—how had that happened? As he walked back to where he’d left his bay stallion, Bad Boy, he wondered if it was possible that one day he’d look at her and discover that she’d grown breasts. He laughed, looked up at the sky. It would be clear tonight, nearly a half-moon, a beautiful night to lie up here on his back and look at the stars.

As he rode back to Northcliffe Hall, James didn’t hold out any hope that his mother had gotten Corrie a riding crop for her eighteenth birthday, from him.

CHAPTER TWO

If there is anything disagreeable going on, men are sure to get out of it.

JANE AUSTEN

“YOU GAVE HER what? Mother, please tell me you didn’t sign my name to that.”

“Now, James, Corrie has no notion of what is expected of her when she goes up to London for the Little Season. I thought a lovely book on proper deportment for a young lady entering polite society was just the thing to get her thinking in the right direction.”

His mother already knew about Corrie’s Little Season? Where had he been? Why had no one told him? “A book on deportment,” he said blankly, and ate a slice of ham. He thought of that sneer of hers and said, “Yes, I can see that she would really need that.”

“No, wait, James, the book was from Jason. I got Corrie a lovely illustrated book of Racine’s plays from you.”

“All she’ll do is look at the pictures, Mama. Her French is execrable.”

“So was mine, once upon a time. If Corrie sets her mind to it, she will become as remarkably fluent as I am.”

The earl, who was watching with a half smile on his face from the other end of the table, nearly choked on his green beans. He arched a dark brow. “Once upon a time, Alexandra? And now you’re fluent? Why, I—”

“You are interrupting a conversation, Douglas. You may continue eating. Now, James, about the plays. As I recall, the illustrations are in quite the classical style, and I think she will enjoy them, even if she can’t make out all the words.”

James stared down at the chunk of potato speared on his fork.

His mother asked, “Why, James? Was there something else you wanted to get her?”

“A riding crop,” James said under his breath, but not under enough. His father choked again, this time on a stewed carrot.

His mother said, “She is a young lady now, James, even though she still wears those lamentable trousers and that disreputable old hat. You can’t treat her like your little brother any longer. Now, about this riding crop, why didn’t you get it for her yourself? Oh, I remember now that Corrie said she’d never use a riding crop on her horse.”

“I forgot her birthday,” James said, and prayed his father wouldn’t enlighten his mother.

“I know, James. As I recall, you weren’t here to ask, so I had no choice but to supply your gift.”

“Mama, couldn’t you have gotten her some clothes—you know, perhaps a nice riding habit or a pair of riding boots and signed my name to it?”

“That, my dear, wouldn’t be proper. Corrie is now a young lady and you are a young gentleman not related to her.”

“Young gentlemen,” said Douglas Sherbrooke, waving his fork at James from the head of the luncheon table, “only give clothes and riding boots to their mistresses. Surely you and I have already spoken of that, James.”

Alexandra said, “Douglas, please, James is my lovely little boy. Surely it isn’t the thing for you to speak of mistresses to him. Surely he needs years to ripen before he actually takes part in such, er, activities.”

Both her husband and her son stared at her, then slowly, they both nodded. James said, “Er, yes, of course, Mama. Many years.”

She said, “Douglas, I’m not a mistress and you’ve bought me clothes and riding boots.”

“Well, naturally, someone has to dress you properly.”

James said, “Just as someone needs to dress Corrie properly, sir. She’s more boy than girl. If she does turn into a girl, she still has no notion of the way of things. She has no experience at all. She’s never been to London. I don’t think, Mama, that a book on deportment is going to be of much assistance if she doesn’t know how to dress and rig herself out.”

“Perhaps I can give her Aunt Maybella some suggestions,” Alexandra said. “I’ve wondered many times why Maybella hasn’t dressed Corrie properly. Both she and Simon have let her continue to roam around the countryside dressed like a boy.”

“I’ve wondered that too,” James said, and took a bite of his bread. “Maybe she doesn’t like gowns. The good Lord knows she can be so stubborn, her uncle’s probably given up and lets her rule.”

“No,” Douglas said. “That isn’t it. There is no one more stubborn than Simon Ambrose in all of England. It’s got to be something else.”

“Would you like a peach fritter, dear?” Both dears looked at her. “Isn’t that nice. I have your attention now, both of you. Would you two like to accompany me to Eastbourne this afternoon?”

Douglas, who’d wanted to go see a new hunter at Squire Beglie’s, chewed more vigorously on his shrimp patty.

“Er, it’s for your mother,” Alexandra said.

“Excuse me, Mother, Father, I’m off.”

“James is fast when he needs to be,” Douglas said, following his son’s speedy progress from the dining room. He sighed. “All right. What does my mother want?”

“She wants me to bring back at least six new patterns of wallpaper for her bedchamber.”

“Six?”

“Well, you see, she doesn’t trust my taste, so I’m really to bring as many as I can so that she can make her selection here.”

“Let her go herself.”

“Ah, and you would drive her?”

“What time do you wish to leave?”

Alexandra laughed, tossed down her napkin, and rose. “In an hour or so.” She leaned over, palms on the snowy white tablecloth, and said down the expanse of table to her husband, “Douglas, there is something else—”

Before she could get out another word, her husband said, “By God, Alexandra, your gown is cut nearly to your knees. It’s obviously a hussy’s gown, what with your breasts nearly falling out of it. Wait—you’re doing this on purpose, leaning over the table like that.” He smacked his fist on the table, making his wineglass jump. “Why don’t I ever learn? I’ve had decade upon decade to learn.”

“Well, not all that many decades. And I really do appreciate your admiration of my finer points.”

“You will not make me blush, madam. You are remarkably well put together—all right, I’m hooked good and proper, what is it you want from me?”

She gave him the sweetest smile. “I want to talk to you about the Virgin Bride. A serious talk, not one of your you’re an idiot to even mention that ridiculous ghost who doesn’t exist.”

“What did that bloody ghost do now?”

Alexandra straightened and looked through the tall windows toward the east lawn. “She said there would be trouble.”

He held the sarcasm in check for the moment. “You’re saying that our centuries-old resident virgin ghost, who’s never appeared to any man in this house for the simple reason that our brains don’t allow such nonsense, has come to you and told you there would be trouble?”

“That’s about the size of it.”

“I didn’t think she spoke, just wafted about looking forlorn and transparent.”

“And lovely. She is really quite incredible. Now, you know she doesn’t really speak, she feels what she’s thinking to you. She hasn’t visited me in ages, not since Ryder got set upon by those three thugs that miserable clothing merchant hired.”

“But Ryder managed to fell one of them with an excellent throw of a rock to the gut. He stuffed the other into a half-full herring barrel. I don’t remember what he did to the third, probably because it wasn’t amusing.”

“But still, he was hurt in that fight and the Virgin Bride told me about it.”

He paused. It was true that Alexandra had known about his brother’s fight before he had, dammit. At least his sister, Sinjun, hadn’t come tearing down from Scotland to see what had happened. She’d written a half dozen letters demanding all the facts. Ryder’s wife, Sophie, hadn’t written or sent a messenger, because she’d known that the Virgin Bride would tell Alexandra and Sinjun. The Virgin Bride? No, he wasn’t even going to consider it.

“Ryder wasn’t badly hurt. It seems to me that your Virgin Bride suffers from female hysteria. You know, a fellow gets his fingernail broken, and she falls apart.”

“Female hysteria? Broken fingernail? I’m serious about this. I’m worried. When she felt Ryder’s situation to me, I actually saw the three men pounding on him.”

He wanted to tell her to stop telling him tales that gave him gooseflesh, but he thought of her premeditated display of lovely cleavage, and because he wasn’t stupid, he held his tongue. He would mock the wretched ghost only to himself. Her tactics should be encouraged. But this was difficult to bear. It seemed that since the unfortunate bride’s demise sometime in the latter part of the sixteenth century—still a virgin when she drew her last breath—so the story went, that all the Sherbrooke women had believed in this wafting ghost oracle ever since.

Douglas swallowed the sarcasm that was still hovering just above his tongue, and said, “No mention of a specific sort of trouble?”

“No, and that makes me think that she doesn’t know exactly what’s coming, just that something is, and it’s not good.” She drew a deep breath. “I know that it has to do with you, Douglas. I simply understood that from what she felt to me.”

“I see, but she sent you this vague understanding? No names? She’s always known everything before.”

“I think that’s because it’s already happened or is happening at that moment.” Alexandra took a big breath. “Whatever she doesn’t know, it’s still enough to concern her, Douglas. Since it was about you, that’s why she was warning me. She’s worried about you, even though she didn’t exactly come right out with it. It’s you. There is not a single doubt in my mind.”

“Nonsense,” he said, “idiotic nonsense,” then wished he could bite his tongue. His wife withdrew. “All right, all right, talk to her again, see if she can give you some details. In the meantime, I’ll have our horses saddled. My mother wants you to bring back six samples of wallpaper?”

“Yes, but I think we’d best have Dilfer follow with a small wagon since I know that if I only fetch six samples, she’ll want more. I think we’ll simply clean out the warehouse. Excuse me now, Douglas. I’m very sorry to have bothered you with my hysterical female nonsense.”

Douglas threw his fork against the wall where it hit just below a portrait of Audley Sherbrooke, Baron Lindley. He cursed.

“My lord.”

Douglas shut his mouth when Hollis, the Sherbrooke butler since Douglas’s youth, appeared in the breakfast room doorway. “Yes, Hollis?”

“The dowager countess—your esteemed mother, my lord—wishes to see you.”

“I have known all my life who she is. I had a feeling she’d want to see me. All right.”

Hollis smiled and turned on his stately heel. Douglas looked after him, the tall, straight figure, the perfectly squared shoulders, still more white hair than Moses, but his step was slower, and perhaps one shoulder wasn’t as high as the other? How old was Hollis now? He must be nearly as old as Audley Sherbrooke’s portrait, at least seventy, maybe even older. That made Douglas blanch. Few men ever reached that age without shaking veined hands, a mouth empty of teeth, not a single hair left on the head, and perfectly hideous bent old bodies. Surely it was time for Hollis to retire, at least twenty years past his time to retire, perhaps to a lovely cottage by the sea, say in Brighton or Tunbridge Wells, and—and what? Sit and rock his old bones and look at the water? No, Douglas couldn’t imagine Hollis, whom his boys firmly believed was God when they were younger, doing anything other than ruling Northcliffe Hall, which he did with ruthless efficiency, splendid tact, and a benevolent, firm hand.

The fact was, though, that time was passing, no way to stop it. Hollis was beyond old now, and that meant he could die. Douglas shook his head. He didn’t want to think about Hollis dying, he couldn’t bear that. He called out, “Hollis!”

The stately old man slowly turned, a white brow arched at the strange tone in his lordship’s voice. “My lord?”

“Er, how are you feeling?”

“I, my lord?”

“Unless you have a footman hiding behind you, then yes, you.”

“I have nothing wrong that a lovely young wife won’t cure, my lord.”

Douglas stared at the small secret smile that showed a mouth loaded with teeth, and that was a good thing. Before Douglas could ask what the devil he meant by that, Hollis had removed himself from sight.

A lovely young wife?

To the best of Douglas’s knowledge, Hollis had never looked at a woman with marital intent since the tragic death of his beloved young Miss Plimpton in the last century.

A lovely young wife?

CHAPTER THREE

KILDRUMMY CASTLE, SCOTTISH HOME

OF REVEREND TYSEN SHERBROOKE, BARON BARTHWICK

The Honorable Jason Edward Charles Sherbrooke didn’t like this at all. He didn’t want to accept it, but he didn’t see how he could ignore it.

It was a dream, nothing more than the result of losing too many games of chess to his Aunt Mary Rose or too much grouse hunting in the interminable rain with his Uncle Tysen and his cousin Rory. Or the natural consequence of drinking too much brandy and having too much sex with Elanora Dillingham in too short a time.

No, even those altogether splendid, excessively gratifying hours didn’t explain it. It had been real. He’d finally had his first visit from the Virgin Bride, a phantom his father laughed about, saying, “Yes, imagine this piece of white nothing wafting around our house for three centuries. Only to the ladies, mind you, so you’re safe.”

Well, Jason was a man, and she’d visited him.

He remembered clearly that he’d awakened when Elanora had gotten up to use the chamber pot in the dressing room just before dawn. He’d lain there, half-asleep, and suddenly there was this very beautiful young lady with long loose hair, dressed in a long white gown, and she’d just stood there at the foot of the bed looking at him, and he heard her say as clearly as bells ringing, “There’s trouble at home, Jason. Go home. Go home.”

And he’d seen his father’s face, clear as if he’d been standing right next to him.

Elanora had come back into the bedchamber, yawning, naked to her white feet, her beautiful black hair falling all over the place, and the young lady had simply vanished, not a sound, not even a ripple in the air. She was just gone.

Jason had lain there, dumbfounded, not wanting to believe it, but he’d been raised with tales of the Virgin Bride. Why had she come to him? Because there was trouble at home.

He whispered to the empty air where she’d stood, “I didn’t have time to ask you whom I would marry.”

Elanora was feeling amorous; Jason was a young man, but still, he gave her a perfunctory kiss and got himself out of bed. He’d met Elanora only a month before when his leg had cramped while he’d been swimming in the North Sea, and he’d managed to drag himself up onto her beach. She’d been standing there, twirling a parasol, a stiff breeze flattening her gown to her lovely legs when he’d emerged from the water stark naked. She’d looked her fill at what the sea had spit up for her, and was evidently pleased. She was a widow, the stepmother of three sons all older than Jason, who lavished gifts on their dear step-mama. Jason quite liked her, for she was clever, and even better, she loved horses, just as he did. He always left Elanora’s house, a lovely Georgian set on the coast between Kildrummy Castle and Stonehaven, before dawn so he’d be back at Kildrummy Castle in time for breakfast with his Aunt Mary Rose and his Uncle Tysen. If either of them realized he wasn’t sleeping in his own bed, they’d said nothing.

He’d heard his cousin Rory say several days before, “Jason must really like to hunt grouse. He not only hunts during the day with you, Papa, then he’s out most nights as well, until nearly dawn.” Thank the heavens that no one had asked him if this was indeed true.

This morning, over kippers and clooties, he told them he’d had a visit from the Virgin Bride. His reverend uncle didn’t say anything, just chewed thoughtfully on a slice of toast. Aunt Mary Rose, her glorious red hair rioting around her head, frowned. “Tysen, do you think God knows the Virgin Bride?”

Her husband didn’t laugh. He continued to look thoughtful. “I would never say this to Douglas or to Ryder, but I’ve sometimes thought there’s a sort of window that isn’t completely shut and sometimes spirits slip back into our world. Does God know her? Perhaps if she ever visits me, I’ll ask her.”

Mary Rose said, “I’ve never had a visit from her either, and that’s not fair. You’re not even a lady, Jason, yet she came to you. Did she say anything?”

Jason said, “She said there was trouble at home. Nothing else, just that, but the funny thing was that I saw my father’s face clear as day. I must leave, of course.”

Jason was on his way south by eight o’clock that morning, thankful that he’d managed to talk his aunt and uncle out of coming with him. He thought endlessly about what the trouble at home could be, and how his father was involved, and he thought about his uncle’s words—a window not quite shut between our world and the next. It gave a man pause.

Life, he thought as he nudged Dodger’s sleek sides with his boot heels, could be going along nicely when suddenly the road closed, and you suddenly had to travel another direction. He wondered if the Virgin Bride had visited his mother. Very probably. Had she visited James? Well, he’d know soon enough.

He worried and rode and wished he could use the spirit window. It had to be faster.

On the sixth day, he rode a tired Dodger past the massive front steps of Northcliffe Hall toward the stables.

Lovejoy, a youth of sixteen summers, and Dodger’s favorite stable lad, came running out, yelping, “My glorious big boy! Yer home, yer home, at last. Ah, would ye look at yer coat, all dirty and filled with stinging ickles.”

Jason said, grinning down at Lovejoy, “Are you talking to me or my horse, Lovejoy?”

“Dodger’s me boy, Master Jason. ’Tis yer mither who’ll welcome ye awright ’n’ proper.”

Dodger, sixteen hands high, black as a moonless night except for the lightning streak of white down his nose, whinnied, and stuck his face in Lovejoy’s shoulder and lipped his musty shirt.

When Jason walked into Northcliffe Hall, he stopped and looked around. No one seemed to be about. Where was Hollis? Hollis was always near the front door. Oh no, he was ill, or he’d died. No, Jason couldn’t bear that. He knew Hollis was older than the oak tree he’d carved his initials on in the east lawn, but he belonged here, in Northcliffe Hall, alive and scolding and calming everyone.

“My sweet boy! You’re home! Oh goodness, how dirty you are. I didn’t expect you for another sennight. What’s the matter?”

“Where’s Hollis? Is he all right?”

His mother said, “Why yes, Jason. I believe he’s in the village. Ah, I’m so glad you’re home. Now, what’s wrong?”

Hollis was alive and kicking, thank God. And Lovejoy was right. His mother had welcomed him all right and proper. Jason went forward to hug his laughing mother. He said against her ear, “The Virgin Bride told me to come home, said there’s trouble. And I saw father’s face, so he’s got to be the one.”

His mother stepped back and looked up at him. “Oh dear, it’s lovely to have one’s own visit confirmed, but still, this isn’t good at all. Your father, you know how he scoffs.” She tapped her fingertips to her chin. “Well, she came to you as well. We’ll have to see what your father has to say now.”

His father had hardly a thing to say, other than, “You ate turnips for dinner, didn’t you, Jason?”

He assured his sire that he hadn’t. He knew his father wanted to ask him if he’d been carousing, but he couldn’t, not in front of his mother.

His father grunted, and waved him away. “Go take a bath. It will get rid of all your dirt and hopefully set your brain on the right track again.”

As for James, he listened to what Jason said, then replied, “I don’t understand this, I really don’t. It makes my brain ache, Jase. She said there was trouble at home, nothing more, and then you saw Father? That’s exactly what she felt to Mother too, but Mother didn’t see Father’s face, she said she just knew he was the one in danger. We shall have to be vigilant. Now, about this Elanora, did you buy her any clothes?”

“Clothes?” Jason’s dark brow shot up. “Well, no, I don’t believe I bought her anything at all.”

“Hmm. I wonder what father would say about that,” James said and walked away, whistling.

THERE WAS NO sign of trouble until two afternoons later.

Douglas Sherbrooke was breaking in his new gelding, Henry VIII, meaner than Douglas’s mother when the mood struck. Henry was bucking, rearing on his hind legs, corkscrewing, and Douglas was having a fine time when suddenly there was a loud popping sound. Henry bucked wildly, and Douglas, distracted, was hurled out of the saddle onto his back into a mess of low-lying yews that broke his fall. He didn’t move, just lay there, looking up into the blue summer sky, querying his parts. Someone had shot him in his upper arm. Just a graze, really. It was the fall that could have killed him. He admired yew bushes more than he ever had in the past.

He got to his feet, felt the sting in his arm, looked around for a sign of the man who’d fired the shot, then walked to where Henry was standing. The big horse was frightened and sweating. Douglas wrapped his handkerchief around his arm, hoping Henry wouldn’t smell the blood.

Douglas spoke to him, soothed him as best he could, took off his riding jacket, and rubbed him down. He didn’t know what his valet Peabody would have to say about that. “We’re both all right now, Henry. Don’t fret, boy, we pulled through this. I’m going to give you a nice bucket of oats when we get home. As for me, well I suppose I’ll have to get that miserable Dr. Milton here, Alex will demand it. Then she’ll hover over me, and she won’t say it, but she’ll give me that look that says very clearly, ‘I told you she said there’d be trouble. I said it was you and I was right.’

“Now, the question is, who shot me and why? Was it an accident? Some poacher whose finger slipped on the trigger? And if it was someone who for whatever reason hates my guts, then why did he fire only one shot? That seems ill thought-out, doesn’t it, Henry, if he was after me? Well, let’s see if he left something behind that could be useful.”

As he rode back to Northcliffe Hall, his arm burning, he thought again of the Virgin Bride and her warning.

When he walked through the front door, it was to hear raised voices, several of them, all arguing. He was carrying his riding jacket since it was covered with Henry’s sweat. He hoped no one would notice that he had a bloody handkerchief tied around his upper arm.

He saw Corrie Tybourne-Barrett standing in the middle of the vast central hall, looking as disreputable as a village boy in her ridiculous old breeches and boots, that old hat pulled down low on her forehead, her dusty braid hanging down her back. Shaking his fist at her was Mr. Josiah Marker, owner of a mill on the Alsop River.

“Ye went flying right into the mill, that horse o’ yers spraying grain all over the place! Fer shame, missy! Fer shame!”

Corrie yelled back, waving her own fist in Mr. Marker’s face, “Don’t you dare say that Darlene sprayed your grain any place, she didn’t! It was your son Willie, that good-for-nothing little blighter! I hit him when he tried to kiss me, and he’s paying me back! Darlene wasn’t near your mill!”

Douglas didn’t raise his voice, he’d never had to. He simply said, “Quiet, everyone. That is quite enough.”

He realized then that Corrie and Mr. Marker and four servants were standing in the great hall entrance. Where were his sons, his wife, for God’s sake, even his damned mother? Where was Hollis, who could have dealt with this in a matter of three very calm seconds?

There was instant silence, but anger vibrated in the air. Douglas dismissed the servants and was just turning to Mr. Marker when James came through the front doors, windblown, lightly slapping his riding crop against his thigh. He stopped cold. “What is going on, Father? Corrie, what are you doing here?”

Mr. Marker started to open his mouth, but Douglas merely raised his hand. “No, no more. James, would you please deal with this? It’s some sort of spurned suitor revenge, I gather.”

“My boy would never seek revenge,” said Mr. Marker furiously. “He’s a sweet-tempered saint, my lord.” Mr. Marker added, his voice lower now because no one ever yelled in the vicinity of the earl of Northcliffe, “He doesn’t even like girls, told me he didn’t, so he would never try to kiss Miss Corrie. And jest look at her, not even a girl, if ye take me meaning. My Willie’s niver done anything wrong in his whole little life, bless him and bless his mother fer birthing him.”

James was staring at the handkerchief tied around his father’s arm, and the blood soaking it. The Virgin Bride was right. What had happened? He watched his father walk up the stairs, Mr. Marker’s words flowing over him, but he had no choice but to remain and deal with this idiocy. He didn’t like this one bit, but he had no choice. He turned and smiled at Mr. Marker.

“I would like to hear what both of you have to say. Would you please come into the estate room?”

CHAPTER FOUR

What a woman wants is what you’re out of.

O. HENRY

IT REQUIRED TEN minutes to pin down the basic facts. James finally said to Mr. Marker, “I regret to tell you, sir, that Willie, your sweet boy, has a very long road to travel if he is to attain sainthood in the next six lifetimes.”

“Impossible, my lord. He tells me everything, Willie does, and he’s a good boy, thoughtful and kind, even to this missy over here.”

“You force me to be blunt, sir. Willie is known throughout the area as a young man who kisses any girl who isn’t fast enough to get away from him. There is no doubt in my mind that Corrie smacked him, and that he wanted revenge. I suggest you make him work off what he has done. Now, good day to you, and I wish you luck with Willie.”

“But, my sweet boy—”

“Good day, Mr. Marker. Corrie, you stay.”

Hollis magically appeared in the doorway of the estate room. “Mr. Marker, it seems to me that you would like a nice glass of ale before you confront William. Isn’t it always so that a man, regardless of his own high moral standing, must face bad behavior in his children? I do have some suggestions for how you might deal with him.”

Mr. Marker folded his tent. He followed Hollis from the estate room, his old hat clutched in his fingers.

“Did Willie really try to kiss you?”

Corrie shuddered. “Yes, it was awful. I turned my head really fast and he kissed my ear. James, I had to do something—”

“Yes, I know. You clouted him.”

“Right in the nose. Then I kicked him in the shin. You know these boots, the toes are really sharp.”

“No wonder he wanted to get back at you. At least you didn’t knee him in his—”

“What? You mean—” Her eyes fell, looking directly at his crotch. She frowned. “Why would I do that?”

“Never mind. Now, you look a fright. Go home and take a nice bath and get all the dust off your face and out of your hair. Why did you come here, Corrie?”

She fidgeted a moment, then whispered, “I came here to Northcliffe because I couldn’t imagine what my aunt and uncle would have done faced with Mr. Marker. But I knew you would take care of things, or your father. Thank you, James.”

Suddenly, the dowager countess of Northcliffe, a big woman with more than ample padding, who would outlive them all, appeared in the estate room door, pumped herself up, and bellowed, “James!”

“Yes, Grandmother?” It needed but this, he thought, dutifully turning to give his grandmother his full attention, hoping it would focus her eye and tongue on him. But of course it didn’t. She was still tall and straight, her white hair thinning now, her blue eyes faded, but there was nothing at all wrong with the workings of her mouth, her brain, or her diction, unfortunately.

If a voice could be said to ring, hers did. “Coriander Tybourne-Bennett, your dead parents would be appalled! Look at you—you’re a disgrace. You look like a ruffian. I must speak to your aunt and uncle, even though both of them are feckless creatures, but they must do something.”

Corrie stuck her chin in the air. “They are.”

“They are what, miss?”

“They are doing something. I’m going to London for the Little Season. They are not feckless.”

The dowager’s blue eyes glittered with anticipation. She saw fresh prey and wanted to dig in her claws and bring it down. She opened her mouth, but her grandson dared to insert himself.

“Grandmother, Corrie will be all ready to go to London. My mother will assist her aunt in seeing that she knows things and dresses appropriately.”

The dowager turned on her grandson. “Your mother? That redheaded girl your father was forced to keep when that bad boy Tony Parrish stole your father’s real bride, Melissande? No one can believe they are sisters. Why, all you have to do is look into the mirror to see the face of the glorious creature your father should have married. But no, he was tricked into remaining with your mother. May I ask, young man, just what your mother knows about anything at all? Why, it is your dear father who dresses her, who tells her how to behave, who scolds her, but not often enough, the good Lord knows, only he can’t control her cutting her gowns down to her ankles. How many times have I told him—”

“Madam, that is quite enough!” James was so angry he was shaking with it. He’d never in his life interrupted his grandmother, but he couldn’t stop himself. Corrie was forgotten as his brain sharpened itself up to go toe-to-toe with the old besom. “Madam, you are speaking about the countess of Northcliffe—my mother. She is the most beautiful lady I have ever met, she is loving and kind and makes my father very happy and—”

“Ha! Loving is right, or something far more lewd. Why, at her age, she still sneaks up on my dear Douglas and kisses his ear. It is disgraceful. Never would I have done that to your grandfather—”

“I am sure you would not, Grandmother. However, my mother and father, despite their advanced years, quite love each other. I do not wish for you to speak ill of her again.”

“I like her too,” Corrie said.

The dowager turned her cannon on Corrie. “You dare to interrupt me, missy? A grandson, the future earl, is one rudeness I must accept, but not you. Goodness, just look at you, a viscount’s daughter and you’re—” Words failed her, but only for a moment. “I don’t believe for an instant that little Willie Marker kissed you. He’s a sweet little boy. You probably tried to kiss him.”

James said more calmly now, “He’s sweet to you, madam, because he knows if he weren’t, you’d have him boiled in oil. Fact is, he’s a bully. He is the scourge of the neighborhood.”

Corrie said, “And I would rather kiss a toad than Willie Marker.”

“I don’t believe that, James. He is a precious little fellow.” She whirled on Corrie. “When he kissed you, you struck him? There, doesn’t that show that you have no breeding, no sense of who or what you’re supposed to be? You, supposedly a lady, struck him? That proves what I think—you are a pathetic ragamuffin.”

With that parting shot, she flounced out of the estate room, her petticoats flapping.

Corrie whispered, “I’m not. I’m not pathetic or a ragamuffin.”

James looked after his grandmother, shook his head. It was the very first time in his entire life he’d dished back some of her own sauce, and she appeared not to even have noticed. He felt like he’d failed. Upon brief reflection, James realized that if his grandmother were to apologize to anyone for her rudeness, such an extraordinary event would likely signal the end of the world. Still, to attack both his mother and Corrie like that. He said, “I’m sorry, Corrie, but if it makes you feel any better, she treats my mother worse.”

“But I don’t understand, James. Why would she be so nasty to your poor mother?” Why hasn’t the old bat croaked it? That was what she really wanted to say.

“She’s nasty to all her daughters-in-law,” James said. “Her own daughter, my Aunt Sinjun, as well. She’s nasty to any woman who walks into Northcliffe, except for my Aunt Melissande. If it was a matter of not wanting any competition why would she be kind to Aunt Melissande?”

“Maybe it’s because you and Jason look exactly like her. That is so very strange, isn’t it?”

James winced. “Yes. Now, is your name really Coriander?”

Corrie looked down at her scuffed and dirty boots. “So I’ve been told.”

“That’s unfortunate.”

“Yes.”

He sighed and lightly laid his hand on her arm. “You don’t look like a ragamuffin.” It was possible she looked worse, he thought, but she also looked flattened, and he’d known her forever, and oddly, he felt responsible for her. Why, he didn’t know. Then he saw a little girl in his mind’s eye, beaming up at him, wetter than the captured frog she held in her hand, a gift, from her to him.

Corrie blinked up at him even as she tugged on her old brown waistcoat, doubtless worn in a previous life by a stable lad. “What do I look like?”

James stalled. He wanted to go study all the farm accounts for the last decade, he wanted to calculate the price of oats and wheat for the next twenty quarters, he wanted to go count the sheep in the east pasture all by himself, anything but answer her.

She said slowly, “You don’t know what to say, do you, James?”

“You look like you, dammit. You look like Corrie, not this wretched Coriander. Were your parents drinking too much brandy when they named you?”

“I’ll ask my Aunt Maybella, although she and my mother evidently never got along very well. She’s never called me anything but Corrie. Once when I was little, I’d been playing with my dog Benjie, both of us minding our own business all right, so Benjie had gotten just the littlest bit muddy, and so he did escape me and ran into my uncle’s library. I’ll even admit that he rolled around on top of my uncle’s desk and tore up two leaves my uncle was pressing. Well, that was when Uncle Simon yelled out my full name for the first time.” She paused a moment, looking out over the west gardens. “I didn’t know who he was yelling at.”

“Corrie, forget the nastiness. I will speak to my father; he’s the only one who can do anything about my grandmother’s meanness. I heard him tell my Uncle Ryder that my grandfather had doubtless hurled himself to the hereafter, just to escape her.”

“It doesn’t matter. I will simply avoid her in the future. I must be going. Good-bye, James.” And she went out the estate room glass doors, out into the gardens. If she meandered far enough, then she’d run smack into the naked Greek statues, all of couples copulating in varied positions. He and Jason had spent many many hours staring at those statues, giggling and pointing when they were young, then looking at them through very different eyes when they’d gotten older. To the best of his knowledge, Corrie had never been in this part of the vast Northcliffe gardens. He yelled, “No, Corrie! Come back here. I want you to have some tea and cake with me.”

She turned, frowned at him. Reluctantly, she came back into the estate room. “What kind of cake?”

“Lemon seed cake, I hope. It’s my favorite.”

She looked down at her boots, then up again, but not at his face, over his left shoulder. “Thank you, but I must go home. Good-bye, James.” And she dashed out the doors. He watched her run into the gardens. There were paths leading out; surely she wouldn’t explore; surely she wouldn’t find the statues.

JAMES FOUND HIS father in his bedchamber, alone, bandaging his arm.

“What happened, Father?”

Douglas jerked around, then heaved a sigh of relief. “James. I thought it was your mother. It’s nothing really, an idiot shot me in the arm, nothing more.”

James’s fear sliced right through to his belly. He swallowed, but the fear just kept bubbling up. “This isn’t good,” he said. “Papa, I really don’t like this. Where’s Peabody?”

James hadn’t called him Papa for many years now. Douglas tied off the strip of linen that he’d ripped from his shirt, pulled it tight with his teeth, then turned and managed a smile. “I’m all right, James.” Then because James looked afraid, Douglas walked to him, and pulled his precious boy against him. “I am just fine, it’s just a bit of a sting, nothing to worry you or me or anyone, particularly your mother who will never find out about this.”

James felt his father’s strength and was comforted. He also realized that he was now as large as his father, this man he’d looked up to all his life, seen as a god, an omnipotent being, and now they were the same size? He said against his father’s ear, “Did you see who it was?”

Douglas took James’s arms in his hands and stepped back. “I was riding Henry out on the downs. There was a single shot and Henry knows an opportunity when he sees it, and, of course, he threw me. I’d swear that damned horse was laughing down at me lying there in the bushes where I landed, luckily. I looked afterward, but the fellow had left no signs. It could have easily been a poacher, James, an accident, pure and simple.”

“No.” He looked his father right in the eye. “The Virgin Bride was right. There is trouble here. Where’s Peabody?”

“I got rid of him right away, sent him to Eastbourne to fetch some special pomade for me, I made up a name—Foley’s Special Hair Restorer.”

“But you have lots of hair.”

“No matter. It’ll drive Peabody quite frantic when he doesn’t locate the pomade, something he deserves since he’s always sticking his long nose in my business.”

James drew a deep breath. “I want to look at your arm, Father. Jason is right as well—someone is after you. We have to do something. But first I want to see for myself that the wound isn’t bad.”

Douglas raised a dark brow at his son, saw the fear in James’s eyes, and knew James had to see for himself that the wound was nothing.

“Very well,” he said, and let James untie the linen he’d just wrapped around it.

James studied the angry red slash that had torn through his father’s flesh. “It’s nearly stopped bleeding. I want to wash it, then I want Hollis to see it. He will have some salve to put on it.”

Of course Hollis had exactly the right nasty mixture. He also insisted, under James’s watchful eye, on smearing it over the gash himself. “Hmmm,” he said. “Hand me the clean bandage, Master James.”

James handed him the clean linen. The old man’s hands shook. From fear for his father? No, Hollis never was afraid of anything. “Hollis, how old are you?”

“Master James?”

“Er, if you don’t mind my asking your age?”

“I am the very same age as your esteemed grandmother, my lord, well, perhaps she is a year older, but one hesitates to speak bluntly about such things, particularly when it involves a lady who is also one’s mistress.”

“That means,” Douglas said, laughing, “that Hollis is older than those Greek statues in the west gardens.”

“It does indeed,” Hollis said. “There, my lord, you’re tied up right and tight. Would you care for a tetch of laudanum?”

His arm throbbed, but who cared? He raised a haughty brow, looked disgusted, and said, “No I would not, Hollis. Are the two of you happy now?”

The door opened and Jason walked in, turned white, and blurted out, “I knew it. I just knew it was something bad.”

James looked at the blood in the basin of water, swallowed, and told his brother what had happened.

“You know, sir,” Jason said before the three of them went downstairs, “Mother will know there’s something wrong when she sees the bandage on your arm.”

“She won’t see it.”

“But you and Mother always sleep together,” James said. “Surely she’ll see it. I heard her say once that you never wore a nightshirt.”

James said quickly, “She didn’t know we were listening.”

“Hmmm,” Douglas said. “I’ll think about that.”

“We don’t wear nightshirts either,” Jason said, “once we heard that you didn’t. What were we, James, about twelve?”

“Something like that,” James said.

Douglas felt a lurch in his chest. He looked at his boys—his boys—and the throbbing in his arm became nothing at all.

Of course Alexandra found out quickly enough, not later than five o’clock that afternoon. Her maid, Phyllis, told her what the laundry girl—who’d washed a bloody linen strip—had told Mrs. Wilbur, the Sherbrooke housekeeper, who had rightfully passed it along to Hollis, who’d told her sharply to close her lips over her teeth, which, naturally, Mrs. Wilbur hadn’t, and thus it had come to Phyllis’s sharp ears over a cup of tea in Mrs. Wilbur’s parlor.

“A bloody cloth?” Alexandra said, swiveling about on her dressing chair to stare up at Phyllis, who had mossy green eyes and a lovely thin nose that constantly dripped, necessitating a handkerchief in her right hand most of the time.

“Yes, my lady, a bloody cloth. From his lordship’s bedchamber.”

Alexandra raced out of the bedchamber and through the adjoining door to confront her husband, to run her hands all over his body, to even check the teeth in his mouth. Curse him—he wasn’t there. And she knew when she confronted him, he would look down his elegant nose at her, call her a twit, and tell her it was all a tale invented by some silly girl in the laundry room.

Even though it was five o’clock in the afternoon, Alexandra hurried downstairs to the butler’s pantry, a lovely airy room with black and white marble tiles on the floor. The only problem was, Hollis wasn’t alone. Indeed, he was in the embrace of a woman. A woman she’d never seen before. Alexandra stared, then retreated, step by step, until she quietly closed the door.

Hollis hugging and kissing a strange woman? It seemed suddenly that everything was flying out of control. She forgot about nailing down proof so Douglas couldn’t look down his nose at her, and burst into the estate room where her husband was in conversation with the twins. She looked at them all with new eyes. The twins were in on it, whatever it was. The three of them were in a secret conversation, she knew it, one that excluded her. She wanted to shoot all of them. Instead, she said, “Hollis is kissing a strange woman in the butler’s pantry.”

CHAPTER FIVE

When you have no problems, you’re dead.

ZELDA WERNER

DOUGLAS AND THE twins shut their mouths fast. Douglas said, “Er, Alex, my dear, did you say that Hollis was kissing a strange woman? In the butler’s pantry?”

“Yes, Douglas, and she was much younger than Hollis, no more than sixty years old, I’d say.”

“Hollis taking liberties with a younger woman,” Jason said, threw his head back and laughed, then stopped. “My God, Father, what if she’s an adventuress, after his money? I know he’s well-heeled. He told me you’d been investing his money for him for years and he’s nearly as rich as you are now.”

“I will ensure that Hollis hasn’t been snared by a rapacious grandmother,” Douglas said.

James said, “You’re sure they were actually kissing, Mother?”

“It was a rather passionate embrace, and yes, quite a bit of nuzzling and kissing,” Alexandra said. “I’ll tell you, it fairly made my eyes pop out of my head.”

She took a step closer to her husband and whispered, “They both appeared to be enjoying themselves immensely.”

Douglas said, “One hopes this is the young woman Hollis intends to marry.”

His wife and his sons stared at him.

“You know about this, Douglas?”

“He spoke of marriage several days ago—something to the effect that a young wife would make him feel just fine.”

“But—”

Douglas raised his hand to cut her off. “We’ll see. After all, it really isn’t any of our business.”

James said, “It’s Hollis, sir. He’s been here longer than you have.”

“Do not equate old with dead,” Douglas said. “A man isn’t dead in his parts until he’s six feet under. Strive not to forget that.”

Alexandra sighed. “All right, enough of this excitement. Now, Douglas, you will tell me what happened to you and you will tell me all of it. You will include all references to a bloody cloth found in the washbasin in your bedchamber, and you will not fob me off with a cut finger.”

“I told you she’d find out, sir,” Jason said.

“Mother even found out that I’d kissed Melissa Hamilton behind the stables when I was thirteen,” James said. He gave his mother a brooding stare. “I’ve never figured out how you found out about that.”

Alexandra looked at him. “I have spies who owe me their loyalty. It’s best you never forget that. Just because you’re men now doesn’t mean that I’ve sent my spies into retirement.”

“They certainly must be old enough,” Jason said, and gave her a beautiful smile.

Alexandra said, trying not to melt under that smile, “Now, Douglas, speak and make it to the point.”

“All right if you’re going to make a big to-do about it.”

Alexandra grinned at him. “I wonder, is that the Virgin Bride I hear applauding?”

TWYLEY GRANGE,

HOME OF LORD AND LADY MONTAGUE

AND CORRIE TYBOURNE-BARRETT

“My goodness, is it you, Douglas?” Simon Ambrose, Lord Montague, came quickly to his feet, blinked as he shoved his glasses up his nose, and nearly tripped over a journal that had fallen from the table at his side. He straightened himself and his vest.

“Yes, Simon, and I am here without invitation. I hope you will allow me to enter.”

Simon Ambrose laughed. “As if you wouldn’t be welcome to come into my bedchamber if you wished to leap through my window.” Simon frowned. “Of course, you wouldn’t be quite so welcome if you slipped into Maybella’s bedchamber, but that is a possibility that isn’t likely to occur, is it?”

“No more than you climbing in through Alexandra’s bedchamber window, Simon.”

“Now that is a thought that tickles my brain.”

“Don’t let it tickle too much.”

Lord Montague laughed, waved Douglas to a seat. “It is very pleasant to see you. Maybella, here is Lord Northcliffe. Maybella? ”You are not here? How very odd that I don’t see her, and I’d believed she was close by, maybe sewing in that chair over by the window. Simon sighed, then brightened. “Surely Corrie must be near. You know, she’s quite able to entertain guests in her aunt’s absence. Or maybe not.” He threw back his head and yelled, “Buxted!”

“Yes, my lord,” said Buxted, hovering at Lord Montague’s elbow. Simon shot into the air, knocked his glasses off, and stumbled backward to hit against a small marquetry table. Buxted grabbed his arm and pulled him upright with such energy that Simon nearly went over on his nose. Once Simon was upright, Buxted handed him his glasses, and straightened the table. He then began brushing off his master, saying, “Ah, my lord, what an idiot I am, surprising you as I would a young lass who’s hiked up her skirts to cross a stream.”

Simon said, “Ah, yes, that is better, and quite enough. What happens when you surprise a young lady with her skirt up, Buxted?”

“It was a thought that shouldn’t have traveled further than my fantasies, my lord. Wipe it from your mind, sir. Long white legs, that’s all there can be at the end of that delightful thought.”

Douglas remembered what Hollis had once said of Buxted, “He is quite maladroit, my lord, altogether scattered in his brain, and quite an entertaining fellow. He and Lord Montague fit together excellently.”

Douglas smiled to see Buxted still brushing off Simon even as Simon was trying to push him away. “Buxted,” Simon said, slapping at his hands, “I have need of Lady Maybella. If you cannot find her, then bring Corrie. Perhaps she is helping in the kitchen, the girl loves to bake berry tarts, at least she did when she was twelve. Douglas, do come in and sit down.”

“I don’t know who is where, my lord, no one tells me anything at all,” Buxted said. “Ah, my lord Northcliffe, please do be seated. Let me move his lordship’s precious journals from this lovely brocade winged chair. There, only three left, and that makes the chair look interesting, does it not?” Buxted hovered until Douglas sat himself on the three journals. Then he went flapping from the room, his bald head shiny with sweat.

Douglas smiled at his host. He quite liked Simon Ambrose. Simon was luckily rich enough so that he was known as eccentric, rather than batty. And he was as eccentric today as he’d been twenty years before, when, after his father had passed to the hereafter, Simon, now Viscount Montague, had taken himself to London, met and married Maybella Connaught, and brought her home to Twyley Grange, a neat Georgian house built upon the exact foundation of the granary attached to the long-defunct St. Lucien monastery.

Douglas knew that women vastly admired Simon until they came to know him well, and realized that his very handsome face and his sweet expression masked a mind that was usually elsewhere. But when, upon rare occasion, his mind did focus, Douglas knew he was very smart. Given Simon’s mental inattention, he’d wondered upon occasion how the wedding night had gone, but surely something had transpired since Maybella had birthed three children, all, unfortunately, having died in infancy. Simon had a younger brother, Borty, who was as batty as he was, waiting in the wings. His brother was obsessively devoted to the collection of acorns, not leaves, like Simon.

Simon said, his glasses now firmly on his nose, “Truly, Douglas, I didn’t forget you were coming, did I?”

“No, this is a surprise visit, Simon. I’m here because I fear my wife would come if I didn’t.”

“That’s all right, isn’t it? I quite like Alexandra. She could come into my bedchamber anytime she wished.”

“Yes, she is likable, but you can forget her coming through your bedchamber window, Simon. The point is that my wife has no taste in clothes.”

“I see. Goodness, I had no idea. I assure you, whenever I see her, I am struck by how very round and white, er, well, it’s best to stop right there, isn’t it? She is very lovely, I will say, and wisely leave it at that.”

“That is because I dress her,” Douglas said.

“Now there is a thought that stirs the imagination.”

“Don’t let it stir too much, Simon.”

“Yes, I can see that such an observation might quiver the embers of a man’s passions. But she is really quite lovely—well, perhaps it is best that I put a period to that thought. Now, is there a problem with Maybella’s clothes, Douglas? Or mine?”

Douglas sat forward, clasping his hands between his knees. “No problem at all. This is about Corrie. The thing is, Simon, Corrie is just like my wife in that she has no idea about clothes. When my wife told me she would speak with Maybella and advise Corrie, I knew that to avert complete disaster I had no choice but to come here myself and see to it. Now, if you will call in Corrie, I will tell her what it is she must wear. You know, the colors and styles of gowns and such. Of course, you want her to appear her best in London.”

“Well naturally,” Simon said, and blinked rapidly. “I’ve always thought Corrie dressed quite nicely, like her aunt, as a matter of fact, when she’s not wearing her breeches. Isn’t that odd that all her gowns are light blue, like Maybella’s? And her boots—they are always highly polished, at least they were the last time I chanced to notice them. But, perhaps that was a long time ago. I don’t often notice feet, you know.”

“No, probably not. I agree with you. Her breeches, in particular, are doubtless of excellent style and cut. But the thing is, Simon, London is a vastly different place. Young ladies don’t wear boots in London nor do they wear stylish breeches. You do remember?”

Simon sat back in his chair, closed his eyes, and sighed deeply. “Aye, Douglas, I remember all too well. It was only ten years ago that Maybella dragged me to London, to see a balloon ascension, she assured me. I was moved by her attempt to please me because I very much wanted to see the balloon ascension, Douglas, and it was indeed an incredible sight, but I fear I was taken in. It was six weeks before I could come home. There was only one other balloon ascension during that very long, tedious time. Do you mean that I must go there again?”

“Yes, you must. However, I fear that a balloon ascension isn’t a certain thing. The weather in the fall is unpredictable, and as you know, balloons need to have clear weather and very little wind.”

“Then why must I go to London if the weather is too uncertain for the balloons?”

“Because Corrie is eighteen, a young lady, and young ladies must be presented. They must attend balls and be seen and admired and taught to dance. James tells me that Corrie is going to come out in the Little Season, Simon, a sort of practice season, so she can learn how to go on. I fear, Simon, that you will have to go yet again to London next spring when Corrie is officially presented.”

Simon moaned, then perked up. “Perhaps Corrie has no wish to go to London and be presented.”

“She must be in the middle of things in order to find a husband, Simon. Young gentlemen are thick on the ground in London during the Season. Only then are there enough of them about to give a girl a decent selection. Alexandra and I will be in London this fall. We can assist you. Now, if you would call Corrie, I can begin advising her on her apparel. Also, James has offered to teach her to waltz.”

Buxted cleared his throat from the doorway. “Ah, please regard me, my lords. I managed to snag some lovely cinnamon bread from the kitchen from under Cook’s nose. It is Lady Maybella’s favorite. When I found out she didn’t consume all of it at the breakfast table, I moved quickly. Just look—there are six nice fat slices left. There were seven, but I must confess that I nipped one slice, to ensure its freshness, you know.”

“Excellent, Buxted,” Simon said, and pushed a quantity of scientific journals off the table at his elbow. “You didn’t eat more than one, did you, Buxted?”

“Just one, my lord.”

Simon never looked away from that plate Buxted was holding as he said, “Did you find Corrie?”

“Yes, my lord. In the middle of the upstairs corridor. She was tugging on her breeches that have become too short in the past months.” Buxted fidgeted, looked over his master’s left shoulder, then drew himself up. “I warned her we had a very august personage visiting. I even managed in a very roundabout manner to let her know that she might also want to change her stockings. She squeaked and ran to her bedchamber. I daresay the result of my words might be a pale blue gown, just like her ladyship’s.”

“Well done, Buxted,” Douglas said.

Buxted drew himself up and gave the earl a blinding smile. “As to that, one would never wish to repel an earl, my lord.”

“Naturally not,” Douglas said. “I shall tell Hollis of your wily brain, Buxted.”

“Will you, my lord? Will you indeed? Oh, to have Hollis know that I perhaps managed to bring something worthwhile to fruition. Perhaps you’d best not, my lord. One must wait and see.”

“The cinnamon bread, Buxted. Now.”

Buxted reverently laid the plate on the table beside Simon, gave one last wistful look at the artfully arranged slices, sighed, blotted the sweat on his bald head with a handkerchief, and walked out the door.

The instant Buxted was gone, Simon grabbed up a slice of cinnamon bread. “I thought he would never leave, Douglas. We must hurry and eat the cinnamon bread before Maybella comes down. Don’t talk, Douglas, just eat, or else Maybella may appear and she will snag the other slices. She has a powerful sense of smell, does Maybella.”

Douglas smiled, took a slice, bit into it. He realized this wasn’t just any sort of cinnamon bread, this was cinnamon bread straight from the celestial realm. He was reaching for a second slice when his hand hit Simon’s.

“There’s a problem about this, Douglas,” Simon said, and gently eased out the slice from beneath Douglas’s hand.

Douglas snagged the next slice, managed to polish it off before he raised an eyebrow in question.

Simon sighed so deeply he nearly choked. “The money.”

“Money? Isn’t Corrie well-dowered?”

Simon looked on the point of bursting into tears. Oh God, Douglas thought, what was wrong? No dowry? No, surely that couldn’t be true.

“That would be bad enough. No, Douglas, it is far worse than that. She’s an heiress.”

Douglas nearly laughed aloud. “Surely that isn’t all that bad.”

“You know what will happen when it’s discovered she has bucketfuls of groats, Douglas. She will be hunted down like a rat.”

“I wouldn’t put it precisely like that, Simon, but I do understand that she will be the focus of any fortune-hungry young gentleman in London.”

“If the young gentlemen don’t have the wit to do it, then their parents will plot and scheme to get her to the altar. Not to mention all the old gentlemen who would want to get their hands on her money. You know the sort—womanizers, lechers, gamblers who will forbid her breeches and keep her breeding until she’s thirty and likely dead of it. I don’t want that to happen, Douglas.”

“Is she really an heiress or does she have, say, in the vicinity of five thousand pounds?”

“She could drop five thousand pounds in a ditch and not even blink, Douglas.”

“I see. I will think about this. Perhaps we can keep it quiet.”

“Ha! When money is involved it won’t remain a secret for long.”

Douglas frowned. “Well, it has until now, but you’re right, Simon. Once she gets to London and it’s known she’s looking for a husband, even burying her money in the kitchen garden won’t help.” Douglas sighed and tapped his fingertips together.

A lovely low musical voice came from the doorway. “Good morning, my lord. So you are our august personage?”

CHAPTER SIX

There is no such thing as too much couth.

S. J. PERELMAN

DOUGLAS QUICKLY ROSE. “Maybella. You are looking fine this morning.”

She looked as she always looked, wearing one of her many pale blue gowns that covered her from throat to toe. She nodded and headed straight to the cinnamon bread. The plate was empty.

Maybella merely held out her hand. With obvious reluctance, perhaps even a small whimper, Simon stuck out his hand. On his palm lay two slices.

She took both slices without a word, sat herself down on the small sofa facing Douglas, and smiled placidly at him.

“Corrie will be down presently,” she said, and proceeded to eat, both men watching her avidly. “I believe she was searching for a stocking.”

“As I was telling Simon, Maybella, you are going to have to take Corrie to London this fall.”

She said matter-of-factly, “I hadn’t informed him of it yet, Douglas, because he would figure a way to get out of it.”

Simon said, “The weather is uncertain in the fall, Maybella. Perhaps Corrie can be presented when the weather is finer, in the summer, perhaps, two or three summers after this one.”

Douglas said, “I have just recalled that the second week of October is always pleasant, Simon, and we will see every balloon ascension during that week. Perhaps several will be held. Trust me.”

Buxted’s throat cleared once again in the doorway. “Miss Corrie is here, my lord, and she is not wearing her breeches. I did not inquire about her stockings as such a query could be taken amiss.”

Since Maybella’s mouth was full, she only nodded. Corrie came into the drawing room dressed in a very old muslin gown the same pale blue as her aunt’s. It needed more petticoats and fewer flounces and perhaps an inch of her neck showing. At least she was straight and tall, her waist small enough to please even Douglas’s mother. On the other hand, probably not.

“Good morning, my lord,” Corrie said and gave Douglas a fine curtsy.

“I taught her to curtsy,” Maybella said, beaming at Corrie as she chewed on the cinnamon bread. “Isn’t that shade of blue particularly fetching on her?”

“It always is on you, my love,” Simon said, eyeing that final slice of cinnamon bread lovingly held in Maybella’s right hand.

Douglas said, “Good morning to you, Corrie. That was a lovely curtsy. You’re tall and that’s excellent. No, straighten your shoulders. That’s right. Never stoop. Small, mincing girls aren’t to any gentleman’s taste, unless he is very short himself. You do not wish to attract a short man, he will make you bow your shoulders. Hmmm, yes, your shoulders are nice.” Douglas rose and made a circuit around her. Her hair was in a single fat braid down her back. “I think with your height you will enhance any gown Madame Jourdan can make for you.”

“I don’t understand why you are examining me, my lord.”

Simon said, “Douglas is going to advise you on clothes, Corrie, for London. He is evidently superior to his wife in this. He is evidently renowned at it. We will listen to him.”

“Pale blue is such a lovely color, don’t you think, Douglas? What a girl needs is blue, a lovely pale blue, I’ve always said.”

“She will have one pale blue gown, Maybella, no more. Your coloring is very different from Corrie’s. Now, you must trust me on this.”

Maybella bit into a slice of cinnamon bread, then said, “Perhaps you are right. Corrie has never had my radiance.”

“Indeed,” said her husband, and pushed his glasses back up.

Maybella, having finished the second slice of cinnamon bread, cleared her throat. “I say, Douglas, why is Jason skulking out there leaning against one of the lime trees on the drive? Or is it dear James? One can never tell since they are like two heads on the same Greek coin.”

Corrie immediately whipped around and skipped to the windows. “It is James, Aunt Maybella. He isn’t doing anything at all.”

“Why is he outside, Douglas?”

Douglas gave Simon a harassed look and said, “Some idiot shot me in the arm yesterday and my sons must need keep me under close watch every waking hour.”

“Such good boys.” Maybella said. “I daresay Corrie would do the same for her Uncle Simon if some idiot shot at him. Do invite him in, Douglas. There isn’t any more cinnamon bread. However, Cook hides food in the expectation that we will have an earthquake or a flood, so Buxted will find something else for James.”

Corrie said, “I have noticed that young men are usually happy to eat anything one throws at them.” She walked to the windows and tapped on the glass. When James looked at her, she waved him in.

He raised a perfect dark eyebrow, and nodded. A moment later, he was making his bows to Lord and Lady Montague.

“So you are protecting your father,” Maybella said, smiling and nodding at the young Adonis who stood before her, all windblown, white-toothed, his lawn shirt open at his throat. “How very lovely. Your father is looking particularly fine this morning, James, don’t you think?”

James, who had known Lord and Lady Montague nearly all his life, nodded and smiled. The overly admiring gleam in Lady Montague’s eyes wiped the smile off James’s face in a hurry. He supposed his father looked fine, but the fact was, his father looked like his father—an aristocrat, tall and lean, silver threaded through his black hair.

“Throw him some food, Buxted,” Corrie said. James turned, eyed her up and down, and said, “Where is Corrie? I would swear I heard her voice, but all I see is a chit with a gown on that’s too short and too tight and comes almost to her chin. Also the color makes her look sallow.”

“I was looking at my eyelashes this morning, James, and they’re quite long. Mayhap even longer than yours.”

Douglas cleared his throat. “Be seated, James. I was about to tell Corrie that you were going to teach her to waltz.”

Lord Montague gave his full attention to his niece and said in an austere voice, “You know, James, Lord Hammersmith, is a young man of excellent parts, Corrie. He was quite the scholar at Oxford, fast becoming an expert on celestial bodies and their movements. In particular he knows all three of Kepler’s laws, the third one, simply stated, is—well I forget—but the fact is that Galileo observed that the moon is not a smooth, polished surface as Aristotle had claimed.”

“He must have had very sharp eyes,” Lady Maybella said.

“No, my dear,” Simon said. “Galileo was using the telescope, just invented by Dutch lens grinders. What was the year, my boy?”

James started to say he didn’t know when he happened to glance at Corrie and saw the sneer on her face.

“It was in the early seventeenth century,” he said.

“A nice guess,” Corrie said. “I don’t believe that you have any comprehension at all about Dutch lens grinders, James. I think you made it up to make yourself look intelligent.”

Maybella said, “James doesn’t need to know about stars and telescopes, Corrie. All he has to do is stand rather still and let everyone look at him.”

Corrie’s sneer was near to overflowing. Truth be told, she knew well enough that James had looked into the heavens since he’d been a boy, studied and learned and built his own telescope, but any chance she could find to bait him wasn’t to be ignored.

James was ready to run out the door, Douglas knew it, but there wasn’t the chance because Simon said, “So you see, James is not too pretty, Corrie. No one can be too pretty who understands Kepler, even though I can’t remember that third law. James has his father’s jaw, which is the most stubborn jaw in all of England. And that little hole in his chin, that’s his father’s as well.”

That was true, Douglas thought, pleased. Not everything on his face belongs to Melissande.

Simon bent then to pick up a journal off the pile on the floor beside his chair, and paged to an article titled The Workings of Black Air During an Eclipse.

“Corrie,” Douglas said, rising, knowing escape was imminent, “I know exactly the style and colors that will suit you. Mrs. Ann Plack’s daughter, Miss Jane Plack, from Rye, is an excellent seamstress. She will make you several gowns. Then I will take you to Madame Jourdan once you’re settled in London.”

“Corrie’s maid is a perfectly good seamstress, Douglas,” Maybella said. “Why, she sewed this gown I’m wearing as well as the one Corrie is wearing. Surely she—”

Simon said, “My dear, you ate the last two slices of cinnamon bread. Now you wish to foist Corrie’s maid onto good material. Corrie needs to be dressed appropriately. Wherever am I to get fabric, Douglas?”

“Don’t worry, Simon. I will have Miss Plack deliver both the materials and various patterns, and herself, and I will make the appropriate selections. Are you in agreement, Corrie?”

She desperately wanted to ask him what men said instead of bosom. “I thank you, my lord.”

“Good,” Douglas said. “I knew you weren’t a blockhead.”

“Ignorant as a post,” James said, “but not a blockhead.”

Corrie opened her mouth to blast him, but Douglas was faster. “Now, James, are you ready to take your leave?”

“I will fetch our horses, sir.”

After James bid his host and hostess good-bye and gave Corrie the tolerant look he bestowed on his grandmother’s pug, he was outside, circling trees, looking behind bushes, and even peering down into a rain barrel.

“He worries,” Douglas said. He walked to Corrie, cupped her chin in his palm, and studied her face a moment. He slowly nodded. “You’ll do,” he said, and then he smiled down at her.

CHAPTER SEVEN

’Tis safest in matrimony to begin with a little aversion.

RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN

THE DOWAGER COUNTESS of Northcliffe said, “Corrie is a misfit, a ragamuffin, a disgrace to her parentage. Hollis, where is my dish of prunes?”

Hollis said, “I have frequently noted, my lady, that even the Norman church bells that chime so beautifully in New Romney need a bit of polish on the outside.”

“Corrie Tybourne-Barrett isn’t an old bell, Hollis, she is a new bell with excessive rust. Not acceptable. I would have nothing rusted in my house. What is wrong with you, Hollis? You are paying no attention to what is important, like my dish of prunes.”

Hollis merely smiled and made his way to the sideboard to fetch the prunes. He was humming under his breath when he poured Douglas some tea.

“At least you will be dressing her, Douglas, and that must certainly help.”

“It will,” Douglas said. “Who knows what we’ll find beneath those absurd costumes she wears.”

The dowager said, waving a slice of toast, “I have often wondered at Maybella and Simon. Why would they let the girl run around like a tart in breeches?”

Douglas realized he now knew the answer to that question, but he merely shook his head and smiled. Their strategy had worked—no budding fortune hunter would ever look in her direction—but at what cost to a young lady who’d never been a girl?

Douglas waited until his mother was concentrating her full attention on her prunes, then said quietly, “Hollis, when will we meet this paragon Alexandra saw you kissing in the butler’s pantry?”

“Ah, I thought I saw a shadow of movement, sniffed the lightest of perfumes.”

“Yes, it was her ladyship on a mission to discover what had happened to me. You routed her.”

“I will introduce you to Annabelle very soon now, my lord.”

“Annabelle?”

Hollis nodded and moved a small jug of milk closer to his lordship’s elbow. “Annabelle Trelawny, my lord. A very fine young lady, one of immense good will and fine taste.”

“Why don’t you bring her by this afternoon? I believe my mother will be off to visit some of her cronies.”

“That would be premature, my lord. Annabelle hasn’t yet agreed to be my wife. Can you imagine? Indeed, I fear that I may have to resort to seduction to bring her to the mark.”

There was a tic in Douglas’s left cheek. “Seduction, Hollis?”

“Yes, my lord. I realize it is indeed a grave step to consider, but I believe it to be one I may have to undertake.”

“I wish you luck.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

“You have never before been married, Hollis. My father said once that you’d been the victim of a tragic love affair. Was he correct, or didn’t you appreciate the fairer sex until now?”

Hollis saw that the dowager countess was still concentrating on her prunes, but still he moved a bit closer to Douglas. “I was a victim of a love, my lord, and a sad time it was. Her name was Miss Drucilla Plimpton, and I worshiped the very air she breathed. It is an amazing stroke of circumstance—Annabelle actually knew my own dear Miss Plimpton. Ah, so many years ago it was.

“Ah, my lord, I have always appreciated the fairer sex. But after I lost my precious Miss Plimpton, I came to view wedlock as not enough wed and perhaps too much lock.”

“No wonder. You lived here.”

“There is that, my lord. However, I believe being locked up by Annabelle might be vastly amusing. So many stories Annabelle remembers about Miss Plimpton, even though she was younger than Drucilla. Drucilla, I believe, was very kind to her, teaching her stitching, correcting her manners. Of course, Annabelle also remembers me clearly as well, particularly my very fine head of hair.”

“It has remained very fine. Are you certain that my mother hasn’t kept you away from matrimony, Hollis?”

“Not at all, my lord.” Hollis took another quick look at the dowager, leaned closer, and added, “Although the notion about too much lock—well, never you mind. Robbie has informed me that Master Jason is waiting for you at the stables.”

“All right, curse him. At least James is in the estate room with Danvers.”

“Poor young man. Danvers will work Master James until his head is an empty gourd, an exceptional empty gourd I might add.”

Douglas sipped his tea. If Hollis only knew. James was not only enamored with celestial bodies and Kepler’s laws, he was also fascinated in every facet of the estate’s workings, had been from his earliest years, even before he’d fully grasped that Northcliffe would someday be his responsibility. No, it was James who would work Danvers to near exhaustion, not the other way around.

When Douglas rose, tossed his napkin on his plate, and strode from the room, his mother’s voice hit him squarely in the back. “I need more wallpaper samples, Douglas. Alexandra is incapable of making selections pleasing to anyone blessed with extraordinary taste, such as I.”

“I’ll see to it, Mother,” Douglas said, and wondered if there were any samples left in the warehouses in Eastbourne. Well, he supposed there could be samples found in New Romney, though he doubted it.

He met Jason in the paddock where Henry VIII was having a fine time trying to kill Bad Boy, James’s horse. Lovejoy was trying his best to save his favorite of the two, but Henry wasn’t having it. Douglas walked to the fence and whistled. Henry eyed Bad Boy for another moment, then wheeled about and came trotting over to his master, head high, tail swishing. Douglas patted his shiny black neck while he butted his head against Douglas’s shoulder.

Douglas held out his hand. Weir, the head stable lad, slapped two carrots sharply onto his palm, and stepped back because he wasn’t stupid. “All right, my big brute,” Douglas said, and watched with a smile as Henry ate the carrots.

“I’ll saddle him up, Weir,” he said. Two minutes later, he and Jason were riding toward Branderleigh Farm to look at the new hunters that had just arrived from Spain. Douglas was very aware that Jason was trying to look in all directions at once for a villain bent on murder.

Jason said, riding close to his father, giving him as much protection as he could, “Mother told me that the Virgin Bride had visited you, Father, when Mother had been kidnapped by that fanatic Royalist, Georges Cadoudal. She said you hated it, but if you were pushed, you would admit it because you don’t lie, at least not usually, at least not to her, usually.”

Douglas rolled his eyes.

Jason sighed. “Did you really see her, Father? What did she say?”

Douglas turned in his saddle to look at his boy—tall, straight, an excellent rider, a big man now, not a boy. At least the twins’ respective characters didn’t appear to be ruined by their incredible good looks, and surely that was a victory over nature. Where had the years gone? “Forget that ridiculous phantom, Jason. Whatever happened in the distant past will remain there. It is forgotten. Do you understand me?”

Jason said, “No, sir, I can’t forget, but I do recognize a granite wall when I see it. I believe I will go swimming later.”

“You’ll freeze your parts off.”

Jason grinned like a bandit. “That, sir, is an image that truly appalls.”

“It should. Forget that damned ghost.”

“Yes, sir.” But of course Douglas knew he wouldn’t.

He couldn’t for the life of him decide if the first shot had been intentional or not. Just because that damned phantom had predicted it—well, that made him want to dismiss it without another thought. However, he wasn’t stupid, curse it.

LATE IN THE afternoon, three days later, a messenger arrived at Northcliffe Hall with a message for Douglas from Lord Avery at the War Ministry.

The earl left for London the following morning, alone, his wife refusing to speak to him, and his two sons, whom he suspected would follow him, staring after him.

MICHAELMAS WAS THREE weeks away, Douglas thought, as he rode Garth into the stable entrance off Putnam Square, and he would be a year older, and wasn’t that the strangest thing. George IV had died in June, bringing his brother, the duke of Clarence, to the throne as William IV. William was good-natured, but, truth be told, he wasn’t smart enough to give wise counsel or recognize it when it smacked him in the nose. He had more enthusiasm than sense, was indiscreet to the point of lunacy, causing one wag to say, “It is a good sovereign, but it is a little cracked.” It remained to be seen what would happen, particularly since the duke of Wellington was at the helm and had offended Tories and Whigs alike. It was an extraordinary year, Douglas thought, as he walked into the Sherbrooke townhouse. Revolution everywhere—in France, Poland, Belgium, Germany, Italy, but thankfully not here at home, even though there were hardships, no denying that, grave hardships. After the duke had achieved Catholic Emancipation, he’d turned against all reform. His inconsistencies boggled Douglas’s mind, but since he owed Wellington his allegiance, he would support him in the House of Lords, although he hated politics, would swear until he was out of breath that the vast majority of the Tories and the Whigs alike were power-mongering, flatulent liars. He recalled that his father had felt the same way. Douglas smiled at that. He would have to ask James and Jason their opinions.

He went to his club that evening, chatted with old friends, realized that there was more divisiveness in the government than he’d thought, won a hundred pounds at whist, and fell asleep with a warm belly, the result of a snifter of French brandy that, he would swear, had tasted much better when it had been illegal and smuggled into England in the dead of night.

He was surprised when he entered Lord Avery’s large ornate office at the War Ministry the following morning to see Arthur Wellesley, the duke of Wellington, standing by one of the long windows, staring at Westminster in the distance, now visible because the morning fog had lifted. He looked weary to his bones, but when he saw Douglas, his eyes lit up and he smiled.

“Northcliffe,” he said, turning. He strode forward to shake Douglas’s hand. “You are looking fit.”

“As are you. It is a pleasure to see you, your grace. I will not speak of either Tories or Whigs for fear there may be one hidden in the closet, ready to jump out and clout the both of us. I congratulate you on achieving Catholic Emancipation. You can count on me in the House of Lords, though to be honest about it, to listen to those weasels whine about any- and everything makes my belly cramp.”

The duke smiled. “I have many times thought the same thing. I am a soldier, Northcliffe, and now I am called upon to perform a vastly different job. It is a pity I cannot have the opposition whipped with a cat o’ nine tails.”

Douglas laughed.

“But you know, I have decided that what will happen, will happen,” he said, his voice more bitter than angry. “It is one of those newfangled trains that is now in motion. There is no stopping it. Further, I am no longer in control of it.” When Douglas would have questioned him, he waved his hand and said, “Enough of that. I wish to speak to you because Lord Avery has discussed with me a threat to your life that comes from a trustworthy source. You have served your country well, Northcliffe. I wished to tell you that and to inform you of the nature of this threat.”

Well, blessed hell. That damned phantom was right. The bullet that hit his arm wasn’t from a poacher’s gun. He and the duke spent the next hour together.

When Douglas arrived back at the Sherbrooke town house some two hours later, it was to see his wife and two sons standing in the entrance hall, their luggage piled around them, surely denoting a protracted stay. All three of them stared him down, daring him to say a word.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The English never smash in a face. They merely refrain from asking it to dinner.

MARGARET HALSEY

DOUGLAS DIDN’T SAY a single word. He just sighed and said, “Wellington met me at the ministry. There is indeed a threat, dammit.”

Alexandra was in his arms in a moment. “I knew it, I just knew it,” she whispered against his neck. “What sort of threat? Who is behind this?”

Douglas kissed the tip of her nose, hugging her tightly. The twins were practically en pointe, and that made him smile.

James said, “I don’t understand, sir, you haven’t been involved in any missions for a very long time.”

Douglas nodded. “It is, I believe, a matter of revenge, and the exacting of revenge is something that one can savor for years before acting. Enough now. Alexandra, call Willicombe and get us something to eat and drink. Come along, and I will tell you all about it. Oh, there you are, Willicombe. Please see to the valises and—”

“Aye, my lord, all is done. If you would repair to the drawing room, everything will be as you wish in but a matter of moments.”

Willicombe, at fifty, quite young enough to be Hollis’s son, wanted more than anything in his life to be just like Hollis. He wanted to talk like him, he wanted to fetch up the perfect word at exactly the right time, he wanted to inspire the household staff to regard him as God. He wanted all of this, but he wanted to do all of it better and faster than Hollis. Perhaps Willicombe would be faster since Hollis was beginning to creak. Douglas wondered what Willicombe would do were he to tell him that Hollis was in love, mayhap even set upon seduction, just to see the look on his face. Would he then try to seduce one of the maids? Or perhaps Mrs. Bootie, the housekeeper, who had more hair on her upper lip than Douglas did before he shaved in the morning?

No one settled into comfortable chairs, no one relaxed. Tension flowed throughout the large room. Douglas looked around at his family and said, “Lord Avery received a letter from an informant in Paris that I was to finally get my just desserts. The informant believes it has something to do with Georges Cadoudal.”

Alexandra was shaking her head. “No, that couldn’t be possible, could it? You parted friends with Georges. Goodness, Douglas, it was years and years ago, before the twins were even born.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Who is this Cadoudal, Father?”

Douglas looked at James, who was standing, shoulders against the mantelpiece, arms crossed over his chest, exactly in the same way that Douglas stood, and said, “Georges Cadoudal was a madman and a genius. Our government paid him vast amounts of money to kill Napoleon. He killed a lot of Frenchmen, but not the emperor. I heard he’d died some time ago.”

Willicombe entered, carrying a beautiful Georgian tea tray on his arm. Douglas remained silent until finally, seeing that Willicombe could think of nothing that would allow him to remain and eavesdrop, and thus know more than Hollis knew about this situation, whatever it was, raised an eyebrow.

But Willicombe didn’t move, couldn’t move. Something bad had happened, that was all he knew. The family was in trouble. He was needed. It was time to prove his worth. He tried manfully to dredge up a wise word. He cleared his throat.

“Yes, Willicombe?” Alexandra asked.

He could tell she was so upset she was white as the lovely lace at the neck of her gown. He drew himself up to his full five foot, six inches and squared his shoulders. “I am your man, my lord. I am resourceful. I learn quickly what is what. I could pick out an enemy from fifty feet. I am a man of action when the need but offers itself. I am the soul of discretion. Pull out my fingernails and nothing will pass my lips but an occasional scream.”

James looked at Willicombe with great respect. After all, when James was born, Willicombe was a footman who’d occasionally played with him in the back gardens, tossing him a red ball, James remembered. “Nothing but a scream, Willicombe?”

“That’s correct, my lord. I can be trusted to go to the grave carrying any secrets you would wish to confide in me.”

Douglas said, “I thank you, Willicombe. Fact is, it appears that someone with revenge on his mind is out to cut my days short, something I really don’t want.”

Willicombe stood en pointe.

“I will assign the footmen to guard duty, my lord. I, myself, will take the first watch, eight o’clock until midnight, each and every night until the enemy is dispatched. No one will come into this house, this I swear.”

“How many footmen are there, Willicombe?” James asked.

“There are three now, Master James. I will myself tell them what is what. You don’t have to worry, my lord.”

“Thank you, Willicombe,” Douglas said. “I am certain that Hollis would be very impressed with your resourcefulness.”

“Robert, the second footman, my lord, comes from a noxious area near the docks. He still knows some of the miscreants there. I will have him sniff around to see what he can learn.”

“That is an excellent idea, Willicombe,” Alexandra said and gave him a big smile.

They watched Willicombe stride from the room, taller, straighter, a man on a mission.

Jason stood. “Did Georges Cadoudal have family? Children?”

“I believe he married a woman whose name was Janine. I don’t know about children.”

Jason said, “We must find out. Now, I’m off to visit my club. I want to know if anyone has heard anything.” He rose, straightened his waistcoat.

James said, “Father, we both have friends who will want to help. I don’t think we should keep this a secret. I think we should announce to the world that someone—some Frenchman—is trying to kill you. Everyone will rally. Everyone will keep his eyes open. Jason and I will divide up the clubs between us. We will find this person, Father, and we will destroy him.”

Douglas and Alexandra watched their sons walk from the drawing room. She said quietly even as she burrowed against her husband’s shoulder, “They are not boys any longer, Douglas.”

“Yes, you’re right about that. Where have the years gone, Alex?”

“I don’t know, I just want them to continue going into the distant future. Our sons want to protect you now as you always wanted to protect them.”

“I still want to protect them.” He held her a moment, saying against her hair, “I fear they are too brave.”

Alexandra raised her head, and Douglas saw that she was smiling. “I too have many friends. Ladies, you know, hear many things. We must find out about children Georges could have left when he died.”

“Alex, you will not involve yourself in this!”

“Do not be a blockhead, my lord. I am your wife and thus I am more involved than anyone, with the possible exception of your stubborn self. Yes, I shall begin with Lady Avery. I wonder if her spouse ever tells her anything.”

Douglas’s face was red. “Alex, I forbid—”

She gave him a lovely smile and said, “Would you like a cup of tea, my lord?”

He growled and took his tea. “You will take no risks, madam, do you understand me?”

“Oh yes, Douglas. I understand you perfectly.”

Sometime later, Douglas said to his wife as they walked up the central staircase, “Well, damnation. I forgot all about Corrie.”

“It’s all right, Douglas. I didn’t. I selected several lovely patterns for her and some very nice white muslin and pale blue satin.”

Douglas knew it wasn’t going to be good. He cleared his throat. “Did Miss Plack sew up the gowns?”

“No, there wasn’t time, but Maybella assured me that all would be well. She said that Corrie’s maid could sew in a closed carriage. Indeed, I am expecting them to arrive in London today—even though Simon was complaining that he had contracted the plague—and Corrie will be wearing one of her new gowns.”

It was difficult, but Douglas did manage not to put his head in his hands. “Simon’s town house is on Great Little Street, is that right?”

Alexandra nodded. She was thinking hard, not about Corrie but about Georges Cadoudal. She said, “It’s been so long since Georges kidnapped me and took me to France. It was a matter of revenge then, Douglas, against you. But it isn’t the same now. This is someone hiding, lurking in the shadows, trying to kill you without you seeing his face.”

Douglas grunted.

“I wonder if Georges did marry Janine, that wretched hussy who betrayed you.”

“We’ll find out.”

“Could he have spoken with such hatred of you that any children he might have had are now out to avenge him? It makes no sense for the simple reason that there wasn’t any hatred. You and Georges parted amicably, like you told the boys, and I should know. I was there. I wonder, do you think perhaps that Georges is still alive?”

“I’ll make certain, one way or the other. I agree with you. Given what happened then, Georges’s involvement doesn’t make any sense to me either.”

She stopped in her tracks, halfway down the vast corridor, and grabbed his arm. “You were on a mission in France before Waterloo. I remember that since you tried to keep it from me.”

“It was not a particularly dangerous mission, just the extraction of one of our highly placed spies.”

“You told me that much, but nothing more. Now, was Georges involved in that?”

“I never saw him. Perhaps he was close by.” He didn’t say another word. He wasn’t about to tell her the rest of it for the simple reason that it had nothing to do with this.

“Spill it now, Douglas, or I will do something you won’t like.”

He hesitated, and she said, “I even learned to speak French to help protect you. Not that it did me much good.”

“The informant said something about revenge against me would be lovely.”

Alexandra shuddered. “I knew it. It is what I expected.”

He’d managed to sidetrack her, but not for long. She would remember that he hadn’t told her about that mission to France before Waterloo, and what had happened. Well, it didn’t matter. He’d survived.

JAMES WALKED TO Great Little Street, at the request of his father, to see exactly how bad Corrie looked in her maid-sewn gowns whose fabric and pattern his mother had, unfortunately, selected.

He arrived at Number 27 Great Little Street and rapped the bronze lion’s-head knocker.

A red-faced butler took one look at him and quickly stepped back. “Please hurry, my lord, before it is too late! I don’t know what to do.”

James ran past the butler’s flapping hand up the stairs and through the wide double doors into the Ambrose drawing room. He came to a halt in the doorway, scared to his toes, to find Corrie standing in the middle of the room, garbed in the most hideous gown he’d ever seen. It was pale blue, lace sewn nearly to her ears, row upon row of flounces sewn on the bottom portion, and sleeves the size of cannons. The only thing that looked good was her nearly invisible waist—she had to be wearing an iron corset beneath that belt because she looked ready to faint. She was crying.

James shut the door in the butler’s face. He was at her side in a moment, grabbing up her hand that fell out of that huge sleeve. “Corrie, what the devil is the matter?”

She swiped the back of her right hand over her eyes and gave him the most pathetic look he’d ever seen from her. Another tear trickled over her cheek to drip off her chin.

“Corrie, for God’s sake, what’s happened?”

She drew a deep breath, focused on his face, and sneered. “Why nothing, you fool.”

He shook her. “What is wrong, damn you? The butler was really scared.”

“All right, all right, stop shaking me. If you would know the truth, I’m practicing.”

He dropped his hands. “Practicing what?”

“You’ll just keep digging and prodding, won’t you? Very well. Aunt Maybella said I must know how to turn down the scores of young gentlemen who will be proposing to me right and left. She said to think of something sad and it would make me cry. She said that gentlemen are most profoundly affected by a lady’s tears. They would believe that I am desolate to refuse to marry them. There, are you satisfied?”

He was staring down at her, dumbfounded. The tears had certainly worked on him, and the butler. He said, “You will not gain a single proposal wearing a gown like that.”

Her tears dried up in a flash. Her mouth seamed shut. “Aunt Maybella said it is very fine. Your mother selected the pattern and the fabric and my maid sewed it.”

“In that case, you have to know that it is very bad indeed.”

She stood there, trying to close the huge mouths of the sleeves, but they’d been stiffened and didn’t move.

James wanted to laugh, but he wasn’t a total clod. “Listen, Corrie, my father is going to take you tomorrow to Madame Jourdan. She will fix you up.”

“Do I really look that bad?”

Sometimes the truth was good. On the other hand, sometimes the truth needlessly devastated. “No. But listen to me. London is a vastly different place. Look at me. I’m not wearing breeches, a shirt open at my throat. Not here.”

“I like you better in breeches and an open shirt.”

“Well, that’s not going to happen here in London. Now, my mother wants you to come back with me for a visit. Er, do you perhaps have something else you can wear?”

CHAPTER NINE

Men and women, women and men. It will never work.

ERICA JONG

I AM THE jewel of Arabie . . . I am the jewel of Arabie. . . . It was her litany, spoken over and over from the moment she stepped in the carriage with Aunt Maybella to come to the Ranleagh ball just two streets away on Putnam Square, although she wasn’t entirely certain what the jewel of Arabie actually was. She’d thought it ridiculous to take a carriage until she’d tottered down the front stairs in a pair of lovely high-heeled white satin slippers.

She might indeed look fine, but the fact was that if Willie Marker tried to kiss her again, she wouldn’t be able to run after him and smack him in the head. No, she’d either stumble over her feet or collapse in a dead faint because she couldn’t breathe.

On the other hand, she could kick him with a deadly heel.

On the second other hand, Willie Marker was an idiot she didn’t have to worry about here in London.

No, her only worry here was to snag a husband, and if that meant looking fine through exquisite torture, her aunt was fully prepared to bring out an iron maiden. Maybella, looking very pleased, had patted her hand and told her a lady’s lot wasn’t an easy one. And what was one to say to that?

Who wanted a husband anyway? She’d rather have a white poodle on her lap when she drove herself down Bond Street smiling graciously at all the gentlemen swooning at the sight of her.

She saw a lady throw her head back and laugh at something a gentleman said. What could a man possibly say to make a woman laugh with such gusto?

Corrie had been looking around the Ranleagh ballroom, near to bursting with scores of laughing, beautiful people who had to be roasting it was so warm this evening, but it didn’t seem to phase any of them. They waltzed and laughed and flirted and drank champagne while she stood, nailed to the spot, so frightened she knew she was going to erupt in hives.

She was wedged between James’s mother and her Aunt Maybella, and weren’t they having just the finest time, speaking to other ladies who floated by on lovely heeled slippers, some of which were more than two inches off the ground. And all the gentlemen, crooning over Lady Alexandra’s lovely hand, whispering wicked things not an inch from her lovely ear. She heard her Aunt Maybella titter.

Both her aunt and Lady Alexandra appeared to take it all in stride, indeed, blossoming, as if this was the way things were done, and evidently they were.

If she were wise, she would watch and listen and imitate.

She was convinced she’d been introduced to every lady who wasn’t on the dance floor, and said her practiced niceties to such a polished degree that she heard one lady say under her breath to James’s mother that she was a prettily behaved girl. As opposed to what? She’d practiced in front of a mirror until she was fluent in politeness. She smiled and nodded and recited, trying to sound spontaneous, difficult after you’d said the same things twelve times.

By the time she’d danced with six young gentlemen in forty-five minutes, she couldn’t believe she’d been such a twit to be scared. There was only one Willie Marker in the lot, but at least he was nicely dressed and his hands weren’t dirty. All her aunt could talk about was finding her a right and proper husband, not one that was after things other than a wife, and thus because you never knew what lurked beneath a nice set of shoulders, Corrie was to be very vigilant. Since Corrie had no idea what those other things could possibly be, she was suspicious of every gentleman who asked her to dance until she reached the fourth, Jonathan Vallante, whose eyes bugged out just a bit, and made her laugh. Looking out over the ballroom, she realized this was like one of the big country fairs, except there were no pickpockets lurking and none of these people had to count their money. She saw a man with two gold front teeth. There was another lady with three chins and a lovely diamond necklace that looked in danger of choking her. Corrie realized that if you stripped off all the jewels, loosened all the stays, these beautiful people were much like the ones at home.

She hadn’t danced in seven minutes, and she wanted to dance again, she loved to dance, she’d discovered, and so where were all these young gentlemen? She tapped the heel of one slipper. She was restless. She’d only attracted six of them. Surely there were more than a measly half dozen. She wanted a long line of gentlemen, queuing right in front of her, peering around each other to get a better view of her.

Then her ears perked up.

The duchess of Brabante was saying to James’s mama, “There are the twins, just coming into the ballroom. Ah, what exquisite and delightful boys, Alexandra. You’ve done so very well. What a thrill it must be for you now that they are all so splendidly grown up, watching all the young ladies and their mamas dogging them, hanging on to their every word. Why, I saw one young lady swoon at James’s feet. I was hoping he’d let her fall, but no, James is a gentleman, and before her elbow hit the floor, he caught her. He gave her a scare though, and I thought that was smart of him.

“I have the same problem, naturally, with my dear Devlin, such an exemplary young man. Being the heir to a duke—not just an earl—naturally all the very best families are after him for their daughters. And how is your dear sister, Melissande? Everyone finds it so terribly interesting that the twins are in her image. Tell me, what does Lord Northcliffe think?”

Alexandra simply smiled and cocked her head to one side. “Why, I believe he thinks of me most of all, then the boys, perhaps then the estates.”

The duchess blew out an annoyed breath, but to persist would have made her look a fool.

That was well done, Corrie thought. Had this odd woman reached the end of her very singular monologue?

No, she had not. The duchess said, “However do you tell them apart? I swear they are like two stitches on a pillowcase.”

“Trust me, Lorelei, if one births twins, one can easily tell them apart.”

“Oh look, three girls are already twittering around them. Oh goodness, I do believe that girl is trying to pass Jason a note. Poor boys! Look there—I see a convoy of white gowns steering toward them.”

Where were they? Corrie craned her neck, but even in her two-inch heels, she couldn’t see them, and she was tall. Were they already dancing? Was James already dancing?

The duchess cleared her throat. “My son would be delighted to dance with Maybella’s lovely little niece. Since Maybella is gossiping with Sir Arthur, Alexandra, I will inquire of you since you appear to be a friend of the family.”

“Oh? Where is Devlin?” Alexandra asked.

“There, by that huge pot of flowers that is making everyone sneeze. I do wonder why Clorinda needs to pollinate her ballroom.”

Devlin? A duke’s son? What would a duke’s son want with her? She was practically a nobody from Twyley Grange.

The duchess gave an imperious nod toward a young man who smiled and nodded, and began a leisurely stroll toward them, pausing to chat with everyone in his path. It will take him an hour to get here, Corrie thought. How much could a man really want to dance with a lady if he didn’t have a little snap in his step?

His name was Devlin Archibald Monroe, earl of Convers, heir to the duke of Brabante, and Corrie thought he was very nice-looking indeed. He wasn’t much older than James, tall, black-eyed, and his face was as pale as the portrait of a vampire Corrie had seen in a forbidden book a century old, hidden at the back of her uncle’s bookshelf. He had a dark voice that sent lovely shivers up her back.

He smiled and showed no fangs, and that was a relief. She said her rehearsed speech, he looked amused, and when he asked her to waltz, she lightly placed her hand on his offered forearm and headed to the dance floor.

Not many minutes later, Alexandra heard a beloved voice and turned, a smile on her face. “Mother, you look altogether lovely this evening. I see Father has deserted you.”

“James, my dear. Your father escaped me after one dance to meet with some of his cronies in the library. It’s past ten o’clock. You’re here at last. Where have you and Jason been?”

James moved a bit closer since there were people nearby. “Jason and I wanted to meet with some men down at the docks. No, Mother, don’t chew my ear, there was no particular danger. Besides, Jase and I are very careful now, so please don’t worry or else I can’t tell you what we’re doing anymore.”

That was a powerful argument, but it was difficult to keep her mother’s worry and advice behind her teeth. She touched his cheek. “I won’t carp at you. Did you learn anything?”

“Yes and no. One of the men had come from Paris. He’d heard that an English nobleman was going to get his just desserts, nothing more than that. Perhaps it was the same person who informed the War Ministry.

“I asked if he’d heard of any children, but he didn’t know. He gave us another name, a captain on a fishing boat due up the Thames within the week. Will he know more? I don’t know, but it’s worth a try. Ah, where’s Corrie?”

“She’s dancing with Devlin Monroe, see over there, on the other side of the dance floor.”

James shook his head. “No, I don’t see her. I see Devlin, but not Corrie.”

Alexandra said, “Ah, James, give your greetings to Lady Montague and Sir Arthur Cochrane.”

James greeted Corrie’s Aunt Maybella, who was wearing her usual pale blue. He greeted Sir Arthur Cochrane with the deference he automatically accorded an older gentleman who had claims on his father’s friendship. Personally, he’d always believed that Sir Arthur needed to bathe more often and use less pomade on what was left of his hair.

He said to Maybella, “I’ve been trying to locate Corrie on the dance floor, ma’am.”

“Perhaps you can spot Devlin. He’s so very pale, you know, with those lovely dark eyelashes fanning over his cheeks. Ah, the dance is ending. Here they come.”

“I see him, but I don’t recognize—” James’s jaw dropped.

CHAPTER TEN

Love is a universal migraine.

ROBERT GRAVES

JAMES STARED, SHOOK his head, looked at every female near to that approaching female, who was laughing, nearly skipping, her step was so light, so filled with excitement.

No, that couldn’t be Corrie Tybourne-Barrett. Not that creature with hair the color of rich autumn leaves, all piled up on top of her head with ringlets hanging in front of lovely little white ears that were pierced with small diamond studs. All right, maybe it was Corrie—but—his eyes were on her breasts, yes, there were breasts. How had she hidden this incredible creature so thoroughly? He pictured her breeches and old hat and shuddered. He looked at her breasts and shuddered again.

She was smiling at something Devlin said. She looked fresh and innocent, a babe ignorant of wickedness, and he knew he should warn her about Devlin.

“Hello, James.”

“Hello, Corrie. Devlin, did you purchase Mountjoy’s bay gelding?”

“Yes, I did, as a matter of fact.”

“A bay gelding?” she asked. “A hunter?”

He nodded. “Yes, a fine addition to my stables. He likes to chase foxes at night, isn’t that nice?”

“I suppose so,” Corrie said. “My money’s on the fox, though.”

Devlin laughed.

James took a small step forward, crowding this interloper, his voice aggressive. “Perhaps Corrie told you that I’ve known her since she was three years old, Devlin. I suppose you could say that I know her better than I know the planets. And I know the planets very well indeed. Naturally I’ve always looked out for her.”

“Ah, but perhaps she’d like to hunt sometime with me, you think?”

“No, she has night blindness,” James said and narrowed his eyes on Devlin’s pale, pale face. Then he smiled and offered his arm. “Would you care to dance, Corrie?”

Corrie ignored him, giving a blinding smile to Devlin Monroe. “Thank you, my lord, for the lovely dance.” James watched Devlin’s smile widen, and wanted to smash his fist into his pale pretty face.

“Perhaps another waltz later?” he said, half an eye on James.

“Oh yes,” she said. “I should like that.” When she turned back to James, he was still frowning as he watched Devlin disappear into the crowd.

“What was that all about, James? You were rude to Devlin. All he did was dance excellently with me, and amuse me.” When he just kept looking ahead and said nothing, she was presented with a delightful opportunity: she was free to look at him. If she looked fine, then James looked beyond fine. Every feature blended with every other feature, as if by an artist’s hand. His eyes looked pure violet this evening beneath the swarm of candles that shown down from scores of chandeliers.

“Your cravat is crooked,” she said, placing her arm on his and walking to the dance floor, not looking at him, but at the gaggle of girls heading their way. Oh dear, would they walk over her and haul him away?

They stopped only when James had led her into the center of the dance floor. He said, “I would ask you to straighten it but I doubt that is a skill you possess.”

She wanted to snarl at him, kiss him, maybe even hurl him to the floor and bite his ear, and so she twitched the cravat this way and that until it was as straight as it had been before she’d touched it.

All the while, he was looking down at her, a curious smile on his face. “Your gown is lovely. I assume my father selected the pattern and the fabric?”

“Oh yes,” she said, her eyes still on the blasted cravat that wouldn’t cooperate.

“I assume my father also thought that the gown is cut too low?”

“Well, he did gnash his teeth a bit, and he did point out that the gown was cut so low my knees were nearly on display. He started to hoist it up himself, like he does with your mother’s gowns, but stopped fast when Madame Jourdan told him he wasn’t my father, so his odd notions of bosom coverage weren’t to the point.”

An understatement. James could hear his father roaring.

She dropped her hands from his cravat, then lightly traced her fingertips over his shoulders and down his arms. “Lovely fabric, James. Nearly as lovely as mine.”

“Oh no, surely not. Is my cravat perfect now?”

“Naturally.”

“I also assume you learned how to waltz?”

“You certainly weren’t around to instruct me, were you?”

“No. I had to come to London. There were things I had to do.”

“Like what?”

“None of your business.” He put his arm around her, actually touched her back, and she nearly fell off her slippers.

“Pay attention, Corrie.” The music started and so did they.

“Ah, you have the steps down, that’s good.” And he whirled her about, making her nearly swallow her tongue with the excitement and pleasure of it.

“Oh, this is wonderful!” She was smiling and laughing, and he continued to dance her through every part of the dance floor, her wide skirt swishing around his legs, the lovely white of her attire like snow against the black of his trousers. She was panting for breath when he finally slowed. “James,”—pant, pant, pant—“if you are unable to do anything else of use in your life, know that you are excellent at waltzing.”

He grinned into that shining face that had long since lost its rice powder. A face, he realized, he knew as well as his own. Those breasts, though, he didn’t know them at all. One thick braid looked in danger of unwinding. He didn’t think, just said, “Keep moving, slowly.” And he reached up both hands and slipped the wooden pins skillfully back into the braid, anchoring it. Then he slid one of the half dozen white roses securely back in.

“There, that is just fine now.”

She was looking at him oddly. “How do you know how to fix a lady’s hair?”

“I’m not a clod,” he said, nothing more.

“Well, I’m not a clod either, but I wouldn’t know how to do it as well as you do.”

“For God’s sake, Corrie, I’ve had some practice.”

“On whom? I’ve never asked you to braid my hair or anything like that.”

James drew a deep breath. This was something he’d never encountered in his male adult life. Here was a girl he’d known forever, and yet she was now a young lady, and surely he should treat her differently. He said, “No, you’ve always stuffed your braid under your hat, or left it to flap against your back. What was there to do?”

“May I inquire upon whom you practiced?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but I’ve known quite a few females, and all of them have hair that occasionally needs fixing.”

She was frowning up at him, still not understanding. He said, looking at her breasts, ready to swallow his tongue, “I see you unsmashed yourself.”

She actually arched her back a little so that her breasts were pressed against his chest. “I told you I had a bosom.”

“Well, yes, possibly. I suppose.”

“What do you mean ‘I suppose’? My bosom is quite nice, so Madame Jourdan said when your father took me to her shop.”

Because he didn’t know what to say to that, James picked up speed and danced her around the perimeter of the dance floor, laughing and panting at the same time, as other couples quickly danced out of their way.

Then the music ended.

He looked down at her and saw her smile turn into misery. She looked ready to burst into tears.

“Whatever is the matter?”

She gulped. “That was lovely. I should like to do it again. Now.”

“All right,” he said and thought that surely two dances wouldn’t mean anything to anyone, for heaven’s sake, since they were very nearly related. He saw four young ladies bearing down on them, and quickly took Corrie’s arm and led her into the dozen or so couples still on the dance floor.

She said, “I swear that every gown in this incredible room is either white like mine, or rose, blue, or purple.”

“Lilac, not purple. Lilac is much lighter.”

“Ah, and what about violet?” Was that a hint of a sneer on her mouth?

“Why, I would say that violet is just about the most beautiful color on this earth.”

Corrie swallowed, acknowledging the hit, and said, “Aunt Maybella’s blue fits right in.”

“Not exactly, but close enough.” He eyed her, wanted to touch his fingertips to the tops of her breasts, looked at her white shoulders, and said, “Well, did it require bucketfuls?”

“What? Smeared on me. Well, yes, at least one and a half buckets of cream. Uncle Simon complained about it at first because he said I smelled like lavender compost, but Aunt Maybella said it was necessary or I just might never be able to crawl off the shelf and fall into a matrimony basket.”

“As in no man wants a scaly wife?”

“I’ve been here now five days, James, and I tell you, I haven’t met a single man I would want to have consider my scales.”

He laughed. “How many have you met?”

“Well, I’ve danced with at least a half dozen this evening. Very well, counting Lord Devlin, it’s now exactly seven. Of course now there’s you to add to my list. Eight gentlemen. That’s a rather nice large number, isn’t it? You couldn’t possibly consider me a failure, could you?”

“Er, were they all nice to you?”

“Oh yes. I practiced answers to every sort of question. You know, spontaneous answers. And you know what, James?”

“What?”

“They used nearly all of them.” She frowned a moment. “I think the favorite question was about the weather.”

“Well, that’s normal, I suppose. It is nice and warm, worthy to comment upon.”

She looked over his left shoulder.

“What’s the matter? What did they do besides ask you your opinion on the weather?”

“Well, it wasn’t all of them, but you see, ever since I’ve unsmashed my bosom and lowered my neckline—well, really, it was Madame Jourdan who wouldn’t tolerate your father’s criticism about my neckline—” she rose on her tiptoes and whispered near his ear, “they’ve been looking.”

“This is something that surprises and astounds you? I’d like to know why any female on this earth could possibly be surprised at that.”

“It surprised me at first, I’ll admit it. Then I realized that I really liked them looking at me. I figure that if they’re actually focused on my parts then it’s obvious I don’t look like such a country bumpkin. But you know, James, I never realized that males found that particular part of the female’s anatomy so mesmerizing.”

If you only knew, he thought. The music started up again and James said, “Are you ready to gallop?”

She laughed until her eyes were tearing.

Along the side of the dance floor, Thomas Crowley, the younger son of Sir Edmund Crowley, one of Wellington’s cronies, said to Jason, “Who is that lovely girl James is dancing with?”

“You know,” Jason said slowly, “I’ve been wondering that myself. Perhaps it’s someone from his mysterious past.”

“James doesn’t have a mysterious past,” said Tom. “Neither do we.”

Jason poked him in the shoulder. “I’ve been thinking that it’s time to start making one.”

Since Jason had told him about the threat on his father’s life, Tom said, “You’re already on your way. Blessed Lord, who’s that? Good God, what a beauty.”

Jason turned to look where Tom was pointing. He smiled, that lazy confident smile that seemed to make ladies from the ages of ten to eighty perk right up whenever he came within fifty feet.

Jason said slowly, in that easy voice of his, “You know, Tom, maybe I don’t need anymore mystery right now.” Thomas saw Jason draw a bead on the dark-haired girl who was peeking at him over the top of her fan, and stride off in a very straight line toward her, paying no attention at all to the score of young ladies, and not-so-young ladies, who tried to put themselves in his path. He didn’t mow any of them down, but it was close.

Tom shook his head and took himself off to where his mother was holding court. He tried to slink behind a palm tree when he realized she was in animated conversation with three dowagers with unmarried daughters.

“Tom! Do come here, my boy.”

He’d been well and fairly caught. He drew a deep breath and went to his doom.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

JASON SHERBROOKE GRINNED from ear to ear. His worry about his father shifted to the back of his brain. This female looked charming, and the good Lord knew he hadn’t been this charmed by a female since he was fifteen years old and seduced by Bea O’Rourke, a clever young widow from St. Ives who’d been visiting New Romney and liked his smile and his lovely, very busy, hands, she’d told him while she nibbled on his ear.

This girl had dark, dark eyes, alight with intelligence and humor. Then she snapped her furled fan and those lovely eyes disappeared. He saw shiny black hair drawn back from a white forehead. He’d swear she could be Bea’s daughter. But Bea didn’t have any daughters, just two sons who were both in the king’s navy, she told him when he’d last been with her in early August.

He looked about for her mother or her chaperone and found himself staring into the bony face of Lady Arbuckle, known for her lack of humor and her tedious piety. This charming young creature with the wicked eyes was a relative of Lady Arbuckle’s? No, that couldn’t be possible. But Lady Arbuckle did look like the dragon guarding the treasure.

“Lady Arbuckle,” he said, turning on all the charm he’d learned from his Uncle Ryder over the years. “Observe your uncle,” his father had said to him and James. “He can coax the wart off a lady’s chin. If you find it inconvenient to use brute force, you might consider charm to gain what you want.”

“My goodness, is it you, James?”

“No, I’m Jason, ma’am.”

“Ah, how terribly familiar each of you look when I see the other. How are your mother and father?”

“They are well, ma’am.” Jason smiled toward the girl who was now gazing down at the toes of her very pale lilac slippers. “And Lord Arbuckle?”

The lady stiffened straight as a lamppost. “He goes as well as can be expected.”

This made no sense to Jason, but he nodded politely before he said, “May I be presented to your charming companion, ma’am?”

Lady Arbuckle gave only an infinitesimal pause, but Jason saw it and wondered at it. Was she concerned that he wasn’t exactly the sort of gentleman he should be?

“This is my niece, Judith McCrae, come with me to London to make her curtsy in polite society. Judith, this is Jason Sherbrooke, Lord Northcliffe’s second son.”

Jason was fully prepared to be disappointed when she opened her lovely mouth; he was prepared to see and hear silliness or simpering; he was prepared to wish himself a thousand miles away. But he wasn’t prepared for the sock of lust that roared through him when she smiled up at him, the dimple on the left side of her mouth deepening.

“My father was Irish,” she said, and let him take her hand. Long, slender fingers, soft, so very soft was her flesh. He lightly kissed her wrist.

“My father is English,” Jason said, and felt stupid. He’d never in his life felt stupid with a girl, but now he felt like he had nothing at all in his head but relentless waves of lust that were cooking his brain, and the good Lord knew there was nothing at all to lust but more lust. “My mother is also English.”

“My mother was a Cornish girl from Penzance. She and Aunt Arbuckle were second cousins. She calls me her niece because she loved me from the moment I was born. She is my only living relative now. She is giving me a Season. Isn’t that kind of her?”

Jason remembered now that Lord and Lady Arbuckle’s country estate was near St. Ives on the northern coast of Cornwall. He said, “Oh yes, as kind as it is proper. You’ve lived in Cornwall?”

“Sometimes. My father was from Waterford. I grew up there.” He loved the lilting voice, the soft vowels beneath the starchy English cadence. He’d never known English to sound so sweet.

“Would you care to dance with me, Miss McCrae?”

Judith looked toward Lady Arbuckle. The lady’s lips were a disapproving tight seam. He wasn’t a rake by any means—ah, he wasn’t the first son, the heir. She probably wondered about his income. Why would she even think such a thing? It was just a damned dance he wanted, nothing more.

“I will bring her right back, ma’am. Or perhaps you would like to speak to my mother? To assure you that I am not rabid and have no overtly distressing habits?”

Lady Arbuckle seemed to study those arching palm trees for a good thirty seconds before she gave him a stingy nod. “Very well. You may dance with Judith. Once.”

She was small, the top of her head barely reaching his shoulder. “Do you look like your mother?” he asked as he slipped his arm around her and began to waltz.

“Ah, my coloring. Yes, I have her eyes and her hair, and I am short, like she was, but my freckles come from my dear father.”

He didn’t see any freckles, no wait, there was a thin line marching across the bridge of her nose. “Your mother was a beautiful woman.”

“Yes, she was, but I am nothing compared to her, so my Aunt Arbuckle tells me. I don’t remember my mama really, since she died when I was very young, you see.”

Jason whirled her about, aware that she was a marvelous dancer, light on her feet, an armful that felt natural and—oh damn, the lust was poking and prodding at him, so he danced faster and faster. And very nearly slammed into his brother and his partner, who looked vaguely familiar.

Judith lost her balance when Jason suddenly jerked to the side, and so he simply lifted her off her feet. The thing was, once he had her against him, he didn’t want to put her down. He wanted to press her against his belly through all those damned petticoats and imagine that she wasn’t wearing any.

She gasped, even as she grabbed his arms to steady herself. “My goodness, that man looks just like you!”

“Ah, I believe it’s my brother. James, Lord Hammersmith, this is Miss Judith McCrae from Cornwall and Ireland.” Jason looked pointedly at the young lady who was breathing heavily next to James, her face shiny with perspiration, her mouth still smiling. She looked familiar, and those green eyes of hers, she—

“Jason, don’t you recognize me? You lout, it’s me, Corrie.”

For the first time since Jason had seen Judith, he forgot his lust and stared at the girl who’d dogged his brother’s heels from the age of three. “Corrie?”

She nodded, grinning at him. “I creamed myself down, unsmashed my bosom, and put my old hat on the shelf.”

“Will you pound me if I tell you that you look quite acceptable as a young lady?”

“Oh no, I want you to admire me. I want every gentleman in this room to admire me, to metaphorically fall at my feet like dead dogs. James doesn’t want to fall, much less be a dead dog, but I’m trying.”

“Like she said, buckets of cream and unsmashing have much improved her,” James said. “As for admiration, she laps it up.” Because James had exquisite manners, he turned immediately to Judith. “Miss McCrae, you are new to London?”

Judith was looking back and forth between the brothers. “Even though Aunt Arbuckle mentioned that you were twins, I didn’t realize that you were really such complete and utter twins,” Judith said, “as in how nicely you’re duplicated in each other.”

“Actually,” Jason said, “we’re not at all alike. James here is a devotee of the planets and stars, while I am an earthbound creature.”

Corrie said, “Jason swims like a fish and rides better than James, although James would never agree with that, and regularly beats James in footraces.”

“I swim as well,” Judith said. “In the Irish Sea in the deep of summer when you won’t freeze your toes off.”

Jason wanted to ask her what she wore when she swam. Surely a young lady couldn’t swim naked, like he did.

Judith turned those dark eyes of hers on James. “Stars, my lord?”

Corrie said, “Oh yes, on fine nights, you can find him on this particular hilltop, lying on his back, looking up at the heavens.”

Jason grinned. “He even knows all of Kepler’s laws.”

“Twins,” Judith said, looking yet again from one to the other. “How very convenient for you. Do you change places often?”

Jason said, “No, not since we were young.” Actually not since James wanted to prove to him that Ann Redfern wanted him and not Jason, and so traded places and found himself in the barn with a naked girl, and Jason outside the stall door. However, to this day, neither of them really figured out who Ann preferred for the simple reason that she couldn’t tell them apart.

“If I had an identical twin, I should practice until I could have fooled our mother.”

Jason laughed. “Sorry, Miss McCrae, no matter how hard you tried, you would never fool our mother.”

“Or our grandmother, who is so old that she shouldn’t have such sharp eyes anymore, but she does.”

Judith looked at them once again. “A challenge,” she said. “I have always loved challenges. I believe I can see one in the making.” Judith turned to Corrie. “Are you a twin as well?”

“Oh no,” Corrie said, staring at the exquisite girl with her porcelain skin and those brilliant black eyes and wondered if she saw a bucket of cream she’d even know what to do with it. As for her bosom, she was well-endowed very likely without using stays to hoist her up. “I’m just me.”

“Thank God,” James said. “Two of you would drive me mad.”

“James, I will see you at home,” Jason said, smiled at Corrie as if she was still someone he couldn’t quite place, and waltzed away.

James stood staring after him a moment before he turned, looking thoughtful, and said, “The waltz is ending. No, Corrie, not a third waltz. It wouldn’t do your reputation any good.”

“Whatever do you mean by that?”

“Didn’t you read the deportment book my mother, er, Jason gave you for your birthday?”

“I enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed the Racine plays. You know, James, the birthday present you gave to me, with all the lovely pictures. You know, the pictures I could look at if my brain ached from all those big French words?”

“Naturally I remember. It was thoughtfully selected for you. Now listen to me, brat. You don’t dance more than two dances with a gentleman or you’re nearly as good as engaged.”

“But it wasn’t two dances, at least two full dances. Jason interrupted the last third. Can’t we dance the first third of the next one?”

James shook his head.

“But why? How silly that sounds. You’re a good dancer, the best of all my gentlemen tonight. You’re perhaps even more accomplished than Devlin, maybe. I wouldn’t mind dancing with you all evening.”

“Thank you, but it isn’t done even though I’ve known you forever, and you’re very nearly my sister.”

She felt the punch of those careless words and sighed. She touched her fingers to his cravat again, pushing it this way and that. “That’s it then. Very well, if you’re not available, then I’ll dance with Devlin. I wonder where he is.” She looked up at him. “Uncle Simon is really keen on me finding a husband now. The dear man really doesn’t want to come back to London in the spring for another come-out. He says one month should be enough to do the trick.”

“Look, Corrie, it’s not really possible so don’t think you’re a failure if you’re not standing in front of a vicar by the end of the month, this poor sod you’ve yet to meet shackled to your side. An offer now, I suppose that’s possible. At least you’re looking fine now, so there should be some unattached young gentleman ready to leap into your cage.”

“That’s an interesting image. James, what do you think of when you think about the jewel of Arabie?”

“The jewel of Arabie? What the devil is a jewel of Arabie?”

“I think it’s a magnificent diamond that everyone coveted over the years.”

“What does that have to do with you?”

“Well, perhaps nothing at all if you fail to see any obvious comparisons.”

“Listen to me, Corrie. Don’t dance with Devlin Monroe. I strongly advise you to avoid him.”

“He looks like a vampire until he smiles, then he is quite nice-looking indeed.”

“Vampire? Devlin? Oh, you mean his pallor.” James looked thoughtful, rubbed his chin. “Yes, he’s known for his pallor. A vampire? Come to think of it, perhaps, I haven’t ever seen him during the day.”

“Really? Oh goodness, James, mayhap—oh, you sod, you’re teasing me.”

“Of course I’m teasing you, Corrie. But Devlin—listen to me now—he’s got a reputation for being involved in very different sorts of things—”

“What kind of different sorts of things?”

“You don’t need to know that. Just obey me and you’ll be all right.”

“Obey you? You?” She threw back her head and laughed, just couldn’t help it, and many female heads turned to see the source of that laughter—if they weren’t looking already, their focus James, naturally.

“I nearly raised you. Yes, pay attention to me. I’m older, I’ve had more experience, and most important, I’m a man, and thus I know about other men and their base—well, never mind that. Just avoid Devlin Monroe.”

“Base what? You mean wicked? You’re saying that Devlin Monroe is wicked? Doesn’t it take a man many years and a lot of concentration to attain true wickedness? Devlin is young. How can he possibly be wicked?”

James wanted to take that lovely white neck he’d never seen before, he’d swear to that, between his hands and gently slide his fingers around that neck and squeeze.

“I didn’t say he was wicked. He likes different sorts of things.”

“Well, so do I. Is this what experience gains you, James? Wickedness?”

“No, don’t be ridiculous. Forget Devlin. Now, I see Kellard Reems speaking to your Aunt Maybella. He is quite unexceptional. Dance with him. If he ogles your breas—your bosom—tell me and I’ll kick his teeth down his throat.”

She whispered, nearly choking, “Men say breasts?”

“Forget that.”

But she wasn’t about to forget it. Corrie was staring down at herself with new eyes. “It’s, well, so very unambiguous, that word.”

“Yes, that’s true. Men tend to be unambiguous and straightforward, unlike ladies, who must sugarcoat everything with lace and frills and outlandish words, like bosom.”

“Breasts,” she repeated slowly, fully tasting that wicked word, and James grabbed her arms and gave her a shake, anything to wipe that thoughtful look off her face. “Listen to me, Corrie, you don’t want to be saying that, particularly in front of a man. Do you understand me? A man might—very well, he will of a certainty get the wrong impression about your virtue and dwell upon activities you might share with him. It’s bosom, Corrie. That’s it. Do you promise?”

“Ah, there’s Devlin the vampire. Look at that very nice smile of his. White teeth against that white face of his and those really dark eyes—just like Judith McCrae’s eyes, don’t you think?”

“No, I don’t think.”

“Yes, all dark and snapping and—I think I’ll ask him what he’s doing at midnight, and offer him my neck.”

He remembered his hand pounding down on her bottom that day. That hand flexed, fingers tingled.

She left him, not even a nod of gratitude that he’d given her valuable advice. No, she’d walked off, fanning herself, because he’d danced her into the floor and she’d loved it. At least she hadn’t given him one of her patented sneers that made him want to rub her face in the mud.

James stood there, frowning, until he felt some fingers on his sleeve and turned to see Miss Milner fluttering her eyelashes at him. He sighed, only a very brief sigh because he was a gentleman, turned, and dredged up a smile.

As for Jason, he danced Miss Judith McCrae toward the huge glass doors that gave onto the Ranleagh balcony and gardens below, and pictured her naked.

She was laughing up at him. What had he said that was amusing? He couldn’t seem to remember. Yes, he pictured her laughing, and naked.

He slowed because the waltz was coming to an end. “Tell me how long you’ll be in London.”

“Aunt Arbuckle wants to return to Cornwall by Christmas.”

“Do you have brothers? Sisters?”

She paused, then said finally with a smile, “Well, I have a cousin. He owns a stud farm called The Coombes near Waterford.”

“Is this male cousin older than you, Miss McCrae?”

“Oh yes, he’s much older.”

The waltz ended. Jason smiled down at this beautiful young girl. He would like to take her for a nice meandering walk through the Ranleagh gardens, but it wasn’t to be. He offered her his arm and escorted her back to her aunt. “My lady,” he said, and gave her a slight bow. “I trust that Lord Arbuckle will feel better soon.”

Lady Arbuckle said, “That is very kind of you, Mr. Sherbrooke,” and Judith dropped her fan.

“Oh dear, I am so clumsy. No, no, Mr. Sherbrooke, I’ve got it,” but of course, he swooped down on the fan and handed it to her, smiling as he did so. “It isn’t broken. A pleasure, Miss McCrae, Lady Arbuckle.” He bowed again and took his leave. He spied Tom walking toward the doorway, looking neither to his right nor to his left. He looked like a hound who’d just scented a stag, nostrils flared. It was lobster patties. Tom could sniff out a lobster patty from a good thirty feet. Jason joined him, and after Tom downed a good half dozen and drank two glasses of the suicide champagne punch, they left the Ranleagh ball to go to White’s, Jason managing to avoid the troop of young ladies and some not-so-young ladies forging his way. He caught his brother’s eye, and nodded.

That nod meant that they had more plans to make, but not right at this moment. James turned his attention back to the beautiful Miss Lorimer, probably the diamond of the Little Season, who waltzed very well indeed and hummed while she danced. James was charmed.

When James next chanced to look up, it was to see Corrie dancing with Devlin Monroe.

“Whatever is the matter, my lord?”

“What? Oh, nothing at all, Miss Lorimer, just looking out for my childhood friend who continues to disobey me.”

“Hmmm,” said Miss Lorimer. “It sounds more like you’re her father, my lord.”

“God forbid,” James said as the waltz ended. He watched Corrie take Devlin’s arm, and walk to the huge banquet table, right to the nearly empty bowl of champagne punch strong enough to wilt a girl’s scruples after one glass. He cursed under his breath.

When he left Juliette Lorimer with her mama and a warm smile, Juliette said, “I think I will have him, Mama. Even if he were boring or dissolute—which he doesn’t appear to be—one could still look at him, and that would bring enough pleasure, don’t you think?”

Lady Lorimer looked at the magnificent creature to whom she’d given birth, and said in her matter-of-fact voice, “Given that you are the most beautiful girl in this ballroom, and James Sherbrooke the most beautiful man, I think such a marriage would produce children so beyond mortal people they would likely be shot so civilization could march onward.”

Miss Lorimer gave a charming laugh. “There’s only one of me, but Lord Hammersmith has a twin brother who is as beautiful as he is. I saw him dancing with a dark-haired girl who didn’t look very interesting at all.”

“I saw her as well. Very ordinary. But it doesn’t matter. You must remember that his brother isn’t the next earl of Northcliffe, now is he?”

Miss Lorimer gave another charming laugh and watched James make his way through the throng of guests, all, it seemed, wanting to speak to him, most of them of the fairer sex. It was a very good thing that she was the most beautiful girl in these as well as other parts. Otherwise she just might find herself feeling a bit concerned.

CHAPTER TWELVE

The state of matrimony is a dangerous disease; far better to take drink in my opinion.

MADAME DE SEVIGNE

ALEXANDRA SHERBROOKE SHOUTED at her husband even as he eased himself through the front door, “Sometimes I want to shoot you myself, Douglas! Have you lost your wits? Look at you, walking down the street, swinging your cane, yes, I saw you out the window, even whistling, I’ll wager, and not one single friend beside you. I will shoot you myself!”

And she ran across the entrance hall and threw herself into his arms, which opened just in time. He squeezed her, kissed the top of her head, and said very quietly, “I suppose it wasn’t too wise of me, sweetheart, but I’m tired of shadows and threats and worries that someone might jump out at me.”

She looked up at him, holding him even more tightly. “You wanted the assassin to come and get you?”

“Yes, I guess that’s about it.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small silver derringer. “It fires two shots. My cane is also a sword. I was prepared, Alex.” He hugged her again then set her away from him. He lightly stroked his fingertip over her eyebrows. She closed her eyes and moved closer. It was a habit of long standing. “Damnation, I want this over.”

“I want your friends around you, do you hear me, Douglas?”

“What? All of us are nearly ready to dodder forward into old age and you still want them around me?”

“I don’t care if they’re drooling, their presence would protect you.”

They walked into the library and Douglas quietly closed the door. “I fear that Willicombe will come running in at any minute, and I want some peace.”

“He is taking your safety more seriously than you are, Douglas. Do you know that he asked me if he could hire his nephew, said he could pound in a nail with his bare fist. Of course I said yes. We now have another footman and guard. This Remie stands watch between midnight and three A.M., then Robert until six A.M.”

Douglas fetched a bottle of brandy and poured each of them a glass. “I have thought and thought about this. I swear to you, Alex, I can think of no one who hates me enough to go to all this trouble—it’s all so dramatic, this revenge scheme, if revenge is indeed what this is all about. Georges Cadoudal—I’ve certainly seen him several times over the years once we left him in Etaples in 1803. Since he couldn’t seem to assassinate Napoleon, he set his sights on several of Napoleon’s top generals and functionaries. He killed at least six of them during the last years before Waterloo. But that was over fifteen years ago, Alex. Fifteen years. He died just after Waterloo, sometime in early 1816.”

“When will we find out if he had children?”

“Soon, I hope.”

“I’ve been thinking, Douglas. Remember that special mission you went on in early 1814? All you told me was that it wasn’t dangerous, that you were bringing someone to the safety of England.”

He suddenly looked much younger and very pleased with himself. “Yes, I did manage to keep that from you, didn’t I?”

“Who was it, Douglas?”

“It was a gentleman who had enough money and offered enough information to the War Ministry to earn him safe haven in England. I swore never to divulge his name.”

“So he would have no reason to hate you. You saved him.”

“That’s it.”

“Did Georges have anything to do with this man you brought out from France?”

“My lord, Remie is now on duty.”

Douglas nearly dropped his brandy. He whirled around, his hand already in the pocket of his jacket ready to pull out the derringer, only to see Willicombe standing at sharp attention inside the door.

“How the devil did you get in here without our hearing you, Willicombe? Good God, man, I could have shot you.”

“You would have to hear me first, my lord, and that, I daresay, is well nigh impossible because I am almost a shadow, exactly in the manner as Hollis. I daresay as well that if you had felt my presence, you would have been flooded with warmth and well-being. Never would you have shot me, my lord.”

Alexandra smiled. “You’re right, Willicombe. Hollis couldn’t have moved more quietly than you. Where is Remie stationed for the night?”

“He roams, my lady, roams from the attic to the basement and out to the stable. He lurks in the shadows along the walkways and even slips into the park. He sees all, hears all. He is worth every groat you pay him, my lord.”

“Well, that is reassuring. Go to bed, Willicombe.”

“Yes, my lord. Have you found out any more information about the villain who seeks to shorten your life, my lord?”

“No, not yet. Go to bed, Willicombe.”

When Willicombe walked on cat’s feet out of the library, gently closing the doors behind him, Douglas turned to his wife. “Did I tell you that you looked quite fetching tonight, save that half of your breasts were on display to every lascivious debaucher in London?”

Alexandra looked at him beneath her lashes. “It is a remarkable thing to have a husband who still remarks with such earnest attention upon one’s personal parts.”

“It isn’t funny, Alexandra. I was forced to take myself off to the card room, else I would have shot a good dozen of those lechers.”

She smiled, hugged him, went up on her tiptoes, and said against his cheek, “Did you remark upon how very lovely Corrie looked this evening? The gown you selected for her was quite flattering.”

“Isn’t it amazing? I had believed her quite flat-chested. I fear though that there was too much of her showing as well.” Douglas’s lips thinned. “I told her and Madame Jourdan—you will stop laughing at me, Alex, or I will make you sorry.”

“I had no idea she was so pretty, Douglas. Her smile makes you want to smile back at her.”

“Yes, yes, who cares? Come along now. I’m an old man and it is after midnight. I have very few miracles left.”

“Oh, yes, you do,” his wife said as she walked up the stairs beside him.

Very few men care to have the obvious pointed out to them by a woman.

MARGARET BAILLIE SAUNDERS

“You’re being a moron, James Sherbrooke. Go away before I knock you in the head with that fireplace poker.”

“No, I will not.” He caught her arm before she could grab the poker. He even shook her. “You will answer me now and truthfully, madam. I want to know exactly what happened between you and Devlin Monroe last night.”

She stepped toe-to-toe with him, tilted back her head, and said, a lovely sneer lacing her voice, “Nothing happened that I didn’t want to happen.”

“You drank too much of that champagne punch, didn’t you? I knew after I tasted it that a score of girls would lose their virtue last night.”

“Nonsense, James. Most girls have much harder heads than you give them credit for. Yes, I drank two glasses of that delightful brain-numbing punch, but Devlin was a perfect gentleman. Do you hear me? A perfect gentleman. Can a vampire be a gentleman? No matter. Now, I am going riding with him in the park this afternoon at exactly five o’clock, if it doesn’t rain, which it looks like it might.”

He took a step back, otherwise he might grab her and throw her over his legs and wallop her again, though he doubted she’d feel it. “How many petticoats are you wearing?”

“What?”

“How many petticoats do you have under that gown?”

A man’s mind, she thought, an astounding thing. “Well now, let me see.” She tapped her fingertips against her chin. “There are my drawers, then my chemise—you know, it’s nearly down to my knees with really pretty lace around the neck, a soft, white muslin—what is this? Your eyes are crossing? You asked—”

“Tell me only about petticoats, not all the rest of it. For God’s sake, Corrie, you don’t talk about your drawers, much less about the soft white muslin chemise, particularly in front of a man.”

“All right, I suppose I don’t want to know about what you’re wearing beneath your breeches either. Now, where was I? There’s the flannel petticoat, just one, to keep me all toasty even when it’s already hot. Then there are four cotton ones, and on the very top is this very pretty white lawn petticoat that, if my gown happens to flip up in the wind, will show even the most critical of ladies that I am well-dressed beneath my clothes. As for what the gentlemen would think, well, you will have to tell me the answer to that, won’t you? There, are you happy now? Why the devil do you want to know about my petticoats?”

“I liked you better in breeches. I could see exactly what was going on with you.”

“Just what does that mean?”

“I could see your bottom. Well, not really; those damned breeches were so loose.”

This was her aunt’s drawing room. Uncle Simon was hunkered down in his study not more than twenty feet away. Her Aunt Maybella, goodness, she could be right outside the door, listening.

“You are not to speak of my bottom, James. Surely that isn’t the thing.”

“It’s not. I apologize.”

“Well, forget my breeches too. You always made fun of them in any case. Don’t you like my gown? Your father selected it. It’s very white, all virginal, don’t you think?”

“You hang around Devlin Monroe much longer and you won’t have a virginal thought in your head. Not to mention the rest of you.”

“Now you’re accusing me of taking off my clothes with a man I scarcely know? Stripping off all those wretched petticoats?”

“I saw you drinking that champagne punch last night. It was dangerous stuff, not at all proper for young ladies. You waltzed with him twice, Corrie. That wasn’t proper of your aunt to allow it.”

“She was flirting with Sir Arthur. I saw you having a wonderful time with that Miss Lorimer, who, my aunt tells me, is considered the very best catch in London at the moment, and isn’t it a pity that she had to show up when I arrived? Did you enjoy yourself with her, James? Did you?”

“Juliette—”

“Her name is Juliette? As in Romeo’s doomed schoolroom girl? That makes me want to—” Don’t spit, not in your aunt’s drawing room. His eyes were gleaming. She didn’t know if they were violet or the shade of blue that made her innards ache, but she saw them gleaming. She tacked right into the wind. “Ah, she’s surely lovely, isn’t she? But you know, James, I’ve heard that she prefers different sorts of things, just like Devlin Monroe, and I don’t think it wise of you to spend too much time with her. You might find yourself without your breeches and wouldn’t that be shocking?”

James could only stare at her, his mouth hanging open, his brain soggy in his head. “What different sorts of things? Are you calling Miss Lorimer loose?”

“You mean do I think she is wicked? Like Devlin Monroe?”

“I never said he was wicked, dammit.”

“Well, I’m really not saying that Miss Lorimer is wicked either, James. I said she prefers different sorts of things and—”

“What sorts of things?” Those ridiculous words danced out of his mouth before he could tell himself that she was stringing him like a sea bass on a fishing line, slowly reeling him in, and he, fool that he was, was leaping toward her hand. He was an idiot. Grab the reins, grab the reins. “No, forget that, be quiet.”

“But you’re interested, aren’t you, James? You want to know what young ladies who are leaning toward debauchery like to do. Admit it.”

He was an idiot, an idiot she was reeling in without a single snag in her line. “All right, tell me.”

She came up close, dangerous since he was perfectly ready to wring her neck, and whispered, “I heard it said that Juliette likes to perform lascivious parts in plays. Like Aristophanes’s Lysistrada, you know, that Greek play where the women tell the men that they won’t—”

He stared down at that face he knew so well he could close his eyes and set his fingertips roving over it and know exactly what he was seeing. The part of him that was still the sea bass being reeled in, said, “How do you know about this?”

She leaned even closer, not touching him. “I overheard some girls talking about it in the ladies’ withdrawing room last night. And since I am interested in Devlin Monroe and the different sorts of things he prefers, I spoke to Miss Lorimer and told her I could perform too, particularly characters of great moral flexibility. She said that was her favorite sort of character as well. She told me that good people were boring, that stepping off the road just a bit was exhilarating. What would happen when she stepped off that road?” Corrie stepped closer. He could feel her breath on his cheek. “I thought about soiling the hem of my gown, and after that first big step, why then, mayhap losing the pins in my hair. What do you think, James?”

The fishing line snapped. James grabbed her shoulders and shook her. He wanted to beat her, but that wouldn’t happen, at least not here in her uncle’s drawing room. Mayhap the next time they were both home, he could take her back to that rock, then he might jerk those breeches of hers down her hips and—“Listen to me, Corrie. I’ve really had enough of this. You might consider forgetting Aristophanes and what those women in his play did, which of course you can’t begin to understand, despite all your talk about moral flexibility. You might consider also forgetting Juliette Lorimer and her plays. You wouldn’t want to perform in a play like that. You wouldn’t want to step off the road and soil the hem of your gown.”

“Why not?”

“You will not, and that’s the end to the matter. Now, I absolutely insist that you forget Devlin Monroe. You will write him a note explaining that you won’t be seeing him again. Do you understand me?”

“You’re shouting, James. I like Devlin; he’s the heir to a dukedom. Goodness, he’s already an earl.”

“Enough!”

“You’re only the heir to an earldom.” She leaned close again. “Is it possible that Juliette wants your money?”

It was too much. He finally pulled free of the fishing line. He roared, “If I see you with Devlin Monroe, I will beat you!”

She sneered, a full-bodied, insolent, utterly gratifying sneer. To further enrage him, she crossed her arms over her chest and began to whistle.

He got hold of himself. He said not another word. He turned on his heel and almost ran down Aunt Maybella on his way out of the drawing room.

“James? Jason?”

“I am Jason, ma’am, and forgive me, but I must go.”

“Well, I—good-bye, dear boy.”

Aunt Maybella walked into the drawing room, saw her niece standing by the front windows, her forehead against the glass. “Whatever was Jason doing here?”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

One should forgive one’s enemies, but not before they are hanged.

HEINRICH HEINE

IT WAS EARLY, barely seven o’clock in the morning. Douglas and James were riding toward Hyde Park, comfortable silence between them, each buried in his own thoughts.

It was a cloudy morning, the early fog yet to burn off.

They turned onto Rotten Row and immediately set Bad Boy and Garth into a gallop. Wind whipped against their faces, making their eyes tear.

“Henry VIII would like this,” Douglas shouted.

“Aye, he’d like it until he saw someone riding toward him, then he’d attack.”

When at last Douglas reined in Garth, he was laughing, exhilarated, ready to consign all the worry about assassins to Hades.

James pulled in beside him, patting Bad Boy’s neck, telling him what a great, fast fellow he was. Bad Boy butted his head against Garth’s. Garth tried to bite Bad Boy’s neck. Both father and son were busy for several minutes separating them.

James was laughing when he turned to his father. Suddenly the laugh died in his throat. He saw a flash of silver glinting off a spear of early morning sun that had broken through the clouds.

He threw himself at his father, hurtling both of them to the ground as a shot rang out, obscenely loud in the quiet morning air.

James flattened himself over his father even as he tried to pull his gun from his jacket pocket. Another shot—a clod of earth flew up, not six inches from Douglas’s head.

“Dammit, James, get off me!” Douglas managed to twist and wrap his arms around his son’s waist. He literally lifted him off and rolled him onto his back, flattening himself on top of him.

Another shot, then another, and Douglas wrapped his arms around his son’s head to protect him. But these shots weren’t close, probably because Bad Boy and Garth were rearing and whinnying, breaking the assassin’s line of sight. “Father, please, let me up.”

Douglas grunted and rolled over onto his back, then came up to his feet and offered James a hand. They fanned the area with their guns, but saw no one. Suddenly, Garth, maddened, started to run. Douglas calmly whistled, bringing him back, Bad Boy was long gone. He stopped close, head down, blowing hard, lipping at Douglas’s hand.

“James, it’s all right now.”

James slowly turned to face his father. “You must teach me how to call Bad Boy.”

Douglas had tried to teach James to whistle for his horse, but James simply never got the hang of a nice ear-splitting whistle, which is what was needed to get any horse’s attention. “I’ll teach you,” he said.

“Father, they were after you, not me. You tried to protect me.”

“Of course I’d protect you,” Douglas said simply. “You’re my son.”

“And you’re my father, dammit.” He fiddled with his gun a moment. “I think I’ll go check those bushes where I saw that glint of silver.”

“The damned fellow’s long gone,” Douglas said as he brushed himself off. His shoulder hurt where James had landed on him. He held his derringer loosely in his hand and walked with his son, who was also carrying a gun, this one big and ugly, a dueling pistol out of Douglas’s library, over to the thick bushes beside the riding trail.

“Nothing,” James said, and cursed. Douglas smiled. “Damnation, the bastard is gone. You can see where he was waiting—the smashed bushes. This isn’t what—”

Douglas suddenly raised his derringer and fired. They heard a yell, then nothing. Douglas was off, James running after him. They came out of the narrow band of trees in time to see a man riding a horse out of the south gate of the park, blood streaming down his arm.

“Too bad,” Douglas said. “I’d hoped to get him through the head.”

“A small target,” James said, so relieved, so surprised, that his heart was near to pounding out of his chest. His father was gently rubbing his thumb over the shiny silver derringer. “Actually, I’m surprised I even hit him. A bullet from six feet is a good range for this derringer and this was a good twenty feet.”

“Oh, God, that was too close, far too close. Father, do you swear you’re all right?”

“Oh yes,” Douglas said absently, staring after the man who’d tried to kill him. He turned to his son, punched his arm. “Thank you for saving my life.”

James swallowed, then swallowed again. His heart was finally slowing. Now the fear was seeping in, making his hands shake. So close, it had been so close. “If I hadn’t seen that glitter of silver—” He swallowed again. “It was you who saved my life and—”

Douglas saw the fear in his son’s eyes, and he wrapped his arms around him and held him. “We will get through this, James. You’ll see.”

James said, “I can’t stand this, sir, I really can’t.”

“You’re right. It grows tedious, James, I’ll agree with you there. Perhaps it’s time I did something about this myself. There’s been no more word about Cadoudal’s death or any children. I’m off to France in the morning.”

“But that’s where—”

“No, the enemy is here, James, not in France. I have friends there. It’s time I met with them, tried to get the facts of this insane plot.”

“I’ll go with you.”

“No, you and Jason are my eyes and ears here in England.”

“Mother won’t be pleased.”

“I’ve a mind to take her with me,” Douglas said. “It’s sure to be safer in France. When I think of how she wanted to come riding with us this morning, it makes my innards cramp. We’ll leave discreetly, before dawn tomorrow morning. I don’t want our enemy to know that we’re no longer here in England. Let the bugger continue to make his plans.” He smiled as he stared toward the south gate. “The bastard will have to tend his arm. That will keep him away for several days, at least. Then he’ll believe he scared me so badly I’m hiding in the house.” Douglas walked to Garth, who was eating some grass beside the path, and said over his shoulder, “Come along, James. We have a lot to do.”

Unfortunately it took them a good while to get home since Bad Boy had run from the park home to his stable.

Two hours later, Alexandra was staring at her husband, her cup of tea forgotten. She cleared her throat, adjusted her brain, set her cup carefully back into its saucer, and said, “I think it’s an excellent plan, Douglas. We will leave very early, slip out through the back gate. James can arrange to have a hackney meet us over on Willowby Street.”

“From there we will meet Captain Finch down at the docks. We’ll be off to France with the morning tide.”

“You’ve already arranged a packet?”

“Of course. One valise, Alex. Pack lightly.”

She rose and shook out her skirts. She walked to her husband, wanting desperately to hold him close and protect him, but knew it wasn’t possible. She smiled down at him, sitting there with his long legs stretched out, ankles crossed, a grin on his face. “You’re enjoying this,” she said slowly. “You wretch—you’re enjoying this.”

“It’s been a long time, and no, I wouldn’t really call it enjoyment. The danger does add some zest to the blood though, I’ll admit. We’ll have a time of it in France, Alex, and I won’t have to worry about you so much as I do here. Let the villains scrabble about, wondering and looking for me, even believing I’m hiding here. Everything will be all right.”

“Yes,” she said, and sat on his lap. She buried her face against his neck. “Yes, everything will be all right.”

“Remie will continue making his rounds. Also I’ve enlisted a good dozen of our friends to keep their eyes open and watch out for James and Jason. I want the boys kept safe.”

“Yes,” she said, and wanted to weep she was so frightened. “But you know they’ll both be out leading the search.”

“They won’t get knives in their guts, Alex. They’re smart and strong and fast. Ryder and I taught them to fight dirty. Don’t worry.”

She looked at him as if he were utterly mad.

THE FOLLOWING MORNING, three hours after their parents had left on a packet to Calais, James and Jason were in the breakfast room drinking tea. James said, “We’re to go about our business, and if asked, simply say that Mother and Father are at home, resting.”

Jason said, looking appalled, “Father would never admit that he needed rest. Can you imagine?”

“No, you’re right.” James frowned. “Actually, it was mother who said that.”

“His friends won’t believe that either. He didn’t tell me if he took any of them into his confidence, but knowing our father, knowing he’ll want us protected while he’s not here, I wager he has. What then?”

“How about that he and Mother have traveled to the Cotswolds to visit Uncle Ryder and Aunt Sophie?”

“That could put them in danger, at least until the bastards realized they’d been duped and head back to London.”

“All right. We could say they’ve gone to Scotland to see Aunt Sinjun and Uncle Colin.”

The twins were still worrying over the problem when Willicombe shimmered into the breakfast room, making no more noise than a snake. There was tightness about his mouth, a bit of disapproval in his voice. “My lord, a young lady is here to see you. You were not included in her request, Master Jason. She is without an escort. Shall I send her on her way?”

“No, no, Willicombe, send her in. Jason, what will we say?”

“Let’s say that Mother is feeling poorly and so Father took her to the seashore to rest. To Brighton. That’ll keep the bastards busy trying to track them down there. Now, I’m off to see Miss Judith McCrae.”

His brother gave him a thoughtful look, then said, “This evening, you and I are meeting with all our friends. We’ll set the lazy sods to work, give them something better to do than roaming the brothels.”

“I thought you had a meeting at the Royal Astronomical Society this evening?”

“The stars can wait,” James said, then smacked his forehead with his palm. “Well, damn, I’m supposed to present a paper.”

“The one on the silver cascade phenomenon you witnessed while you were studying one of Saturn’s rings?”

James nodded, and began pacing the breakfast room. “Huygens was wrong about the rings being solid, Jason. They’re not, which is why I saw that silver curtain pouring through—”

“James? Are you going to leave me in the hall all morning? You’re worrying about Saturn?”

Both men turned to see Corrie standing in the doorway, Willicombe behind her, waving his hands, looking ready to call Remie. She’d rolled right over him. James could tell him that Hollis wouldn’t consider trying to keep Corrie waiting, no man in his right mind would. “It’s all right, Willicombe. This is Miss Corrie Tybourne-Barrett. She’s a friend.”

James took a step toward her, his hand outstretched. “Corrie, is everything all right? Where is your maid? Surely you didn’t come here alone, did you? It’s not done, you know, you shouldn’t—”

“I must talk to you.” She looked pointedly at Jason, who was staring at her, bemused.

“You make a mighty fine female.” Jason gave her a blazing flash of white teeth that would fell any sentient female between the age of ten and eighty. “I’m off, James. I’ll see you this evening.” Jason flicked a finger over Corrie’s chin as he went by. “Be careful, little one, big brother here is a bit on edge.”

They stood there listening to Jason whistle, his boots sharp on the black and white Italian marble in the entrance hall.

“What’s going on, Corrie? Oh, do sit down. Would you like tea?”

“No, no tea, thank you. I heard a very strange rumor, James.”

James grew instantly still. Damn, she’d heard about the attempts on his father’s life? “What rumor?” he asked very carefully.

“Juliette Lorimer.”

“Juliette Lorimer? Who—oh yes, she’s the girl who dances quite well and—What about her?”

“What do you mean she dances quite well? Is she so very special then? Don’t I dance quite well?”

“Not yet, but you will. What’s this rumor about Miss Lorimer?”

“I heard that she’s decided she wants you, James. She intends to marry you. It’s possible that she prefers Jason, but it has to be you because you’re the heir.”

James, fascinated, said, “Wherever did you hear that?”

Corrie stepped closer, went up on her tiptoes, and whispered, “Daisy Winbourne told me she’d heard more than a score of mothers and daughters alike wailing about it in the ladies’ withdrawing room. Daisy’s brother even mentioned there was going to be a bet soon at White’s.”

He paled. He shook his head, his eyes never leaving her face. “In White’s Betting Book?”

“Evidently so. Soon now. Everyone wants to see you with her one more time before a wager is set. You know, see how besotted you look. Do you intend to marry her, James?”

“Damnation, of course not. I don’t even know the damned girl.”

Corrie smiled hugely.

“What is this? You don’t like her?”

“Certainly not,” Corrie said, and drew on her gloves. “Why ever would I like her?” She began whistling as she turned and walked out of the breakfast room.

He called out, the devil prodding and poking at him, “However, I will dance with her tomorrow evening at the Lanscombe ball. Then we’ll see, won’t we?”

She wasn’t about to let him see the smile fall off her face.

That evening, James presented his paper on witnessing the silver cascade phenomena on Titan, Saturn’s major ring, at the monthly Royal Astronomical Society meeting. There were thirty gentlemen present, star dabblers all, several of them who would believe to their dying breaths that the Earth was the center of the universe, that heretic Galileo be damned. There were two ladies present, both wives of men delivering papers, and both of them stared at James until all he wanted to do was finish his paper and make for the door. James’s paper was well received, primarily because it was short, although he knew most members believed he was too young to understand what he was seeing. He was offered two invitations by the wives, ostensibly to dine with their husbands as well.

He was back at the Sherbrooke town house by ten o’clock to see his father’s library filled with friends, all of them sober as prisoners in the dock, cursing the air blue with outrage, demanding to be the one to kill the bastard after the earl.

“We have to find out who they are first,” Jason said. “As I said, the only man’s name we have is Georges Cadoudal, but when he died a while ago, he supposedly wasn’t my father’s enemy. Father is in France trying to discover if Cadoudal had children. It could be revenge, but again, since my father and Cadoudal weren’t enemies, it doesn’t make much sense.”

“Children, particularly male children, can get all sorts of notions, Jason. If the father is dead, then it has to be the children.”

“We’ll see. Now, we have no other leads. Just keep your ears open for that name and any others you might discover.”

James smiled to see his brother writing in a small notebook, doubtless the assignments he’d passed out. Jason was logical and he was smart. James knew that he’d assigned the proper man to the proper task.

By midnight, every young man in the room had a sense of purpose. They were going to save the earl of Northcliffe, become heroes in the process, and earn his undying gratitude.

As the brothers walked upstairs to bed, James said, “However did you come up with so many different assignments?”

“Not all that many since I assigned them in pairs. Johnny Blair, for example, knows most of the French in London since he’s engaged to a Frog’s daughter. Johnny is discreet as long as he’s not drinking, and Horace Mickelby will keep him sober and alert. Reddy Montblanc, who’s nearly blind in one eye, is nevertheless one of the best trackers in England. He and Charles Cranmer will check the area where the assassin tried to shoot Father. And on it goes.

“As for us, two nights from now, that French captain should be here. We’ll see him ourselves. How did your talk to the society go?”

“Short and to the point, and I could see that all the old graybeards in the group wanted to pat me on the head. I wonder if Father and Mother are in Paris yet.”

“They should be soon, if they’re not already. As Father said, he has many friends there. Someone must know something or have heard something. There must be people who knew Cadoudal, and they’ll know about any family. I hope Mother isn’t speaking French.”

“She really tries,” James said, and laughed.

“She’s lucky we’re not living in the last century, with the advent of the Hanoverian kings. Can you imagine her trying to learn German?”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The cock may crow, but it’s the hen that lays the eggs.

MARGARET THATCHER

IT WAS A balmy night for the first of October, but since Remie Willicombe’s mother had told him it would rain by midnight, James wore a heavier coat.

He didn’t particularly wish to go to the Lanscombe ball on Putnam Square, but he’d promised Miss Lorimer that he would come by, though he had no intention of staying. He had no intention of ending up in White’s Betting Book either. One dance with Miss Lorimer, no more.

Jason announced he was going with friends to one of his clubs, making James poke his brother and ask him why Miss McCrae hadn’t requested his presence this evening. Jason had looked at him, frowning, and said he understood that Lady Arbuckle wasn’t feeling well and Judith had stayed home to attend her.

The twins were meeting at White’s at midnight to go to the docks, to the Crooked Cat Tavern, where the French captain was said to frequent.

When James finally saw Miss Lorimer, he had to admit she looked amazingly lovely, all in lilac, her huge sleeves included, which stuck a good six inches out from her arms, the material stiffened by wooden rods, his mother had told him, and wasn’t that ingenious?

The lilac silk skirts fanned out around her, at least six petticoats keeping them afloat. Her hair was in a knot on the back of her head with a score of little ringlets falling over her forehead and cascading over her ears, like the silver particles of Titan.

He saw Corrie then, standing with her aunt across the ballroom, her gown a luminous white, the style simple, his father’s hand visible in every lovely fold and drape, and he was quite pleased until he reached her breasts, and frowned. Too prominently displayed, he thought, and surely her Aunt Maybella should say something to her. It wasn’t appropriate for an eighteen-year-old young lady.

Perhaps he’d help her improve her dancing after he’d kept his promise to Miss Lorimer. Certainly that would dilute the gossip, unless everyone knew that Corrie was like a sister to him, then dancing a waltz with her wouldn’t count.

So Miss Lorimer had decided to marry him, had she? More likely her mother’s choice, James thought cynically, as he made his way slowly toward her.

He discovered quickly enough that everyone had heard about the attempts on his father’s life.

All his father’s friends stopped him, questioned him, and raised their brows when he repeated yet again that his mother and father had gone to Brighton because his mother wasn’t well, which sounded more stupid each time he repeated it.

“Alexandra has never been sick a day in her life,” said Lord Ponsonby, “except when she had to lie down a moment to birth you and your brother, and she wasn’t really sick, now was she?”

He agreed that no, sir, she wasn’t really sick then, and wanted desperately to flee.

“Humph,” said Lord Ponsonby. “Did you say Brighton, James? Something’s fishy here, my boy, the sort of fishy that makes me realize what a bad liar you are. Your father now—an excellent liar—would stare you right in the eye.”

James cursed under his breath. He was going to throw his brother over the balcony when he got home.

Miss Lorimer, at last, was in his sights. She was looking at him over her mother’s shoulder, eyes glittering. No, he thought, more than that. Assessing.

When he reached her, she said, “Why, it is a pleasure to see you, sir. You are James?”

“Yes, I am James,” he said. “Would you like to dance, Miss Lorimer?” and looked toward her mother, who nodded placidly at him.

“Yes, if you will agree to call me Juliette.”

“Very well, Juliette.” He took her white hand, lightly placed it on his arm, and led her onto the dance floor.

So light and graceful she was, utter perfection, truth be told. But she couldn’t tell him apart from his brother? That hurt. The moment the waltz was over, he led her back to her mother. He bowed, retreated. The air in the ballroom was heavy, the weight of all the ladies’ perfumes filling his nostrils, making him want to sneeze. He saw Corrie wave at him. He wanted to leave since Lord Ponsonby had probably told all his cronies that James was a miserable liar and they should hold him down and beat the truth out of him, but there she was, looking quite acceptable except for those breasts of hers that would make a man swallow his tongue and want to dive his hands into her bodice.

He walked up to her, flicked his fingertip over her cheek, and said, “The cream has done wonders. I do believe this is soft skin I feel.”

He smiled and turned to Lady Maybella, who was wearing a blue silk gown that James wanted to tell her needed to have at least three flounces sheared off.

“You’re here to dance with Corrie? You’re in luck. I’ve scarce had her to myself this evening, so many young gentlemen wanting to dance with her.”

“Please don’t exaggerate, Aunt Maybella. There’s not been more than a dozen or so,” Corrie said, making James grin.

Maybella said, tapping him on the arm with her fan, “Not more than two dances, James. We don’t want people to get the wrong idea. Besides, look at that hoard of young men coming this way.”

James didn’t see a hoard, but there were two gentlemen, one of them old enough to be Corrie’s father, on a march toward her.

James gave Maybella a charming smile and led Corrie to the dance floor, aware of her fingers tapping against his arm, and eased her into the throng of dancers. “You’re going to wear a hole in my sleeve. Whatever is the matter with you?”

“I want to help you,” she said.

An eyebrow arched up.

“Your father. I can’t bear the thought of anyone hurting him, James. Whatever would I do without him to tell me what to wear? Come, don’t get all stiff on me. I’ve known your father all my life. I want to help find out who’s trying to kill him. I’m smart. I’m fast. Let me help.”

James sighed. He didn’t even wonder how she’d found out. What with all their friends investigating, it was bound to be all over London in fifteen minutes. Fact was, he was willing to wager that everyone in the ballroom was speaking about it. And mayhap that was good. He wanted to tell her that there was absolutely no chance he was going to allow her to get within one hundred yards of any danger, and so he said, “You’ve always been able to tell me and Jason apart.” That distracted her, but good. She scoffed. She sneered. “I’ve always told you that you are yourself, very different from your brother.”

“Miss Lorimer can’t tell us apart, evidently.”

“There, you see, you can’t marry her, James. She doesn’t even know who you are.”

She had a point there.

Then the devil stuck his elbow in James’s ribs and said words right out of his mouth. “Speaking of the Angel, Miss Lorimer looks so heavenly this evening, don’t you think? She’s wearing lilac, not purple.”

“Angel?”

James nodded. “That’s the name selected for her.”

“By whom?”

He shrugged. “By the gentlemen, I suppose.”

“Maybe she started the name herself.”

“Who cares if she did? Don’t you think it’s accurate?”

“If you like perfection, then yes, I suppose so. I wonder what name I should select for myself. I know, how about calling me Miss Cream?”

He threw back his head and laughed. “Miss Cream? That’s rich, Corrie.”

“And that was a bad pun.”

“How about Devil?”

“No, I’m not wicked enough, at least not yet.”

“You will never be wicked,” he said, stiff now, looking down at her breasts. “Well, you won’t be if you’d just hoist up your gown a good two inches.”

“This is the style, James. If I can get used to heaving myself out there, then so can you. Stop dwelling on it. Now, if I can’t be wicked, then you can call me the Ice Princess. I heard that a Miss Franks was called that some five seasons ago. She married a duke who was eighty years old and almost dead. Isn’t that interesting?”

“Heavenly Lord Jesus,” James said, and whirled her about, making her laugh, distracting her yet again. “You’re getting better at this. Forget this Ice Princess. That will make the gentlemen want to teach you all sorts of things you’re not going to learn for a very long time. Now, you’ve obeyed me, haven’t you?”

“Obeyed you? About what?”

“You haven’t danced with Devlin Monroe, have you? You haven’t offered him your neck at midnight, have you?”

She laughed, a lovely rich laugh that made him smile. “I gave him a little nibble, nothing more.” She turned her head about. “Can you see the mark, there, right below my left ear?”

He wanted to kick himself when he actually looked. “Remind me to beat you again.”

“Ha. That first time you caught me by surprise.”

His eyebrow arched up a good inch. “You think so, do you? I don’t think I’ve ever heard you whine so much as you did that day.”

Before she could answer, he danced faster and faster, until she was panting and laughing, barely able to catch her breath, hating her damned corset. When he slowed, she gasped out, “Oh, James, that is so lovely. When I want to smack you in the head, you have only to dance me into the ground and I’m ready to forgive you anything at all.”

“You’re getting more competent moving your feet. Stay away from Devlin, I mean it, Corrie.”

“He took me to the Pantheon Bazaar yesterday,” she said. “He wanted to buy me a lovely ribbon to thread through my hair—he thinks my hair is lovely, by the way, all sorts of interesting autumn shades all mixed together—but I’m a proper girl, and thus I didn’t let him do it. It seemed rather intimate, particularly since he wanted to do the threading. Do you know he got so close with that ribbon that I could feel his breath on my nose?” She gave a delicious little shudder that nearly had him ready to kill.

He saw the glint in her eye, and got control. “Your aunt should never have allowed you to go off with him. I will have to speak to her about that. He isn’t good husband material, Corrie.”

“Husband material? Do you want to know the truth, James? I’ve been thinking about it, and I truly cannot imagine attaching myself to a man and changing my name. Goodness, I would be Corrie Tybourne-Barrett Monroe. As for a husband, he would order me about and expect me to do whatever he wants whenever he wants it.” She looked thoughtful for a moment, her eyes narrowed. “On the other hand, I must be honest about this. I have passed Aunt Maybella and Uncle Simon’s bedchamber before, and do you know what?”

James was certain that his eyes were going to roll back in his head. He didn’t want to hear this. He wanted to go to China before he heard this. He said, “What?”

She leaned close. “I heard them laughing. Yes, laughing, and then Uncle Simon said, quite clearly, ‘I shall nibble on your lovely self for a while now, Bella.’ What do you think of that, James?”

Well, he had asked. He wondered if Aunt Maybella wore a blue nightgown. No, he had to turn his mind away from that. He said, “Stay away from Devlin Monroe.”

“We’ll have to see, won’t we?” She gave him a sunny smile, then looked like she’d burst into tears. “Oh drat, the waltz is ending. It was too short. Someone stopped it before its time. I’ll bet that Juliette Lorimer bribed them to stop. I think someone should go speak to them. Perhaps—” She gave him a hopeful look, but he shook his head.

“No, I have to leave now, Corrie. I like your hair nice and simple, all braided on the top. You wouldn’t look good with an army of ringlets marching over your head. Or any ribbons. Forget ribbons, particularly those bought for you by a man.”

Corrie supposed it was a compliment. She wanted another waltz and so she said, “I believe Devlin is beyond that very fat lady, speaking to another young man who looks remarkably wicked himself. Hmmm. Let me see if I can get his attention.” She went up on her tiptoes and whispered against his ear, “I think I shall tell him my name is the Ice Princess. I wonder what he will have to say about that?”

But her performance was wasted because James wasn’t listening. He’d turned at the tug at his sleeve. It was one of the waiters hired for this evening, and he pressed a note into James’s hand. “A gentleman said you was to have this, sir. Right away, he said.”

His heart began to drum, deep and sharp. He left her without a word, and looked neither right nor left at the young ladies who were staring after him. He walked through the long row of French doors that gave onto the Lanscombe balcony.

He stepped out, saw a couple embracing at the far end, and wanted to tell that old roué Basil Harms that he wasn’t far enough in the shadows. He wondered what man’s wife he was seducing.

He walked quietly down the steps on the far end of the balcony and strode into the Lanscombe garden toward the back gate. He didn’t have a gun, curse it, and perhaps this wasn’t the smartest thing he’d ever done in his life, but on the other hand, there was a chance this was news about the man who wanted to kill his father. There was no choice really. Besides, who would want to hurt him? No, it was his father they were after. The lights from the ballroom dimmed until he was in blackness and saw only the outline of the narrow gate some fifteen feet in front of him. He wasn’t stupid. He looked all around him for possible danger, listened, but it was quiet. The man he was supposed to meet was waiting for him by the back gate.

What sort of information did the man have? James hoped he had enough money on him to meet his price.

He heard the rustling of leaves just off to his right. He whirled around but saw nothing, no movement, no light, nothing at all. Surely there would be no lovers this far away from the mansion. He waited, listening. Nothing. He was alert; he was ready.

It was at least ten feet to that narrow gate with ivy climbing up it, cascading wildly over the top, rather like that silver cascade over Titan. The eight-foot-high stone walls of the Lanscombe garden were also covered with ivy, miles of the stuff, thick, impenetrable. His steps slowed. He scented danger; he actually smelled it.

Suddenly a man came out of the shadows to stand at the end of the path, right in front of the gate. In a deep rolling voice, the man said, “Lord Hammersmith?”

“Aye, I’m Hammersmith.”

“I have information to sell ye, me lord, all about yer pa.”

“What do you have?”

The man pulled a sheaf of papers from his old black jacket. “I want five pounds fer the lot of it.”

He had five pounds, thank God.

“Before I give you anything, tell me what you have.”

“It’s names, me lord, names and places the gentleman what gave me the papers said yer pa would want to see. Some letters too.”

Five pounds. Even if it was worthless, it was worth the five pounds, to be sure.

James was reaching into his pocket for money when the man dropped the papers, jerked up a gun, and said, “Ye don’t move now, me fine lord. Ye just stand there nice and straight and don’t ye even wink an eyelash.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Life is simply one damned thing after another.

ASCRIBED TO ELBERT HUBBARD

JAMES WAS ALREADY in motion. His leg shot out, clipped the gun, and sent it flying into the ivy against the garden wall. The man yelped, grabbed his hand. James was nearly on him when a thick blanket came flying down over his head and he heard the voices of two men, one of them whispering, “No, don’t yell, ye fool. We’ll jest bundle him all up like this so’s he can’t kick out and break our necks.”

“I want to kick ’is balls off, Augie, kickin’ Billy like that, nearly broke ’is wrist the bastid did.”

James was jerking at the blanket, trying to find a corner, when a gun barrel nicked him on the shoulder, then another one hit him hard on the head. He was cursing loud enough to bring the watch when the pain bowed him to his knees. Another blow on the head. He fell, swaddled in the thick wool, and knew no more.

Corrie’s scream never came out of her throat. There was nothing she could do except yell and jump on them and likely get herself banged on the head with a gun, and what good would that do James? She looked on, horrified and enraged, and stuffed her fist in her mouth.

She watched them gather him up, then one of the men, much larger than the others, heaved James, still wrapped in the blanket, over his shoulder.

“Not a feather, this one. Let’s git our braw lad out o’ this place, quick.”

Her heart was pounding loud enough for the Lord to hear, but she followed, her slippers light on the cobblestones as she ran toward the back garden gate. She watched them push the gate open, saw a carriage in the alley, two bays harnessed to it, standing quietly, heads down, at rest. One of the men climbed onto the bench and picked up the reins. It was Billy. He leaned back. “Git moving, Ben, ye want to tie our gent up good. He’s a strong ’un, kicked me wrist so sharp it sent pins through me fingers. I ain’t niver seen a man move like that. We’ll keep an eye on ’im.”

She watched them toss James onto the carriage floor, then jump up after him.

A man leaned out the window, hissed, “Go, Billy, scrabble ’em, now! We’ve gots a ways to go.”

Corrie watched Billy click to the horses and wave the reins. The carriage slowly moved toward the entrance of the alley, behind the mansion, onto Clappert Street.

She didn’t think, didn’t weigh consequences. She simply ran after the carriage and leapt lightly up onto the back runner, grabbed the straps and pulled herself close to the carriage. It was the tiger’s perch, and she knew it well. When she’d been younger she’d loved to ride in the tiger’s perch behind James or Jason, singing at the top of her lungs, feeling the wind tearing at her old leather hat and braid, tearing her eyes.

The only difference between now and then was that she was wearing a beautiful white silk ball gown, lovely white slippers on her feet, and no old leather hat. Nor did she have a wrap.

It didn’t matter. Three bad men had kidnapped James. Where were they going to take him?

She had to keep down, keep quiet, not fall off, and not let the men see her. Well, she’d certainly hidden from James and Jason enough times, following them, even plastering mud on her face so they wouldn’t see her in the bushes, and they’d never known she was there, watching them wrestle, throw knives at targets, practice cursing. But this was different, she’d agree with that. What would she do when they stopped, well, something would come to her, it had to.

Why had they taken James? To get to his father, of course. The note that waiter had pressed into James’s hand, all a ruse. He shouldn’t have come out into the Lanscombe garden alone, the idiot.

Thank God she’d seen everything. She drew in a deep breath as the horses lengthened into a trot. The streets were nearly empty. Thank God for the half moon. She would figure out something. She had to save James. It was that simple.

She had no idea which direction they were going because they’d gotten nowhere near the Thames. Suddenly she saw a sign to Chelmsford. Ah, they were going east. Wasn’t Cambridge in this same direction?

Corrie didn’t know how much time passed. Her arms ached, her fingers were numb.

Whining never helped unless you did it to another person, so she gave it up and hummed to herself. She held on to those straps, that was all she had to do.

She remembered when James had picked her up and tossed her into a pond near the back of her uncle’s property. Unfortunately, her breeches, stolen from the charity clothes in the sexton’s closet at the vicarage, got snagged on a tangle of reeds underwater and she’d nearly drowned. She would remember until she croaked how white his face had been when he’d realized what had happened and pulled her out. He’d nearly crushed her ribs he’d pressed down so hard to get the water out of her lungs. And he’d held the eight-year-old Corrie, rocking her back and forth, begging her to forgive him, until she’d vomited up the nasty pond water all over him.

Corrie didn’t remember if she’d forgiven him or not, the miserable sot. Of course, the next week, he’d tied her to a tree when he wanted to take Melissa Banbridge for a walk in the woods and he’d seen her following them.

She’d gotten the rope untied, but couldn’t find them. She’d slipped a half dozen frogs into his boots standing downstairs to be cleaned by the boot boy. Unfortunately, she’d heard one of the footmen say that for some reason they’d found a wagon load of frogs flying around in the mudroom and how had that come about?

Hang on, hang on, don’t think about anything but hanging on.

The temperature dropped as the night deepened. How late was it? She had no idea.

They skirted Chelmsford. She saw signs for Clacton-on-Sea, and the carriage turned sharply to the right. They were going toward the English Channel.

She heard occasional voices from inside the carriage, but she couldn’t make out any words. Had they unwrapped James? What if they’d killed him with those blows on the head? No, that was crazy thinking.

Was he conscious? Was one of the voices she’d heard his? He was all right. He had to be all right. He was fine; he’d have a headache, but he’d be fine. She had no idea what she’d do if he weren’t fine. She’d take care of him, that’s what she’d do, and then she’d kill him herself for being such a fool to go out into that garden alone.

The carriage suddenly pulled off the gutted lane onto one even smaller, so narrow that a branch hit her arm, nearly jerking her to the ground.

She pressed herself closer and prayed. She heard a noise and nearly expired on the spot. It was her own teeth chattering. Good God, was she going to freeze to death before this bloody carriage got to where it was going?

Finally, the carriage slowed. She saw a small weathered cottage at the end of a lane. The horses were now walking, then Billy pulled up.

He shouted back down, “This is the place, gots to be. Not too bad atal, nice and comfy, all ’idden away. Get ’is bleedin’ lordship all ready, don’t want no trouble from the lad! Oh aye, an’ watch ’is bloody feet!”

Augie stuck his head out the window. “We’ve got ’m all tied up, the boyo ain’t going nowheres, Billy.”

“Good. If we croaks our fancy cove, we don’t get no groats.”

They’d taken James so they could blackmail his father into an exchange. Augie and Ben were talking, grumbling, and she realized they would see her for her gown was stark white and would shine like a beacon beneath that half moon.

Thank God Billy climbed down and kept to the front of the carriage. When he opened the carriage door, she slipped around to the other side and tucked herself against the back wheel. Her legs nearly buckled, and she was clutching at the wheel to keep herself upright. She was numb, frozen, more frightened than she’d ever been in her life, and she was going to save James.

“The lad weighs as much as me mither, only she weren’t tall like this fellow, jest a little fat pigeon wot liked to smack me noggin.”

“Shut up, Billy. Okay, bring ’im into the cottage. Funny thing how the lad jest fell unconscious again. Take care, this boy’s a wily ’un. I wants to ’ave me a boy like this ’un some day.”

“That’d mean gettin’ yer pecker up an’ stiff,” Augie said. “When’s the last time that ’appened?”

Ben said, “It ’appened when ’is landlady beat ’im with a shoe, made him all lusty.”

The men laughed and grunted as they carried James, evidently still unconscious, into the cottage. Corrie remained hugging the wheel, watching. They would have to do something with the horses. She waited until they all went into the cottage, then stumbled on numb feet into the trees and began to work her way around to the side of the cottage. At least moving made her thaw a bit and got the feeling back into her feet.

She crouched down outside the filthy window and looked in. It was just one room, with a narrow cot along the back wall. There was a battered table and four chairs and a very dilapidated area where it appeared they cooked. The fireplace was off to her right.

She watched them dump James on the narrow cot, then pull the blanket away from him. She nearly fell over she was so angry. Blood had snaked down the side of his face.

Billy slapped his face a couple of times, then stood straight, looking down at him. “Still under the willow, our lad. Augie, ye said ’e came back to ’is wits in the carriage?”

“Aye,” Augie said. “Then when I tapped ’im a couple of times, jest to get ’is attention, our lad ’as the nerve to collapse again. ’E’ll come around in a bit. I’m ready to gnaw off me elbow, Ben. Ye fix us somethin’.”

Settling in, she thought, they were settling in. For how long? Closer to the sea, it was colder, but at least she was out of the wind. Suddenly it was dark. She looked up to see black clouds covering the half moon.

It was Augie who came out in a couple of minutes and led the horses to a small shed on the other side of the cottage.

She watched James, then watched Billy carry logs to the fireplace.

What to do?

She continued to watch James, and finally, she saw his hand move. She felt such relief she nearly shouted. She had the feeling he was looking at the men, his eyes barely slit open. He was thinking, trying to figure out what to do.

It was so cold now she was ready to tear a strip off her gown and go into the warm cottage waving a white flag.

She gritted her teeth, waited. The three men were speaking low, of nothing at all, really. She saw Augie rise and go check on James. “Still out, our boy is. I don’t like this. We’re to give ’im off to the bloke wot’s paying us our groats and give ’im off alive.”

“Ye think this bloke’ll slit ’is throat, or ransom ’im?”

Augie shrugged. “Don’t know. Ain’t none o’ our business. Mighty ’andsome young man, ’e is though, ’tis a pity whatever ’appens to ’im.”

She watched Augie check the ropes that bound James’s wrists and ankles. At least they’d tied his hands in front of him. Augie walked back to the fireplace where the two men were stretching out on the floor. “Aye, I knows I gots the first watch. Billy, I’ll roust ye in two ’ours.”

And Augie sat in a chair, looking at the fireplace. He looked all toasty warm, the bastard.

It was time. She had to do something. She smiled. As she skirted the back of the cottage, she saw now that the cottage was only about thirty yards from a cliff that gave onto a narrow dark beach. She ran to the shed and crept in. It was small and ramshackle. There were some old blankets piled in one corner, some farm implements, and piles of moldy hay. One of the bays lifted his head, but he didn’t whinny, just snorted, thank God. She patted his great head, and he blew into her hand. “You’ll suit me, my beauty, and your brother there will do nicely for James,” she said against his warm mane. She saw that Augie had given them each a bucket of oats and water. Good. Now, all she had to do was get James out of that miserable cabin. She sorted through the rusted tools, stopped, and smiled.

James watched Augie walk back to sit in his chair. Soon Billy and Ben would be asleep. But how to get to Augie without waking the others? Could he take all three men?

He wasn’t sure. His head ached, but other than that he felt all right. He knew he had to get his feet free, then he’d have a chance. But Augie would notice if he sat up and began working the knot around his ankles. He settled for loosening the knots around his wrists. Thank God they believed he was still unconscious, otherwise they would have tied his hands behind him, likely tied him to the bed as well. It was then he caught a flash of movement. He looked at the dirty window behind Augie’s back. He saw something white waving back and forth, like a truce flag.

He blinked and refocused. Yes, it was still there. Augie’s head was slowly falling forward on his chest.

James saw a face.

Corrie.

He stared at her as he slowly raised his hand so she could see that he had his wits together. He wiggled his fingers.

He saw that grin of hers, white teeth shining through the dirty windowpane across the room.

Then she was gone. She was going to do something, and whatever she was planning, he had to be ready.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

One good head is better than a hundred strong hands.

THOMAS FULLER

HIS EARS WERE on alert. He heard something on the roof, a light scurrying sound, or perhaps it was a branch of a tree swishing against the wood.

No, that was no tree nor animal up there. It had to be Corrie, light on her feet, but what was she doing? His brain seized up at thoughts of how she’d gotten here.

His question was answered in the next instant as smoke started billowing out of the fireplace. She’d bought him time to get the ropes off his ankles. James immediately sat up and began working the ropes. It took a couple of minutes before Augie, Billy, and Ben began coughing, and by then, the room was filling up fast with smoke.

Augie jumped out of his chair, yelling, “Boys, it’s fire! Tar and damnation, this jest ain’t fair! Quick, quick, we gots to grab up our cove and git out o’ this bloody ’ell ’ole!”

In that instant, the cottage door burst open and a furious, whinnying horse pounded into the room, rearing, snorting, Corrie on his back, aiming a pitchfork right at Ben, who was standing closest to her, struck dumb with shock and horror.

Then all three of the men were yelling, trying to get out of the room, trying to avoid the horse and the pitchfork, its long tongs rusted but still sharp. Ben wasn’t fast enough. She got him through the arm. He yelled and pulled out his gun, but James was on him, his leg slicing through the air, his foot kicking that gun right out of Ben’s hand. Then James was rolling to get the gun as Augie fired at him. Corrie and the horse turned and rode Augie down, sending his gun flying toward the door. Augie was crawling as close to the wall as he could get, toward the open doorway and into the night. At the last minute he managed to snag the gun and stuff it into his pants.

The horse was maddened by the smoke, and wanted out. “James, throw me one of the guns!”

He grabbed Billy’s gun right out of his hand and threw it to her as she stuck the pitchfork into the wall and rode out of the cottage on the horse.

James had only Billy to tend to, and it was easily done despite the choking, blinding smoke.

He was leaping over Billy, stopping just a moment to lean down and smash his fist into his jaw.

Corrie was sitting bareback atop the horse, the other bay just behind, waiting for him. She was covered in soot, grinning like a fool. “Hurry, James, hurry!” Even as she spoke, Augie fired from the cottage door, and the bullet whizzed by the horse’s ear. The horse jerked back and reared on his hind legs, hurling Corrie to the ground. Both horses reared and bucked, running madly back along the rutted road, away from the cottage, and away from them.

James cursed as he ran to Corrie. She was struggling to her knees. “We’ve got to hurry, Corrie. Sorry, but no horses. Can you walk? Are you badly hurt?”

“Oh dear, there’s Ben, holding his arm. I got him with the pitchfork. Let’s go, James. I’m all right.”

Each of them held a gun in one hand, James nearly dragging her after him. They ran into the woods that bordered the narrow road. There was a gunshot, more yelling—this one out of Ben’s mouth—if James wasn’t mistaken, since he was screaming about how the bitch stuck his arm with that nasty pitchfork.

Well, the three bastards had only one gun and no horses. He and Corrie were better off. He wanted to go back and pound them, but he wouldn’t be surprised if they had more guns. He didn’t think they did, but who knew how Augie’s brain worked?

They ran through the woods, tripping over roots, until he couldn’t hear any of the men yelling anymore.

“Hold, Corrie. Let’s wait a minute.”

She was breathing hard, gulping in air, and nearly fell against a pine tree, her arms wrapped around her chest, the gun dangling from two fingers.

James stood there, staring at her. Her once white ball gown was black with smoke and soot, ripped and grimy, one sleeve hanging by a thread. Her hair was streaming in wild tangles down her back and onto her face. She was still grinning at him, all white teeth against the black face, still panting hard.

James laughed, he couldn’t help himself. “Well done,” he said and grabbed her hand. “They’ve got to come after us, although I can’t imagine how they’re going to do it. Ben’s got your pitchfork tong through his arm and he won’t be good for much. Damn, I wish I knew how many guns they have.”

“If they catch those wretched horses, we might be in deep trouble again, James. I saw that lead horse run off the road and head toward the cliffs, out in the open, where we can’t go.”

James frowned thoughtfully down at his boots. “I don’t think they saw the horses or where they went. But if they do manage to catch them, they could go back to the shed and get the carriage. That wouldn’t be good.”

Her eyes sparkled. “Then let’s take care of that carriage, James.”

James was weighing the risks. “It’s a matter of how much they were paid to take me. If it’s a lot, then they will try their best to get me again.”

“I hope it was a carriage-full,” Corrie said, eyes narrowing. “Failure must really taste bad if you lose a lot of money. Let’s not take the chance. Let’s get that carriage.”

It took them only ten minutes to make their way back to the cottage. Augie and the boys had pulled the blanket off the chimney. James quickly saw that the cottage, with its door hanging on its rusted hinges, was quite empty, except for the pitchfork with a bit of blood on its tip. No Billy, Ben, or Augie.

When they got to the shed, James picked up an old, rotted axe, grinned like the Devil himself, and destroyed one wheel while Corrie took the pitchfork to the other. When the wheels were in shards on the ground, James dropped the axe, rubbed his hands together, and said, “That’s slowed them down. Let’s go.”

They were off again. Not more than a minute after they’d stepped into the woods, they heard Augie yell, “Tar and damnation, curse the young ’un! The little bastid ruined the carriage. I’ll have to kick ’im into the ground when I gits me fists on ’im.”

“He gave me no credit at all,” Corrie said.

“If they try for us again, you can shoot him.”

“Yes, yes, I think that’s a fine idea.”

There was generalized cursing, nothing really original, Corrie thought, from all three of the men as James and Corrie stood quietly, listening and smiling.

James whispered near her ear, “Do you know where we are?”

“I know we took a turnoff to Clacton-on-Sea.”

“That far east,” he said. He looked down at her, saw that she was shivering like a loon, and quickly took off his coat. Corrie sighed and hugged it close. It felt as warm as bread just toasted in the oven. “Ah, that feels good, James. You know, the thing is that after all that running, after hammering that pitchfork down on the carriage wheel, I was getting warm again. I think I’m shivering now because I’m still so excited.”

“Excited, are you?” As a matter of fact, he was as well, the blood pumping madly through his veins, his head pounding, so filled with energy that he knew he could swim to Calais. But that would fade quickly. And Corrie, she’d been hanging on to the back of that carriage for a good three hours before they’d stopped. She was going to crash like a felled tree. He prayed she wouldn’t get ill.

“Not quite so excited as I was just a minute ago,” she said. “It’s odd, isn’t it, how powerful you feel?”

“Yes, it is, but it won’t last, Corrie. I don’t want you to get sick. Keep bundled up. Now, there’s nothing else to do, but walk.”

He stuffed both guns in his belt, took her hand, and off they went. They stayed inside the woods that bordered the narrow road. “They’re going to be looking for us, so that means we need to avoid the main road once we reach it. All we need is a town.”

“They’ll be expecting us to walk back toward London,” she said, and frowned. “They kidnapped you because they wanted to trade you for your father, James.”

“Yes, I imagine so. Unfortunately, they never spoke the name of the man who’d hired them. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the attempt on my father’s life. I should have before you heard it from others.”

“Yes, you should have told me. It’s not as if I’m some sort of stranger, James. Everyone was speaking of it.”

He stopped, faced her, and cupped her dirty face between his dirty hands. “Thank you for saving my hide. How did you know?”

“I saw the waiter hand you that scrap of paper. I know you very well, James. I saw immediately that it worried you, and so I followed you. I knew I couldn’t help you once they had thrown the blanket over you, so I waited until the carriage started up, then I jumped on the back.”

“You’ve always been an excellent tiger.”

“Yes.” He watched her fiddling with her hair. He could only marvel at her bravery. But she wouldn’t see it like that, not at all. She would simply say it was the only thing to be done and wouldn’t he have done the same thing as well? No, he would have gone after their throats, immediately. And maybe gotten himself killed.

He squeezed her dirty hand. “I was trying to figure out how to get off the rope around my ankles without Augie seeing me, and then I thought I heard something on the roof. Augie was already half-asleep and didn’t hear a thing. You gave me the time. That was clever of you. You’ve a good brain.”

She beamed. “Truth is, I nearly broke my leg getting on the roof. And you know that some of the planks on the roof are quite rotted through? I thought for a while there that I would crash through and land right on Augie’s lap.”

He laughed, then sobered very quickly. “I have some money so we’re not destitute. However, we both look like we’ve been in a fight. Try to think up a story to explain our condition.”

She shook her head, said quite seriously, “No, when we reach a farm, all we’ll have to do is make sure the wife gets a good look at you. Even with all that smoke and soot on your face, she’ll swoon and sigh and give you her husband’s food, and bed. If she looked beyond your beautiful face, she’ll get to your evening clothes. That will surely do the trick if your face hasn’t.”

“A bad jest, Corrie.”

“It wasn’t a jest, James. You just don’t realize, do you that—well, never mind. Now, a farmhouse, that’s just what we need. I don’t know what would happen if we had to walk into a village.”

They walked. Exactly twenty minutes later, they heard horses’ hooves coming toward them. James pulled her up and they stepped farther into the trees. They watched Augie, riding the lead horse, bareback, with a makeshift bridle, leading the second bay, carrying both Billy and Ben, a dirty bandage tied around Billy’s arm.

“Only one bridle,” James whispered. “It looks quite amusing, actually. None too steady, any of them. I’ll wager that our three villains are London born and bred, far more comfortable slithering about in a back alley than trying to ride down prey in the open.”

If he’d been alone, he would have tried to take one of the horses, but with Corrie present, he wasn’t about to take the chance of her getting hurt since she’d already taken too many chances. What if the roof had collapsed? What if the horse hadn’t obligingly crashed through the cottage door? What if—He was making himself quite mad. She’d survived and so had he. But no more, he didn’t think his heart could survive it.

She whispered against his cheek, “I think we can take them, James. You get Augie, who seems the most competent, and I’ll bring down Ben and Billy. Just look, they’re sliding all over that poor horse’s back. Let’s just scare them off.”

He could only stare at her. She was right. “No, it’s too dangerous.”

“Climbing up on that damned roof was more dangerous than this would be, not to mention riding in like a knight with a lance into that cottage. Give over, James. Be sensible.”

This from a girl who was wearing a ball gown in the middle of the night, on the side of a rutted road, with three bad men ready to slit her throat.

It was taken out of their hands. At that moment, a huge boom of thunder sounded. Lightning slashed down, once, twice. The horses reared, terrified, throwing all three men to the ground. Another boom of thunder, another streak of lightning and the horses were off, racing madly, right down the road, away from them.

Ben was moaning, holding his foot, weaving back and forth. “Damn ye, ye bloody bugger!”

“Well, me bloody ’orse threw me too,” Augie said, walking gingerly toward Ben and Billy.

“No, not the ’orse,” Ben yelled. “Billy’s the bloody bugger wot landed on me foot! I’m goin’ to carve yer gullet out fer ye, Billy!”

“Ye’ll not be able to catch me fer a good month, so shut yer trap. Besides, we was already wounded by that little chit who shouldn’t have been there, the good Lord knows. Maybe she were some sort of ghost come to torment us.”

“Ye’ve got a right big ’ole in yer brain,” said Augie in disgust. “The truth of it is that a little girl done brought us low. T’weren’t no ghost even though she was wearing that white dress.”

Billy said, “Don’t she know ’ow she’s supposed to garb ’erself? Coming after the three of us dressed like that, her shoulders white and bare as Ben’s ass when ’e’s in the bushes. Boggles the brain, it does.”

“Now that’s a thought,” Corrie whispered.

James was trying very hard not to laugh. They watched the three of them arguing in the middle of the narrow road. They watched until the skies opened up and rain flooded down.

It needed only this. James said, “Willicombe’s mother was a little late in her prediction. It was supposed to rain around midnight.”

“I can’t imagine Willicombe having a mother,” Corrie said, then winced when Ben cursed the rain and his foot blue. Billy joined in, cursing Corrie for the pitchfork in his arm. Augie stood there, hands on hips, watching his two companions in obvious disgust.

Since the leaves protected them a bit from the deluge, both were loathe to get out into the open. They stood another five minutes until the three men managed to hobble down the road.

“We’re all going in the same direction,” Corrie said. “Well, drat.”

“That settles that,” James said. “We’re going to angle back toward the coast. There’s bound to be a fishing village of some sort not too far from here.”

“All right. At least we won’t have to worry that those three buffoons will creep up on us. You know, James, we could get them now. What do you think?”

He shook his head. “Too much risk.” Then he stopped cold. “If we could get Augie, maybe we could make him tell us who paid him to kidnap me.”

Her eyes shone even as she was blinking furiously to keep from being blinded by the rain. “They certainly won’t be expecting us, now will they?”

Lightning struck again and they heard a man yell.

“Let’s go, Corrie. We certainly can’t get any wetter than we are now, well, not much more.”

They ran out of the woods and down the road after their villains, rain lashing against their faces, no moon now, only bloated black clouds. They could barely see the road ten feet ahead of them.

They came upon them quickly since Billy’s foot was evidently hurting him, and Augie and Ben had to support him, Ben with only one good arm.

They slowed, listening to the men cursing.

“I never heard that word, James. What does—”

“Be quiet. Don’t you ever say that word, you understand me?”

Corrie wiped her hand over her eyes and shoved her hair back from her face. “But it sounded like tit—”

“Be quiet. Now, here’s what we’re going to do.”

Three minutes later, James moved quite close to the three, raised his gun, and fired directly at Augie’s arm. A shot and a yell and more cursing.

As James thought, Ben dropped Billy to the ground, and Augie didn’t know whether to grab his arm or draw his gun, and so he did both. The shot brought down a tree branch. Billy, hobbling, and Ben holding his arm, went for the underbrush.

They’d disabled all three of them.

“Drop the gun, Augie,” James called out, “or the next bullet will be through your head. I have two guns, you know, so don’t doubt me.”

“Young ’un! Is that really you?” Augie’s hand was protecting his eyes, desperately trying to see James through the heavy rain. “Why would you want to shoot ole Augie now? I ain’t done nothin’ really bad to ye—not even wot I was paid to do—I jest worried ye a bit, gave ye jest a bit of a tap.”

“Drop the gun, Augie, this is the last time I’ll tell you.”

Augie dropped the gun, although the chances were good that it had held only one bullet and was now quite empty. But better not to take any chances.

“Good. Now, Augie, I’ll not put a bullet in your head if you tell me the man’s name who hired the three of you to kidnap me.”

Augie, despite the rain, tugged on his ear, sent curses toward his feet, then sighed. “A man’s got to guard ’is reputation, lad. If I tells ye ’is name, me reputation will be in the dirt.”

“At least you’ll be alive.”

James aimed the gun at Augie’s head.

“No, ye can’t do that, can ye?—jest shoot me in the noggin’ like I was a bad man—well, niver ye mind about that. No, don’t shoot me. Well, damnation. Aw right, the bloke wot gave us the blunt, ’e said ’is name was Douglas Sherbrooke. Niver ’eard that name afore, so’s I can’t tell ye who the cove is. Now ye won’t shoot me, will ye, young ’un?”

Both James and Corrie gaped at him. Corrie said, “But that doesn’t make sense, James.”

“As a twisted jest, it makes perfect sense.”

“How old was this man, Augie?”

“A young ’un, jest like ye are, me lord. Hey, I heard that little gal’s voice. I wants to wallop that little gal’s arse but good. Ruined it all fer us, she did. Nearly burned down that lovely cottage and stuck that bloody pitchfork into Ben’s arm. Not a lady, she ain’t, a real disgrace to her folks, I’d say, going out like that without no chaperone, wearing white to make us think she were a ghost. As fer the ’orses, wot she did ain’t—”

“Stop whining, Augie. She got you fair and square. If you don’t think she’s a lady, you can call her my white knight,” James said.

“It’s a disgrace, it is, ’er doin that to three growed men. Meybe if she’d been me kid, I could o’ taught her how to nobble ye fine lords, nip groats right out of yer pockets, ye niver the wiser. Ye got guts, little gal, not much brain since ye rode that nag right into the cottage, but ye got guts, lots o’ guts.”

“Okay, Augie, the truth is that Corrie would make a horrible pickpocket. It’s her face, you see. You know exactly what she’s thinking. She’d end up sitting beside you in gaol. Now, you can yell for Ben and Billy to come out of hiding and then the three of you can take yourselves off.”

“Yer a good lad, that’s wot I told me boys, now didn’t I?”

“I don’t know what you said, Augie, since one of your friends hit me over the head.”

“Well now, these things ’appen, these little puddles o’ mud in life.”

“Leave, Augie. Go away. I don’t ever want to see your face again.”

Corrie called out, “How much did this Douglas Sherbrooke pay you, Augie?”

“Little gals shouldn’t concern themselves about men’s business, but it were a good ten pounds to take ye, and another thirty when I gives ye over to this Sherbrooke bloke.”

“I hope you haven’t spent the ten pounds,” Corrie said. “I wonder what this fellow will do to you when he discovers you’ve failed to deliver the goods?”

Augie groaned at that thought, then whistled for Billy and Ben.

Corrie, a lovely sneer on her face, and James, close to laughter, eased back into the woods, and watched the three men stagger back down the road.

“Now what?” Corrie said.

Lightning struck a tree branch. It fell, smoking, not three feet in front of them.

“Oh dear, is that some sort of bad omen, do you think?”

“I think it means that it’s best to get back toward London. Augie and his boys aren’t completely down, and they will lose out on thirty pounds and their reputations if they don’t deliver me. Let’s not take chances. You keep as warm as you can, Corrie. I don’t want you to get ill.”

“This night is surely a misery,” Corrie said, and pressed close to James as they began walking down the road in the opposite direction from the three villains.

She began whistling a ditty she’d learned from one of the Sherbrooke stable lads. James laughed, couldn’t help himself. He prayed she didn’t know the words. Oddly enough, he couldn’t think of another time when he’d laughed quite so much as he had on a night he firmly believed was going to be his last.

They walked along the cliffs, the wind howling louder now, full of both rain and the smell of brine. They could hear the waves crashing against rocks below them.

James suddenly saw the flash of a lantern, then another. The rain was lessening, thank God, and a bit of moon was shining through the bloated black clouds. James saw two boats pulled up onto the beach and at least six men in a line from the boats to the cliff where they stood.

He cursed.

A deep voice came out of the darkness, “Now what have we here, I wonder?”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

JAMES TOOK CORRIE’S hand and squeezed it as he pulled her tightly against his side.

“We are here by chance only,” James said toward the dark voice. “We’re merely trying to find a farmhouse or a fishing village to pass the rest of the night.”

“Not much night left.”

“I don’t have a watch. I don’t know.” James had one bullet left, no more.

The rain stopped and more moon shone down.

A man stepped out of the shadows, a gun in his hand and a black mask over his face. He was wrapped in a many-capped greatcoat.

This wasn’t good.

He looked them both up and down, and Corrie could imagine his eyebrow going up behind that mask. “What the devil happened to you, my dear? Did your handsome gallant here promise you marriage then ravish you?”

“Oh no,” Corrie said. “He would never do that, I daresay he’s never thought of ravishment. And why would he have to? I’ve known him all my life, very nearly. I saved him from three very bad men who’d kidnapped him. We’re trying to go home. We don’t mean anyone any harm. If you’re smuggling in diamonds for the new king, why, we could help you. We don’t care, truly we don’t.”

“You saved him?” The man laughed, actually laughed, which meant he surely wouldn’t shoot them in that instant, didn’t it?

Corrie nodded vigorously. “Yes, sir. I jumped on the tiger’s perch on the back of the carriage and then I climbed onto the cottage roof, covered the chimney with a blanket, and rode a horse into the cottage armed with a pitchfork.”

The man was staring at her, and James knew even without seeing his face that his look was one of pure disbelief. The man said slowly, “You are making that up.” He straightened. “I am no longer amused. No lady would dare such things as you’ve described. Why are the two of you here, in this exact spot? In the middle of the night? Looking like you’ve been rolling in a ditch?”

“She told you the truth. We’re only trying to get back to London,” James said. “Nothing more. But you’re right, she’s not a lady—she’s my sister.”

“Your sister, is she? Now that’s a lie that won’t hold more than two drops of water. And since that’s a bald-faced lie, then the rest of it must be as well. Come along, now. I must decide what to do with you.”

“It was worth a try,” she said against his neck as they walked in front of the man. The path was treacherous, steep and winding, a good thirty feet down to the beach. A half dozen men were carrying crates from a cave to two big longboats at the shore.

“Sit,” the man said.

They sat. The man whistled and a young boy came running up. He handed him the gun. “Keep an eye on them, Alf, especially the girl.” He laughed. “You wouldn’t believe how very dangerous she is.”

He walked away.

“I am dangerous.”

“Don’t alarm Alf,” James said.

“Oh, all right. At least we can rest for a while.” She leaned against him, and to James’s astonishment, she fell asleep.

“Lawks,” the boy said. “That girl jest fell over, she did.”

“She’s had a hard night,” James said, put his arm around her and pulled her close.

He didn’t fall asleep. He hadn’t known there was still smuggling into Britain. Why, for God’s sake? He remembered his father saying that French brandy was much better when it was smuggled in. There was something about the danger of it, the risk involved, which wasn’t all that great, he’d admitted, that gave it an extra dash of heat, right to the belly.

One thing he was sure of: These scoundrels weren’t out to kill his father.

The man with his very smooth, very educated voice was suddenly standing over them. James realized that he must have nodded off after all.

“Tired, are you?”

“The nap helped,” James said quietly, not wanting to awaken Corrie.

The man, still masked, came down on his haunches beside James. “This girl—she’s wearing a ball gown and you’re dressed in evening clothes as well. You’re obviously a gentleman and she a lady. It’s also obvious that you haven’t been dancing all night given where you are and your appearance. I’m inclined to believe that you were kidnapped and that perhaps she played a part in the rescue. But here’s the problem. If I leave the two of you here, you’ll tell Bow Street, and I wouldn’t like that at all.”

James said, “I don’t understand why you’re smuggling. The war with France has been over for years upon years. I didn’t even know smuggling still went on.”

The man looked amazed. He stood up quickly. “I’m going to take the two of you with me, no choice, so I don’t want any arguments from either of you. I’ll put you ashore near Plymouth. Would you like me to guess your names, or will you tell me who the devil you are?”

“I imagine you already know who we are, don’t you? Now, there’s no reason to take us to Plymouth. If I went to Bow Street, what would I tell them? I don’t even know where we are, exactly. I don’t even know how long it’s going to take us to get back to London. I have no idea who you are, and I haven’t a clue what you’re smuggling.”

The man cursed. He tapped his booted foot on the sand. He looked back toward the men who were nearly finished bringing the wooden crates out of the cave, making their way toward the two boats that were already loaded down. “No, there’s no choice, I can’t take the—”

James kicked the man hard in his belly, knocking him backward. James was on him in a flash, his fist slamming against his jaw, hard, and he fell back unconscious. James grabbed his gun and took two steps back and gave his hand to Corrie, whose mouth was suddenly so dry she couldn’t have spit on the wretched man if she’d tried her best. They heard shouts, saw the men running toward them, guns drawn.

James shouted, “All of you, stop right there or I’ll shoot your leader!”

The men stopped dead in their tracks, then began talking amongst themselves.

The man twitched, his arm snaked out to grab James’s hand, but Corrie was faster. She kicked his arm, then fell on him and shoved her knee against his throat. He stared up at her, saying nothing because he couldn’t breathe, and because he didn’t know what to say. She drew back her knee just a bit. “Now you know how dangerous I am,” Corrie said, leaning down close to his face. “You’re not a very competent villain, sir. James and I bested you without much effort at all.”

James yelled out, “All of you, throw your guns into the boats! I’m not going to leave you defenseless, but I don’t want you shooting at us either.”

James looked down at Corrie, her knee still pressed against the man’s neck, he, no fool, still lying perfectly still, and said, “Well done, Corrie, now back away from him. That’s it.”

Once Corrie was clear, James said to the man he would very likely recognize, “Now, I’m not going to take off your mask which means if I went to Bow Street I couldn’t give them a description of you. Truth is, I don’t want to know who you are or what you’re smuggling. I want you to get up and walk toward your men. When you reach them, I want you to get all of them in the boats. Go, now, or I’ll have to shoot you and you won’t have to worry about anything at all, ever again.”

“The two of you,” the man remarked as he rose slowly to his feet, gingerly feeling his throat that had so recently enjoyed Corrie’s knee. “I hadn’t appreciated how very good you are together. It is a pity that—well, never mind.” He turned and trotted down the beach toward the boats and his men. The man was standing at the bow, looking back at them. He cupped his mouth in his hands and yelled, “I ask only that you keep out of the cave!”

Within minutes the men were shoving the boats out into the water, then jumping in.

The man raised his hand in a salute.

“There’s a ship, James, I can see it now,” Corrie said, pointing.

“Yes,” he said. “I wonder what they were smuggling.”

“Maybe they left something in that cave. Let’s go look.”

James thought about it as he kept his eyes on the retreating boats. The sea was choppy, the wind rising.

“You know what? I don’t give a good damn what’s in the cave, if anything. Let’s get out of here instead.”

She looked disappointed, but nodded, taking his hand, and together they walked back up the path to the top of the cliff.

As they stood on the edge of the cliff, looking out toward the two boats, far distant now, nearly to the ship, the sky began to lighten.

“It’s nearly dawn,” Corrie said, wonder in her voice. “It seems more like three weeks have passed.”

“Amen to that,” James said. “I would swear there was something familiar about that man.”

“I think you’re right. It’s probable we do know him or at least know who he is.”

“A gentleman smuggler.”

“He moved well. Of course he wasn’t good enough to take the both of us.”

James grinned, shook his head at her. “At this point I don’t care who or what he is. I saw you shiver. Don’t do that again. You don’t want to get ill from this, all right? Just keep thinking how excellent you feel, how warm you are in my coat. Let’s go, Corrie.” She stretched a moment, then shivered again, a good shiver. “Actually, I am feeling excellent since that short nap. I must say too that when I put my knee on his throat, I remembered that was what I did to Willie Marker, and it made me feel even better.”

“Poor Willie, and all he wanted was a kiss.”

She shuddered.

“Now, I want you to keep that coat real close. Just keep thinking how good you feel. No illness, Corrie. That’s one thing we can’t afford.”

The coat was wet, but she pulled it close. It was better than nothing. She looked at James, his white shirt damp, the wind slicing through it, making the sleeves billow.

It started drizzling again.

They didn’t see a single living creature until after the sun was up. They heard cows mooing.

“Glory be, I don’t believe it,” Corrie yelled. “Where there are cows there have to be people to milk them.”

Hand in hand, they ran in the direction of the mooing. There was a farmhouse, the back of it facing the sea, the front bordering a narrow road, and on the other side was a good-sized pasture and beyond the pasture, a forest of elm and maple trees. The house was built of gray stone, a hulking ugly house with a barn attached. At the moment, it was the most glorious structure either of them had ever seen.

“Oh, there’s smoke coming out of the chimney. That means it’s got to be warm in there.”

They ran to the front of the house, panting, and James called out, “Is there anyone here? We’re in need of assistance!”

From behind the closed door, an old voice said, “I don’t give no assistance to no one. Go away.”

“Please,” Corrie said, “we mean no harm. We’ve been walking all night and are very wet and cold. Won’t you please help us?”

“Yer rich coves, from the sound of ye.” The door opened a crack, and a very old face, seamed deep by years in the sun, and eyes a bright, intelligent blue, peered out at them.

“Wot’s this? Oh my, ye’re both a rare mess, ye are. Come in, come in now.”

The door went wide, and James and Corrie walked into the house, James ducking before the lintel would have knocked the top of his head off.

It smelled like vanilla inside.

“Oh, how wonderful,” Corrie said, sucking in that wonderful smell, turning to the wrinkled old woman, swathed in a huge apron that covered nearly all of her. “What a delightful house you have, madam. Thank you so much for letting us in. And it’s so very warm.”

“Please, ma’am,” James said. “We’ve been in the rain all night and I’m very worried about Corrie.”

“Aye, I can see that,” the old woman said. “I’m Mrs. Osbourne, me man is out there wi’ the cows. Our milk is the best in the district. I’ll give ye a cup o’ milk, all nice and warm, that’ll make ye jig again. Now, ye’re both wet, let me find ye something to wear.”

Mrs. Osbourne disappeared into another room, and James realized that behind the door past the kitchen was indeed the barn.

“Corrie, I want you to hang my coat over that chair and get yourself close to the fireplace. We’re nearly home.”

When Mrs. Osbourne came back after only a few minutes carrying a pail of milk, she said to Corrie, “Aye, little dearie, let me pour ye some nice fresh milk, then we’ll get ye into some nice dry clothes.”

Corrie drank the warm milk gratefully then handed the mug to James, who finished it off.

She followed Mrs. Osbourne into an old-fashioned bedchamber with a lovely big bed and a huge trunk at its base. Mrs. Osbourne left Corrie there to change into a long shapeless gown of indeterminate gray with a high neck and not a single ruffle or flounce. Corrie thought it was a lovely dress. She was humming as she stripped off her wet clothes and laid them all spread out on the floor, careful not to let them touch Mrs. Osbourne’s blue rag rug. She could hear Mrs. Osbourne speaking to James, but couldn’t make out her words.

She toweled off her hair and untangled it as best she could with her fingers. She was warm, her belly filled with the lovely milk, and she was more than ready to take on more kidnappers. Or smugglers. What an amazing night it had been. And James was all right. She’d seen to it.

She walked back into the sitting room. “Your turn now, James.”

When James took the men’s clothes into the bedchamber, Corrie said, “I thank you, ma’am. Lord Hammersmith was kidnapped. We both escaped and have been walking in the rain nearly all night.”

“A lordship is he? Well, I suppose he should have a title attached to that beautiful face of his. I don’t think Mr. Osbourne’s clothes will fit him well, but at least they’re dry. Would ye like to buy some milk?”

Before Corrie could laugh or reply, James came out of the bedchamber dressed in Mr. Osbourne’s clothes. Corrie knew that beauty would have to be in the eye of a very biased beholder. The breeches, old and baggy, came only to his ankles. The dark brown cotton shirt didn’t quite meet over his chest, which made him look very manly indeed, what with chest hair poking out. She didn’t think she’d seen James’s chest since he was sixteen. Should she tell him that he would look magnificent indeed if he’d take off those ridiculous clothes?

Probably wise not to say that. She didn’t want to hurt Mrs. Osbourne’s feelings.

“You look very natty, James.”

“I’m warm and dry, as you are, Corrie. Thank you, Mrs. Osbourne and Mr. Osbourne as well. Once Corrie and I are home again, I will have the clothes returned to you.”

“So ye’re Lord Hammersmith, the young lady tells me. Ye’ve the look of a ducky lad. I believe that Mr. Osbourne had the look of ye afore the years wore on him and knobbled his knees, and all those dratted cows kicked him in the head too many times.” And Mrs. Osbourne curtseyed to him. “I’ll feed ye. Mr. Osbourne can sell all the milk this morning. Goodness, I already hear the wagons coming down the road.”

After the most delicious porridge and eggs and toast either Corrie or James had ever eaten in their short lives, they both felt too tired and stupid to do anything except sit at that table and try to stay upright.

“Tired, are ye? Well, that’s no problem. How about a short nap afore Mr. Osbourne sees that ye get at least to Malthorpe, our village five miles down the road.”

James was so grateful that he nearly fell over his feet as he rose from his chair. He walked to Mrs. Osbourne, picked up her hoary hand, and kissed her knuckles. “We are very grateful for your kindness, ma’am. If you don’t mind, I would very much like for Corrie to rest a while. So much has happened.”

“I’ll have her in my own bedchamber, my lord, tucked in right and tight.”

“Thank you, ma’am. If I can perhaps assist Mr. Osbourne with the cows—” He stood there, the words barely out of his mouth, smiling his beautiful smile, when suddenly his eyes rolled back in his head and he collapsed, hitting the edge of the table on his way to the floor.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CORRIE HAD NEVER been so frightened in her life. Riding on the back of a carriage for three hours on the tiger’s perch, the wind whistling up her wide sleeves, was nothing; climbing up on a rickety roof with a blanket—well, the list was long. But this was James. And he was sick.

Mr. Osbourne left his milking to strip James of his own clothes and put him into bed. He was still unconscious, his breathing heavy, and he was so very pale. Corrie couldn’t bear it. She’d taken his coat and left him in his shirtsleeves. She said to Mrs. Osbourne, “Is there a physician nearby? I must have a physician for him. Please, Mrs. Osbourne. I can’t allow anything to happen to James. Please.”

“Well now,” Mrs. Osbourne said, lightly laying her gnarly old hand on James’s forehead, “there is old Dr. Flimmy, over in Braxton. Don’t know if he’s still alive, but he birthed my three boys, and all of them survived, their mama included. Elden!”

Mr. Osbourne stuck his head in the bedchamber.

“Send little Freddie over Braxton way to fetch Dr. Flimmy. Our beautiful boy here is nearly pale as a corpse.” She saw Corrie’s face blanch. “Sorry.”

“Fever,” Mrs. Osbourne said, shaking her head. “I know fevers, I do. Little Lemon, that’s what I always called him when he was a boy cause his skin was this pale yellow color; did that boy ever have the fevers, one right after the other.”

“Did you say Little Lemon was alive, Mrs. Osbourne?”

“Oh aye, his name is Benjie and he’s got three young-uns of his own now.”

“Then tell me what to do.”

“Funny this is, I always use lemons for fevers. It’s a jest, you see? Little Lemon and lemons for fevers.”

Corrie swallowed hard. “You will make a drink for him, ma’am? Made of lemons?”

“Aye, that’s it. While I’m doing that, you keep an eye on him. If he starts burning up from the inside out, you wash him down with cold cloths.”

“Yes, yes, I can do that.”

Mrs. Osbourne stood there a moment, staring down at James’s still face. “I’ve never seen a more beautiful face on any living soul. That face shouldn’t go to God just yet.”

Corrie could only nod.

The hours blurred, but they did march on, very slowly. James was still alive, so hot that soon both she and Mrs. Osbourne began wiping him down with wet cloths dipped in the coldest water Mr. Osbourne could find. Corrie’s hands cramped, but she didn’t slow. She saw that Mrs. Osbourne was slowing down, and no wonder. “I’ll keep doing it, ma’am. Please, you must rest now.”

But the old woman kept stroking down James’s chest, then when they managed to turn him onto his stomach, she stroked those cloths down his back.

He was so still, so deathly still Corrie couldn’t stand it. Finally, when he was on his back again, he opened his eyes and looked directly into her face.

“Corrie? What’s wrong? You’re not sick, are you?”

“No,” she said, her warm breath on his cheek. “I’m not, but you are.”

“No, that can’t be right—” And then he was gone, eyes closed, his head lolling to the side.

Corrie’s world stopped. She put her face right into his. “James, come back to me, please, come back. I can’t bear this.”

He began twisting and throwing away the covers, then suddenly, he was shivering, his teeth chattering. They piled blankets on top of him, but still it wasn’t enough. The three of them managed to carry him out into the sitting room, and lay him right in front of the fireplace. Within moments, the room was so hot sweat was beading on James’s forehead. Time passed. He calmed. The fever was down, thank God.

Dr. Flimmy arrived with Freddie in the early afternoon. An old man, but if his brain was still working he must know how to save the life of a young man who’d spent the night walking in the cold rain.

She watched Dr. Flimmy ease down on his crickety knees beside James. He lifted his eyelids, peered into his ears. He pulled the blankets down and listened to his chest. He put his ear against James’s throat. He pulled the blankets down to his ankles, unaware that Corrie, who’d never seen a naked man in her life, was standing there, gawking. He hummed while he looked over every inch of James.

“Lawks,” Mrs. Osbourne said, blinking, staring down at James. “Mr. Osbourne never looked like that even when he was a young sprite. Maybe ye’d best not be staring at him, Miss Corrie. Unless you’re his sister, and I know ye’re not. And ye’re not his wife neither, else ye’d have a big sparkler on yer finger, given that he’s a lordship. Ye haven’t told me what ye are and how the two of ye are together. No, I don’t want to know. Now, ye turn yer back and let Dr. Flimmy look behind his knees. That’s what he always did to Little Lemon.”

Corrie didn’t want to turn around. She wanted to stand there and look at James until it became so dark she couldn’t see him, not even his shadow. She supposed that meant the fire would have to go out as well because she knew she could see him if there were embers in the grate. Mrs. Osbourne was frowning at her, hands on her hips. Sighing, Corrie turned around.

“Is he going to be all right, Dr. Flimmy?” When the old man didn’t answer, she turned her head to look at him. He was kneeling close to James, James’s arm was raised, and he was kneading his armpit. She watched him poke and prod, then he leaned over James’s chest and raised his other arm, and the kneading continued. At least he’d pulled the blankets back up to James’s waist, and that was a pity. Dr. Flimmy finally came up onto his knees, calling out, “Mrs. Osbourne, fetch your lemonade. Make it nice and hot. And add some barley water to it. That’s what he needs right now.”

Dr. Flimmy managed to haul himself to his feet, waving Corrie off when she moved to help him. When he was finally standing again, breathing heavily with the effort, he said to her, even though he was looking down at James, “His lordship is very ill. Luckily he’s also young and strong. You and Mrs. Osbourne keep him warm, and when the fever comes again, continue washing him down with the coldest cloths you can stand. Pour lemonade down his throat or he’ll wither up and die. Don’t want that lad to die, I really don’t.”

“I don’t want him to die either,” Corrie said, swallowing hard. “I must get him back to London. There’s trouble, you see, and he needs to be home.”

Dr. Flimmy began rubbing his neck. “You move him and he’ll likely not make it. Keep him here and keep him quiet and warm.”

Corrie’s brain simply seized up. “But Mrs. Osbourne—”

“Aye, Corrie, we’ll see to him. Now, let’s get some of my special lemonade down his throat.”

Surprisingly, at least to Corrie, James drank when they put the cup to his mouth. It took a long time, but she managed to get most of it down him.

He slept, unmoving, the fever gone, until that evening. Corrie was reading a tract on animal husbandry by the light of a single candle. Mr. and Mrs. Osbourne were long in bed, but not Corrie. Sleep was far away for her. Every few minutes, she looked at James. He was still quiet. They’d gotten some chicken broth down his throat. The fire was going strong. He had four blankets tucked in around him.

Suddenly, he moaned, his eyes opened. He looked straight at her. “I was relieving myself and you were watching. I was never so mortified in my life.”

The memory flashed in her mind and she smiled. “I was only eight years old, James, and I really didn’t understand what I was seeing. You scared the devil out of me when you dashed away and got yourself thrown. I thought it was my fault. I felt guilty for years.”

“How did you know about my accident?”

“Your father told me. He said he wasn’t clear on exactly how all that had come about, so I told him everything that had happened.”

James groaned. “What did he say?”

“He was quiet for a moment, then he patted me on the head, told me he’d said exactly the right thing to you. It had calmed you.”

“Am I the only man you’ve seen relieving himself?”

“Yes. Forgive me, James, but I was so very young and I worshipped you to the point of idiocy. I thought the way you did it was quite remarkable and ever so much easier than it was for me.”

He laughed. He actually laughed, low and scratchy that laugh, then his eyes closed and his head fell to the side.

“James!”

She was on her knees over him, her palm on his forehead. No fever, thank God. She sat back on her heels and stared down at him. When he began muttering, she nearly fell over.

It didn’t make much sense, but she knew he was worried. He muttered about his father and the man who’d called himself Douglas Sherbrooke. Then he spoke of the Andromeda constellation in the northern sky, of the accident Jason had had when he was ten years old, falling from the hayloft. Then he mentioned her name, and how she wouldn’t leave him alone, how she was always there underfoot, and it was true, she was cute as a button, like his father said. The only time he muttered about wanting her in another galaxy was when he turned twelve and wanted to kiss girls. Corrie remembered he’d became quite good at escaping her.

Corrie came down beside him, and pressed herself to his side. She stroked her hand over his chest, his throat, his face. “James, it’s all right. I’m here. I won’t leave you. Everything will be all right, I swear it to you.”

He stopped muttering. She believed that he slept.

Corrie counted James’s money. There was enough. She spoke to Mrs. Osbourne, then gave the money and directions to the Sherbrooke London town house to an excited Freddie. The earl and countess were in Paris, but Jason was there. He’d be here as soon as he could. There was nothing more she could do but wait.

The next days passed with terrifying slowness. James was delirious, then he was in a stupor, lying so still she thought several times that he’d died. Corrie prayed until she was out of words, and then she prayed feelings, swearing to God that she would become an excellent person if only He would spare James.

There was no sign of Freddie.

She and Mrs. Osbourne rubbed James down with cold wet cloths until their hands cramped and turned blue and wrinkled. Dr. Flimmy came once again, examined James’s armpits at greater length this time, and announced that his lordship was improving.

Corrie didn’t understand this, but she’d grab at any straw. “Will he live, sir?”

“He’s better, miss, but will he live?” He didn’t answer his own question, accepted a pound note Corrie gave him from James’s coat pocket, drank a cup of warm milk, and allowed Mr. Osbourne to take him back home, since there was still no sign of Freddie. Something must have happened to him, Corrie knew it. Mrs. Osbourne walked around, tight-lipped, shaking her head. It was interesting though how she smiled whenever she looked at James.

The next afternoon, Corrie fell asleep, her head on James’s shoulder, when a loud moo woke her. She jerked up, so exhausted that it took her a moment to realize that there really was a cow standing in the open doorway. She heard men’s voices from just outside.

Was it Dr. Flimmy? No, probably neighbors here to buy milk. She placed her palm on James’s forehead. He was cool to the touch. She nearly wept with relief. The cow mooed again. She came up on her knees when Douglas Sherbrooke appeared in the doorway, right in front of the cow.

If it had been God standing there, his sight adjusting to the dim interior, she wouldn’t have been more ecstatic.

“Sir!” She dashed to him, throwing herself in his arms. “You’re here! I thought you were in Paris, but you’re not. You’re really here. Thank God, thank God. I thought Freddie had gotten himself lost. I thought maybe someone had killed him.”

Douglas held her close, patted her back. “It’s all right, Corrie. How is James?”

She heard the fear in his voice, and leaned back, smiling up at him. “The fever broke. He’s going to be all right.”

She stepped away and walked back to where James lay in front of the fireplace, his bed for the past three days.

Douglas dropped to his knees beside his boy. He studied the heavy beard on his face, the pallor of his skin, the hollowness of his cheeks.

He placed his palm on his son’s forehead. Nice and cool. He sat back on his heels. “Thank God.”

“James!”

Jason dashed through the front door, smacked his head on the lintel, and nearly knocked himself out.

“Dammit, Jason, don’t make me worry about both of you.”

Jason, rubbing his head, cursing, weaved slightly as he walked to where his brother slept. “It’s very hot in here.”

“Yes,” Corrie said. “It’s supposed to be. He’s had the fever, been so cold—” She swallowed, stared at Douglas, then at Jason, and burst into tears.

It was Jason who drew her against him, stroking her back, patting her head. “That dress is a fright, Corrie,” he said against her temple.

She sniffled, swallowed, and managed a small smile as she looked up at him. “It’s been so long, and I knew he was going to die, and I didn’t know what to do. And I sent Freddie off to London, to your house, but he never came back and—” She sniffled, then grinned up at Jason. “He’s going to live. The fever’s gone.”

“Yes, thank God and your excellent nursing,” Douglas said. “Freddie arrived this morning, not twelve hours after Alex and I did. He’d gotten himself lost and robbed. When he came to the front door, Willicombe nearly fainted at the sight of him. All Freddie could say before he collapsed was ‘James’.”

“Is Freddie all right now?”

Jason nodded. He looked toward his brother, nearly jumped out of his skin when Mrs. Osbourne shrieked, “Lawks and Lordie! There are two of ye. Mr. Osbourne, come and look at this. There are two beautiful lads, not just one.” And she opened the door from the kitchen back to the barn and disappeared.

Corrie said, “Mrs. Osbourne has very much enjoyed taking care of James, particularly when it came to washing him down with wet cold cloths. It isn’t just his face she admires.” Then she giggled, actually giggled. She stared up at Jason.

He was grinning. “I’m sure James was delighted to please Mrs. Osbourne.”

James moaned and opened his eyes to see his father looking down at him.

“Hello, sir. Why aren’t you in Paris?”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

DOUGLAS SHERBROOKE WAS so relieved, so very thankful, that he could only stare down at his son as he stroked his hand over the thick black stubble on his face, and finally accept in his gut that he was going to be all right. It did worry him that James’s eyes were still a bit glazed, a bit unfocused, but he knew that would change, James just needed time and rest. He leaned down and said, “Your mother sends her love. I nearly had to tie her up to keep her from coming with us, but I knew, as did she, that you didn’t need the both of us hovering around you.

“The fact is, we never got to Paris. Your mother claims the Virgin Bride came wafting into our bedchamber in Rouen, said you were in danger. We just arrived back in London last night.”

“They kidnapped me to get to you, sir.”

“Yes, I suppose that’s true, but I know in my gut that this is more complicated than we thought. There were three men who took you?”

“Yes. Augie is their leader, Ben and Billy the other two, who weren’t really very smart. They were from London, which means that they’ve got to be known. Just maybe Remie will find out all about them. Willicombe can send him into the stews and down to the docks to hire more lads to find out what this is all about.”

“I’ll pass that along as soon as we get back to London. Actually, by now I think that all of London is looking for you and Corrie. Ah, James, I recognize that look—you’re hungry, aren’t you?”

James thought about it for a moment. “Yes, I could eat one of those damned mooing cows. They moo all the time, sir. I swear I could hear them mooing in the middle of the night.” He saw Jason with his arm around Corrie. “Jase, I’m glad you came. But I don’t understand how—”

Jason said, “We’ll tell you all about it after you’ve had something to eat. Where is Mrs. Osbourne?”

To Corrie’s surprise, Mrs. Osbourne was standing in the door of the sitting room, knotting her apron in her veiny old hands, looking—well, looking utterly intimidated. Corrie couldn’t blame her. Douglas Sherbrooke standing in the small sitting room was surely akin to a cardinal standing in the village church. Douglas, not stupid, rose and smiled at Mrs. Osbourne. He walked to her, took one of her hands as gently as he would take a duchess’s and raised it to his lips, just as James had done. “Mrs. Osbourne, my wife and I are very grateful for your kindness.”

“Oh, sir. Oh, dear, oh dear, yer lordship, it wasn’t much of anything, now was it, sir? Would ye look at me, all dressed in this old apron, with this even older gown beneath it, but I couldn’t take my gown away from Corrie, now could I, because she was wearing a ball gown that was all ripped up, really quite a mess, it was. Why I—”

“You look charming, Mrs. Osbourne. I would like to thank you for taking care of my son and his friend.”

Friend? James, who had just drawn a nice deep breath, choked. Well, he supposed Corrie was a friend, but still, to hear it said that way—he coughed again. Corrie went immediately and dropped to her knees beside him, raised his head, and gave him lemonade to drink.

Jason looked at the two of them. It was obvious that she’d done this many times since James had become ill, so many times that it looked utterly natural. As for Douglas, he became very still. Then, slowly, he nodded.

“Och, my little Corrie, what a sweetie she is. Just this morning Elden was showing her how to milk old Janie, who gives the sweetest milk within fifty miles.”

James swallowed the lemonade, closed his eyes a moment, and said, “Did you really milk old Janie?”

“I tried. I haven’t quite got the knack of it yet.”

“Would yer lordship like a cup of tea? And yer other boy as well?” She stood there, looking from Jason to James, shaking her head. “Two such beautiful young men in my sitting room. No one will believe it. And now a lordship as well, not that yer not beautiful, my lord, it’s just that these two young gentlemen would make the angels weep.”

“Trust me, Mrs. Osbourne, they’ve made me weep as well upon occasion.”

James said loudly, “Corrie is the daughter of a viscount.”

“Och, so what does that make ye, Corrie?”

Corrie rolled her eyes. “It makes me the girl who tried to milk old Janie, nothing more, Mrs. Osbourne.”

Mrs. Osbourne wheezed with laughter, caught herself, and choked out, “I have real proper tea, my lord. James here has drunk two bucketfuls of lemonade, Corrie pouring it down his lovely gullet.”

“Tea would be very nice, thank you, Mrs. Osbourne.” Douglas turned back to James, picked up his hand, to touch him, to feel the life in him. “We brought a carriage. It’s a good two hours back to London. How do you feel about that, James?”

“This floor is very hard, sir. When I complained, Corrie tried to lift me up to put more blankets underneath me. When that didn’t work, she wanted me to lift my rump so she could slide the blankets in, but I swear to you I couldn’t get any part of me off the floor.”

Corrie said, grinning down at him, “So I rolled him over, slid in half the blankets, then rolled him the other way. The squabs in your carriage are soft as a bed, sir. James will think he’s floating on clouds.”

“And you’ve been kept warm too and that’s good.” The earl looked over at Corrie, who looked quite lovely with her scrubbed face and shiny clean hair. If Mrs. Osbourne’s gown hung off her, it simply didn’t matter. She’d dropped flesh, he could see it in her face, just as James had.

Two hours later, the Sherbrooke carriage rolled away from the Osbourne farm, leaving the occupants fifty pounds richer and short one employee, a foundling Mrs. Osbourne said they’d taken in five years before. Aye, Freddie was a good lad, slept in the Osbourne barn, did his chores right and proper. But no longer. Now, Freddie rode tall and straight on the tiger’s perch, dressed in Sherbrooke livery from Willicombe’s store of uniforms. The uniform bagged on twelve-year-old Freddie, but Freddie had admired himself so much that Willicombe didn’t have the heart to have him change back into his old clothes. Douglas had told Willicombe to have a half dozen suits made up for him.

Tied securely to the roof of the carriage was a keg of old Janie’s sweet milk, a lovely gift from Mrs. Osbourne.

James slept most of the way, propped up between his father and Corrie, Jason on the seat opposite them, ready to catch James if he fell forward.

Douglas had wanted Corrie to tell them exactly what had happened, but he’d no sooner told her he’d informed her aunt and uncle that she was safe, than she gave him a sleepy smile and her head fell against James’s shoulder. He looked to see that Jason was staring fixedly at his brother and the young woman sleeping so naturally against him.

Douglas wondered if James had yet realized the consequences of this mad adventure.

AUNT MAYBELLA AND Uncle Simon were seated in the drawing room with the twins’ mama, all three of them drinking tea and worrying endlessly until Douglas and Jason helped James into the drawing room.

There was a good deal of pandemonium until James, deposited on the long sofa by his father and brother, two blankets tucked lovingly around him, said to Maybella and Simon, “I was so careful to keep Corrie covered as best I could because I was terrified she would become ill—and look what happened. I was the one. As Augie would say—tar and damnation.”

And Corrie, on her knees beside the sofa, said without hesitation, “I wish it had been me, James. I’ve never been more scared in my life than that second night.” She said to the room at large, “He was burning with fever, thrashing about so I couldn’t keep the blankets on him. Then he fell on his back so still I was certain he was dead.”

“I’m too mean to die,” he said.

“Yes, you are, and I’m very happy about that, although stubborn is more the truth of it.” She looked up then and said, “But he drank down all the water and lemonade I put to his mouth. And then buckets of tea.”

James took a sip of tea, laid his head back against the soft pillows his mother had placed beneath his head, and said, “You should have seen Corrie riding that horse through the cottage door, a pitchfork held like a lance under her arm. She was, naturally, wearing a white ball gown.” He began to laugh. “Good Lord, Corrie, it’s something I’ll never forget as long as I live.”

“Whatever are you talking about?” Alexandra couldn’t help herself fluttering around her son, her relief was so great.

“Corrie sporting a lance?” Uncle Simon said, and turned to his niece. “Dearest, I remember when you were a little girl and going through your knight-in-Medieval-England phase. James taught you how to hold a long pole without impaling yourself. I remember he stood there laughing when you held that pole and ran full tilt toward a chicken. But you actually did it this time on horseback?”

“I’d forgotten that,” James said. “You missed the chicken, Corrie.”

“She was fast,” Corrie said, “really fast and then she had the nerve to run behind a tree.”

James said, “And you rammed the pole against the tree and the impact sent you flying back on your bu—well, on, you sat down, really hard.”

He cleared his throat even as his mother said, “James tries to be careful in his bodily descriptions. He knows it’s appreciated by his mother.”

“Ha,” Jason said.

James said, “Well, Corrie wasn’t running with a pole this time, sir, she was on horseback, a bridle, no saddle, a pitchfork under her arm, and she did it wearing her evening gown.”

“She ran at a tree?” Aunt Maybella asked.

It took another hour before everyone had digested the entire tale. Douglas saw that his son was exhausted. He rose. “The man who paid the three villains said he was Douglas Sherbrooke. This gives me great pause. I don’t suppose that this man, Augie, used my name to taunt you, James?”

James shook his head, very nearly asleep. “He’d never heard of you, sir. He wasn’t making it up.”

“You’re ready to fall off the sofa, James,” Alexandra said, lightly stroking her fingertips over his face. “Ah, look. Your hair is all shiny and clean.”

“Corrie washed me, hair included, this morning.”

“Oh,” said Aunt Maybella and shot a glance at Simon, who wasn’t paying attention. He was staring at the oak trees, their leaves beginning to sport their fall plumage. She heard him say under his breath, “That gold is very nice indeed. I have browns and wheats, but no gold that specific shade. I must get it for my collection.”

He was out of the drawing room before Corrie could blink. She smiled after him. She saw several governesses with their charges in the park, and knew that they would be admiring her uncle, never realizing that he had no interest in them at all, just in those gold oak leaves.

Maybella was tapping her toe and staring at the lovely ceiling molding. Douglas said, “Er, let me get Petrie, who’s doubtless waiting in the entrance hall with Willicombe and all the rest of the staff in this house, ready to fight over who gets to carry you on his back to your bedchamber.”

But it was Douglas and Jason who helped James up to his bedchamber, Petrie and Willicombe hovering three steps behind them, ready if needed, Freddie three steps behind them, arms out, ready. James smiled up at his father and brother. “Thank you for coming to fetch us.”

He fell asleep, hearing Petrie bragging how he could shave his lordship and not wake him up in the process.

CHAPTER TWENTY

WHEN JAMES AWOKE, it was nearly midnight, his bedchamber dark, embers burning low in the fireplace, and he was as warm as a lovely pudding just taken out of the oven. He realized he needed to relieve himself and managed to get himself out of bed and locate the chamber pot. He was damnably weak and it infuriated him. He’d no sooner gotten himself back into bed when he realized he was starving. He focused on the bellpull then drew back his hand. It was very late. He lay back, listening to his stomach growl, wondering if he could manage to walk to the kitchen. Forget the food, then. At least he was at home and in his own bed. He wasn’t going to starve, and best of all, he was alive.

Not three minutes later, the door to his bedchamber quietly opened.

His mother came into the room, wearing a lovely moss green dressing gown, carrying a small tray in her arms. James simply couldn’t believe it. “Have I died and gone to heaven? How did you—”

Alexandra set the tray down on the bedside table and said as she helped him sit up, “Petrie was sleeping in the dressing room, the door open. I had told him he was to awaken me the moment he heard you stirring. He did. Now, I have some delicious chicken broth for you and some warm bread with butter and honey. What do you think about that?”

“I would marry you if you weren’t my mother.”

Alexandra laughed and lit a branch of candles.

James said as he watched her, “I remember when I was a little boy, sick from something, I don’t remember what it was, but you were always there. I woke up in the middle of the night and there you were standing beside me, holding a candle, and your hair looked like spun flame in that light. I thought you were an angel.”

“I am,” Alexandra said, laughed, and kissed him. She studied him a moment. “You’re looking brighter, your eyes more focused. Now, I’m going to stuff you.”

She pulled up a chair and sat watching her son while he ate every scrap on the tray. When he was finished, he sighed and leaned his head back against the pillows. He said, his eyes still closed, “When I awoke, my first thought was, where is Corrie?”

Alexandra made a low humming noise.

“She saved my life, Mother. I honestly don’t think my chances of escaping those three men were all that good.”

“She’s always been a resourceful girl,” said Alexandra. “And always completely loyal to you.”

“I never really appreciated that until this happened. Can you believe she saw me taken and jumped right up in the tiger’s perch, with no hesitation at all? Can you believe that? Wearing her damned ball gown.”

“Well, as a matter of fact,” his mother said, “I can believe it.”

He managed a grin. “Ah, you and Father, always there for each other. Yes, you would have leaped up in that tiger’s perch, wouldn’t you?”

“Mayhap I would have pulled out the derringer I wore strapped to my leg and shot the villains. I would have made the effort to save my ball gown.”

“You think to make me laugh? No, I can see you doing that, Mother.” James sighed and closed his eyes again. “I can also picture Corrie in my mind, all of three years old. It was the first time I ever saw her. You were holding her hand when you introduced her to us. I’ll never forget how she looked from Jason to me, back to Jason, and then she said, those big eyes of hers on my face, ‘James.’ ”

“I remember. Then she left me without a backward glance, walked up to you, her head back so she could see as high as your face, and she took your hand. You were ten years old, I believe.”

“She didn’t want to let my hand go. I remember how embarrassed I was. There was this little faerie, and she would sit at my feet and stroke my hand.”

“Remember when Jason tried to fool her into thinking he was you?”

“She kicked him in the shin. He started chasing her, all in good fun, then she saw me and tried to climb up my leg.”

Alex laughed. “Jason was so certain that he had all your mannerisms, but she wasn’t fooled.”

“Miss Juliette Lorimer can’t tell us apart.”

“Ah, yes, Juliette,” Alexandra said, studying her well-worn green slippers. “A lovely girl, don’t you think?”

James nodded. “She dances well, is light on her feet, and yes, really quite beautiful. But the thing is, I could be Jason and she wouldn’t know the difference.”

“She and her mother visited on three different occasions during the time you were missing. We weren’t here, but Jason was. He said that Juliette was very distraught when she realized he wasn’t you.”

James thought about that, but not too much. Weariness dragged at him. He managed a lopsided grin at his mother. “Thank you for keeping me from starving.” And he closed his eyes.

Alexandra leaned down and kissed her son. She straightened, stood there looking down at him for a very long time, thanking God and Corrie Tybourne-Barrett for her son’s life.

“WHO ARE YOU?”

“I’m Freddie, my lord, the new Sherbrooke tiger,” the boy said, puffing out his chest, an amazing feat since there wasn’t much chest to puff out. “No wonder you don’t remember me, real down in the chops ye were.”

What there was, however, was a good deal of pride standing here in his bedchamber. James smiled at the boy wearing the Sherbrooke livery who had traveled to London to tell his parents where he and Corrie were.

“I remember you now, Freddie. Why are you here?”

“I ’ad this gnawin’ in me brain, me lord. I jest wanted to make sure ye were still above ground like everyone were sayin’ downstairs. Everyone is mighty pleased ye survived. Best thing I ever did was to come to yer folks’ big ’ouse, tell ’em where ye was, even though I nearly got me liver sliced.

“And would ye look at what did transpire? Jest look at me, me lord. Ain’t I somethin’ to behold? ’Ere, me lord, ye want to feel this wool? Soft as a baby’s butt, it is.”

“Yes, it looks quite soft and you do look quite splendid, Freddie. Forgive me that I didn’t remember you, but I do know what you did for Corrie and me. Thank you.”

“No matter, my lord, ye was so sick I believed I’d be bringing yer folks back fer a burying, but no, ye managed to pull yerself out o’ the casket. It was Miss Corrie who saved ye. She’s a tough ’un, she is, and she didn’t leave yer side, no she din’t.”

“What did I hear about you nearly getting yourself killed trying to get to London?”

“Set upon, I was, set upon by a gang o’ young toughs what wanted to pound me, fer the fun o’ it. Not much fun fer me, I’ll tell ye. They took the groats Miss Corrie gave me, even though I’d poked ’em down under my foot, but they found ’em. But I gets away from them and got here, looking real bad, but Willicombe knew I ’ad somethin’ important to tell ’is lordship, so’s ’e brings me right in.”

“I appreciate your bravery, Freddie, and your tenacity.”

Freddie nodded, thinking of the five pounds he now carried in his pocket, not under his foot, given to him by the earl himself, and ah, didn’t it feel good lying against that soft wool of his suit, what Mr. Willicombe called his livery. Fine word, livery. Sounded like a dressed-up body part. Freddie rubbed his clean palms over the wool breeches. “Yer pa told me Mr. Willicombe ordered six suits fer me. Six! Can ye imagine that?”

“No,” James said slowly, “I can’t.” James thought about his Uncle Ryder who took in abused and mistreated children, raised them, educated them, and best of all, loved them. How would Freddie do with his Uncle Ryder?

When Jason came into his bedchamber not long after Freddie had slipped away, still stroking wool, James said, “What about sending Freddie to Uncle Ryder?”

“Our very pleased-with-himself new tiger with his six new suits of livery? I don’t think he’d want to go, James. He’s so excited about being in the big city, can’t stop talking about seeing the Tower of Lunnon where all the heads were lopped off. Don’t you see? He’s now worth something. He’s now important to himself. He doesn’t need Uncle Ryder.”

“We’ll at least get him educated.”

Jason smiled. “He’ll probably squawk at that, but I’ll see that Willicombe brings a tutor around and keeps our new tiger in the schoolroom for a good two hours a day. Now, I’m here to tell you that Miss Juliette Lorimer and her mother are here to see you.”

James was shaking his head even before Jason had finished speaking. “I haven’t even shaved yet this morning.”

“At least Lady Juliette would be able to tell us apart.”

“That’s the truth. No, tell the lady I will be up for a visit say, tomorrow afternoon.”

Jason turned to leave, when James said, “Where’s Corrie? You know, when I woke up, her name was nearly out of my mouth, and I couldn’t smell her—it’s a light scent, maybe jasmine. It feels strange not having her right here with me.”

“No wonder. I haven’t heard a thing. She left right after we helped you out of the drawing room. You don’t remember saying good-bye to her?”

James shook his head. “Jase, would you call on her, see how she’s doing? Oh, and what about Miss Judith McCrae? Have you seen her?”

Jason gave him a remarkably austere look, which made him look like a carved Greek statue. “There’s been no time, really. I did inform her once we had you home. I dare-say I will see her again.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

JAMES WAS SITTING up in bed, bathed and shaved by Petrie, who clucked over him until he was ready to hurl a book at him, when Corrie was ushered in by Willicombe, who was beaming, so pleased to be the escort to the Heroine of the Hour.

And James, eyeing her, said, all stiff as a vicar, “You really shouldn’t be coming to see me alone, Corrie. You’re a young lady; there are rules about this.”

She cocked her head to one side. “Now isn’t that ridiculous? I’ve run tame in your home all my life. Now I’m supposed to have a chaperone when I come to see you? To make certain that you don’t do something improper, like ravish me in your parents’ home?”

“It’s more the principle of the thing, not really what could actually occur.”

“Looking at you now, I’d wager all my allowance that you couldn’t do a single improper thing. I bet I could arm wrestle you right now, James, and you’d be whimpering within a minute.”

“That’s the truth,” he said easily, feeling himself smile from the inside out. Everyone was being so very kind, so solicitous, so deferential, it set his teeth on edge. And now, finally, here was Corrie and within a minute she had her fist to his jaw. It felt good. He perked right up. “I’ll bet even Freddie could take me out.”

Corrie grinned, but said no more. She stood there at the bottom of his bed, just looking at him.

“I liked your whiskers,” she said at last. “It added complexity to that face of yours.”

He arched an eyebrow.

“Beauty all by itself can get boring, don’t you think, James? You know, it just sits there being perfect and soon one wants to yawn.”

He said, without missing a beat, “And I miss your white ball gown, all ripped and filthy. That added needed complexity to your presentation as well. Look at you now—a nice clean green gown, nothing more, nothing less. No, it’s of very little interest at all.” He yawned, patted his hand to his mouth, and yawned again.

She struck a pose, one designed specifically to get his goat, but one that didn’t work since he’d seen her perfecting it in a mirror. She hadn’t seen him, thank the good Lord for that small favor. He waited, smiling, wondering what was going to come out of her mouth. She said, all the while tapping her fingertips to her chin, “You know, now that I think of it, I have to admit that since you were naked most of the time you were ill, lying helpless—you know, all sprawled out on your back—I don’t recall being bored for a moment looking at you. No, I didn’t yawn a single time.”

James fully recognized what a fine whap that was to the head. He flushed, color rising over his cheek to his hairline. She was grinning at him, knowing she’d bested him, a grin so wicked she should go up in smoke.

It was hard, but he got hold of himself. “Corrie, why don’t you come here and help me drink a bit of water?”

She kept that big wicked grin even as she shook her head at him. “So you can pour the water over my head? No thank you, James. Now, I see that you can do nothing but ignore my insults, a rather pathetic ploy, don’t you think? You’re waiting to dish an insult right back at me. You’ve just got to think of one, and that’s a problem since your brain is still lying in your head, doing nothing helpful. So, admit that this time I’ve left you sprawled in the dirt. Hmm, sprawled. What a lovely word.” Then she poured him a glass of water, sat on the bed beside him, automatically slid her arm beneath his neck, and raised his head to drink. His face was nearly touching her breasts.

He breathed in deeply. “Ah, enough. That’s good. Thank you, Corrie.”

She set down the glass and arched her own eyebrow at him. “What is this? You’re still too weak to tend to your own thirst?”

“No, I like you doing it for me. I like to smell you when you’re so close.”

Without thinking, she caressed her hand down his face, cupping his chin for a moment. “Did I smell interesting enough? Enough complexity in my scent?”

“Yes, enough.”

She snorted, and he said, “You know, that snort, as distinctive and expressive as it may be, simply doesn’t go well with your gown that makes your waist look no larger than a doorknob. As for the top of you, your damned neckline is much too low. You’re supposed to be a modest young lady in her first season, not a seasoned nearly on-the-shelf lady who needs blatant advertising to lure in the unwary male.

“Ah, now look at you, ready to hurl the water carafe at me. You’re taking my well-meant words in the wrong spirit, Corrie. I mean it only as a very small observation on the goods you shouldn’t be presenting to the world in such remarkable detail, at least yet.”

That was quite fluent; both of them knew it. James waited, feeling his brain spark. She stared off into space as she said, “I remember how my hands nearly cramped I washed you so many times, to bring your fever down, you know. Each time my hands went lower and lower.” She looked at him straight on now and grinned like a witch. “Ah, James, I can say without hesitation that your goods don’t need any advertising at all. But look at me, I’m such a pedestrian peahen, I need all the advertising I can do.”

He flushed. Damnation, he flushed again and she saw it, and so he said, “For God’s sake, Corrie, have your gown hoisted up a good two inches.”

She smiled at him. “All right.”

He couldn’t think of a thing to say.

“Close your mouth, James, you look too much like Willie Marker after I told him no girl would ever marry him because he was such a lamebrained bully.”

“I doubt Willie Marker has ever thought of marriage,” James said.

“That’s what he yelled at me,” she said, and sighed deeply. “And then he tried to kiss me again. Isn’t that odd? After I’d insulted him but good?”

“I suppose some males are aroused when a girl beats them over the head, metaphorically speaking.”

She looked down at him, her fingers itching to touch him again, but naturally she didn’t. He was no longer helpless. And so she said, “Enough about my gown. Tell me, how do you feel this beautiful morning?”

“My pillows have slipped down. I need you to raise them back up. My head hurts.”

She rose to lean over him and fluff up his pillows. She straightened and looked down at him. “Shall I also rub some rose water on your brow?”

“Yes, that would be good.”

She began humming, one of his favorite ditties actually, as she dampened her handkerchief in the water carafe and leaned over to dab his forehead. She wasn’t wearing a wicked grin now, rather a look of utter concentration. “I’m sorry that I don’t have any rose water, James. Do you think the water from the carafe is helping?”

“Keep rubbing, ah, yes, that feels very good.”

She did, a slow easy motion, one that his body recognized. “The oddest thing happened this morning, James. I was walking with my maid to visit you and I saw Mrs. Cutter and Lady Brisbett. I’d met them both last week at some sort of dance and they’d been quite charming to me. Both of them cut me, looked at me like I wasn’t there, and walked by, noses in the air. Isn’t that amazing?” She paused a moment. “Or perhaps they are both shortsighted, but I did smile and speak to them again. It was very odd, don’t you think? Not as odd as a boy wanting to kiss a girl when she’s blasted him, but still odd.”

There was a gasp from the doorway. It wasn’t Petrie nor was it his mother with more food. It was Miss Juliette Lorimer, her mother in her wake.

Juliette drew herself up, advertising her lovely goods even more prominently than Corrie did, and to, admittedly, better effect, and said in a voice cold enough to chill the lemonade, “May I inquire what is going on here?”

James said easily, “Hello, Juliette. Corrie is kindly dabbing my forehead with carafe water, since we have no rose water. My head aches.”

“You need softer hands to attend you, my lord,” said Mrs. Lorimer. “Juliette, here is my handkerchief. You caress his lordship’s forehead. Miss Tybourne-Barrett should not even be in here. She is alone, unlike you, who is with your mother. It is not at all the done thing. I should probably give Maybella a hint.”

Corrie said, an eyebrow hoisted up, “Why ever not, ma’am? I have been nearly one of the family all my life.”

“That makes no difference at all, missy, and so you should know it. You need to go home now. That’s right, it’s time for you to leave.”

“But what about James’s headache?”

“Be quiet, Corrie,” he said, and closed his eyes against the battlefield that was now gathering cannon in his bedchamber.

“James,” said Juliette, her voice sweet and clear, all of her being focused on him, “you are looking splendid. I swear you look nearly ready to dance. I am so relieved. I was so dreadfully worried when you disappeared. No one could explain it. Then, of course someone remarked that Miss Tybourne-Barrett had also disappeared. It wasn’t remarked upon nearly as much as your disappearance, needless to say, and what a strange thing it was to have the two of you return to London together.”

A deep male throat cleared at the doorway. The earl of Northcliffe himself said, “Ladies, I am here to invite all of you down for tea and some of Cook’s excellent lemon seed cakes. Corrie, you will join us after you’ve finished bathing James’s forehead. Ladies?”

Saved by his father.

There was no choice. Juliette looked longingly back at James, whose eyes were closed at the moment, gave Corrie a stare to scorch her eyebrows, then turned to follow the earl from the bedchamber.

“She’s right, Corrie,” he said, eyes closed.

“That your disappearance was more remarked upon than mine? Well, that’s surely a fact. Who would begin to care about me other than Aunt Maybella and Uncle Simon? It’s quite likely that Uncle Simon wouldn’t even notice unless he wanted me to hold down a leaf so he could glue it.”

That was quite true, and it made James very angry, for some reason he didn’t want to examine.

“He told me this morning that he’d found an unidentifiable leaf lying there unremarked by the side of one of the paths in Hyde Park. He was quite excited about it, determined to locate the plant from which it had detached itself, and he could enjoy his excitement without remark from Aunt Maybella since I was again home safe and sound.

“Naturally Jason missed me. And perhaps Willicombe. How I wish Buxted was here. You remember Buxted, our butler at Twyley Grange, don’t you, James?”

“Naturally. I’ve known him since I was born.”

“Buxted was always helping me slip in and out, never gave me a scolding. He did caution me about London, though to the best of my knowledge he’s never been here.”

“What did he tell you?”

“He said that wickedness was all fine and good within the confines of the country, but you stir wickedness in a pot the size of London, and the good Lord’s eyes near cross, Buxted was right, wasn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, look at you. You’re all upset. Now, don’t move, James, keep yourself relaxed and your eyes closed. Is your headache better?”

He sighed deeply. “Did your aunt and uncle speak to you yesterday or this morning?”

“Certainly. Aunt Maybella wanted every detail and Uncle Simon appeared to be listening, at least most of the time. They were still thrashing it about this morning until I was ready to scream. That’s when I told them I had to come to see you.” She paused a moment, frowning over at the pillow next to James’s head.

“What?”

“Well, Uncle Simon started shaking his head at me—just shake, shake, shake—but he didn’t say anything until I was nearly ready to leave. Then he looked at me, shook his head again, and said, ‘Hunted down like a rat. Ha!’ And then he laughed a bit, and looked bemused, something he does quite well. He always looks so handsome when he does it that even if Aunt Maybella is eager to smack him, she immediately wants to stroke him. Isn’t that odd? Do you wish more water? Tea? The chamber pot?”

“Corrie.”

She paused, looked down into his eyes. “Yes?”

He simply looked at her for a long moment, then said, his voice slow and deep, “My father told me you were an heiress.”

It flew right over her head. “Heiress? What does that mean, James? Oh, I understand. My parents left me a bit of money to ensure that I would make a respectable marriage. That was kind of them.”

“It’s far more than a bit. You’re an heiress, Corrie, and maybe one of the richest young ladies in England. Your father was evidently astute with his finances, and you were his only child. Your Uncle Simon has guarded your fortune well.”

“That would be because he simply forgot about it,” she said, not really attending him now, just looking down at the lovely Turkish carpet on the floor beside his bed. James saw understanding hit her square between the eyes, saw the narrowed eyes, seamed lips, and then the explosion. She jumped off the bed, her hands on her hips, a nice touch. Her voice was all the more angry for its calmness, he’d always admired the way she could do that. “I would like to know, James Sherbrooke, how your father knew about this fortune of mine and yet I, the person to whom this supposed fortune belongs, didn’t know a single blessed thing? And why the devil would he tell you of all people? You have nothing to do with anything!” Her voice rose a bit, for emphasis. “This is absurd, James, why I believe it makes me quite angry. If I’m a bloody heiress then why didn’t Uncle Simon bother to inform me?” She stamped her foot. He’d never seen her do that before.

Now it was his turn to goad her. “Just look at you, stamping your foot like a child denied a treat. Grow up, Corrie. Young ladies don’t need to know about finances. It is not a subject that conforms to their abilities.”

She stamped her foot again. “That’s ridiculous and you know it, James Sherbrooke! Finances don’t conform to my abilities? I have worked for at least four years with Uncle Simon’s man of business! I know all about his bloody finances! Why did no one bother to mention mine to me?”

James realized that stoking the blaze wouldn’t get him what he had to have, and that was her agreement. It didn’t matter that he didn’t want it, he had to have it, no choice. A bit of conciliation, he thought. “Well, maybe. You could have a point, but that’s neither here nor there. My father told me about it because he wanted me to keep my eyes open here in London, to get rid of the fortune hunters if I saw some sniffing around you. My father said that where money was involved, there were no secrets. He’s right. It was a matter of time before rumors of your personal wealth got out, and believe me, Corrie, you’d be besieged.”

Corrie, rarely angry because it upset her stomach, forced herself down to a simmer. “Well, those rumors can’t be out yet since I didn’t even know about it.”

He smoothly delivered a discreet salvo. “And maybe the rumors won’t come out now in any case.” He looked at her beneath his lashes, but she was tapping her foot, unaware of what he’d said so very well. James sighed, looked down at his hands, clasped on top of the covers. He said without looking up, “There are many rapacious men on the hunt in London, never forget that, Corrie.”

Corrie threw her handkerchief on his face and began to pace back and forth in front of his bed. “Even though I am no longer yelling, I am still very upset about this, James.”

“I understand, but you have to admit that my father’s reason for telling me is a sound one. My father also told me, laughing his head off, what your Uncle Simon had said before he brought up the subject of your inheritance.”

“And just what was that, pray?”

“You heard it already this morning. ‘She’ll be hunted down like a rat.’ ”

That brought her to a halt. “Uncle Simon said that?”

“Yes. He was worried about your, er, lack of experience in the wicked ways of London, not for long, naturally, since he had a new scientific journal that had just arrived in the post.”

“Hunted down like a rat. What an image that brings to mind.” She started to laugh. “Hunted down like a rat,” she gasped, and held her stomach she laughed so hard.

“It has a certain effect,” James said. “My father laughed his head off too.”

She was still laughing as she walked to the door. She said over her shoulder, now hiccupping, “Tell me, James, if finances don’t conform to my meager female abilities, then what does?”

He said, his voice deep and rich, “You would have been the parfait gentil knight.”

That brought her up short. Her face flushed with lovely color. She opened her mouth, then closed it. She nearly ran to the door, threw a big grin at him, and waved her hand. “You should rest now, James. I will see you tomorrow, if, that is, you don’t mind me coming to visit you without an escort of twenty brawny young men to protect me from you and all the gossips,” and she laughed some more, the witch, and was gone.

He could hear her whistling. She’d left him before he’d said what he’d had to say.

He cursed to the empty room. But not for long because Corrie’s departure meant Juliette’s return. His father gave him a look, and left him to his fate, which included Juliette’s mother. James wished Petrie would come in and shave him again.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CORRIE ARRIVED AT the Sherbrooke town house the following morning to be told by Willicombe that the younger lordship was in the estate room, doing a bit of work to resharpen his brain.

“He doesn’t need papers to sharpen his brain, he needs a good argument,” Corrie said, and waved Willicombe away when he would have announced her.

She opened the door quietly to see James sitting at his father’s desk, a piece of paper in his right hand, a pen in his left hand, his head resting on the desktop. He was sound asleep.

She started to back out of the room, when he jerked up, stared at her, and said, “It’s about time you got here.”

“Why aren’t you in bed?”

He stretched, rose, and stretched again, then yawned.

“You’ve lost weight, James. I will speak to your mother about this.”

His arms dropped to his sides. “Don’t worry. My mother is stuffing food down my gullet every hour on the hour. You lost weight as well. Where have you been?”

“I chanced to meet Judith McCrae, you know, she’s the girl who’s very interested in Jason, if I don’t miss my guess. Of course, every girl in London is interested in both you and Jason, but she seems different, more suited to him, perhaps.”

Whatever that meant. He said, “She’s the niece of Lady Arbuckle. How did you meet her?”

“She was coming out of a milliner’s shop with Lady Arbuckle. They were having a very intense discussion, but when Judith saw me, she was all smiles. I don’t think that Lady Arbuckle was pleased to see me. I suppose Judith knows that I’m a childhood friend and thus someone to be cultivated.”

“Jason hasn’t spoken much about her lately.”

“No wonder, since his brother disappeared and could very well have been killed.”

“I think he quite likes her too. Now that he sees I’m well again, he’ll resume his course with her.”

“I wonder what course that will be. Was Juliette camping out in the drawing room when you woke up this morning?”

“Well, she and her mother did visit not long after breakfast. I was in bed.” He struck only a very slight pose since he was still too weak to goad her to his normal standards. “Do you know, I believe she enjoyed my company, her mother sitting comfortably in the corner, benignly watching the tableau.”

“And I don’t suppose you enjoyed all that dripping attention? All the cooing? Did she smooth her palm over your poor brow?”

“I can’t recall a single coo, except maybe from her mother.”

“Well, yes, that makes sense. You’re the heir, after all. You know, James, I really can’t imagine that she would want to marry you.”

“Why ever not?”

“Juliette is very rightly aware of her own beauty. The problem is that you’re more beautiful than she is. Just imagine, both of you could be looking into a mirror and she would come in a very poor second. I can’t see her tolerating that.”

James streaked his fingers through his hair, standing it on end. “Bloody hell, I’ve already let you distract me. You open your mouth and I forget where I was going. Now, be quiet and sit down, Corrie. I have something to say to you.” He started to walk to her, to tower over her, intimidate her a bit, when he felt a wave of dizziness and quickly sat back down in his father’s chair. He cleared his throat, then plowed forward. “Jason told me he saw you riding in the park with Devlin Monroe.”

She sat herself down, spreading the lovely pale green skirt of her gown over the cushions beside her. She crossed her legs and began to swing her foot. She eyed her lovely slippers. They made her feet look positively small; and no heels. She could run and leap in these lovely slippers. She examined her thumbnail, whistled a little tune, waiting for him to explode. She’d known the signs since he was fifteen years old and so furious with his brother he’d put his fist right through a stable wall. Now that she considered it, she realized that she hadn’t seen him lose control in a very long time, in fact, not since he’d become a man. He was now more reasoned and—

“Corrie, would you please pay attention to me?”

She looked up and smiled at him. “I was praising my slippers. They could chase down Augie and his cohorts. Aren’t they lovely?”

Actually, they were, but he said, “Pay attention. Why the hell were you with Devlin Monroe? I told you to stay away from him.”

“This was what you wished to speak to me about? Whatever is wrong with Devlin? Surely he isn’t one of these fortune hunters who would hunt me down like a rat? Why, he’s the heir to a dukedom.”

“Well, yes, but it’s Devlin himself that’s the problem. He is not the sort of man you want all that close to you, Corrie.”

“Well, he hasn’t gotten all that close. Yet.”

“Very well. You force me to be blunt here. He keeps mistresses—not one, but several, and he likes to compare them, and announce results in his club, which happens also to be my club.”

“Goodness.” She sat forward, eyes alight with curiosity. “That is quite the oddest thing I’ve ever heard. What do you mean by comparisons? Like this girl has blue eyes and this one has brown eyes?”

“Never you mind that.”

“Perhaps this girl wears her gown cut too low and that one—”

“Be quiet.”

“Do you know of any ladies who keep several misters?”

He gritted his teeth until his jaws ached. “There isn’t a male version of mistress.” He shook his head. “Damnation, ladies can have lovers, and yes, I understand that some ladies have a string of lovers. But lovers are a different matter from mistresses. Devlin has kept as many as three mistresses at a single time. Three!”

Corrie rose, pulled a rose out of a vase, sniffed it, and said, “It sounds to me like you’re jealous.”

“No, I’m appalled.”

Her brow went up as she stared at him.

“Well, maybe a bit jealous, but that’s neither here nor there. Three mistresses is more than a surfeit, Corrie, it’s wasteful, and it would be immoral if he were married.”

“Do you think he’ll continue to keep mistresses when he’s wed?”

“I don’t know. It doesn’t matter.”

“Well, good for him, I say. The more mistresses the better. Next time I see him, I will inquire about this. There must be rules and—”

He spoke over her. “You’ve distracted me again. Dammit, forget his bloody mistresses. Why did you disobey me and see him?”

Another sunny smile from her, and a shrug that made him want to walk across the estate room and shake her but good, but all he wanted to do was sleep. She said as she gently slipped the rose back into its vase, “Well, he asked me to go riding in the park with him. No one else had, and I really wanted the exercise, you understand.”

He looked to the heavens, only to have her bring him crashing back to earth when she said, “I can now swear that Devlin isn’t a vampire. The sun was bright overhead and he didn’t get burned up. I think rather than seduce me, Devlin wants me to amuse him. He certainly laughed a lot after he got all the details of your rescue out of me. He allowed that if he were felled he would like me to minister to him as well as I did to you, even though I was going to have to pay for it. He wouldn’t tell me what he meant by that.” Now Corrie struck a pose. “Ah, James, I was thinking a bit about taking care of Devlin and the thought intruded—do you think Devlin is as pale as a specter all over or just his face?”

“Yes, he is.” That said, James leaned back against the desk, his arms crossed over his chest. He crossed his feet at the ankles and finally, he closed his eyes. It felt wonderful, but he knew he couldn’t go to sleep yet. He had too much to do.

“I think I can imagine Devlin lying there naked, on his back, like you. He would be so pale that if the sheet was well washed, he might disappear into it. I think a darker complexion is more interesting, say a more golden skin color, like yours.”

“Jason and I have our father’s swarthy skin,” he said, and wondered when his mouth had detached itself from his brain.

“Yes, that’s it, you’re swarthy, only that word doesn’t sound as golden as you are, it sounds more like a sunburnt pirate. Now, to be honest here, James, I believe there is no more beautiful a man than you. On the other hand, to be objective about this, you are the only naked man I have ever seen.”

How had she gotten off on this? He nearly moaned when he realized that he was hard as the leg on his father’s desk. He had to get back on track here. He opened his mouth, but she was off again. “Naturally,” Corrie said, “I didn’t tell him I was an heiress.”

“No, you told him everything else.” He slammed his fist onto the desktop, making the inkwell jump. What came out of his mouth then was unplanned and unwise. “Are you a complete idiot, Corrie? Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

“Of course. I thought about it carefully and then decided that if everyone in London knows exactly what happened to you, everyone will be looking out for not only your father, but for you and Jason as well. You know, Devlin leaves his hat on to keep the sun off his face. And he did today as well. There, I admitted it. Such a lovely pallor. At least his face.” The witch shuddered.

There was no hope for it. He said, all indifferent, “I don’t suppose Devlin told you that your adventure with me was the cause of some, er, consternation?”

“Consternation? Actually, when I mentioned to him that Mrs. Cutter and Lady Brisbett had cut me, he just laughed and patted my hand and told me that it didn’t mean anything and not to concern myself about it. He said, if it was all right with me, he would like to visit with my Uncle Simon.”

No, James thought, Devlin wasn’t going to offer for her, his parents would disown him if he offered for a girl whose reputation was in shreds. Besides he’d only just met her. And he didn’t know she was an heiress, she was right about that. She was just a girl who amused him. What was Devlin up to? Why had he told her she would have to pay?

Better to get things straight right this instant. “We had an adventure, Corrie, didn’t we?”

“It was a splendid adventure if you hadn’t gotten so ill that it fair to scared the spit out of me.”

He grinned at her cant, recognized Lovejoy. “Yes, all of London—everyone, Corrie—now knows about our adventure. And those few who didn’t know, Devlin has now doubtless informed.” He stared down at his fingernails, examining the small tear on his thumbnail. When he looked up at her, he smiled. “It appears that I won’t have to hunt you down like a rat.”

“Whatever do you mean by that?”

The estate room door suddenly opened and the earl walked in, saying to James, “This smuggler who briefly captured you and Corrie, I’ve been wondering who he could be, wondering if I’ve played cards with him. I’ve a hankering to go look at that cave, see if there’s any clue as to what he’s smuggling. You said he sounded familiar?”

“Yes, sir, sort of.”

“Whatever is the matt—?” Douglas turned slowly to see Corrie sitting there on the lovely brocade sofa that Alexandra had known he liked and given to him. “Corrie,” he said. “You’re looking quite lovely, my dear.”

“Thank you, sir. James was telling me about Uncle Simon muttering about me being hunted down like a rat.”

“It would be best if you simply forgot about that, Corrie. I must see to something now. You will both excuse me.” He turned in the doorway. “James, ten more minutes, then I want you back in your bed.”

After Douglas had left, closing the door quietly behind him, Corrie rose, smoothed down her skirts. “Well, James, I was thinking about our smuggler too. I agree with your father—when this is all over, let’s go take a look at that cave. I think you should take a nice rest now. You’re looking a bit on the vampire side. Not quite as pale as Devlin, but still too pale for your swarthy complexion to look anything but weedy.”

He rose slowly, his palms on the desktop. “If you attempt to leave, I will put you over my lap and smack you good.”

Her chin went up. “I don’t think you’re strong enough to hold me down, much less raise and lower your hand with any force at all. I think it likely that if you take one step toward me, you will fall on your face.”

“I could beat you in my sleep.”

“You’re looking flushed, James. I don’t like it. Please sit down and try to calm yourself.”

He rolled his eyes, nothing else to do. He really couldn’t beat her, not here in his father’s estate room. It struck him rather forcibly that such an action would not gain him what he had to have, not that he wanted what he had to have. “Sit down, dammit.”

Corrie sat down, clasped her hands in her lap, and looked up at him like an inquiring pupil.

He said, all slow as a snail, feeling each word being pulled out of his throat, “This adventure of ours—it will be a tale that will doubtless embroider itself into a heroic saga when we tell it to our children and grandchildren.”

There, it was out of his mouth, and those clever words had made sense, indeed, had sounded fluent and sincere, and the words were eloquent, calling forth images to charm the mind. But James had signed his fate with those bloody elegant words, a fate he’d known had to be his when his brain had begun functioning again.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

HE WAITED. HE felt strangely detached, as if his brain was sitting over on that bookshelf across the room, watching him, watching and laughing.

Complete and utter silence filled the estate room.

Corrie raised an eyebrow. “I beg your pardon? Are you delirious again, James? Shall I fetch your father? A physician? You’re obviously not well and that worries me.”

“Corrie, don’t be stupid.”

“I will be as stupid as I wish.” She fiddled a moment with her mittens, the same lovely green as her gown and slippers. What came out of her mouth next nearly sent him over the edge. “Do you think that Devlin is going to propose?”

“All right, be stupid for the moment, but I can’t. I’m facing the situation head-on here. There’s no choice in this, Corrie, no choice for either of us.”

Corrie jumped up, backed away three steps to behind the sofa, and stood there, staring at him, her hands on her hips. “Now you listen to me, James Sherbrooke. There is no situation to face head-on. There is no situation at all. Do you know what your problem is? You think too much, you weigh everything, churn it all around in your head, and then you make a decision. Many times you’re exactly right but sometimes—like right now, right this instant—you skip happily to a conclusion that makes my brain hurt, so stop it. Forget this. Do you hear me? Forget it!”

He said quietly, “Two ladies already cut you. Don’t you realize what that means?”

“Devlin said to forget it. I plan to.”

“You cannot marry Devlin Monroe, unless, of course, you’ve a hankering to be a duchess rather than just a countess.”

“What a stupid thing to say. I’m leaving, James.”

“Where are you going?”

“To get some brandy from your father’s library.”

“Don’t you remember what happened to you the last time you drank brandy? You and Natty Pole stole a bottle of your Uncle Simon’s best, and ended up puking your guts out in the yew behind the house.”

“I was twelve years old, James.” But that stopped her.

He said, “I remember you were so sick you were lying there panting, and in the most pitiful voice you said to me, ‘There’s nothing else in me, James, even my heart has been puked out of me. I’m going to die now. Please give my apologies to Uncle Simon for stealing his brandy.’ And then you fell into a stupor. No brandy, Corrie. I don’t think I’m well enough to hold your hair out of your face this time.”

She paused, her hand on the doorknob. She gave him a look of acute dislike. “Sometimes you are right, I admit it. You do have a point here. Very well, I will get myself a big glass of water,” and she ran out of the room, light on her slippers, and that was because there were no heels on them.

He sat there and brooded. For God’s sake, he didn’t want to marry. Not just Corrie—and that thought was enough to make his eyes cross—but anyone. His father hadn’t married until he was twenty-eight, a nice ripe year, his father would say, a year when a man finally realizes that there just might be something to this business of sleeping with a woman every single night and it was legal.

But he was only twenty-five. Three years of freedom were wafting right out the window, all because Corrie had chased after him to save him.

He cursed. Petrie said from the doorway, “My lord, you are flushed. Miss Corrie shouldn’t have disagreed with you, thus elevating your choler and perhaps bringing back the fever. I wanted to tell her to take herself off, but then she did it herself. Now, I have a bit of barley water that your dear mother left for me to give you.”

“Petrie,” James said, eyeing his valet of five years and that damned barley water, “there are some things a gentleman must face, even though it might bring back his fever. Give me that vile stuff then leave me be. I swear I will drink it down before I traipse upstairs and fall into my bed.”

“Her ladyship told me to tell you that she’d added things to the drink and that you would like it. Here, my lord. Drink it now.”

James sipped the barley water, ready to spit it out, but to his surprise, it wasn’t bad at all. He downed the entire glass, sighed, trudged up the stairs, and walked slowly down the long corridor to his bedchamber. When he was leaning his head against the pillows, he saw that Petrie had followed him, probably because he feared James might keel over. He lay there, wishing there’d been a different road to walk. He heard Petrie clear his throat.

“You’ll choke if you don’t speak, Petrie, so go ahead.”

“It is my experience, my lord, that young ladies must not be rushed into weighty decisions. They must be treated gently, without—”

“Petrie, I do wish you could have seen Corrie ride through that cottage door with a pitchfork under her arm. She stabbed one of the men in the arm. She is not fragile, she is not weak.”

“Perhaps you were delirious at the time, my lord, and only imagined what she did. Perhaps, and many of us agree that this must be the case, you yourself managed to escape the three men. You found Miss Corrie in the shed, huddled down and weeping, and you yourself carried her to that farmhouse where you finally collapsed because you’d carried her for ten miles and given her all your clothes to keep her warm. Surely this is what happened, since it makes far more sense.”

James could but stare. “You’re telling me that Willicombe subscribes to this, Petrie?”

“As to Mr. Willicombe’s beliefs on the subject, my lord, I cannot say.”

“Why the hell not? You have a say about everything else in this damned house. Listen to me. Not only did she save me, she also stuck her knee in the throat of a smuggler. What do you think about that?”

“You’re fevered, my lord, it is obvious. I will fetch your father.” And Petrie walked out of the room, shoulders straight, head up.

James lay there and continued to brood. Maybe he’d spoken too quickly, hadn’t given her time to let everything soak in.

Married to the brat. Dear God, this was something he’d never imagined when he was sixteen years old and had walked out of the barn, brushing hay off his clothes, a silly smile on his face, and she’d been standing there, watching him.

At least she’d been far too young to have a clue what he’d been doing with Betsy Hooper in that cozy back corner of the barn. He looked up to see the bedchamber door open; he was more than relieved to see his brother.

Jason was shaking his head. “You wouldn’t believe what Petrie is saying about all this, James.”

“Oh yes I would. He just unburdened himself to me after eavesdropping on my conversation with Corrie. I had not realized that he was such a misogynist.”

Jason sighed. “It could be worse.”

“How?”

“Corrie could be like Melinda Bassett.”

James moaned. That she-wolf had decided she’d wanted either him or Jason, it didn’t matter, and when she’d not gained her wish, she claimed they’d both raped her. It had happened seven years ago, yet he could still remember the awful impotence he’d felt at her accusations.

“Corrie saved us,” Jason said. “She told everyone the truth. You’ll have to say one thing about her—no one would ever think she’d lie about anything.”

“Yes, she saved us, saved me again, dammit.”

“You see? There are many more worse things in the world than Corrie. In fact, she’s a heroine, only no one will admit it as long as she’s not married to you. At least you won’t have to worry about unexpected bad habits in your wife.”

“That’s true. I already know all her habits, bad and worse. Damnation, Jason, how could this have happened? I’ve never been sick in my bloody life. Why did it have to happen at this particular time?”

“When I think of what led up to it, I thank God you’re not dead. Corrie’s a good sort, James. Beneath that disreputable old hat of hers, a lady was hidden. You must admit you’ve been surprised with her transformation.”

James looked glum.

“He’s right, James. More to the point, you’ve no choice in the matter, none at all.”

Douglas Sherbrooke walked to his son’s bedside, lightly touched his palm to his forehead, nodded, and sat down in the big chair beside the bed. “Corrie came flying into the library to ask me very nicely if I chanced to have some brandy that wouldn’t make her sick.”

“Did you give her any?”

“Yes. I gave her my special Florentine brandy guaranteed not to disrupt the innards.”

“There is no such thing,” Jason said.

“True.”

“Where is she, sir? Did she leave? Is she hiding in your library? Did she tell you why she wanted the brandy?”

Douglas nodded slowly. “After a bit of prodding. Blackmail, actually. I wouldn’t give her any of my special brandy unless she told me everything. She folded, said that you felt responsible for what had happened and told her that you two had to get married. She then tossed back the watered-down brandy, burped, if I’m not mistaken, and left without another word.”

“I didn’t do it well,” James said. “I mean I started out well, with a lovely sort of future metaphor about our children and grandchildren.”

“Now there’s an image to give me pause,” Douglas said.

James waved that away. “Sir, surely she must realize that there is no other course for us to follow. I don’t want to marry, at least right now, but there is simply no choice.”

Douglas was tapping his fingertips together, looking fixedly at the painting on the opposite wall that James had bought in Honfleur three years before. A young girl was sitting on a rock, her skirts spread around her, looking over a green valley stretching below her. Douglas found himself smiling. The girl looked remarkably like Corrie.

Jason said, “I’m having our friends over this evening to report on what they’ve discovered, though I doubt it’s much, else wise they would have come raging over here immediately. Shall we meet here in your bedchamber?”

James nodded. He suddenly felt so weary his bones ached. He closed his eyes. His father’s voice, warm and deep, said close to his ear, “You’re safe and you will get well, James. As for all the rest of it, things will work out.”

“I think Devlin Monroe is going to propose to her.”

That announcement brought two pair of startled eyes to his face.

“Why would Devlin do that?” Douglas said. “It makes no sense.”

Jason said, shrugging, “She is an original. Devlin likes originals.”

“She can’t marry him,” James said, “even though she does amuse him. She would kill him when she discovered that he still had mistresses waiting in the wings. She would run a pitchfork through his belly, then she would hang for it. I don’t want to marry her, but I also don’t want her hung.”

Jason said, “Maybe I should speak to Devlin. Tell him what’s what here.”

“Yes, do that, Jason. Cut him off at the knees. The last thing I want is for her to marry him to save me. That’s what she’s doing, of course. She thinks it isn’t fair that I have to marry her because of what happened.”

“I’m off, then,” Jason said, and his eyes darkened to near purple. And he smiled.

James said, “You know, with Corrie as my wife, I’ll never have to worry about boring her with talk of silver cascades through the ring of Titan. I remember when I told her about my discovery—her eyes sparkled. Yes, sparkled, that was exactly what her eyes did. She listened to me, you know how she is—sits there, her eyes glued to your face, like she wants to grab the words right out of your mouth. She then told me to tell her about it again so she would be certain she understood everything.” And suddenly, James remembered her eyes sparkling like that when he’d given her a doll on her sixth birthday. He’d happened to be buying a gift for his mother when he saw the doll propped up against a bolt of material. Pale white face, big red lips, and eyes that reminded him of Corrie’s. He’d been embarrassed to buy it, even more embarrassed to give it to her, but she’d pulled it out of the paper, pressed it to her skinny little chest and looked up at him, eyes sparkling. With more, of course. With love. With adoration. He’d wanted to run then; he wanted to run now.

“As I recall,” Jason said, “you and Corrie used to spend a lot of time lying outside looking up at the stars, you telling her everything you knew.”

“That was a long time ago.”

“It was two months ago. I remember because you were excited about Mercury coming so close to the earth.”

It was true, dammit. So many evenings she’d sneaked out of her uncle’s house and they’d lain on their backs, looking up into the heavens.

“She always wanted to talk about the moon; she’s always been fascinated with the moon. And you know, she doesn’t need to talk, like most girls do. She’s perfectly fine with blessed silence.”

James wondered if Juliette Lorimer’s eyes would sparkle if she’d attended his talk at the Astrological Society meeting.

Marriage to the brat. Dear God, how could such a thing be possible?

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

THE FOLLOWING MORNING, James had drunk some tea and eaten two slices of toast when Corrie suddenly appeared in the doorway of his bedchamber. She walked in, dressed quite nicely in a morning gown of pale golden brown, with a lovely matching wrap of darker brown that added a touch of gold to her eyes.

He raised a supercilious eyebrow at her. “Hello, Corrie. Did you ever leave?”

“Whatever do you mean? Of course I left.”

“It seems that you’re nearly living here now. In and out, in my bedchamber, in the estate room drinking my father’s Florentine brandy, you’re everywhere, including in the kitchen to steal biscuits, Willicombe told me. When we’re married, there’ll be little change.”

Not a word came out of her mouth, not even a curse.

“Did my father select that gown for you?”

“What? My gown? Well, yes, he did.” She fidgeted a moment. “Do you like it?”

“Yes, it’s lovely.”

She waved that away. “Listen, James, your mother paid my Aunt Maybella a visit. It was just the two of them, and they had their heads together for a full hour. Since you’re still on the weedy side, I had to come here to see you. I want to know why your mother was with my aunt.”

She’d begun pacing, and he liked the way she looked, thank God. Then she tossed her wrap to a chair along with her reticule, turned to say something else and he saw that that damned gown she was wearing was nearly falling off her shoulders.

“Put your damned wrap back on. Your gown is cut far too low. I cannot believe that my father ordered up a gown that leaves you nearly naked to the waist.”

To his surprise, she grinned at him. She shrugged her shoulders, slipped her fingers beneath the gown and tugged it down a bit more. “Actually, your father didn’t know that Madame Jourdan winked at me when he ordered her to cut the bodice nearly to my chin.” She actually leaned toward him and poked out her breasts. “It looks perfect, so you will hold your tongue.”

James, without thinking, with no consideration at all, bounded from the bed and stomped over to her, so angry he was panting.

He grabbed her bodice and jerked it up to her chin. And heard a rip. Corrie didn’t say a word, just stood there, staring at him.

He was naked.

“James,” she said, looked down his body, and gulped. “This is a lovely treat, but perhaps your mother might walk in and what would she think? I’m an innocent young girl, and here you are, stark naked, and so very lovely that I’m ready to burst into song. And that male part of yours that I shouldn’t know anything about, is gaining in stature, James. It’s getting rather alarming.”

He cursed, she was right; it seemed when he was angry with her he got harder than the bedpost. Or maybe it was whenever he remarked upon her breasts, he got harder than—He stomped back to his bed and grabbed his dressing gown. He shrugged it on, tied the belt at his waist, and walked back up to her. He took her shoulders in his large hands. “I ripped your gown. I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re not. You must be feeling much better. You roared out of that bed ready to hurl me out the window.”

“No, I just wanted to cover you so I wouldn’t have to lie there in my bed and slaver.”

She blinked. “Looking at me would make you slaver, James? You’re not lying to me, are you?”

“No, dammit, I’m not lying. Now look at you, your right sleeve is hanging off and your gown is still so low it makes me want to howl at the moon.”

“Hmmm, I must ask Devlin if vampires can howl at the sun.”

He gritted his teeth. “Do not speak of Devlin Monroe to me again. Do you understand me, Corrie? Now, I trust you burst in on me to inform me of your decision to marry me?”

“I came to tell you that my aunt and uncle are already planning our wedding, at least they were until I told them I was not going to allow you to sacrifice yourself. I told them I was going to marry someone else, someone who actually wanted me.”

“Do not say his bloody name!”

“All right. He came to visit me this morning. It turns out that Jason tracked him down at his club last night and told him marriage to me would do him in. Can you believe Jason told him I would kill him if he kept his mistresses? Actually kill him, that’s what Jason told him. He also said that since he’d known me from the age of three, he knew what I was capable of. He asked Devlin—oops, I didn’t mean to mention his name—if he were willing to tread the path of faithfulness until he stuck his spoon in the wall. Devlin said he laughed when Jason asked him that. Then he asked me if I would really kill him if he were unfaithful.”

“And what did you tell him?”

“I told him I’d kill him deader than the dinner trout.”

“And what did he say to that?”

“He laughed some more, told me then that there was no gentleman of his acquaintance who could safely marry me, given my stand on fidelity, despite all my money, unless the gentleman was teetering on bankruptcy, and the good Lord knew that such a gentleman would promise anything at all to get what he wanted, including—horror of horrors—fidelity. He laughed again, told me that when it came down to it, even the promise of murder wouldn’t deter a man from promising anything, and then doing what he wanted. That was the way of the world. It’s not right, James, just not right.”

“My father has never broken faith to my mother, nor she to him.”

“I suppose the same is true for Aunt Maybella and Uncle Simon. I don’t think it’s particularly due to Uncle Simon’s fortitude in matters of the flesh. I think it would take too much time away from his leaf studies. What do you think?”

“I can’t believe you’ve gotten me off on this ridiculous tangent. Will you marry me, Corrie?”

“No.”

“Why the hell not?”

“I will never marry a man who doesn’t love me.”

“Are you saying that you would marry Devlin if he swore to be faithful to you?”

She appeared thoughtful. He wanted to strangle her.

“You will say no, dammit!”

“All right, no.”

“Well, I swear I won’t be unfaithful.”

She sighed. “I do think Dev—our vampire—was wrong when he said that every man would promise anything I wished in order to get what he wanted. You wouldn’t do that. I know you down to your beautiful feet. You would never lie about something so very important.”

“No, I wouldn’t.”

“James, listen. You’re an honorable man, too honorable for your own good, as a matter of fact, at least most of the time. The fact is, I don’t want to get married. I’m only in my first practice season. I’ve barely begun to sow my wild oats, barely begun to learn the ins and outs of flirting.

“I’m too young to get married, particularly for such an absurd reason. You’re too young too. Admit it. Marriage is—or was—the last thing on your mind before all this happened.”

“I won’t admit to that.”

“Then I’ll have to reassess how truthful you are.”

“All right, dammit. I had no thought of marriage. For God’s sake, I’m only twenty-five years old. You speak of sowing wild oats. Well, I have bucketfuls left to sow. But I will forego them because honor is more important. Stop whining. Accept what must be.”

“But neither of us did anything wrong!”

“I will waltz with you until there are holes in your slippers.”

“I imagine Uncle Simon promised the same thing to my aunt. She didn’t get holes in her slippers, James, she got leaves. Bloody leaves! She told me once that on their honeymoon, Uncle Simon allowed her to press three leaves in one of his many books. However, he didn’t allow her to label it. That sounds perfectly dreadful, James.”

“I will not have you pressing leaves on our honeymoon.”

“Ah, and what would you do on our honeymoon?”

He was close to swallowing his tongue. “There are standard things that a man and a woman do after they’re married. Surely you know all about sex, Corrie.”

“Well, not all that much, really. You mean to say that’s what you would do rather than pressing leaves? You wouldn’t be reading me treatises on the orbital rotation of Saturn in a cosmic dust storm?”

“No. Saturn would cease to exist for me. Saturn wouldn’t exist for most normal men on their honeymoon, unless they were looking up at the stars and Saturn just happened to be shining down in their eyes. You see, most men think about only one thing, and on their honeymoon, they can—well, never mind that.” James dashed his fingers through his hair. “Dammit, you need a bit of promised wickedness, don’t you? Very well, I am going to strip you naked and make love to you until you are snoring with exhaustion.”

“James, you’ve said quite a lot there. But the end of it—me lying there snoring—that doesn’t sound very romantic.”

“All right, I happen to know that you don’t snore. You make little mewling noises. Now, listen to me. I will let you flirt with me, endlessly.”

“Men do not flirt with their wives.”

“Now there’s a wise oracle speaking.”

“Don’t be sarcastic with me, James Sherbrooke. I’m not stupid. I know that Aunt Maybella would many times rather kick Uncle Simon than kiss him.”

“You should see my parents. Last week I came around a corner and saw my father pressing my mother against a wall, kissing her neck. They’ve been married forever.”

“Pressing her against a wall? Really?”

“Really. And I would do no less. I will nibble on your neck in a dark section of a garden, the night jasmine scenting the air. We will get along famously, Corrie. Now, I’m nearly ready to collapse, so say yes and leave me in peace.”

“You don’t love me.”

And he said, the words pouring out of his mouth, “I can’t imagine that Devlin Monroe told you he loves you?”

“No, he didn’t. He told me he finds me a delight, his word. Don’t get me wrong. Being a delight sounds clever indeed, but it’s not what’s important in marriage, James.”

“Did you tell him that?”

“Oh yes. He said it was a nice start, didn’t I agree, and I said I did, but I said it was only a nice preamble to say a picnic or a ride in the park, not marriage.”

She’d routed Devlin; she’d sent him about his business; she’d turned him down flat. James grinned. Relief poured through him.

“I told him to think about it with more depth, and perhaps I would entertain his request at a later date.”

James cursed. He wished his brain was working a bit more competently, but he was tired, and he wanted nothing more than to collapse on his bed and sleep until supper. He said, “We know each other, Corrie. We like each other, at least we do most of the time.”

“You didn’t like me at all when Darlene nearly nudged you off the cliff.”

“You want the truth, Corrie? What I remember about that day is the feel of your bottom against my palm when I spanked you.”

Her agile tongue dried up. “M-my bottom? You felt m-my bottom?”

“Well, of course. You have a lovely bottom, Corrie, from the feel of it. If you marry me, why then I can take your clothes off, stretch you out on your back, and rub you down with a nice damp cloth. Again and again, perhaps humming whilst I stroke that nice cloth over you, every little part of you. Do you think your skin is as white as Devlin’s?”

“You didn’t want me to say his name.”

He laughed. “Embarrassed, are you? Well, picture yourself naked, Corrie, and I’m the one stroking my hands all over you, particularly your breasts, and you’re not sick at all. In fact, you’re arching your back against my hands. What do you think?”

“Oh goodness,” she said, and turned to walk away. “Oh goodness.”

“No.” He grabbed her arm. “No, you won’t simply walk out on me this time. We’re getting this settled right now, Corriander Tybourne-Barrett. My God, what a ghastly name. Do you think we will have to sign that as your name in the marriage registry?”

She was standing perfectly still, aware that his hands were running up and down her arms, and one arm was bare where he’d ripped her sleeve.

“If you don’t marry me, then I will have to do something drastic.”

“Like what?”

“I’m not going to tell you. Listen to me, brat, there is simply no choice. If you don’t marry me, then both of us are thoroughly ruined. Don’t you understand? Haven’t you got your brain around this?”

“You wouldn’t be ruined, James, that’s absurd. If I simply go back to the country, I won’t be ruined either.”

He shook her. “That is so stupid, I can’t imagine how you could let it out of your mouth.”

“You’re right, I’m sorry. It was bad.” She looked down at his hands still clutching her arms. She pulled free of him and took several steps away from him, shook her fist in his face, and wailed, “You don’t love me!”

He yelled right back. “And I suppose you love me?”

She stared at him, mute as a post.

“Well? Answer me, damn you.”

“No, I won’t, and don’t yell at me again.”

“Why won’t you answer me? All right, keep still, it’s a blessed relief, your silence. I know you adored me when you were three years old. Has that changed?”

“Things are a bit more straightforward when you’re three years old, much simpler, not a single shade between black and white. I’m no longer three years old, James.”

“All I have to do is look at your breasts and I know that well enough. Is that a blush I see on that brazen face of yours? All right, so you wish to string me along, like a trout on your fishing line. That is very female of you, Corrie, and I don’t appreciate it. You say I don’t love you—all this has happened too quickly. How can something like that happen in the course of a week? I do like you all the way to the soles of my feet; I admire you. I think you’re too brave for your brains. I think you’ve been a twit more times than not, but the fact is we’ll do very well together. Now, listen. We’ve known each other forever. My parents are very fond of you, and you of them—forget my grandmother, she hates everyone—and your Uncle Simon knows that you won’t have to be hunted down like a rat if you marry me, since our marriage would have nothing at all to do with your blasted money. Everyone would be relieved. The gossip would stop. We would be blessed and smiled upon. No one would cut you, ever again. I would no longer be considered a ravager of young maidens. We would get along fine, Corrie. Enough of this.” He hauled her against him and kissed her.

Corrie, who’d only been kissed by Willie Marker, nearly blacked out. Delight, that’s what it was, and it swept over her with the force of a wave at the beach. His tongue touched her lips, pressing lightly. Without any hesitation at all, Corrie opened her mouth and nearly fainted with the lust that poured through her when his tongue touched hers. She knew it was lust; it had to be lust because it felt so very good. She knew lust was wicked because Uncle Simon was wont to say that the reason wickedness was so rampant in the world was because it was so utterly delicious. Well, with James, it was beyond delicious. This was something she’d never even known could exist, it—

“Oh dear, excuse me.”

Corrie would have crashed insensible to the floor if James weren’t holding her up.

James’s brain nearly melted at the sound of his mother’s voice. His heart, nearly pounding out of his chest, thudded to his feet. His sex, thank the good Lord, became instantly dormant. He knew he couldn’t let go of Corrie, she’d fall in a heap.

He managed to pull his tongue out of her mouth and slowly, very slowly, he turned to say, hoping he wouldn’t pant out his words, “Hello, Mother. Since Corrie and I are engaged now, she wanted to know what it was like to kiss.”

Alexandra stood in the doorway, amused, horrified, and terribly aware that her son had his tongue nearly down a girl’s throat. Corrie looked like a half-wit, which was a very good thing, she thought, shuddering, because in that instant she remembered the first time she’d kissed Douglas, and lost her head. As for James, he looked flushed, embarrassed, and—no, better not think along those lines.

What if she’d walked through that door two minutes from now? Oh dear. What was a mother to do?

She cleared her throat. “Welcome to the family, Corrie.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

JAMES WAS DRINKING tea the next morning, actually sitting in his chair in the breakfast room, not propped up in his bed. And, glory be, he didn’t feel like he wanted to fall off his chair and curl up on the carpet.

Jason said, as he handed him a bowl of porridge, “This is from Mrs. Clemms. She said you were to eat all of it or I was to stuff it down your gullet. If I didn’t succeed, why then, she would come out here to stand by your right hand and sing opera in your ear until you’d licked the bowl clean.”

“I didn’t know Mrs. Clemms could sing opera.”

“She can’t,” Douglas said, and grinned over the top of his paper.

James spooned up a big bite, and sat there, chewing, savoring the sweet honey she’d mixed in with the porridge, when his mother walked into the room, allowed Willicombe to seat her, then announced, “I will meet with Corrie and Maybella this morning. Your father thinks the sooner your marriage takes place the better,” and then she picked up a slice of toast, smeared gooseberry jam on it, and took a satisfying bite.

James swallowed too quickly and choked. His father was halfway out of his chair when James raised his hand and said, “No, sir, I’m all right. I was thinking, Mother, just perhaps it would be better if Corrie and I met first.”

“What is this, James? You’ve still failed to convince her? She’s still threatening to bolt?”

James turned to his father. “If I give her more than a minute alone, she will talk herself into a panic. Yes, probably she’ll bolt. She told me that it isn’t fair, said she’d just begun to sow her wild oats, you see, whereas I’ve had seven more years to be as debauched as I please.”

“Hmmm,” said Corrie’s future mother-in-law. “She has a point, James. I hadn’t thought of it in quite that way. You know, the same was true of your father and me, only he was ten years older than I, and he knew ever so much more than I did and—”

“I don’t think you should revisit the past, Alex,” Douglas said. “You might not remember things in the way they actually happened.”

“Well, that’s certainly something good about getting older.” She smiled at her sons. “One does soften things a bit through the haze of years. James, if you like, I can fetch Corrie and bring her back here.”

“No, thank you, Mother. Since I’m feeling more fit this morning, I think I’ll take Corrie riding in the park. But first, I must write an announcement.” James excused himself, and said over his shoulder as he left the dining room, “I shaved myself this morning. Petrie predicted I’d slice that lovely vein in my neck. I swear he was disappointed when I didn’t.”

“And,” Jason said, rising, “I am off to meet with several of our friends. None of them had news the other night, as you well know, but I understand from Peter Marmot that we’re going to meet a fellow down in Covent Gardens. Supposedly he spoke about this Cadoudal fellow. There’s probably nothing to it, but you never know.” Jason fiddled with his napkin a moment, then said, his voice lowered, “Actually it was James who was supposed to go with Peter, but I don’t think he’s completely well yet; at least I don’t want him to risk himself again so soon.”

“I’ll come with you,” Douglas said, and threw down his napkin.

“No, Father, we’ve discussed this. We all believe strongly that you need to stay close to home for the next couple of days. The man who had James kidnapped must know now that he failed. I know he’ll be coming up with something else very soon. Please, sir, let us see what we can find out.”

“If you get yourself injured, Jason,” said his father, “I will be very upset.”

“Just don’t tell James about this. He’s liable to try to throw me into a wall.”

“If you get yourself hurt, I’ll throw you into a wall,” Douglas said.

Jason gave him a cocky smile, leaned down to kiss his mother’s cheek, and walked out of the breakfast room, whistling.

“Young men believe they’re immortal,” Douglas said. “It scares the hell out of me.”

Young men? Alexandra thought about how her husband had gone off late one night in Rouen, quite alone, whistling, in fact, to visit with some ruffians who operated within the shadows of the flying buttresses of the cathedral. However, having been married for twenty-seven years, she didn’t say a word.

CORRIE WAS CHEWING on her thumbnail, looking out over the long, narrow park across the street from Uncle Simon’s town house on Great Little Street, wondering what she was to do. Climb aboard a ship bound for Boston—a strange-sounding name for a city—in the wilds of America? Or, and this was more likely, just fold her tent and walk down the aisle, James at her side. And, truth be told, what was so wrong with that? When he’d kissed her, she wanted to fling him to the floor and pin him down. She groaned aloud, echoes of those absolutely amazing feelings that had sunk into the deepest parts of her, those feelings that had made her soar into the heavens the instant his mouth had touched hers, still rumbling inside her. She shivered at the memory of those little sparkles of lust.

Corrie shook her head at herself, then saw a young lady walking across the park, coming this way. It was Miss Judith McCrae, and so very beautiful she was. Maybe even as beautiful as Miss Juliette Lorimer, who’d lost James, and wasn’t that just too bad?

At least if Corrie married James, he wouldn’t end up with an awful wife like Juliette, who wouldn’t appreciate how smart he was, how very clever and witty he was, who would whine if she had to lie atop a small hill and look up at the stars whilst James was peering through his telescope at the Andromeda constellation in the northern sky. Juliette would probably think that Andromeda was a new perfume from France.

Corrie sighed. When he’d slid his tongue in her mouth, a million stars had exploded in her head, Andromeda probably among them, and she knew that stars were only the beginning. Had it been the same for James? Probably not. He was a man.

Judith McCrae was nearly at the front door. What did she want? She barely knew the girl, knew only that she’d been flirting with Jason. She rose, shook out her skirts, and waited for Tamerlane, Uncle Simon’s London butler, to announce her, which he did, his bright red hair shining in the morning light.

He stood in the open drawing room doorway, cleared his throat, and trumpeted, “Miss Judith McCrae of the Irish McCraes in Waterford begs to be allowed to see Miss Corrie Tybourne-Barrett.”

Corrie heard a female giggle, and was that a choked laugh from Tamerlane? Then here came Miss McCrae walking gracefully into the drawing room, a big smile on her face, knowing she’d charmed with that clever introduction. Corrie smiled back at her, charmed indeed.

“How very delightful to see you, Miss Tybourne-Barrett. I understand from my Aunt Arbuckle that you and James Sherbrooke are to be married.”

Corrie grunted.

“Do you think we’ll be related?”

This was frank speaking, indeed. And vastly clever, so clever that you didn’t want to smack her, you wanted to laugh, so that meant Miss McCrae was a very smart girl. Corrie said, “No, Miss McCrae, James and I have not decided to get married, so I’d say it looks bleak, our being related. Would you like some tea?”

“Please, call me Judith. I’d taken your grunt for a yes. I think Lord Hammersmith is a very persistent man, possibly as persistent as his brother. Persistent is a very nice way of saying that they are both stubborn as goats. But who knows? I am very persistent as well. Jason needs me, you know, just as Lord Hammersmith needs you.”

“Miss McCrae—”

“Call me Judith,” this said with a sunny smile that brought out the deep dimples on either side of her quite lovely mouth. Corrie sighed. “Judith, James doesn’t need anyone, particularly me. This marriage, if there must be one, is being foisted on the two of us. Oh dear, I don’t really know you, and here I am bleating out everything to you.”

“I know, I sometimes do the same thing, particularly when something very deep inside me recognizes that I can trust another person.”

Corrie cast about for someone she’d known who was even a little bit like this young lady, but she couldn’t. Judith appeared to be unique.

“I didn’t realize you knew Jason so well.”

“Not well at all yet, but I do know that I want him rather desperately. I have never seen a more lovely man in all my life, but you know—that’s not all that important, now is it?”

Corrie saw James quite clearly in her mind, and slowly, she shook her head. “No, I suppose it isn’t, except when one simply wants to look at him, and sigh with pleasure.”

“Yes, indeed. It makes my toes tingle to think of it. Now, I must make Jason realize that he wants me as desperately. What with the threat on his father’s life, however, it makes it difficult to snag his attention. He is distracted.”

“I would be too if someone were trying to kill my father.” The way Corrie had snagged James’s attention was to save him, then nurse him, perhaps not a preferred method of attracting a gentleman.

Uncle Simon walked into the room, his beautiful eyes focused on something only he could see, probably some blasted leaf he was creating in his mind that hadn’t yet been invented by Nature.

“Uncle Simon, this is Miss Judith McCrae.”

“Huh? Oh, you’re not alone, Corrie.” He blinked his thick lashes over his lovely eyes and bowed. “Miss McCrae, how very charming you appear to be. Naturally, one never really knows another, particularly when one has just met, don’t you agree?”

“Only a very stupid person would disagree, my lord.”

“And this is my uncle, Lord Montague.” Corrie tried not to giggle as she watched Uncle Simon take Miss McCrae’s hand, and give her his full attention for perhaps three seconds, just long enough for Judith to fully realize that although he might be a bit on the older side, he was still a pleasurable eyeful for the ladies.

Judith appeared to have more abilities with regard to gentlemen than Corrie did. Her dimples deepened, she looked up at Uncle Simon through lashes that looked thicker than Juliette’s, and said, “I understand that you are an expert in the identification and preservation of all sorts of leaves, my lord. I found one in the park last Tuesday morning that I was unable to identify. Perhaps—”

“A leaf? You found an unknown leaf, Miss McCrae? In the park? Why, so did I. What an amazing coincidence. Please bring it over and we will compare leaves.” He beamed down at Miss McCrae, seated himself, and said to Corrie, “It appears I am in luck. Your aunt is out shopping and Cook has prepared”—his voice dropped dramatically—“Twyley Grange cinnamon bread.” Uncle Simon dropped his voice even further to a near whisper. “I myself brought her the recipe. She’s been all atwitter, pumping herself up to do it, and so she has, finally. She has prepared six slices, nice thick slices. Since Miss McCrae is here, that means we can’t split them, Corrie. Now it means that we each will get to eat two, unless either of you is perhaps trying to lose flesh? No, Corrie, you’re still too thin.” There was a doleful sigh here. “You’ll need to eat both of yours, I’m afraid.” He cast a critical eye toward Judith, whose figure was well-nigh perfect, and said thoughtfully, “A young lady can never be too careful with her intake of bread, don’t you agree, Miss McCrae?”

“I have always practiced eating only one slice, sir. Two would make my cheeks fat. It has always been so.”

“Excellent.” Simon rubbed his hands together and yelled, “Tamerlane! Bring in the cinnamon bread, and quickly, man. It’s possible that Lady Montague might return sooner than any of us would wish.”

Judith shot Corrie a look, demurely seated herself, and waited for the cinnamon bread to be delivered. The twinkle in her dark eyes was outrageous.

When Tamerlane, with great ceremony, whisked off the silver dome from the small platter, the smell of cinnamon wafted into the room. There was utter silence, then Judith sucked in her breath. “Oh goodness, do they taste as good as they smell?”

Tamerlane announced, “This is the exact recipe from Cook at Twyley Grange. They are beyond compare.”

“How the devil would you know that, Tamerlane? Cook said she made a loaf of only six slices. Was there another slice and you filched it? Stuffed it down your own gullet? Actually robbed me of a seventh?”

“No, my lord, it was a measly extra piece that didn’t fit nicely into the glorious loaf that Cook fashioned. She allowed me to eat it, to ensure that it would be to your exacting standards.” Tamerlane beamed and passed the platter first to Miss McCrae. Judith grabbed a slice and had it in her mouth so quickly it set her nose to quivering. She chewed, eyes closed in bliss, before Uncle Simon could grab his slice off the platter, which he did soon enough.

Corrie was laughing so hard she was having trouble breathing. It gave Judith time to snag a second slice right off the plate beneath Uncle Simon’s nose, back quickly away from him since he looked ready to grab it out of her hand, and say, her mouth full, “I don’t think you’re too thin at all, Corrie. Indeed, I was thinking that perhaps your face was a little on the plump side and you could cut yourself down to one slice—oh goodness, this is the best cinnamon bread I’ve ever eaten in my life.”

Simon said, “You’ve already eaten two slices, and to the best of my knowledge, you weren’t even invited here this morning, you simply arrived. You probably smelled them cooking and hied yourself over, your mouth open. You’ve had quite enough.” He was talking around his second slice, the platter balanced now on his knee, his other hand covering it.

James walked into the drawing room to see Corrie nearly blue, she was trying so hard to stop laughing. Then he smelled the bread and heard his taste buds sing hallelujah. The famous Twyley Grange cinnamon bread, the recipe guarded closely for well nigh onto thirty years, and now they were here.

“Ah, James, is that you?” Simon asked, and quickly slid the platter, now holding only two slices, behind his back. “You’re looking quite well again, my boy. Not at all thin.”

“Yes, sir, I am nearly fit again, and quite on the plump side,” but his watering mouth wanted one of those slices, desperately. He forced himself to turn to the young lady who was trying to see that platter. James knew this was Miss McCrae, the young lady who’d managed to snag Jason’s attention a second time—which was amazing—and then even a third time, something no girl had managed before. She was licking her fingers now, humming with pleasure. James, who knew all about the immense power of the Twyley Grange cinnamon bread, said, “You’re right, sir, I’m a positive stoat. I’m not here to gorge on bread, although I would probably wish to, if I weren’t so fat. Actually, I’m here to take Corrie riding in the park.”

Corrie jumped to her feet, one eye on her uncle and the other on Judith McCrae, who was rising slowly, staring at James.

Uncle Simon swallowed and—it seemed like magic—another slice of bread seemed to appear in his hand and was fast moving toward his open mouth. “Take her,” Simon said, and bit down, nearly shuddering with delight. “Now. Before she tries to nab the last slice.”

“This is quite remarkable,” Judith said, her head cocked to one side, thick black curls nearly hitting her shoulder. “I’ve been told that you and Jason are quite identical, but here, up close, I don’t think you look a thing like your brother.”

“I myself have been told that,” James said. He took her hand, looked into those dark eyes of hers, and said, “You are Miss Judith McCrae, and I am James Sherbrooke. It is a pleasure to finally meet you.”

“Thank you,” Judith said. “I am pleasured as well.” She stared up into those incredible violet eyes. “Perhaps Jason is a bit taller than you are, my lord, and now that I am standing only three feet from you, I do believe Jason’s eyes are more violet than yours.”

“That is ridiculous, Judith,” Corrie shouted. “James has the most beautiful violet eyes in all of England, everyone has remarked upon that, and since Jason is said to be his exact twin, then how could you possibly believe that his eyes were more violet?”

“I suppose,” Judith said slowly, never looking away from James’s face, “that I could be wrong about the eyes. But Jason is taller, no doubt about that at all. And perhaps he is also broader in the shoulders.”

James burst into laughter. Corrie whirled around to frown at him. As for Miss McCrae, James knew that she was trying to keep a straight face.

But Corrie, still hooked on Miss McCrae’s line, leapt at that. “Broader in the shoulders? That is absurd, ridiculous! Even though James has been quite ill—nearly dead he was so ill—even so, his shoulders remained exactly the same, and that means he’s perfect. Look at him—I’ve never seen more perfect breadth in the shoulders in all my life! The idea that Jason’s—”

“Corrie,” James said, reaching out to touch her arm, “thank you for defending me, the obviously inferior twin. Now, Miss McCrae has nearly pulled your leg clean off. Let go of the bait now, Corrie.”

“But, she—”

“Let go.”

Corrie stared from Judith to James, reviewed Judith’s outrageous comments, her own responses, and felt like the village idiot. She said, looking down at her slippers, her voice soft, a bit sad, “I fear you might be right, Judith. I have been thinking, actually for some time now, that perhaps it is Jason I prefer, not James here, with his meager shoulders.”

“You may not have Jason! Do you hear me?”

Corrie looked up and grinned like Uncle Simon when he found a new leaf.

“Oh,” Judith said, gasping a bit, “I know when a table’s been turned on me, and this one just flattened me. That was excellent, Corrie. You got me right in the nose.”

Corrie was preening, James laughing, when Judith turned to Lord Ambrose and said, “And now, my lord, perhaps you would like to see the leaf I was unable to identify? Or James, I understand that you have an inquiring mind. Perhaps you would like to see my unidentified leaf?”

Simon jumped out of his seat, outraged. “Excuse me? What is this, Miss McCrae?” He waved the platter, that now held one lone slice in its center, at her, “You told me about the leaf, not anyone else, particularly James, who knows nothing at all about leaves, only what’s hanging about up in the heavens. Besides James is nearly out the door, to take Corrie riding. I wish to see that leaf, Miss McCrae.”

Judith grinned, fluttered her lashes at Simon, and said, “Perhaps if I could have that very last slice, sir, the leaf could be guaranteed to be yours.”

Simon looked at that slice, thought about the three he’d already consumed, thought about the unidentified leaf that might be the brother to the one he’d found in the park, looked back at the slice, and said, “Show James the leaf.” He ate the last slice, dusted his hands on his trousers, nodded to the three young people, and took himself off, humming.

“You, Judith, are quite amazing,” Corrie said. “Now we know what’s more important to Uncle Simon. I will have to tell Aunt Maybella.” She slanted a look at James. “Maybe on a honeymoon, eating cinnamon bread would be the activity of choice?”

He laughed. “Possibly. We’ll see, won’t we?”

They heard the front door open, heard Aunt Maybella’s voice suddenly ring out in outrage. “I smell it! Simon, where are you? You’ve eaten the entire loaf, haven’t you? I will hide that unidentified leaf of yours, you miserable loon, you’ll see! I want some cinnamon bread!”

“Let’s get out of here,” James said, and offered an arm to each young lady.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

JAMES GAVE CORRIE a leg up. Once she’d settled herself on Darlene’s back, he mounted Bad Boy. “Both of them look like they’ve been eating your uncle’s cinnamon bread. They need more exercise, Corrie.”

Corrie only nodded. She was looking at Judith McCrae, who’d insisted on walking back to Lady Arbuckle’s house only two streets away. Since it was a sunny day for early October, James had agreed.

“May I perhaps meet you at the Mayfair for an ice, say tomorrow?” Judith had asked Corrie. The date made, Judith walked away, her step bouncy, infinitely graceful.

“She wants Jason,” Corrie said.

“Well, it might be that he wants her as well, but the truth is, you never know with Jason.”

“I think she’s as beautiful as Juliette Lorimer.”

“So you don’t like her?”

Corrie said, “Yes, I’m afraid I do,” and said nothing more until they’d guided their horses through a gate into Hyde Park. It was too early for the fashionables to be out and seen, which was fine with her. She wanted to gallop. However, James lightly laid his gloved hand on the reins. “Not yet,” he said.

“Oh, goodness, you’re still not well enough, are you, James? I’m so sorry, thinking things were like they used to be before—well, of course we’ll walk the horses.”

He reached out his hand and laid it over hers. “Will you marry me, Corrie? No more excuses about me making this dreadful sacrifice, no more whining about missing out on sowed oats.”

“You don’t think I should do well as a barmaid in Boston? It’s in America.”

“No, you would be a miserable serving girl. You would clout any man who was stupid enough to pinch your bottom.”

Her chin went up. “That’s not true. I could do anything I had to do in order to survive. If you were ill and it were up to me, I could drive a dray. I could make meat pies and sell them. James, I would keep you safe and well. You could always count on me.”

He cocked his head to one side, staring at her. He studied the face he’d known for more than half his life, first the child and now the young woman. “You know, Corrie, I believe you would,” he said slowly, and then he reached out and clasped her hand. “We will do well together. Trust me.”

She sighed, shook off his hand, and click-clicked Darlene into a canter along Rotten Row.

The fact of the matter was, he thought, watching her gracefully sway in the side saddle, firmly in control, she would do anything she needed to do, anything she had to do. To save him. She’d already proved that. He sent Bad Boy into a gallop and was riding beside her within a few moments.

“Say yes,” he said, his eyes between Bad Boy’s twitching ears. Then he gave her a sideways glance. “I could teach you things, Corrie, things that would make you feel quite good.”

Oh dear, she quite liked the sound of this. “What sorts of things?”

“Perhaps it isn’t proper of me to get all into details just this moment, but on our wedding night—ah, yes, I’ll just spit it out—think of me kissing the backs of your knees.”

The knees in question froze on her legs. “Oh goodness, my knees?”

“The backs of your knees. That could be one very small thing I will teach you about. No, no more. You must wait. Now, the truth is, I sent our marriage announcement to the Gazette. No one will cut you now, no one will look at me like I’m a debauched rake. It’s done, Corrie. My mother is likely meeting with your Aunt Maybella even as we ride. The wedding must be soon.”

“If I were to agree, I wouldn’t want it soon. I would want the biggest wedding ever seen in London. I would want to be married at Saint Paul’s.”

He smiled. “All right. Let’s go back and speak to our elders.”

“I haven’t said yes, James. This is all supposition.”

He grinned at her. “You are tottering close to the edge.”

“Why are you being so damned agreeable? Are you still too ill to argue with me? You must be, because you like to argue and yell and curse. You like to pretend you’re going to clout me. This agreeable side of you isn’t what I’m used to. Are you tired, is that the problem? Oh dear, let me see if your fever has come back.” And she rode Darlene right into Bad Boy, her hand outstretched, but she didn’t touch his face because Darlene, who’d just come into heat, decided she wanted Bad Boy and what followed was a fracas, a good word that meant everything and nothing, the word that Corrie later used to describe to her uncle and aunt what had happened. Actually, fracas didn’t come close to the chaos of two rearing horses: Darlene shrieking, Bad Boy snorting, amenable to what she wanted to do and trying to bite her neck and mount her, and James, laughing so hard he was nearly falling off his horse’s back.

And in the midst of it all, Corrie, barely managing to stay on Darlene’s back, shouted through her laughter, “All right, James. I’ll seriously consider marrying you! I suppose it could be more fun than being a barmaid in Boston.”

“Is that a yes or another supposition?”

She whispered, looking down at her black boots with their lovely heels, “All right.”

“Good. That’s done.”

James wasn’t about to admit to relief. No, he was facing the raw fact that his doom was now formally sealed, his not inconsiderable wild oats now headed for a deep well.

He met for two hours with Lord Montague, managed to keep his attention focused long enough to get the marriage contract finalized, all the while thinking that at least there’d be laughter in his life. Corrie might drive him mad, make him want to hurl her through a window, but at the end of the day, she’d have him holding his belly with laughter. And kissing the backs of her knees. He grinned. Imagine, kissing the backs of the brat’s knees. Life, he thought, was amazing.

JASON AND PETER Marmot hadn’t found the man in Covent Garden that morning. One old woman, who was selling very well-made brooms, had said through healthy gums, “Old ’orace was lying on his arse today, the lazy sod, likely he was drinkin’ ’is guts out, and all because he’d heard that a man wanted to poke his sticker in ’orace’s belly.”

This didn’t sound good. They made plans to return that night. As it happened, however, Peter hadn’t appeared, and so Jason had gone alone to Covent Garden. He simply walked about, turning down a half dozen prostitutes, guarding his groats, looking at every shadow that crept out of the many alleyways, keeping his hand close to his stiletto and his derringer. It was raucous, as it always was this time of night, yells, laughter, curses. He tried to blend in, all the while looking everywhere for the man Peter had described to him.

He didn’t know what made him turn at the last moment, but thank the good Lord that he did. A man, masked, wearing a black greatcoat, came at him, not with a knife in his hand, but a blanket, and right behind him were two other fellows, both of them with blankets at the ready. Good God, was it Augie and his cohorts again, believing they would succeed at trying the same thing again?

With no hesitation at all, Jason drew his derringer and shot the man in the arm. He yelled, fell back. “Ye foul young sot! Ye shot me! Why’d ye do that? I niver hurt ye, not really, even that first time.”

Ah, so it was Augie and his crew, and he believed he was James. “Where is Georges Cadoudal?” Jason asked.

He kept his pistol pointed at the man in the greatcoat, who’d dropped the blanket to the ground and was holding his arm.

“I doesn’t know no Cadoudal fellow.”

“You’re Augie, aren’t you? And you two must be Billy and Ben. I trust you’re all feeling better than the last time I saw you.”

“No thanks to that little gal,” said Augie.

“Not much of a repertoire you fellows have. All you know is blankets?”

“Ain’t nothin’ wrong with a blanket or two. We doesn’t want to kill ye now, anymore than we did the first time. We jest wants to take ye fer a nice ride again, only ye goes and brings a gun wit’ ye. That jest ain’t fair.”

“Just like you did to my brother.”

“What brother? Ye is ye, ain’t that obvious? What’s this brother stuff?”

“You kidnapped my brother, Lord Hammersmith. I’m Jason Sherbrooke, we’re identical twins, you fool. So the man who hired you didn’t bother telling you that, did he? Not very competent of him. No, you two hold still.” To make sure they believed he was serious, Jason drew the stiletto from its sheath along his forearm. “Nice and sharp, a birthday present from my father; he eased it out of a thief’s sleeve in Spain. The first one of you who moves gets my stiletto right through the neck. Now, Augie, tell me. Did this so-called Douglas Sherbrooke hire you again?”

“I doesn’t know what yer talking about, young ’un! Aw, ye hurt me bad, ye hurt me real bad. I jest think I’ll send me two boys ’ere to pin back those ears of yers.”

“If you do, I will shoot you again, this time, in what you call a brain. So send them over here, come on, you puking cowards.”

But none of the three men moved an inch toward him. “Come on, Augie, tell me about Douglas Sherbrooke. He hired you again, didn’t he? He had you set up the pie man, hired him to start talking about Georges Cadoudal. So we’d hear about it and come. This Douglas Sherbrooke—is he young? Old? What does he look like?”

“I ain’t sayin’ nothin’, boyo.”

“All right, then. Augie, let’s see if you have any more to say when I take you to my brother and we both beat all the wages of sin out of that stupid head of yours. You will tell us what’s going on here.”

Suddenly, with a sharp whistle from Augie, the two men threw their blankets at him, then all of them simply faded back into that malodorous black alley.

Jason got the blankets sloughed off quickly, fired his second bullet, heard a yell. He listened, but couldn’t hear anything more now. He trotted to the head of the alley and stopped. He wasn’t about to go into that alley alone, he wasn’t that big a fool.

Well, damn. He’d not done well.

Where was the man who sold kidney pies? Old ’orace? But Jason knew even before he found the man’s body, one alley away, that they’d killed him before coming after him, cutting off a loose end. He turned to see Peter Marmot running up, late as usual, but with a smile so charming, you didn’t long want to punch him in the nose.

Peter stared down at the dead man, stabbed cleanly through the heart, and cursed.

Jason told him about the three villains. “They’re the same three men who kidnapped James. I’ll wager that this so-called Douglas Sherbrooke sent them after me, only they believed I was James. I didn’t manage to keep hold of them, damn me for an incompetent. This poor old fellow, they gave him a name to repeat until it came to our ears—Georges Cadoudal—then they killed him, because, I suppose, he could identify them.”

Peter said, “Let’s try to find some friends of the poor man, see if perhaps they know anything about Douglas Sherbrooke.”

Jason said slowly, “The fact is, Peter, this Douglas Sherbrooke knows all about Georges Cadoudal, knows that my father is worried about him, and thus it’s his name he uses to draw us out. He’s got to be Cadoudal’s son—but why is he after James in particular? Wouldn’t I do as well if his motive was simply to draw out our father?”

But they didn’t find anyone who would admit to knowing Horace until an urchin, with the help of a sovereign tossed to him from Jason, told them his name was Horace Blank, “ ’E made a fetching kidney pie, allus gave me one. I’ll miss old ’orace. ’E lived ov’r in Bear Alley, up on the third floor, right under the eaves.” And then he bit down on the sovereign, grinned as big as a full moon, and was gone.

They walked to Bear Alley, found Horace Blank’s small lodgings beneath the eaves, and trudged up the narrow dark stairs and went into Horace’s room. The small room was surprisingly clean, with a slatted bed, a small trunk at the bottom of it, and all along the far wall an oven, pans, and many ingredients he used to make his kidney pies. It smelled delicious.

“I never ate one of his pies,” Peter said, and shook his head. “I really don’t like this, Jason.”

They parted company, Peter to gamble at a new gaming hall, owned by a friend of his, so Jason knew he wouldn’t walk out of the place so poor he’d have to shoot himself, and Jason, to return home to change quickly into his evening garb, then off to Lady Radley’s mansion, for a ball. To see Judith McCrae. James had told him about her visit to Corrie and the cinnamon bread farce. “Funnier than anything I’ve seen at Drury Lane,” James said, and Jason wished he’d been there, to snag a slice for himself, maybe right out of Judith’s mouth. Would she bite him? Now there was a lovely thought.

HE WAS GRINNING when he first saw her across the ballroom floor, dancing with young Tommy Barlett, so shy he was staring at Judith’s neck. No, it wasn’t Judith’s neck that held Tommy’s attention. Jason began making his way toward her, speaking to friends and enemies alike, politely nodding to his parents’ friends as well, and smiling at the score of young ladies, and some not so young, who were giving him soulful looks that made him want to run in the opposite direction.

“Hello, Miss McCrae. Hello, Tommy. That is a lovely necklace, isn’t it?”

Tommy Barlett, still breathing in Miss McCrae’s lovely perfume, lust pounding through his young healthy veins, was slow to turn. “Is that you, James? No, it’s you, Jason, isn’t it?”

“Yes, I’m Jason.”

“What necklace?”

“The one you’ve been staring at that Miss McCrae’s wearing. Around her neck. Never once did you look away from that lovely necklace.”

“Oh, I wasn’t—that is, goodness, is that Mr. Taylor I see over there, beckoning to me? Thank you, Miss McCrae for the dance. Jason.” And Tommy was off, nearly galloping across the ballroom.

“What was that all about?” Judith asked, as she stared after Tommy. “He acted like he was scared to death of you.”

“He had good reason to be.”

“Why? You didn’t say anything to him. Come, Jason, what was that all about?”

Jason grinned down at her. “You smell good.”

She came up on her tiptoes and sniffed his throat. “So do you.”

He never knew what she would do next. It was sometimes unnerving, but more often, it was delightful, like now. She’d sniffed him. “Thank you. Tommy would probably have attacked you if I hadn’t intervened.”

“That shy young man? I doubt that very much. The dance was over. You didn’t intervene in anything at all. What was that about my necklace? Did I tell you that it belonged to my mother?”

“No, you didn’t. It’s unique.”

“So Tommy was admiring it. What, pray, is wrong with that?”

“Shy Tommy was staring at your breasts, not your necklace. He was sly, but I could tell.”

“Oh,” she said, blinking up at him. “I thought he was modest, dreadfully shy, not sly. Goodness, a budding young rake?”

“That’s Tommy all right,” Jason said. “I see people coming this way. Let’s dance.”

“The people you’re referring to,” Judith said as he slipped his arm around her and danced her to the middle of the floor, “are all young ladies. After you. Unfortunately they’re clutched together in a gaggle, not at all a good stratagem. Perhaps I could give them other approaches—to circle you, perhaps, or to form a wedge and force you into a corner where they would have their way with you. Lower that supercilious eyebrow. You know very well they’re not coming to see if I know any new gossip or to compliment me on my necklace. Actually, I shouldn’t want to be alone in a dark room with them.”

“Nonsense,” he said. He whirled her around and around until she was laughing, holding on for dear life, and her perfume smelled like—what? Not roses. He didn’t know.

“Oh goodness, there’s Juliette Lorimer frowning at me. She must think you’re James. Can’t she tell you apart?”

“Evidently not,” Jason said, “even though my shoulders are so much broader than my brother’s.” He danced her through a throng of glittering gowns and jewels. So much wealth, she thought, so many beautiful women.

Jason slowed a moment and grinned down at her. “I have heard of your gluttony. I must say that initially I was appalled until James reminded me of the time he and I managed to steal an entire loaf of Twyley Grange cinnamon bread off a windowsill, reverently placed there to cool. James and I split the loaf, and wanted more.”

“I could have eaten the entire loaf—unsliced—in under three minutes. I had a mere taste, only two slices. You should have seen Lord Montague—he actually hid the plate from me behind his back.” And she started laughing. “What a wonderful gentleman he is. And so very handsome.”

“He is going to be my brother’s uncle-in-law. Amazing, that.”

“So Corrie finally succumbed?”

Jason shrugged. “Evidently so. James is a good talker, he could convince a vicar to share the coins in his collection plate. Corrie wasn’t a big challenge. She also says you’re as pretty as Juliette Lorimer. I think you might be prettier. Thing is, unlike Juliette, you’ve got kindness in you, not to mention more wickedness than one would dream possible in a gently nurtured girl.”

“Ah, and I have guile, Jason. Lots of guile.”

“Not that I’ve ever seen. Indeed, sometimes I think you too candid, too open, what you feel is there for all to see on your face. Take care, Judith. The next time you accept a dance from a young gentleman who looks innocuous, look at his eyes. If they don’t remain on your face, turn him down.”

She laughed, actually laughed at what he’d said. She clutched her fingers into his coat, and laughed more.

He became alarmingly stiff. “I saw nothing funny in that advice.”

“No, no, it’s not that, Jason. While you said it, you were looking at my bosom.”

“That’s quite different,” he said, and stopped because the music had ended, at least five seconds before. He lightly touched his fingertips to her cheek. “Lovely necklace,” he said, and left her not two feet from her Aunt Arbuckle.

He heard her laughter float after him. He didn’t dance with any other lady, merely thanked his hostess and took his leave. He wanted to tell James what had happened at Covent Garden.

They had to find Georges Cadoudal’s son before he managed to get his hands on one of them.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

LORD KENNISON’S TOWN HOUSE

LONDON

“There is nothing more to be said, Northcliffe. I know nothing at all about any of this.”

Douglas Sherbrooke nodded. “I know that, but the fact is, you knew Georges Cadoudal. You were in Paris when he died after Waterloo. Back in 1815?”

“Yes, of course. It isn’t a secret.”

Douglas looked down at the relic who was old enough to be his own father. A powerful man, was Lord Kennison, still, even though he was more fragile in his appearance than he’d been six months before. Because he loved his brandy too much, he had gout, and his right foot was resting, swathed in bandages, on a brocade hassock.

He had to make certain that Georges was dead, and Lord Kennison was his best bet. “How long had Georges been ill?”

Lord Kennison closed his eyes a moment. Even his eyes hurt. “Good God, Northcliffe, I thought you knew. Georges didn’t die of an illness. Someone shot him down in the street. An assassination, no other word for it. He died perhaps two hours later, in his own bed. I arrived after he’d expired, his family around him. Of course, Georges was quite mad.”

“Yes, I know.” Mad and a genius, was Georges. “He had family, did he not, my lord?”

“Yes, certainly. A son and a daughter. The son is about the age of your boys. I understand you knew his wife, before they were married.”

Janine, he thought, who’d pretended I had impregnated her because she’d been too ashamed to admit to her lover, Georges, that many men had raped her. He nodded. “Yes, I knew her. I never saw her again though, not after 1803. It was a very long time ago, my lord.”

“Poor Janine, she died of the influenza before Georges was killed. Georges’s sister-in-law came to live with them, kept the house. You ask me, Douglas, I’d say that she was a little bit more fond of Georges than a sister-in-law should be. But no matter. They were both past their first youth. And now Georges is long dead. You didn’t shoot him, did you, Northcliffe?”

Douglas was staring thoughtfully into the fireplace, watching the flame lick around a new log, burrowing in to catch fire. He shook his head, still looking into the flames. “I quite liked Georges, but maybe he never believed that. I can imagine someone shooting him because, from everything I heard over the years before Waterloo, he never ceased in his attempts to assassinate Napoleon. So many men would have liked to cut his life short, and evidently someone did.” He did look up now. “It wasn’t me. I was at home, with my two ten-year-old sons and my wife. I had nothing more to do with politics by then.”

“Ah, but a couple of years before, you were in France.”

“Yes, but that was a rescue mission, nothing more than that. Nothing nefarious. I didn’t see Georges.”

“Whom did you rescue?”

Douglas shrugged. “The Conte de Lac. He died five years ago, at his home in Sussex.”

“Could anyone have believed you were there to kill Georges?”

“No, that’s quite impossible. It also makes no sense. If someone believed that I was responsible for Georges’s death, why would they wait fifteen years for revenge?”

Lord Kennison shrugged. It even hurt to shrug, and wasn’t that too much to kick a man while he was down? “I’m tired, Douglas. I can tell you nothing more than you already know. The children, as you’ve already decided, must be behind these attempts on your life. As for Georges, he never said anything about you, at least not in my hearing. I don’t believe there was any enmity there. You remember Georges—if he hated someone, he hated all the way down to his soul. He wouldn’t shut up about how he was going to pull out their tongues. So if it is a child’s revenge, then where did they get this hatred for you?”

“I don’t know. As you said, it makes no sense.” Douglas rose. “Thank you for seeing me, sir. As you know, it was the duke of Wellington who sent me to you.”

“Yes, he told me. Poor Arthur. So many problems clutching him around his throat. I told him to quit, to leave all the mess, and let others deal with it. He wouldn’t ever do that, of course.”

“No, he wouldn’t,” Douglas said, and took his leave. He rather liked Lord Kennison, who was probably a lot more honorable than his heir, who was so debauched he’d given his wife the pox.

When he walked out to his carriage, it was to see both Willicombe and his nephew Remie standing there, guns at the ready.

THREE DAYS LATER

SHERBROOKE TOWN HOUSE

James and Jason stepped into the drawing room to see Corrie and Judith seated close on the large sofa, their heads together.

“Good morning, ladies,” James said as they walked into the room. “Willicombe said you were working on wedding plans.” Whose wedding plans? he wondered, sneaking a look at his brother, who, in turn was staring at Judith McCrae, a look on his face James had never seen before.

Corrie looked up at him, had decided during the long previous night to give it up, jumped to her feet, and flew to James, grabbed him to her, and hugged him tight. He grunted with the enthusiasm of her greeting. She looked up at him, lightly touched her fingertips to his chin. “No more whispering. I’ll say it out loud for the world to hear. James, I’ve decided to marry you, decided that maybe it won’t be so bad at all. I know most of your bad habits already. If you’ve more, you’d best not tell me because it might tip the scales the other way.”

“I don’t have any more,” James said, and heard Jason snicker behind him.

“At least none that would make you break things off.”

“I will speak to Jason about this later.”

“Corrie, I do appreciate you coming right out with your consent, but the fact is I’ve already spoken to your uncle. Everything is in motion.”

“Yes, I know, but I didn’t want you to think I was a pathetic, gutless female who didn’t know her own mind.”

“I haven’t ever thought you were gutless. Pathetic—not for at least a couple of months now.” He saw she would question him and shook his head.

“All right, I’ll wait. I just wish that Jason had managed to catch Augie, Ben, and Billy. Just imagine Augie thinking it was you again—and using the same blanket trick again. Did he think you stupid?”

“Probably so,” Jason said, and found himself staring at his brother, and his soon-to-be sister-in-law. Imagine, Corrie Tybourne-Barrett, a sister-in-law.

James found that his arms went around his betrothed very naturally. Well, he’d hugged her since she was three years old, that wasn’t so unusual. She felt good against him. He closed his eyes a moment and breathed her in. He was used to her scent, would have known it was her in a dark room, but now there was a light overlay of jasmine. “Your perfume?” he said against her hair. “I like it.”

“Your mother gave it to me, said your Aunt Sophie swore by it, claimed it worked on your Uncle Ryder from fifty feet. She claimed he always came running, like a hound after the fox.”

“Ah. I think I could chase you down. When I caught you, I wonder what I would do to you? Sniff you, I suppose, to make sure you’re the right fox, but then? Hmmm. There’s always the back of your knees.

“Now, you should probably release me, Corrie. There are two other people in the room and all this affection might give them a headache.”

She leaned back in his arms to look up at him. “A headache? Why on earth would seeing me clutching you like the last slice of cinnamon bread give anyone a headache?”

“Jealousy,” he said, and without thought, he kissed the tip of her nose. He set her away from him. “Willicombe,” he said to the three occupants in the room, two of them paying not a whit of attention, “is bringing tea. Jason? Judith? Listen to me now. Tea is coming.”

Corrie heard a giggle and peered around James to see Judith McCrae throwing pencils at Jason.

“Whatever did he say to invite the attack, Judith? Good shot, right in the chest. Pencils could be dangerous, I suppose, so you’d best be careful.”

Judith, holding a final pencil between her fingers, ready to dart it at Jason, turned, grinning. “This fellow, standing here all straight and tall, looking more dangerous than a kilted Highlander, tells me that it is hazardous for me not to wear a necklace. Without it, a man doesn’t have any justification.”

Corrie was on the point of asking what that meant when Willicombe entered, looking in each corner of the drawing room, as was his habit, before clearing his throat and saying, “Cook has prepared some nutty buns. She apologizes that they aren’t the Twyley Grange cinnamon bread, but the men she hired to steal the recipe ended up being bribed and gorging themselves on the real item and falling into a swoon.” He beamed at them. “A room of young people who are looking at each other with such affection. Such a tepid word, affection. Perhaps it is more along the line of fondness and warmth, at least I hope it is more, since two of you are now being fitted for leg irons,” and Willicombe raised a questioning brow at Jason, who picked a pencil up off the floor and hurled it at him.

“Leg irons,” James muttered. “I begin to believe Willicombe as much a misogynist as Petrie.” Corrie poured tea and Judith passed out the nutty buns. James said, “Our grandmother adores these nutty buns. Oh dear, Corrie, you will have to gird your loins; she’s nasty, she will malign you, given no encouragement at all, but you know that, she’s gone at you often enough. But now that you’ll be one of the family—it doesn’t bear thinking about how she will treat you.”

Judith stopped chewing her bun. “Your grandmother will be unkind to Corrie? How very odd. Why ever for?”

Jason laughed. “You don’t know our grandmother, Judith. She dislikes every female who’s ever had the misfortune to swim into her pond, including our mother, including her own daughter, including Corrie, who is, I understand, an abomination or something of the sort.”

Corrie shuddered. James patted her hand, and said, his voice thoughtful and low, “I’ve been thinking that maybe we should live in a lovely house I own in Kent.”

“Where did you get a house in Kent?”

“It’s one of father’s lesser houses, one built by the first Viscount Hammersmith.”

She took a bite of her nutty bun and licked her lips. “Where is it?”

“Near the village of Lindley Dale, right on the Elsey River.”

She finished off her bun, licked her lips again, this time James watching her tongue, wanting suddenly to lick her. Her throat, her left elbow, her belly—he had to get hold of himself.

She said, “Does it have a name?”

“Yes. Primrose House. It’s not big and grand like Northcliffe Hall, but it would be ours, hopefully for a very long time since I don’t wish to see either my father or my mother depart this earth until the next century.”

Corrie simply couldn’t imagine living with this man. Living with him at Primrose House. Just the two of them. Goodness, she was used to living with Aunt Maybella and Uncle Simon.

Living with James? She thought of her last kiss and his tongue in her mouth, licked her lips again, met his eyes, and flushed to her hairline.

“I believe,” James said slowly, his eyes on her mouth, “that I want to know exactly what you’re thinking.”

At that moment, Willicombe ran into the room. “My lord, Master Jason, come quickly! Quickly!”

Corrie beat all of them out of the drawing room. She ran through the open front door, stopped short on the top step, and stared.

There was her soon-to-be father-in-law standing over an unconscious man wrapped in a huge black cloak, rubbing his fist, Remie standing near, his right foot planted on the back of another man, this one burly and unkempt, who was moaning and twitching.

Douglas looked up and grinned. He rubbed his fist again and said, “That was fun.”

James and Jason ran to their father and Remie, and stared down at the two men. James said, “Who are these men, sir? Do you know them?”

“Oh no,” Douglas said cheerfully. “Remie spotted them lurking across the square.”

“Aye,” said Remie. “His lordship decided we’d let them come to us, which they did, the bloody fools. Your father thinks we’ll have a nice chat when the bastards get their brains working again.” He kicked the man, who moaned again, shuddered, then didn’t move.

Douglas leaned down and hauled the man he’d flattened to his feet. He slapped his face, once, twice, shook him. “Come on, open your eyes and look me in the face.” He shook him again.

There was a sudden blur of movement. Without thought, Jason knocked Remie out of the way, kicked out with his foot and knocked the gun out of the man’s hand who’d just come around a bush, that gun aimed at the earl. He grabbed the man’s hair, lifted his head, and sent his fist into his jaw.

He looked up at his father. “He came very fast. That makes three of them now. James, are these three the same men who kidnapped you?”

James shook his head. “I’ve never seen these three before.”

The man Douglas still had about the neck said in a whine that made Corrie want to kick him, “We ain’t meant nothin’, milord, jess wanted to snag a couple of groats.”

Remie said as he dusted off his livery, “I think I would like to speak to these two, my lord, maybe open up their heads a little, see what falls out.”

“We’ll both do it, Remie.”

A boy’s voice said from behind Judith, “I seen ’em, milord, speaking to a cove, er, man, over on the other side of the square. A big man, wot was, er, were wearing a hat and a greatcoat.”

James turned to Freddie, whose English had improved within the past week, although he’d heard the boy muttering that “wot were wrong wi’ the way I speaks anyways,” when he’d been informed that he was going to be educated. It was Willicombe who taught Freddie two hours a day.

“Well done, Freddie. Let’s you and I go over to where you spotted this man and see if we can find any clues.”

“Lawks,” said Freddie, and patted his trousers, straightened his sleeve, presented James a proud pose in his beautiful new livery. “Let’s be off then, my lord. We’ll find somethin’, er, something.”

“Yes, hurry, both of you,” the earl said. “Now, I think these two fine specimens should spend some time in our stable, if you don’t think they’ll upset the horses.”

Remie and Jason bore the men off, and Douglas went in to write a note to Lord Gray, a gentleman he knew in Bow Street.

As for Corrie and Judith, they watched Jason and Remie haul the three men away. “This,” Judith said quietly, “isn’t what I planned to see when I came to visit.”

“No,” Corrie said. “Do you know, Judith, maybe you and I should spend some time with these fellows as well.”

“You mean if the gentlemen don’t glean any information from them?”

“Exactly.” And Corrie cracked her knuckles, something she hadn’t done since she was ten years old.

Judith laughed, shaded her eyes with her hand, and said, “I wonder if James and Freddie will find anything. Who is that boy, Corrie? Isn’t he a bit young to be employed by the earl?”

“Freddie is very special,” Corrie said. “Very special indeed. Did you hear how much better he speaks?”

“You’re teaching him to speak proper English?”

“Actually, it’s Willicombe,” Corrie said. “I daresay that the earl would do about anything for Freddie.” She smiled at Judith. “We can come back this afternoon, perhaps have our own little talk with those two villains.” And that was what Corrie told the earl just ten minutes later. “My lord, I think you should reconsider calling in Bow Street. Let me go question these men. I know I can convince them to talk to me.”

Judith nodded, eyes narrowed, nearly growling. “I should like to pry their mouths open as well, my lord.”

Douglas looked at the two young ladies, whom, he suspected, had as much guts as his wife, and said slowly, “Perhaps this note to Lord Gray can wait for a while. Yes, let us try to break them first.”

Willicombe, however, was dead set against this. Indeed, he stood in the entrance hall, six feet from the front door, so pale he looked dead.

He was breathing so fast, Corrie was afraid he would faint. She stepped up to him and slapped him hard.

“Ah, oh goodness, a hit in the chops by a young lady.” Willicombe said on a moan. “But since the aforementioned young lady rescued one of our boys, I suppose that—” He stopped, drew a deep steadying breath, and said, “Thank you, Miss Corrie. I think I shall have a nutty bun if there is one left.”

And he tottered off.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

“HE RAN LIKE a young man,” James said to his father, Freddie nodding vigorously at his right elbow.

“A young man,” Douglas repeated. “Yet again he comes, this son of Georges Cadoudal.” He looked at his son. “Why, James? Why?”

“When we get him, we will find out. Everyone is looking for him, Father. It won’t be long now.” James pointed across the park. “He hurled himself into a hackney and the driver whipped the horses up, fast. We had no chance to catch him.”

“Well, we have three of his men. I’ve decided that we’ll let Corrie and Judith speak to them tomorrow.” He smiled at James’s look of utter horror. “The young ladies claim they will make the villains tell us all. But now, let’s try our hand at breaking them.”

James rubbed his hands together. “Let’s do it. Freddie, go fetch Master Jason, tell him we’re going to have a chat with our villains.”

Douglas said, “If none of us has any luck, I will send off my note to Lord Gray. He can send one of his men here to take them away. At least they won’t be of any further use to Georges’s son.”

Two hours later, Douglas had to admit defeat. The men were being paid extremely well to keep their mouths seamed. Indeed, it was more than money, James thought, since he’d offered them five hundred pounds and been refused. There was real fear in their eyes. They simply said over and over that they didn’t know nothin’, that they’d just wanted to snag the rich bloke’s purse, no, no, they didn’t know any cove what called hisself Douglas Sherbrooke—a young man? No, they knew no young men. And on and on it went until Douglas called a halt. James and Jason wanted to bash their heads together, but Douglas allowed that he didn’t want two dead men buried in his stables. He would turn them over to Bow Street, let Lord Gray’s men bust heads and bury them in gaol.

All three men were depressed, but were forced to smile because Alexandra had invited Lady Arbuckle and Judith as well as Lord and Lady Montague and Corrie to dine with them that evening. Her reason, she admitted to her husband, after he’d nibbled on her neck, forgetting for a good long while that he was supposed to be fastening her ruby necklace, was to see the two young ladies with her sons.

“I want to observe how they treat each other, how they behave with their relatives, and with us.”

“You’ve known Simon, Maybella, and Corrie forever. You know how they relate to us.”

“Ah, but don’t you see, Douglas? I don’t know how they’ll deal with Lady Arbuckle and Judith McCrae, and that’s important. Also, I want to see if I like Judith. I’ve never before seen Jason so drawn to a young lady. Maybe she’s rotten to the core, maybe she wants him for his looks, maybe she has a terrible sense of humor.”

Douglas shook his head, patted her cheek, looked down at her breasts, swallowed a bit, and turned to straighten the cravat that his valet had pronounced perfect ten minutes before. He said over his shoulder, “Poor James. He had no chance to see if there was a young lady out there to win his heart. Now he’ll never know.”

Alexandra looked at her husband’s broad back, watched his nimble fingers twitch his cravat this way and that. “You had to take me on, if you will remember, Douglas. You had no chance to find the love of your life either.”

“Ah, there is that, isn’t there?” He brought her against him, pressed up her chin with the lightest touch of his fingers. “We turned out all right, didn’t we, Alex, what with you wanting to make love to me whenever you would pull me behind a door or clear off a table or—”

“How very odd, my lord,” she said, her fingertips stroking his jaw, “I seem to remember that it was you who couldn’t keep your hands off my fair person. Now, I must say that you didn’t see James stick his tongue down Corrie’s throat. He looked utterly absorbed, Douglas.”

“Down her throat? Now, that’s something that a gentleman much enjoys. Naturally he enjoyed it. What man wouldn’t? But there’s Juliette Lorimer and—”

“No,” Alexandra said firmly. “Were James to prefer her, I would travel to Scotland and move into Vere Castle with Sinjun and Colin. I think Juliette might be tolerable until she realized that James got more admiring looks than she did. And her mother—oh dear—”

Douglas laughed, hugged her, careful not to disarrange her lovely hair, as he lightly bit her earlobe. “It was Juliette’s mother who alarmed me as well, truth be told. All right, let’s see how our respective young ladies behave toward their elders. Corrie and Judith, two lovely names.

“Ah, it was you, Alex, you, who were always after me, always lurking around corners, waiting to nab me and—”

She gave him a comfortable fist in the belly.

Truth be told, the young ladies behaved splendidly, but the fact was that all conversation was centered around the person out to kill Douglas.

“A madman,” Simon said as soon as he’d swallowed the bite of vermicelli soup. “A very nervy madman. Did you say you think he’s young? Well, young madmen are the nerviest, but that doesn’t mean they’re frothing at the mouth. You know that, Douglas.”

Douglas, looking down at his own soup, said, “I know, Simon. Also, this young madman is very probably the son of Georges Cadoudal. For whatever reason—be it mad or not—he is committed to killing me. Is he truly mad? I wonder.”

Maybella, who was eyeing Lady Arbuckle’s emerald bracelet with a bit of envy in her heart, said, “Georges Cadoudal’s son. His father died when he was only ten years old. That means he’s festered with hate for fifteen years. How very odd it sounds, and frightening.”

“I agree with you, Aunt,” Corrie said and took a spoonful of codfish au gratin from the footman’s proffered dish. “There was also a daughter. We haven’t yet been able to find out about either son or daughter.”

“It’s evil, evil,” said Maybella.

Neither twin spoke.

Lady Arbuckle finally cleared her throat, looked at Judith, and announced, “I believe it is all nonsense. There is no revenge at work here. I am convinced it is some foul Frenchman from a secret French society bent on destroying the very fabric of English society. Killing one of the premier noblemen of the realm, it is their opening salvo.” That announcement made, Lady Arbuckle returned to her fillet of whiting a la maitre d’hotel. She drew a deep breath, and for an instant, she closed her eyes, her fingers clutched around her knife.

Corrie said, leaning toward her, “Are you all right, my lady?”

“What? Oh, yes, Miss Tybourne-Barrett. The whiting is perhaps a bit too rich for me, that’s all.”

Judith lightly patted Lady Arbuckle’s hand. “I myself find it a little rich, Aunt. Why don’t you try some fricasseed chicken? I have found it quite tasty.”

Lady Arbuckle accepted the chicken and nodded as she chewed a small bite. “Yes,” she said, “it’s an excellent fricassee. Thank you, my dear.”

James said, “It’s a pity that Lord Arbuckle must remain in Cornwall, ma’am.”

“Ah,” said Judith, waving her fork, “my uncle adores being close to the Irish Sea. He is happiest when he is breathing in that salty air, feeling the sea winds ruffle his hair. Besides, the estate needs constant attention. He will not hear of another seeing to his responsibilities.”

Douglas, who didn’t know Lord Arbuckle well at all, was frankly tired of all the talk of his assassin, and was eager to learn more about this girl who might become part of his family. “I understand you come from Waterford.”

She nodded, giving him a dimpled smile that Douglas found charming. “Yes, my family raises Arabians. It is a fine country for horses, you know, and Waterford is an excellent area.”

“Who is there now?” James asked. “Jason told me that your father and mother were dead.”

“My cousin Halsey manages things now. In any case, Halsey was next in line when my father died. The farm is called The Coombes and Halsey is Baron Coombes.”

Jason picked up her fingers and squeezed them. “Judith has been alone too much of her short life, but Lord and Lady Arbuckle are seeing to her nicely.”

“Yes, they are,” Judith said, and leaned over to kiss Lady Arbuckle’s powdered cheek. “My very first season. I never thought it could happen, but my dearest aunt—” She broke off, tears sheening her dark eyes.

Jason squeezed her hand again, then launched off on one of his favorite topics—horses. He wanted to visit The Coombes, see the farm’s operation, examine the stock.

The conversation continued to James and Corrie’s wedding, which was to take place at St. Paul’s in three weeks’ time. Douglas shrugged. “I know the Bishop of London, Sir Norton Graves, a fine man who officiated at your christenings. He gave me a cocked eyebrow when I informed him that time wasn’t in great abundance, and thus I had no choice but to tell him exactly why your marriage was on the prompt side. It turns out, naturally, that he’d heard most of what had happened already, albeit slanted in a far more scandalous direction. Sir Norton has many ears in society, and to his credit, he rarely believes what he hears. James asked that he officiate, and he agreed.”

Corrie choked on an oyster patty. James immediately slapped her back.

“Are you all right?”

“Oh yes. It’s just to have your father speak about our getting married in such a matter-of-fact way—sometimes I still can’t believe it’s going to happen. Good heavens, in only three weeks. It closed off my throat there for a moment.”

James said, “It closes off my throat too. Don’t dwell on it. We’ll get through it. Now, I know you wanted a thousand people at least to overflow St. Paul’s, all of them cheering and waving you on your way, but Corrie, it’s not to be.”

“Perhaps five hundred?”

James laughed, and his mother said, “Maybella and I believe that it is best if we have about thirty people to witness our drama.”

James said, “I will ask several members of the Astrological Society to come. I wish you to meet them. Ah, perhaps you would care to come to a meeting with me, next Wednesday?”

“And I will show them you are getting the perfect wife. I will myself write and present a paper,” Corrie said, and looked so wicked Jason nearly spewed a mouthful of wine on his mother’s tablecloth.

“Yes,” James said, his voice serious as his Uncle Tysen’s when he was looking sin right in the face, “I think you should. I have already written about the cascade phenomenon. What should you like to present to the learned group?”

Corrie gave this some thought while she observed the roast goose on her plate. She picked up a roll, waved it at James, and said, “I want to speak about how vampires can come out only at night under bright moonlight, but not in the day when the sun beats down. That is, it beats down only occasionally here in England, which makes me wonder if English vampires have more freedom of movement than do, say, vampires from the Sahara Desert.”

James rolled his eyes. “No more about Devlin Monroe. I saw him hanging about you yesterday. What did he want?”

“He tried to convince me that he would make a superior husband to you.”

James, who took the bait swiftly, nearly leapt to his feet. “That damned bounder. That’s more than enough, that’s—”

“That was a jest,” Corrie said and gave him one of her patented sneers that he hadn’t seen since before she’d come to London.

Amidst the laughter, Alexandra led the ladies out of the dining room, leaving the gentlemen to their port.

“She got me,” James said, red-faced, staring into his glass of port.

“Yes, she’s quite good at it,” his brother agreed, “has been for years.” He sighed. “Unfortunately, I believe that Judith is as skilled as Corrie. She too could bait a dead man, make him leap up, curse, and rattle his bones.”

“Yes, I’ve seen her do it,” James said. “I do wonder what Devlin Monroe is up to, though.”

“Nothing,” said Simon. “Nothing at all. I myself spoke to him, told him Corrie had been in love with you, James, since she was three years old, to which Devlin replied that Corrie was too unripe in the ways of men and the world to know what was what, that she was too young to be forced into this marriage, that you were taking gross advantage of her, and that I should challenge you to a duel and shoot you. I thought for a moment that the poor boy would burst into tears. But then he got himself together and said it was a lovely overcast day, didn’t I agree. Of course I agreed. Nearly every day is overcast. I didn’t want anymore of his melodrama. I wanted him to leave. Is he really a vampire, do you think?”

Corrie had been in love with him since she was three? A child adoring an older brother, yes, he could see that, but was this how her uncle saw it? She loved him? As a man?

At that moment, the gentlemen looked up at the sound of running feet, raised voices.

Corrie threw open the dining room door and yelled, “Quickly! James, oh dear, come quickly!”

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

WHEN THEY BURST into the stable it was to see that the three villains were gone, Remie was unconscious beside the door, and three stable lads were bound and gagged in the tack room.

The horses were distressed—neighing, tails swishing, shuffling about in their stalls.

James dropped to his knees to feel for Remie’s pulse. It wasn’t strong, but at least it was steady, and he was coming around.

Judith said, her voice high—too high—shaking a bit, “Corrie wanted to come out and question them the moment we left you. She knew you, my lord, would go all stiff and proper on us and deny us our chance. She didn’t want to put it off until tomorrow, and so we told your mother that we needed to go to the ladies’ withdrawing room, but instead we came out here and they’re gone, escaped, and that means someone helped them.”

Jason said, “Yes, that young man who was standing across the square. He must have circled back, seen his men taken into the stables, observed the routine, then made his move.”

“He succeeded,” Douglas said, rising and dusting off his hands on his breeches. “Damn him. I will call for a doctor for Remie and send off a note to Lord Gray.”

As it turned out, neither Remie nor the stable lads had seen who had assaulted them. Remie said he’d heard something, but then he’d been struck on his head and that left him on his nose in the straw.

Lord Gray, when he was drinking a brandy in the Sherbrooke drawing room late that evening, allowed he’d heard about the attempts on Douglas’s life, told him he was now involved and would find the men responsible. “Since you have determined who the man is, why then, I will myself search him out,” he said comfortably, tossed back his brandy, kissed Alexandra’s lovely white hand, and took his leave.

No one believed him, even though they wanted to.

THREE WEEKS LATER

All seventy guests—forty more than originally intended—cheered wildly when James and Corrie, Viscount and Viscountess Hammersmith, came out of St. Paul’s, and ran, hand in hand, toward the open landau, festooned with every white flower Alexandra Sherbrooke could locate in greater London. It was, to everyone’s surprise, not a frigid, overcast day as all expected, but a cool, crisp, sunny day, unheard of for the end of October in England.

“It is because I am beloved in the celestial realms,” Corrie had said.

James had laughed. “Ha, it’s because those celestial realms are mightily relieved that I’ve saved you from being a fallen woman.”

Corrie also confided in her new mother-in-law that she’d promised up good works for twelve months if God would send down sunshine on their heads.

“What good works will you do?” Alexandra asked.

Corrie looked perfectly blank. “Do you know, I didn’t believe it would work at all, so I have no idea. I was expecting rain and thick fog up to my knees. This will require thought. I don’t wish God to believe that I wasn’t serious.”

Jason was saying to Judith, “All is forgiven and soon to be forgotten. Corrie saves his life, and now they’re married. Rules are sometimes the very devil.”

“I think they’re perfect for each other,” Judith said. She moved a bit closer, came up on her tiptoes, and whispered in his ear, “Corrie told me that James gave her only one hint about what would happen on their wedding night.”

Jason didn’t so much as twitch. “And what would that be?”

“He was going to kiss the backs of her knees.”

Jason laughed, couldn’t help himself. And Judith, demure as a nun, looked up at him through her dark lashes and said, “You mean that he’s lied to her? This isn’t what he’s planning?”

“Oh, I’m sure he’ll tend to her knees,” Jason said.

“And then I wonder what he plans.”

“You are too young, my child, to even have a clue about what comes after knees.” And he patted her cheek. “Or before knees, for that matter.” As his fingers touched her face, Jason, in that moment, knew it was all over for him. The wickedness in those dark eyes, the softness of her skin, the way he felt punched in the belly whenever she was near, it fair to knotted his innards, knocked the breath out of his lungs. He realized his throat had closed, cleared it, and said, leaning close to her ear, “If he has any sense at all, he’ll begin with her right knee. The right knee is more sensitive, you know.”

“Oh goodness, I had no idea. Is that really true, Jason? On every female? The right knee?”

“I have proved it many times.”

“Very well then. I will not forget that. Now, if James were you and Corrie were me, I think I’d kiss each finger of his right hand and then lick each finger, very slowly.”

Jason’s breath caught in his throat. He was getting harder than the stone steps of St. Paul’s. He pulled his eyes away from her, and shouted, “Don’t let anyone kidnap him, Corrie, or you’ll have to marry him again!”

She heard him above all the shouts and cheers and well wishes, turned, and waved, her laughter filling the air.

James pulled her against him and kissed her soundly, much to everyone’s enjoyment. The landau rolled forward. As the afternoon progressed, all in society who hadn’t been fortunate to receive a wedding invitation would hear about how the young couple were very pleased with each other, which was a good thing since they were tied together for life.

As for Jason, he patted Judith’s cheek, and walked away, whistling. She stared after him. He baffled her.

Three hours later, after miles of observing countless farms, rolling hills, gentle stretches of forests, picturesque villages, and several great houses, they were at last nearing the village of Thirley sitting in the heart of Wessex. Not much longer now, and James planned to have her in bed not more than five minutes after that.

The day had grown colder, and there was wind now, making the carriage windows rattle, but James didn’t care. And soon after they’d changed from the open landau to the carriage, it had become overcast, perhaps perfect for Devlin Monroe, curse him. James wanted to get Corrie up to a bedchamber, strip her to her skin, and begin an orgy of enjoyment.

By all that was holy, he was married. To the brat. It still boggled his brain when it hit him, made him blink to keep from crossing his eyes. The brat was his wife, and he could still see her—a three-year-old with sticky fingers, pulling on his pant leg to get his attention. Then she was a snaggle-toothed six-year-old offering him a strawberry jam-covered muffin, a huge smile on that small mouth. And now she was sitting next to him, seemingly content to look at the passing landscape, her hands folded demurely in her lap. She was his bloody wife. A tress of hair had come loose and was hanging over her shoulder, escaped from her very pretty bonnet. Lovely hair, and that hank of hair was lazily pointing down to her breast. He wanted to touch that breast, wanted to caress her with his fingers, with his mouth. He began to ferment in lust.

The brat was his wife.

“Corrie.”

She didn’t turn. “Yes, James?”

“Not more than fifteen more minutes. I booked us the largest room in the Gossamer Duck in Thirley. My Aunt Mary Rose says it’s fresh and clean, and the bed in the big corner room that overlooks the town square is so soft it makes you swoon.”

“Oh dear.”

“It’s all right. We’re married now. We can talk about soft beds and no one will be shocked.”

“I know. All of this—it’s rather alarming. I’m eighteen, supposed to be innocent for at least another year, but just look at what has befallen me. I’m riding next to a man who wants to rip my clothes off and do things to me about which I do have some ideas about since I was raised in the country and have eyes in my head.”

“What has befallen you is going to be fun. Listen, I’m going to help you sow your wild oats. We’re going to sow those oats together until you’re exhausted and tell me you’re glad we’re together because no other man could sow nearly as well as I do, particularly Devlin Monroe.”

She whirled around to face him. “That made not one whit of sense, James Sherbrooke. A girl sows wild oats with gentlemen precisely like Devlin Monroe, gentlemen she knows are wicked, not gentlemen who are honorable and too kind for their own good.”

She saw him like that? He said slowly, “You think I’m honorable, Corrie?”

“Of course you are, you idiot. We’re married, aren’t we?”

“You don’t think Devlin would have married you if you’d rescued him from kidnappers?”

That brought a thoughtful look. “Do you know I’m not really certain. I think Devlin finds me amusing, you’re right about that. However, I don’t think he would like to face me every morning across the breakfast table, even assuming that he’s able to sit across from a breakfast table, even if curtains were drawn against the morning sun.”

“You think I’m kind?”

“Of course you’re bloody kind.”

“I don’t like the way that settles in my guts. It makes me sound like a perfect weak-kneed sot. Like Sir Galahad, who couldn’t hold his sword properly and was always bungling about.”

She laughed, the little witch actually laughed. “I’ve seen your knees, James. They’re not weak, they’re as nice as the rest of you. As for not holding your sword properly, I remember very clearly how you and Jason were fighting with swords in the forest so your father wouldn’t catch you, and you forced him back into a bog. Sir Galahad was a wonderful knight, it’s his name you don’t like.”

“Weak-kneed sod. On the other hand, Jason once knocked me off the cliff over Poe Valley.”

“I’ll wager you landed with your sword still in hand.”

He laughed. “I did, as a matter of fact, nearly sliced myself in the belly.”

“Well, I will say that a woman likes a man to hold his sword properly.”

He stared at her. Surely she didn’t know what she’d said, even though she was raised in the country and had eyes in her head.

“Now, I am bidding a fond farewell to my wild oats. My heart isn’t broken, not really, since I am determined to make do with you since there is no choice in the matter.

“I asked Aunt Maybella to tell me exactly what was going to happen other than having you kiss the backs of my knees. I wanted all the fine details. Do you know what she said?”

The coach hit a rut and he grabbed the strap to keep himself upright. “No, what did Aunt Maybella say?”

“She screeched, ‘Knees? He wants to kiss your knees?’ And she went on to tell me that this was something a gentleman told a girl so as not to send her running. I told her that was fine, I understood, but then exactly what were you going to do? After the knees? She said you’d begin shaking. I didn’t believe her but I see I was wrong. You are shaking, James, I can see it. She said that means you’re overwhelmed with lust, a good thing, she said it was, but she knew you were a gentleman, and even if you were too young to mind your manners, you were very fond of me and would, therefore, not attack me in the carriage. She smiled then and said hopefully she was wrong.”

He was mesmerized. “Did she tell you what she smiled about?”

“She was smiling about lust, and she was thinking about lust with Uncle Simon. Can you imagine that? I cannot bear to think of Uncle Simon kissing Aunt Maybella’s knees, James. Parents aren’t supposed to do things like that.”

“Maybe, maybe not. My own parents, well never mind that. Come, Corrie, what did she say then?”

“Nothing. Do you hear me, James? She wouldn’t tell me anything. She rolled her eyes and told me to be agreeable to whatever you wanted—unless I found it so repellent that I feared for my modesty—and all would be well. I wanted to clout her, James, and then you know what she did? She started humming.”

“She didn’t mention that I was going to try to be agreeable to whatever you wanted as well, unless of course I found it repellent and feared for my own modesty?”

“You have no modesty.”

“Anything else from Aunt Maybella?”

“Well, no. She did pat my hand before she left my bedchamber, and said that were she I, she would be content to look at you not wearing a stitch of clothes, and agree to whatever you wanted. Being a very observant girl, I’m inclined to agree with her.”

James gulped. Aunt Maybella looking at him and he was naked? He didn’t want to think about that. He said, “I had a chat with my father as well.”

That floored her, as he’d hoped it would, and James tried not to laugh, when she said, “What? You mean you don’t know what’s going to happen either, James?”

“I have sort of an idea, Corrie. My father drew me some pictures, said to study them closely as he didn’t want me to muck it up.”

She ran her tongue over her lower lip, making it all damp and shiny, and he wanted to drag her down to the floor of the carriage, and he wanted his tongue on her bottom lip, making it shinier, wetter, and then—

“Er, do you happen to have the pictures with you?”

He stared at her, unable to believe what came out of her mouth, and then he threw back his head and laughed and laughed.

She was tapping her fingers, leaning toward him, all impatient. “Well, James, do you?”

He looked into her eyes, eyes lovelier than he’d believed them to be an hour before, and wasn’t that odd? “No, I memorized them, then burned them, like my father told me to. He didn’t want Jason to see them yet, you know, wanted to preserve his innocence until he was ready to get himself wedded.”

“Hmmm.” Tap, tap, tap, went her fingers. “Perhaps you could re-create them. Do you have any paper? A pencil?”

He slowly shook his head. “Corrie, why are you worrying about this? You already know what’s going to happen and so do I. Now, kiss me, before I shake myself right out of the carriage.”

And so she did, and it was close.

“Ah, thank God, we’re coming into Thirley.”

CHAPTER THIRTY

JAMES SAT BACK in his chair, his fingers against his chin, and tried not to laugh as he watched his wife of not many hours at all trying to play the courtesan. He didn’t know who was having more fun, Corrie or him. He realized she’d been planning this, and he wondered how far she’d go. All the way to her white skin? He hoped so. He hoped so mightily.

He’d dreamed of having her naked within five minutes of arriving at the Gossamer Duck, but it wasn’t to be. The innkeeper, Mr. Tuttle, was voluble in his greetings and insisted that his missus serve them some delightful tea and scones.

When at last he’d gotten her into the large, corner bedchamber, the door locked, she’d told him to sit down and not move.

As he watched her twirl her pelisse around on her finger and send it sailing toward a far chair, he realized that even when she’d begun sneering at him some three years before, mocking him whenever he came close, he’d enjoyed himself. She’d never bored him. He remembered spanking her, feeling the softness, feeling a spurt of lust that had made him feel guilty, because, after all, she was Corrie, just Corrie, the brat.

She pulled off her gloves and tossed them after the pelisse.

James forced himself to sit back in his chair, his chin propped on his steepled fingers, legs stretched out, crossed at the ankles, and said, “Women wear too many clothes, Corrie. You should have begun your seduction when you were wearing only your chemise. What do you say I help you get to that stage?” He was praying that she’d say yes. He was in bad shape, didn’t know, in fact, how much longer he could last. He was going to shake himself right out of his chair and wouldn’t that be humiliating? He really didn’t want to jump her, but it was going to be close. He had to hold himself steady.

He rose slowly, unable to sit there any longer, and stretched, and Corrie, all sense of wicked adventure whisked instantly out the shadowed window, stood there, her hands over her breasts, and looked horrified. What she saw on his face was something she’d never seen before. He looked close to violence; he looked determined; he looked to be in pain.

James wasn’t a clod. He’d hoped she would leave her girl’s modesty at the door, and he admitted that she’d tried, and thus her order to him to sit himself down and not move and she was going to entice him beyond endurance.

Well, he was beyond endurance right now and she’d only gotten rid of her pelisse and gloves.

He had to get a grip on himself. His father had told him that it was best to begin as you meant to go on, and that advice clearly translated to not mauling his wife on their wedding night. And then he’d frowned, shaken his head, and when James wanted to ask him what was wrong, he said only, “Life is a powerful and surprising thing. Unexpected things happen. Enjoy it, James.”

“Why do you have your hands over your breasts and you’ve still got your clothes on?”

She licked her lower lip again and James stared at that lower lip. He was breathing hard, his sex harder than his breathing; he prayed she wouldn’t see the wild urgency in him, he didn’t want to scare her witless. Damn, that lower lip of hers . . .

“Stop looking at me like that, James.”

Like what? Like he wanted to lick every inch of her? He hated being that obvious, but just couldn’t help it. “All right.”

“I’m covering myself because you’re not lying on the floor, unconscious, moaning with fever, helpless. You’re strong now, James, you’re quite yourself again, and you want to do things to me that I’ve only seen animals do. It makes me feel quite strange.”

“Strange how?”

“Well, perhaps I could walk the three steps to you and kiss you. What do you think?”

“Do it.”

She hesitated only a moment, then walked the three steps, coming to within an inch of him, and raised her chin. She stood on her tiptoes, pursed her lips, and closed her eyes. She kissed his chin.

“Try again.”

She opened her eyes, looking into his beloved face, a face so beautiful as to make a grown woman cry, and smiled. “Helen of Troy was nothing compared to you.”

“Blessed hell, I hope not.”

“You know what I mean.” She kissed him on his mouth this time, but hers was seamed tight.

James raised his hand, only one hand, and lightly touched his fingertips to her mouth. “Open up, a little bit,” and his breath feathered her skin. She opened her mouth without hesitation and felt his warm breath on her flesh, tasted him, and it was wonderful.

“Ah, that’s good,” he whispered into her mouth, and Corrie wondered how kissing the back of her right knee could be better than this. The feel of his mouth, his tongue, the heat of him, it made her want to fling herself against him and send them both to the floor.

Or to the bed. She walked into him, backing him up, until she shoved, and he went down on his back in the middle of that marvelous goose-down mattress.

She came down over him, laughing, wanting to sing and moan at the same time, so happy she was kissing him all over his face.

He kissed her back; his hand slid down her back over her bottom and stayed there. This was no spanking. This was something else entirely different. Corrie reared up and stared down at him. “Oh dear, James, your hand—”

“Clothes,” he said, “too many clothes.” He reared up, setting her on her feet in front of him. “I’m in a bad way here, Corrie. Now, I’m going to strip you down to your beautiful hide,” and he wasn’t civilized about it at all. He ripped and pulled and tore, and his breathing was harsh and fast.

Well, it wasn’t the lovely lace wedding gown, she thought, and grinned. If he could do it, then so could she. She began ripping open his clothes, kissing his chest when she pulled off his shirt. Soon, both of them were naked, she, still standing in front of him, James, sitting on the bed, his hands about her waist, and her breasts weren’t more than three measly inches from his mouth. He stared, swallowed, thought he’d burst. “Your breasts—I knew they would be nice, but I hadn’t expected this.” He sounded like he was choking. She didn’t move, couldn’t move. Corrie stood there, her hands on his shoulders as he raised his hands and cupped her breasts. He closed his eyes, breathed in very deeply, pulling her scent into the depths of him. Because his eyes were closed, she took the splendid opportunity to look down at him.

He wasn’t at all like he’d been when he’d been ill. He was big and growing bigger. All because he was holding her breasts? She liked his hands on her, but staring down at him, watching him swell—“James, you’re not the way you were.”

He wanted to fling her on her back, this very instant. Her breasts—he wanted his mouth on her, he—“What? What way was I?”

“Oh goodness, not like this. This can’t be right.”

He realized through his cloud of lust that she was looking down. He in turn stared at himself. He was hard and big, ready to explode. What did she expect? Oh hell, she didn’t expect anything. “You saw me naked, Corrie, when I was ill.”

She swallowed. “Not like this, James. Never like this. This isn’t like any of the animals I’ve seen.”

“I’m not a horse, Corrie, I’m a man and you’ve got to know we’ll fit together.” Oh God, he wanted to weep, perhaps even howl, but most of all, he didn’t want to have to say another word, he wanted to come inside her, deep, deeper still until he touched her womb. He groaned; she jumped.

“Oh dear, James, what’s wrong with you?”

It was enough; it was too much.

“It’s lust, isn’t it?” she whispered, eyes alight with appalled excitement.

“Yes.” He grabbed her around her waist, lifted her and tossed her onto her back. He came down over her, fitting himself between her legs. The touch of her, the scent of her flesh, the sound of her breathing, harsh and loud, it pushed him right to the edge and shoved him over.

He knew in some small corner of his brain that he was a clod; his father would disown him if he ever found out.

But it didn’t matter, couldn’t matter. There was only the here, the now, and the two of them, and he wanted her more than he’d ever wanted anything in his life. He raised her legs, looked at her soft flesh, lightly touched her, and that was all it took. He was shuddering so violently he knew he was going to spill his seed, right here, and he knew that couldn’t happen, just couldn’t, or he’d have to throw himself off the cliff into Poe Valley.

He parted her with his fingers, didn’t think about any consequences at all, and came into her. Oh God, she was tight; nowhere near ready for him, but it didn’t matter. He couldn’t have stopped himself if someone had dumped buckets of cold water on him. He went into her, hard, felt her maidenhead. He closed his eyes at the knowledge that he was the first and that he would be the last. He looked down at her white face, her eyes filled with tears, and he said, “Corrie, you’re mine. Never forget that, never—oh damn, forgive me—” and he pushed through her maidenhead, kept pushing until he touched her womb, and then it was all over for him. He reared back, yelled to the ceiling of the bedchamber, then stared, frozen, down at her, and collapsed heavily on top of her. He managed to kiss her ear.

He was dead, or very nearly, and who cared? He felt wonderful. He felt whole. He no longer felt the surge of lust that had driven him mad; he felt complete, his world was perfect, and he was very sleepy. Hit to his soul, he was. He kissed her cheek, tasted the salt of her tears, and he wondered only an instant about that, and fell asleep, his head beside hers, dead weight on top of her.

Corrie didn’t move, wasn’t about to move. He was still inside her, and she was content to lie there absorbing the feelings, letting the pain ease away from her, feeling his sweat drying on her body, feeling the smooth pumping of his heart against hers, feeling the hair on his chest against her breasts. He’d touched her breasts, touched between her legs—looked at her—and come into her like he was going to ram through a door.

He gave a light trilling snore. He was asleep? How could he be asleep? She didn’t want to sleep. She wanted to pace the bedchamber, perhaps stagger a bit because she hurt, deep inside, but it was fading quickly now. Her tears were drying and itching her flesh, and he was heavy on top of her, and he felt wonderful, big and solid, perfect, truth be told, and he was hers.

He was also still inside her, but not so much now. She was naked, James was naked, and he was snoring lightly in her left ear, and what was one to think about that?

The room was cooling down. She tried to move, but couldn’t. Should she wake him up and ask him to pull himself out of her, perhaps cover himself before he went back to snoring?

No. She managed to pull the counterpane over both of them. That was better. It was nearly dark, the light dull and gray as it filtered through the window curtains.

She clasped her fingers together at the middle of his back, lightly squeezed. Her husband, this man who was once the boy who’d tossed her into the air when she was a little mite of a thing, and he’d tossed her one too many times and she’d vomited on him. She didn’t remember doing that, but her Aunt Maybella would laugh even today when she remembered it. “James,” Aunt Maybella said, “didn’t pick you up again for at least a year.”

And she remembered very clearly when he’d explained her woman’s monthly flow to her when she was thirteen and he barely twenty, a young man, but he’d done it, and he’d done it well. She realized now that he’d been embarrassed, had probably wanted to run, but he hadn’t. He’d taken her hand, and he’d been kind, matter-of-fact, then told her the cramping in her belly would go away soon. And it had. She’d trusted James more than anyone in her life. Of course, he and Jason were gone much of the time, to Oxford, then young men turned loose on London. He’d been so very grown-up when he’d been home, and that’s when she’d learned how to sneer.

Corrie sighed deeply, tightened her hold around his back, realized that he wasn’t inside her any longer, and fell asleep herself, his breath warm and sweet in her ear.

JAMES WANTED TO shoot himself. He couldn’t believe what he’d done.

And now Corrie was gone. She’d left him, probably returned to London to tell his father and mother that their precious son had first ravished her and then fallen asleep on top of her, not a sweet or comforting word out of his mouth before his head had hit the pillow.

He rose, shivered because no one had come to light the fire in the grate, thank God, and saw that her valise was in the corner. He felt immense relief. She hadn’t left him.

There was a knock on the door. “Milord?”

“Yes?” He looked around for his own valise.

“It’s Elsie, milord, here with hot water for yer bath. Her ladyship said ye’d be wanting it.”

Five minutes later, James sat in the large copper tub, hot water lapping at his chest, his eyes closed, wondering what the devil he was going to say to his wife of, what was it? Oh yes, his wife of approximately six hours. She’d sent up hot water for him. What did that mean?

At least she hadn’t left him.

The hot water sank all the way through him, and he let himself sink deeper until he was nearly asleep again.

“I had no idea that this marriage business would require you to sleep for a week to recuperate. How do men accomplish anything at all, if—” She stalled.

He didn’t open his eyes. “Thank you for sending up the water. It’s nice and hot, as I like it.”

“You’re welcome. You’re looking quite lovely in that tub, James, all sprawled out, just hints of what’s under that water.”

He cocked open an eye at that. Corrie was gowned in a lovely green wool, her hair was up in a knot on her head, but her face was pale, too pale. “I’m sorry I hurt you, Corrie. I’m sorry that I rushed you. How do you feel?”

She flushed. She’d thought she was beyond that, believed nothing could make her tongue-tied or embarrassed, not after what he’d done to her, but here she was flushing like a—a what? She didn’t know; she felt like a fool, and somehow a failure. “I’m quite all right, James.”

“Would you wash my back, Corrie?”

Wash a man’s back? “All right. Where’s the sponge?”

“Here’s a cloth.” He brought it up from the depths of the water. Where had that cloth been? She swallowed, took the cloth, and was relieved to move behind him.

That long stretch of back, the muscles well-defined, smooth, and she wanted to throw that wretched cloth across the room and smooth soap over his back with her hands, feel him, let her fingers learn him.

She rubbed soap on the cloth and went at it.

He sighed, leaning more forward.

“Do you want me to wash your hair?”

“No, that’s all right. I’ll do it. Thank you. That was wonderful.”

He held out his hand and she dropped the wet cloth into it. Then he started washing himself.

“Men have no modesty.”

“Well, if you wish to watch, there’s little I can do to stop you.”

“You’re right,” she said, sighed, and went to sit in a chair across the room. She sighed again, stood up, and pushed the chair much closer, not more than three feet away from him in his tub. James grinned, went underwater, and then washed his hair.

He knew she was watching him and that felt good, actually. Surely she must like him, surely she’d forgive him if he asked her just right.

“It won’t be like that again, Corrie.”

“Rinse the soap out of your hair.”

He went underwater again, then came up, and shook his head. Dear God, he was so unutterably beautiful, it hurt.

“I promise you it won’t. I am very sorry about your first time. It was ill-done of me.”

“It was rather fast, James, rather rough, truth be told. You didn’t kiss my knees.”

He gave her a lopsided grin. “I swear I’ll take excellent care of your knees next time. Do you still hurt? Did you bleed?”

Frank speaking indeed, she thought, and shook her head, staring down at the toes of her slippers.

“I thought you’d left me.”

That brought her head up. “Leave you? That never occurred to me. You and I have been through many adventures together, James. I consider this one more, not a pleasant one, but—”

James rose. What could he say to that? “Could you hand me that towel?”

She simply couldn’t move, couldn’t look away from him, standing there naked and wet, and she wanted to lick every drop of water off him. She gulped, tried to get hold of herself, and threw him the towel. Then she watched him dry himself. How could one gain such pleasure from so mundane a thing?

He knotted the towel at his waist. “When you take your bath later, do allow me to wash your back.”

The thought of that nearly sent Corrie whimpering to the floor. “All right,” she said, and then slapped her hand over her mouth.

James laughed. “Allow me to dress and we can eat our dinner.”

It was over dinner that James, seeing that Corrie was staring into her soup, said, “Please don’t fret, Corrie. We’ll get everything right, trust me.”

“Oh, no, it’s not that, James. I was thinking about my new father-in-law. I can’t help but be worried.”

“I know,” James said, and took a bite of cold mutton. “Jason is going to do everything but sleep in Father’s bed to keep him safe. Also, there are more men than you can imagine trying to trace the Cadoudal children. All we know so far is that they’re no longer in France, haven’t been in quite some time.”

“And there was their aunt, you know, their mother’s sister. I wonder what happened to her.” She was stirring her fork through the applesauce beside her pork kniver.

“I still have trouble believing it’s Georges Cadoudal’s son, since he and my father parted friends.”

“You said that your father rescued Janine Cadoudal. Surely she couldn’t have hated him, couldn’t have taught her children to hate him. He saved her.”

“Yes, and evidently she offered herself to him. But father was coming back to a new bride, namely my mother, and so he refused. When she discovered she was pregnant, she told Cadoudal that my father had forced her, and the child was his.”

“Oh dear, I can see that such a story would make Cadoudal furious.”

“Yes. Cadoudal kidnapped my mother, as revenge, took her to France, and when my father and Uncle Tony found her, she was miscarrying a babe. In any case, Janine confessed the truth to Georges, Father and Mother returned to England, and that was the last time he ever saw Cadoudal.”

“So she had a child.”

“My father said he heard something about the child dying, then there was nothing more.”

“I’ve always loved mysteries,” she said, her fork set on her plate now, as she leaned forward toward him, her chin resting on her clasped hands, “but I don’t like one that could hurt my new family. We’ll figure it out, James. We must find the son.”

“Yes.”

“James, you’re looking at me again.”

“Well, yes, you’re my dinner companion.”

“No, you’re looking dangerous and determined. You were wearing the same look before you ripped my clothes off.” She lowered her voice, leaned over the remains of her pork kniver. “It’s lust, isn’t it?”

Slowly, James rose, tossed his napkin on the table, and held out his hand. “How do you feel?”

“Full and—”

“Corrie, between your legs, are you still sore?”

She picked up an apple, polished it on her sleeve, took a tiny bite, then smiled at him. “I think,” she said, “that I’m ready for my bath. You said you would wash my back for me.”

He nearly shook and shuddered himself out of the small private parlor.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

JASON LOOKED INTO Judith McCrae’s dark eyes, felt himself fill with an odd mix of contentment and an excitement so powerful he wondered how a man could bear it. “Your eyes are darker than mine, at least at this moment.”

“Perhaps,” she whispered.

“My brother was just wed.”

“Yes.”

“I remember looking up—was it the Ranleagh ball?—and there you were, staring at me all the while waving that fan, and my heart fell into my shoes.”

She drew back, but her hands still clutched at his arms. “Really? Is your heart still there? In your shoes?”

He grinned down at her. “My heart even collapses into my boots when I wear them.”

“I am nearly twenty. Did you know that, Jason?”

“You do not look your age.”

A giggle escaped.

“Does this mean you’re near to the back of the shelf?”

“Your wit—well, I never thought of it like that, you know, being unacceptable to a gentleman because I was no longer as young as say, Corrie. I never considered that I would move in London society. The thought of going to London with the express reason of finding a husband, it simply never occurred to me. But then Aunt Arbuckle swooped into my life, brought me here, and introduced me to everyone.”

“Why didn’t you assume your aunt would introduce you into society?”

“There were fallings out, I guess you could call them, amongst everyone in my family. But no longer, thank God. I will tell you something, Jason. I was rather bored, I admit it, until I saw you—yes, it was the Ranleagh ball. I’m not an heiress like Corrie.”

“Why would that matter to me?”

“Well, you are a second son, Jason, no matter that you were born minutes after James.”

“I’m rich,” he said abruptly. “My legacy from my grandfather will keep me from penury. I can support a wife. I am thinking of breeding horses, Judith. It is something that suits me; unlike estate management, which suits James quite well. When the gods were casting the die, everything seems to have sorted out properly.”

“You mean you don’t mind being the second son? You don’t mind not being the future earl of Northcliffe?”

“Blessed hell, of course not. You said you never considered coming to London to find a husband. Well, I never considered being the earl of Northcliffe. My brother will make a fine earl when his time comes. And I, well, I will be myself and surely that is not too bad. Had you expected some burning sort of resentment on my part?”

“Perhaps. It seems to me that it would be natural to resent not having what he will have.”

He grinned down at her. “I would heartily detest dealing with all the problems my brother will have to handle as a matter of course. We’ve some tenants who make the vicar curse. No, I’m free to be what I wish and free to do what I wish. I am a very lucky man.”

He paused a moment, looked down at his boots, perhaps to see if his heart were there, and said, “I have been giving this a lot of thought, and I believe I should like to visit Ireland, go to The Coombes, to see your cousin’s operation. Is he a welcoming fellow, your cousin?”

“Ah, I’m certain he would much enjoy having you.”

“Good. Ah, there is also the Rothermere stud in Yorkshire. The Hawksburys live there. Their eldest son is my age. Perhaps you would like to see a stud?”

“Perhaps,” she said, and her fingers tightened about his arms. “I might even prefer traveling to Rothermere above visiting my cousin. Rothermere is new to me, you see, and thus of more interest. You are very strong, Jason. I’ve observed that in you.”

“My mother likes to tell James and me that the moment we could stand, we wanted to pick each other up. When I was three, I managed to hoist James over my head for perhaps one second. My mother, as I remember, applauded, which, naturally, didn’t make James happy at all. I don’t remember this, but my mother says that he stomped a toy wooden block on my foot he was so mad. I had a very fine childhood. Did you, Judith?”

Was there a flash of pain in her fine eyes? He couldn’t be sure. He wanted to ask her, but he sensed, deep inside himself, that she would back away from him if he tried to probe. She was an exciting mixture of shy and wicked, reticent and confident, combinations that drove him mad even while his heart speeded up. He realized too that he wanted to hold her close, tell her that he would care for her until the day he died, but he said nothing. He wasn’t yet certain what was in her mind. He wasn’t a patient man, but he knew to his bones that with her, patience wasn’t a lame virtue, it was a necessity. He wondered at it, but accepted it, just as he was prepared to accept her, her shyness and her wickedness, and anything else she could dish up.

“My childhood was fine indeed, Jason. There were some bad times, of course, as there must be in life. Happiness comes and then it goes, as does unhappiness.”

He said, lightly touching his fingertip to her chin, “Are you happy now, Judith? Now that you’ve met me?” She shrugged, began to fiddle with his cravat, and fell silent. He felt pain, at a girl’s seeming rejection? He’d simply never encountered such feelings before. Could he have been mistaken in her? No, that wasn’t possible, surely. She seemed inordinately fascinated by his cravat. He said nothing, waited.

Finally, she raised her face to his. “Am I happier now that I’ve met you? It’s odd, you know. When there is someone who is important, you forget that there was ever another life. You live from one burst of happiness to the next. Of course in between, there is uncertainty and plain misery, for you don’t know what the other is thinking, feeling.”

She’d spoken eloquently, he thought, and she was right. With her—and he admitted she was important to him—he’d felt more than his share of misery. And uncertainty, such uncertainty. “Perhaps in the future, bursts of happiness will overtake all other feelings. A not-too-distant future, if you please, since I am close to expiring with anxiety.”

“Perhaps.” And he saw the wickedness in her eyes, hot and wild, and he wished he had her naked beneath him right at that instant. “Do I make you happy, Jason?”

He said nothing at all, looked at her mouth, her small ears with the pearl drop earrings dangling. She punched him in the arm. He laughed. “So you are expiring with anxiety? I’m glad you see my point now. Yes, Judith, you have made me happy.”

“Can you tell me what your parents think of me?”

She cared about him, there was absolutely no doubt at all in his mind. He wanted to ask her to marry him, right this second, but something held him back. She wasn’t ready for that, he knew it to his boots. It had happened too quickly, he was reeling, his guts twisting and roiling about, so how must she be feeling? She was young and innocent, despite her nearly twenty years. Since he wasn’t stupid, he said easily, “My parents are very fond of you, just as I am. Can you doubt it?”

“I haven’t met many people who would be pleased to welcome a stranger.”

“That is a pity. Perhaps you would like to spend more time with them before we continue on this path to more happiness for you?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “Perhaps.”

“They know you well enough right now, Judith. They believe you quite clever; my father even said you were charming. I raised an eyebrow at that, but he said, yes, it was true. You’d charmed him, he said, and then he remarked that you were as bright as a new penny.”

He saw clearly that she liked the sound of that, but she had to pick and prod and doubt herself. “But they don’t really know me, not like they know Corrie. She’s already like a daughter to them.”

“That’s true, naturally, since she’s been in and out of Northcliffe Hall since she was three years old. She’s been a sister to me for year upon year. I do hope, however, that James doesn’t think of her as a sister; I can’t imagine anything more hellish than that. Now, my parents are returning to Northcliffe Hall on Friday. My father is satisfied that all inquiries are moving ahead and he is no longer needed here. I am accompanying them, naturally, with Remie and three other runners Lord Gray recommended to guard my father. Perhaps you and Lady Arbuckle would like to come with us? For a nice long visit? Would your aunt like that, do you think?”

“I must speak to her.” She looked up at him through her lashes and said, “I believe, though, that she wants me to marry an earl.”

He laughed, couldn’t help himself. “Like my father, you have charmed me as well. You’re as wicked as any man could wish, Judith. Hmmm, wouldn’t your aunt prefer the scion of a duke? Like Devlin Monroe, Corrie’s vampire?”

“So now I am old and wicked, both at the same time.”

“Yes, and I am immensely grateful for it.”

“I wonder, should I like Devlin? Possibly, but he saw Corrie and it was all over for him.”

“Even the mention of his name drives my brother wild with jealousy, though he doesn’t realize yet that it’s jealousy he’s feeling and not repellent thoughts about fangs coming out of Devlin’s gums beneath the light of the moon.” Jason leaned down and kissed her, couldn’t stop himself. She was a lady, dammit, but he didn’t want to give her a peck on the cheek. No, he wanted a deep, wet kiss, his tongue in her mouth, and that is what he did. She was shy, her lips closed, and he felt her jerk in surprise when his mouth touched hers.

Was he the first man to kiss her? Obviously he was. She didn’t know what to do. Dammit, no tongue in her mouth as yet. The thought that he would be the man to teach her everything made him want to sing to the dimpled plaster cherubs that adorned the corners of the ceiling in the Arbuckle drawing room. When he forced himself to step back, he said, “I will write to your cousin at The Coombes. Perhaps he would like to see me sooner rather than later, since it seems that you and I might be drawing closer.”

“This drawing closer business—Jason, I am only recently arrived in town. What about that earl who surely must be waiting in the wings somewhere, just waiting to pop out onto my stage, doubtless reciting lovely verses to my eyebrows—”

He kissed her again, a light kiss on the tip of her nose, and left her, whistling. She stood there in the middle of Lady Arbuckle’s drawing room and listened to his boots striding solid across the marble entryway, heard murmured voices, then the opening and closing of the front door. Then there remained nothing but the soft silence of the early afternoon, soft drizzling rain pattering lightly against the windows. Did it always rain in England? Well, truth be told, it rained more in Ireland. She was alone. It seemed to her in that moment that she had been alone most of her life. She wondered what would happen. He had very nearly asked her to marry him, hadn’t he? She hugged herself. She knew it, felt it deep within her, and wondered at it. He’d all but asked her.

JASON ASKED HER for the exact direction of The Coombes that evening at a musicale at Lord Baldwin’s spacious town house on Berkeley Square. Judith gave it to him, and said, voice as demure as a nun’s, “I am considering visiting Italy whilst you are in Ireland with my cousin, studying his breeding methods, eyeing his horses, and attending races.”

Jason felt a sock of lust that nearly knocked him over; he knew he was getting hard, just standing there, for God’s sake, just looking at her.

He said in that easy voice of his, “I understand that Venice is lovely in the fall. Not too cold as yet, the winds still calm over the canal. My brother and I visited Venice some three years ago. And yes, both of us got drunk enough one night to fall into the canal.”

“I think perhaps I should prefer Florence. There are so many splendid artists working there. No drunken young gentlemen to disturb me.”

“There are drunken young gentlemen everywhere in the world to disturb you, don’t fool yourself.”

She giggled, shaking her head at him. “When you visit The Coombes, you will be attending the races with men who will surely try to fleece you.”

Jason said, stroking his chin, “I might do some fleecing of my own. Now, I’m not at all certain about Florence. All those splendid artists died out centuries ago. Unfortunately, I fear their thousands of paintings, all of the Madonna and Child, will endure forever. We will never be free of them.”

She was hiccupping she was trying so hard not to laugh. He patted her cheek, and left her, saying only over his shoulder in that offhand way of his that he was meeting with some friends.

She called out, serious now, “You mean there might be some information about your father?”

He only shrugged and left her again, this time without turning back.

Judith watched him until he was gone from the immense ballroom. She turned when Lady Arbuckle said, “He hasn’t asked you to marry him, has he?”

Judith said slowly, “No, not yet. He is very beautiful, don’t you think?”

Lady Arbuckle said matter-of-factly, “All consider the Sherbrooke twins to be the most handsome men in England. They will probably only grow more so as they get older, just as their Aunt Melissande has. She’s at least forty-five now, surely past any excuse for beauty, but it just isn’t so. Young men still swoon when she passes them on the street or see her across a room. The twins will be no different, for they are cast in her image, an odd thing, but there it is. Their parents have never been pleased about this miscarriage of heredity.”

“And one of these perfect young gentlemen will propose to me. That is quite remarkable, isn’t it?”

Lady Arbuckle started to turn away, then stopped, searched Judith’s face, and said, “I have heard that the younger son, the one who you believe will propose to you, is not as constant as his brother, Lord Hammersmith. I have seen it myself. Jason Sherbrooke sees a young lady who pleases him—as you have pleased him, Judith—and he devotes himself to her entirely, for a short while—and then he is gone. Will he actually propose marriage? I don’t know, but I must doubt it. I suggest you take great care, Judith. He is a wild young man, more honorable than most, perhaps, but I was told that he keeps a mistress on Mount Street.”

“I did not know that,” Judith said slowly. “I wonder what she looks like?”

“I daresay it isn’t appropriate for you to know that. I daresay that you shouldn’t even admit to knowing what a mistress is.” Lady Arbuckle paused a moment, studied her face. “However, I doubt she has your looks or your charm.”

“I hope that is true.”

“I wonder,” said Lady Arbuckle slowly. “I wonder what will happen. I wish to leave soon, Judith. That soprano from Rome made my eardrums ache. I wish to write my husband, to see if he is well.”

“I am sure he is just fine. I’m ready, Aunt. Jason said that he was going to meet friends. I wonder if instead he was going to Mount Street to visit his mistress?”

“I would guess the mistress.”

“Do you think he wanted me so much he had to go to her?”

Lady Arbuckle laughed. “I don’t think a man ever needs stimulation in order to visit a mistress.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

JAMES FELL ONTO his back, mouth open, trying to suck breath back into his body. Beside him lay his new wife, who, if he was not mistaken, was smiling like a fool even as she yawned.

When he could finally speak again, he said, catching up her hand in his, “The backs of your knees excited me infinitely.”

“Ha!”

He grinned up at the ceiling. “Very well, you wish me to be truthful here.” He turned on his side and looked down at her. Her hair was tangled and wild around her head, her face glowing, her body languid, so soft he wanted to begin kissing her ears and work his way down to her heels. “I’ll skip the prelude. To kiss your belly, that was rather fine, Corrie.”

She moistened her mouth with her tongue. She was embarrassed at his frank speaking, he saw it, and was charmed. “And kissing you and caressing you with my mouth, between those lovely long legs of yours—”

She came up against him and bit his shoulder. “You will not embarrass me, James Sherbrooke, do you hear me? You won’t speak anymore of kissing my belly or touching me all over and kissing me all over until I nearly shook myself out of my skin.”

He laughed, pulled her tight against him. “I pleased you.”

She bit his shoulder again, then licked it. The taste of him excited her, made her feel soft and compliant, and perhaps that wasn’t all that good a thing, but for the moment, pressed naked against him, she would accept it. She whispered against his warm flesh, “How do you know you pleased me, James? Perhaps I am still waiting to be pleased, still anxious and afraid that there is really nothing pleasant at all with this sex business.”

He nibbled on her ear, got a mouthful of her hair, and, without saying a word, moved his hand down her back until he was spreading his fingers across her hips. She waited, wanting, wanting, but too embarrassed to ask him to—then those magic fingers of his curved inward, and when they touched her, eased inside her, she sucked in her breath, wrapped her arms around his neck, and kissed him.

“Damn,” he said into her mouth, “it’s a good thing I am a young man. You nearly killed me, and now you want me to pleasure you again, five minutes later.”

“Five minutes? That long?” He looked into her eyes as his fingers found her. When her eyes went wild and his fingers sent her into her orgasm, he took those lovely cries into his mouth.

He came into her, hard and deep, his eyes nearly rolling back in his head. She was nearly squeezing the breath out of him she was clutching his back so tightly, and when she whispered against his neck, “James, I would kill for you,” he was gone. He wondered in those incredible moments, if he would ever slow down with her. Or she with him.

He doubted it, he thought later, doubted the feelings he had for her that made him instantly hard, the feelings that were growing almost faster than he could accept, and wasn’t that a fine thing? It was James who pulled the covers over them.

He fell asleep, her soft mouth whispering kisses all over his face. Had he known what she was thinking, sleep would have been the last thing on his mind.

NORTHCLIFFE HALL

Douglas Sherbrooke looked meditatively at the thin slices of ham on his luncheon plate, so thin he could see his fork through them. “I wonder what our eldest son is doing at this moment.”

Alexandra pretended confusion, which made him laugh. “You mean right now? When he and Corrie should be consuming food in the inn parlor since it is time for luncheon? He is your son, Douglas; both of us know exactly what is going on at this exact moment.”

“Perhaps he is sleeping. A man must restock himself.”

She cleared her throat. “He is only twenty-five. I doubt much restocking is necessary. Whatever he is doing, there is no food involved.” She rolled her eyes. “I’m his mother; it’s difficult, but I suppose I must accept it.”

Her husband grinned at her. “You believe our Jason is still a virgin?”

He felt peas hit his face. He began to pick them up and put them on his plate.

She said, resting her chin on her clasped hands, “I happened to catch Jason after his first encounter with a girl.”

That caught her husband’s attention. “How is that possible? I’ve always told them never to let their mother, well, as to that they were under strict orders—”

“I know what you told them. I know everything, Douglas, never forget that. Jason was unlucky. I happened to be walking out of the tack room in the stable when he nearly ran me down. He gave me this sloppy grin, realized who I was, and turned beet-red and started stuttering. And I said, ‘Jason, what is wrong with you?’ even though I well knew what had happened up in the hayloft. Our boy gulped once, twice, then said, ‘It was the most wonderful thing in my life!’ Then he looked perfectly horrified at what he’d blurted out to his mother, and ran away. Oh dear, Douglas, he was fourteen.”

Douglas, wisely, didn’t say a single thing.

Alexandra sighed, tucked down two more bites of ham, and said, “It’s a blessing James doesn’t consider Corrie a sister. That would be disastrous.”

“My lord!”

Douglas was on his feet in an instant. “What is it, Ollie?”

Ollie Trunk, a grizzled veteran on the never-ending search for bad men, a successful Bow Street Runner for twenty-two years, stood in the doorway, ducked his head in deference to an earl, then said, “I jest got a message from Lord Gray, my lord. He says one of his boys caught up with this young man wot was trying to hire a couple of toughs to come after ye, my lord, no doubt about that.”

“You caught the young man?”

“Well, as to that, he got away, fast and sly he was, but Lord Gray’s boys managed to nab the two toughs and dragged them in to see Lord Gray so’s he could rattle their brains, which he did, and they told him it was ye the young feller we were after, and he were offering buckets of groats to help him kill ye.” Ollie paused, then frowned, a habit of such long-standing that his brow seemed furrowed through and through. “Lord Gray says he believes yer right. This is revenge, my lord. Revenge, through and through, and this young ’un ain’t going to stop until we stops him. Lord Gray is sending two more lads from London to help us keep ye safe. Northcliffe is a mighty big place, even bigger than Ravensworth, so’s we gots to find scores of hidey holes.”

Alexandra said as she slowly rose, “Thank you, Ollie. Lord Gray wrote nothing else?”

Ollie Trunk blushed. “Actually, my lady, the note is fer his lordship here. I was jest so—”

“I appreciate your attention,” Douglas said, and held out his hand. Ollie gave him a twisted-up piece of paper. “Do you wish two more men, Ollie?”

“Yes, my lord. We’ll nab this man, this son of Georges Cadoudal. Aye, it’s revenge. That can make a young man’s blood hot.” And with that, Ollie nodded, blushed again when he looked at Alexandra, and backed out of the dining room.

“But why,” Douglas said slowly, “is the young man’s blood hot?”

At that moment Hollis sailed through the door, cleared his throat, and said, “Some years ago, the earl of Ravensworth used Mr. Ollie Trunk’s services. All worked out well.”

“I wonder what trouble Burke had,” Alex said. “So you approve of him, Hollis?”

“As to that, my lord, we will see. The proof of his abilities will be obvious to all, in due course.”

That was for certain, Douglas thought, aware of the small derringer in his jacket pocket. Then he looked at his butler, really looked.

Hollis glowed, no other word for it. He was standing so straight, Douglas thought he must have gained at least three inches of his younger height back. “May I inquire as to your progress with your lady, Hollis?”

“She is very near to the sticking point, my lord. I dare say that another day or two in my company will have her yelling yes.”

Alexandra said, “I can’t imagine why she wouldn’t be singing hallelujahs at the thought of being your wife, Hollis. You are magnificent, any woman would bless her stars to marry you.”

“Just so, my lady, just so. As you may remember, Annabelle knew my precious Miss Plimpton. Her present hesitation is because she is concerned that my feelings for Miss Plimpton may still be too strong.”

“Good God, Hollis,” Douglas said. “Miss Plimpton has been dead these forty years!”

“Forty-two years and six and one months, my lord.”

Alexandra said, “That is surely enough time to cleanse out all residual feelings you cherished for Miss Plimpton.”

“That’s as may be, my lady,” Hollis said. “But Annabelle frets. She wants my heart whole.”

“And will she have your heart whole, Hollis?” Alex asked.

“As you said, my lady, forty years have passed. I have told Annabelle that an old heart has more free space in it than a young heart, more room to take into itself the most profound of feelings and sentiments.”

“When will we meet her, Hollis?”

“She, my lord, has consented to have tea with you and your ladyship this very afternoon. Actually, I am here to inform you of this felicitous news. Ollie’s news was perhaps a bit more important, so I allowed him to precede me.”

“Er, that is quite splendid, Hollis. Have Cook make her lemon seed cakes.”

“It is done, my lord. Annabelle will be here at precisely four o’clock. I, myself, will fetch her from that lovely quaint village of Abington, where she has resided now for nearly four months.”

“Abington is a charming village,” Alex said. “Does Miss Trelawny have relatives there, Hollis?”

“It is Mrs. Trelawny, my lady. Annabelle has been widowed for many years now. She’s all alone, but her husband left her a neat competence so she is quite comfortable. I, naturally, will make her more comfortable than she is now.”

“Why did she select Abington to live?” Douglas asked. “It is lovely, to be sure, but not the center of anything I can think of.”

“I much enjoy Abington myself, my lord, indeed I have spent a good deal of time there over the years, going through the church records. They extend well back into the thirteenth century, if you can believe that. It turns out, my lord, that Annabelle also admires the church, and indeed, that is how I met her, walking to the rectory.”

Douglas nodded, thinking of the sheaf of ancient church records he’d bought from Noddington Abbey, and given to Hollis years before.

Douglas rose when the door closed on Hollis. “I must speak to Mother.” He sighed. “I do not believe it would do Hollis’s prospects any good if she is present to meet Mrs. Trelawny.”

Alex said, “No, she would likely have Hollis’s lady running from the Hall, shrieking or crying. She is so remarkably healthy. It quite makes one shudder.”

He laughed, walked past her, only to turn and lift her up in his arms and swing her around. She was laughing down at him, his face nearly in her bosom, when the door opened and a familiar sour voice said, “Unseemly! Disgraceful! Why haven’t you taught this girl how to behave, Douglas? You have been married to her more years than I can bear to count, and still she is poking herself out and encouraging you to wildness.”

“Hello, Mother.”

“Hello, Mother-in-law.”

“I have decided to have my luncheon in here. You will both sit down since I have matters of grave concern to discuss with you.”

Douglas said from his impressive height, still holding his wife in his arms, “Do forgive us, Mother, but Alex and I have very important matters to attend to. We will visit with you at dinner.”

“No! Wait, it’s my maid, the slovenly creature, she isn’t—”

They missed the last, thank God. The two servants who saw the earl and countess dash from the dining room, laughing like children, cutting off the dowager’s moldy voice, would have cheered, if Hollis wouldn’t have berated them endlessly for such behavior.

“Miserable old besom,” Tilda, the downstairs maid, whispered to Ellie behind her hand. “She’ll live forever, my ma told me, said her meanness keeps her healthy. She said she wouldn’t doubt if she kept a flask filled with rum in her bedchamber.”

“I’ll ask that poor maid of hers,” said Ellie. “Rum? Hmmm.” The two of them laughed.

Douglas and Alexandra ran, hand in hand, into the bright cold afternoon, to the gazebo that Douglas’s grandfather had built on a small hill above an ornamental pond.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

“SIT DOWN, MY dear,” Douglas said. “We’ve things to speak about.”

Alexandra sat watching her husband pace up and down the length of the gazebo.

Douglas said, “Talking to you about this helps focus my brain. Georges’s two children and his sister-in-law left Paris immediately after his death.”

“Yes.”

“I received a message that the children traveled to Spain, but soon thereafter they were gone again. I still don’t know where they ended up. Nor have I been able to find out what sort of financial situation they were in at the time of their father’s death.”

Alexandra said matter-of-factly, “There must be sufficient money, for the son has funds to hire men to kill you.”

He nodded. “The son is currently in London, but that could change in an instant.”

“He will make a mistake, Douglas, you’ll see, and we’ll get him.”

“I’ll tell you, Alex, the thought of this young man hiding behind a tree, just waiting for me to come into his gun range, is beyond galling. I want him; I want him on my own terms.”

“I’ve begun to wonder about the warnings that Lord Wellington received. Maybe the son arranged for you to learn that Georges Cadoudal was involved. Maybe, when he used your name, he wanted you to know exactly who he was. He wants drama, attention. He wants you to admire his prowess, his perseverance.”

“He wanted me to know he was coming to kill me? Aye, I see. A warning then. That first time he shot at me was a warning. He wanted me to be afraid, he wanted to play with me before he killed me, but before he killed me, he wanted me to know who he was. I wish we knew why he’s doing this.”

It was time, Douglas thought, as they walked back to the Hall, time for him and his sons to bring their attention closer to home. When they stepped into the elegant entrance hall, still hand in hand, the three servants who observed them would swear that the earl and countess had enjoyed a splendid interlude in the gazebo. Douglas, realizing this quickly enough, kissed his wife thoroughly, and then he left her to work in the estate room. He sat at his desk for ten minutes longer, then walked quickly to his bedchamber, where he found his wife sitting on a chair facing the large windows, humming as she mended one of his shirts. She smiled up at him, a dimple deepening in her cheek, and slowly began to unfasten the long line of buttons on the front of her dress. He thought that being married a good long time wasn’t a bad thing. The years tuned minds together, at least some of the time. The years added more space in the heart, just as Hollis had said.

He leaned down to kiss her, his hands already busy with hers on those buttons.

AT PRECISELY FOUR o’clock that afternoon, Hollis opened wide the double doors to the drawing room, stood there, tall, straight, thick white hair flowing beautifully, nearly to his shoulders, looking just like God. He waited until he had the full attention of the earl and countess, and said grandly, “May I introduce to you Mrs. Annabelle Trelawny, born in that lovely town of Chester.”

“With such a splendid introduction,” came a soft low voice, “I fear you will be vastly disappointed.”

Annabelle Trelawny looked like a small, plump fairy, light on her feet, ever so graceful. She also looked at once embarrassed and so pleased she looked ready to burst her stays.

“Do allow me to seat you here, Annabelle,” Hollis said, and led her tenderly to the very feminine chair opposite the earl and countess. “Are you comfortable, my dear?”

Annabelle straightened her skirts, smiled up at Hollis like he was indeed God, and said in a soft, well-bred voice, “Oh yes, I am perfectly fine, thank you, William.”

William? Douglas supposed he knew that Hollis’s first name was William, but it had been so very long, he doubted if he could have recalled it on his own. William Hollis, a good name.

Annabelle Trelawny didn’t have the look of a rapacious grandmother; she had sweet, deep crinkles around her eyes and mouth, from laughter, Alex thought. And such a sweet face. Her hair was dark with silver threaded through, her eyes a rich dark brown, intelligent eyes that saw a lot. Her skin was soft, unblemished. When she spoke, her voice was as kind as her face. “My lord, my lady, it is gracious of you to invite me to tea. William, naturally, has told me so much about the both of you, and your sons, James and Jason.”

Alex was trying to motion Hollis to sit down, but he would have none of it. He remained standing behind his beloved’s chair, looking both austere and infatuated, an unlikely combination, but it was true. “James isn’t here at the moment. He and his new wife are on their honeymoon. Our son Jason will be here shortly. He is looking forward to meeting you, ma’am. May I pour you a cup of tea, Mrs. Trelawny?”

Annabelle smiled a smile so sweet that it was obvious why it had smitten Hollis, and nodded. “I prefer a bit of milk, my lady.”

It was Hollis who delivered his beloved’s tea and tenderly placed it in her white hands. “Allow me to bring you the tray of cakes that Cook prepared, Annabelle. I know you like the almond biscuits.”

Annabelle proved her liking for almond biscuits, eating three of them, all the while nodding and smiling and listening, saying little until Jason came into the drawing room, windblown, dressed in buckskins and an open-necked white shirt, showing his tanned throat. He came to an abrupt halt, and said immediately, “Are you Mrs. Trelawny? It is a pleasure to meet you, ma’am,” and he walked to where she sat, picked up her hand, and lightly kissed it.

“I am Jason, ma’am.”

Annabelle gazed up at him, and said slowly, “You are quite a delight to behold,” and gave him a smile less grandmotherly than the one she’d given his parents.

“Thank you, ma’am,” Jason said, so used to looks like hers that it didn’t faze him. “Hollis has told both my brother and me that we are only bearable. It is you, ma’am, who is Hollis’s delight.”

Now that was smoothly done, Douglas thought, eyeing his son with approval.

Hollis cleared his throat. “Master Jason, I fear that this display of polite affection is a bit on the overdone side.”

“Hollis, are you jealous?”

Hollis puckered up, looked like God readying to blast the stone tablets. Jason, surprised and dismayed, wished he could take himself back to the paddocks.

Annabelle said easily, wanting to pat that very lovely hand of his, “I don’t blame William for being jealous, Jason. You are quite the most beautiful young man I have ever seen in my life. Goodness, you don’t look a thing like your parents—oh dear, that wasn’t at all what I should have said. I do apologize.”

Douglas said, “My sons look exactly like their aunt, something that fries my innards everytime I am forced to face it. It fries my wife’s innards as well.”

Annabelle laughed at that. “I have always found it amazing how blood manifests itself in people, particularly in children. Is it true that your brother looks just like you, Jason?”

“It is true, ma’am.” He turned to Hollis, who was still standing stiff as a poker. “May I bring you a cup of tea, Hollis? I know that you like a twist of lemon.”

Hollis unbent to his beautiful young charge. “You may, Master Jason.”

Douglas was relieved to see Hollis unpucker. He had never seen Hollis display such emotion, particularly an emotion so low as jealousy.

Alexandra said, “Tell us, Jason, what does Bad Boy think of the new mare you brought to him?”

“He’s in love, Mother. I left him mooning, his head resting on the paddock fence, gazing upon his beloved with bloodshot eyes, since I doubt he slept much last night, thinking about her. The mare isn’t in heat yet, so she just swishes her tail at Bad Boy. There might be a bit of a wait for him.”

It occurred to Alexandra that such talk of mating horses wasn’t all that appropriate in the drawing room. She smiled at Annabelle. “So you are from Chester, Mrs. Trelawny, so very close to the Welsh border. A beautiful city and countryside, both my husband and I enjoyed ourselves when we visited the area.”

Hollis said, “After Annabelle’s mother died when she was a child, her father took her to live in Oxford. It was there she met Miss Plimpton and enjoyed vast numbers of hours in her company. After Annabelle married, she left Oxford. I believe you told me that you and Bernard traveled extensively.”

Annabelle nodded. “Oh yes, my husband wasn’t happy breathing the same air for too many weeks in a row. He had to be off, and he took me with him.”

Jason said, “Speaking of travels, Mother, did you and Father ever visit The Coombes in western Ireland? That’s where Judith hails from.”

“I don’t believe I’ve heard of The Coombes,” Douglas said.

“I’m going to write her cousin, see if I can’t pay him a visit. Oh, Father, would you like to come riding with me later? I think exercise would calm Bad Boy down.”

Alexandra said, “If you really wish to, Douglas, then I will get my gun and ride beside you.”

Douglas patted his wife’s hand and said to Annabelle, “We’ve had some problems here. My wife is concerned. She wants to protect me.”

Hollis cleared his throat. “I have told Annabelle what has been happening, my lord. She has advised that we must remain calm, that we should observe every new face we see closely, for signs of evil, for this assault on your lordship is evil, she believes, and evil cannot be hidden if one is vigilant.”

“Er, thank you, Mrs. Trelawny,” Douglas said quickly, seeing that Jason was regarding the lady with something close to awe.

“Yes,” Alexandra added, “we are grateful for your perceptions.”

Ten minutes later, Alexandra was left alone with Annabelle Trelawny while Hollis saw to a problem in the kitchens. She said immediately, “You mustn’t worry that Hollis is still heartbroken over Miss Plimpton. Hollis always knows what he’s about.”

“Oh no, that doesn’t really worry me,” Annabelle said comfortably. “He’s right. I did know Miss Plimpton.” Annabella actually shuddered. “She was six years older than I and fancied that she knew everything. She was officious, my lady, but of course I would never tell my dear William that. I’ll never forget one time when he visited Miss Plimpton. I hadn’t yet left the house when I heard her tell him that her soul was fashioned in exactly the proper way to assist his soul to perfection. I would have thrown a vase at her, but dear William said something to the effect that his soul needed all the help it could get. Her death was really rather stupid, rather in keeping with her character. She was so busy telling one of her father’s parishioners all the errors of his ways that she didn’t see a step and fell off it, hit her head, and it was all over.”

Alexandra said, “Blessed hell—er, excuse me—but how very amazing this all is.”

“Well, perhaps I shouldn’t be pouring out all this vinegar, but the fact is, if Miss Plimpton had lived, she would have made the poor man miserable.”

When Hollis came back into the drawing room a few minutes later, the ladies merely exchanged a glance and that was that. A perfectly pleasant conversation followed among the three of them, about nothing and everything. Annabelle patted Hollis’s hand several times, easily done since his right hand was sitting very close to her shoulder, and said, “I have imposed myself for an exceedingly long time on her ladyship, William.”

Hollis hurried around the chair to assist her, although she didn’t need any assistance at all. By visual reckoning, Alexandra thought she was at least fifteen years Hollis’s junior. Was his name really William? But, the odd thing was, they looked very natural standing side by side, and when Hollis took her arm, he gave her such a sweet smile that Alexandra thought it matched hers, and hers was potent indeed.

When Hollis reappeared that evening at the dinner hour, he gave everyone a placid smile and announced that he and Annabelle were going to be married. Soon, he added, since a man couldn’t count on hanging about forever, and besides, a man wanted his wife with him at Christmas, when he placed a present in her hands and earned her gratitude.

“What sort of gratitude could Mrs. Trelawny show Hollis?” Jason wanted to know as he watched Hollis glide in his stately manner from the drawing room, but he knew. The thought of Hollis and Mrs. Trelawny even kissing, much less taking off their clothes, made his innards cramp up. His father, knowing exactly what he was thinking, threw his napkin at him, and said, “Gratitude is gratitude at any age. Never forget, Jason, if a man has the will and the parts, he’ll do just fine until he’s planted deep.”

Jason was hard-pressed not to hoot with laughter, but one look at his mother’s face stilled him. He cleared his throat. “Judith and Lady Arbuckle have finally agreed to come for a visit. I believe they will arrive tomorrow.”

“Excellent,” Jason’s mother said. “I have this feeling that we should perhaps get to know Judith McCrae a bit better. What do you think, Jason?”

“Oh yes,” Jason said. “Oh yes,” and he left the dining room, whistling.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

JASON LOOKED LIKE a proud parent as the girl he planned to marry said to his father, “I have heard that Jason can tame any wild animal he finds.”

How did she know that?

“It’s true,” Douglas said slowly, his eyes on his son, who looked so besotted he was in danger of drooling. “He found an injured marten when he was five years old. The marten allowed Jason to wrap him in his coat and bring him home. He kept it in his bedchamber for two weeks. There have been a long line of creatures for him to tend since then.”

Judith saw that Jason wanted to know how she knew this and said simply, “Lord Pomeroy told me. He said he should know, since you burped up milk on his shirt when you were eight months old.

“I also heard it said that you even train cats to run in the cat races.”

“Who told you that?”

She lowered her eyes just a moment, a maneuver Douglas recognized and admired. “Why, I believe it was Corrie’s vampire who told me that. Devlin said he’d always wanted a racing cat, but there was some sort of approval that had to be granted. Is this true?”

Her dark eyes twinkled outrageously as she added demurely, “Devlin also told me that the cat races were held during the day, so what was he to do?”

“He should sod off,” Jason said under his breath.

Douglas said, holding his grin back, “The Harker brothers, old now, but still in charge of all racing rules, demand to know the bona fides of anyone who wishes to race cats. Jason here, even though cats don’t treat him to infinite trust as do other animals, still race well for him.” Douglas arched a black brow. “You spoke of Corrie’s vampire. Did you know that Devlin’s grandfather, the old duke, never left his house for the last five years of his life? Kept all the windows covered, not a hint of sun did he allow in. So Devlin is evidently following in his path, is he?”

“He does wear a hat when the sun is strong,” Jason said. “I think James wants to drive a stake through his heart, a rather black heart, according to James. With his bare hands, I believe I heard him say.”

“Oh dear,” Alexandra said under her breath and stared helplessly at the open doorway where the dowager countess of Northcliffe stood, those bright old eyes of hers glued on Judith.

No hope for it, she thought, and rose, sorry that she hadn’t had the time to warn Judith. “Mother-in-law, this is Miss Judith McCrae, here with Lady Francis Arbuckle, her aunt. Judith, this is Lady Lydia.”

“Ma’am,” Judith said, rising immediately and giving the dowager a graceful curtsy suited for a duchess. “It is a pleasure to finally meet you. Jason has told me about you.”

“He has, has he?” The dowager humphed loudly and took herself to a large winged chair and sat herself down.

“I asked Hollis to fetch me some nutty buns. Where are they?”

“Why don’t Judith and I find out?” Jason was on his feet, his hand reaching for Judith’s when the dowager said, “Oh no. I want the girl to remain here. Jason, you go get my nutty buns for me. Now, girl, you have a cheap Irish name. Who are your parents? How is Lady Arbuckle related to you? Where is Lady Arbuckle?”

“She went to her room, a headache, I believe.”

Douglas said, “Mother, Alex already told you about Judith. She isn’t here for an inquisition. Let Alex pour you a cup of tea and give one of your lovely smiles to our young guest.”

The dowager said, “Young lady, do you know that the Virgin Bride visits the ladies of the house?”

Judith, mouth ajar, said, “No, ma’am. I haven’t yet met the Virgin Bride. Jason has mentioned her, as did Corrie, but I don’t know anything about her.”

“She is a ghost, you ninny, a real ghost that my dear son Douglas refuses to admit lives here. The poor thing was left widowed even before she was a wife, and thus her name. I don’t believe it, of course, but my daughter-in-law here—who has more hair than she deserves and the color simply doesn’t fade, which is a pity since it is such a vulgar shade—and wouldn’t you think it would as she’s gained years? She believes in the Virgin Bride, claims that she’s visited her innumerable times, but will this famous ghost bother to tell her the name of the man trying to kill my son? No, she won’t, and I am tired of it all! I don’t think the Virgin Bride finds you worthy anymore, Alexandra. She finds you paltry and loose, always sticking our your bosom so that men will admire you, and wouldn’t you think that such a bosom would disappear as she’s gained years?”

“Er, I really couldn’t say, ma’am,” Judith said and shot the countess an agonized look. Alexandra merely rolled her eyes, poured the tea, added exactly one small teaspoon of milk, and carried the cup to her mother-in-law.

The dowager eyed the tea, handed the cup back to her and said, “There is too much milk in there. It looks soggy. I have told you countless times how to prepare my tea, yet you still can’t manage something even that simple.”

Alexandra smiled down at the old woman she’d known and suffered nearly thirty years of her life. Something unfamiliar washed through her, something hot and deliciously free, and it filled her brain to overflowing. She never stopped smiling. “If you don’t like the tea, ma’am, I suggest that you pour it yourself.” She set the teacup down on the small table beside the dowager and walked away.

The dowager was so shocked by this unexpected behavior that she was speechless, for perhaps nine seconds. “It is your responsibility as the countess of Northcliffe to pour the tea, young lady! I didn’t want you to be responsible, but my poor Douglas had to marry you, so that was that. But look at you, speaking back to me, your words all sly and mean—”

Douglas rose, tall and straight. He looked at his mother dispassionately, wondering why he’d allowed her reign of terror to continue for so very long. Respect, he thought. Damnable respect drummed into his head from the cradle, even though it wasn’t merited in his mother’s case. He said easily, every inch the earl, “Alex is right, ma’am. If you don’t like your tea, then pour it yourself. Now, I want you to try for a bit of charming conversation with our guest.”

“Why is she even here? Our Jason is far too young to be wed. Poor James, nearly as young as Jason, having to shackle himself to that little baggage, Corrie Tybourne-Barrett and—”

Douglas walked to his mother’s chair, leaned down, and lifted her out of the chair, his hands in her armpits. He straightened, and she dangled by a couple of inches off the beautiful Aubusson carpet upon which she’d dumped countless cups of tea because it was a rug that Alex had bought and placed in the room. She was very heavy, his mother, probably nearly as heavy as he was. He looked her straight in her eyes, even managed to smile. “You will not say another derogatory word about Corrie. You will not say another derogatory word to my wife. Indeed, you will not say another derogatory word about anyone. Do you understand me, Mother?”

The dowager shrieked, threw her head back and shrieked to the ceiling. Douglas, instead of letting her down, merely carried her to the drawing room door, kicked it open, and carried his mother away, still shrieking, but now she was adding some quite unrestrained curses. They heard him say calmly, “That is rather vulgar, Mother.”

The dowager shrieked again, louder.

Alexandra stared after her husband, her look bemused. She said at last, “Well, it’s about time, don’t you think, Jason?”

“Yes, Mother, you did very well and so did Father. Judith, you don’t realize it, but something very unexpected just happened. My grandmother isn’t a very nice old lady—well, truth be told, she’s a harridan. My mother has always let her walk on her back, always been kind even when that old witch tortures her mercilessly, but no longer. And Father actually carried her out of here. Oh, I can’t wait for James to hear this. Well done, Mother, well done.”

“I wonder if she will be kind to Corrie,” Alexandra said. “I also wonder what threats your father is making at this moment.”

“I can’t imagine anyone not being kind to Corrie,” Judith said, still staring at the open drawing room door, where muffled shrieks still sounded.

Jason laughed. “She even manages to insult Hollis. I do wonder how long it will take grandmother to realize she’s no longer in charge here.”

“I trust your father. Her reign is over.” Alexandra stood, her arms crossed over her chest, her chin up, her eyes hard. “It was over such a little thing,” she said, shaking her head. “Never again will that old woman make my stomach ache.” She turned to Judith. “Well, such a spectacle for a guest. I am so sorry, not about what I did, not about what my husband did, I’m sorry at the timing of it. Nearly thirty years—all this time I’ve swallowed my bile and tried to keep the peace.” She began rubbing her hands together. “I cannot believe it took me so very long to put an end to it. Now, I need to speak to your father, Jason, if he is finished with the old bat. We can develop a strategy. What do you think?”

Alexandra didn’t wait for any advice, just sailed out of the drawing room, head high and shoulders squared.

Jason said, “James told me that he and Corrie were going to live at Primrose Hall, a charming house that the first Lord Hammersmith built. He was probably thinking of the insults Corrie would have to endure were they to live here. Now? I wonder. Shall I show you some interesting statues in the east garden, Judith? They’re rather unusual. I think you might like them.”

CORRIE TURNED ON her side, kissed her husband’s mouth, and said, “James, please wake up, please.”

James was instantly awake. “What is this? You want me in the middle of the night? What’s wrong, Corrie? You’re shaking.” He pulled her into his arms, holding her so tight she had trouble breathing. “Did you have a nightmare? It’s over now, all over.”

She pulled back from him. “No, it wasn’t a nightmare, James. I was awake, she woke me up. It’s you, James, not your father. Oh goodness, it’s you. It was the Virgin Bride, I know it was. She visited me because I’m now a part of the family.”

James stared down at her. He believed in the Virgin Bride, but he would never admit to his father that he did. He didn’t want to see his father’s look of amused contempt directed at him. He’d heard stories about how she’d appeared to his father, but still, the earl wouldn’t speak of the ghost without copious sneers and mockery.

He rubbed her back, ran his hands down her arms. “It’s all right now. That’s it. Now, tell me what the Virgin Bride told you.”

“I woke up, felt you next to me, and I was smiling. I was thinking about kissing your belly.” She reared back in his arms and made out his face in the moonlight. It seemed to her that suddenly James was too still, that he’d almost stopped breathing. “Are you all right, James?”

“No. Yes. Kissing my belly? No, no. I’ll get over it. Tell me more.”

“All right. After I kissed your belly then I thought about what else I could do to you—”

“Er, about the ghost, Corrie, start talking about her right now, or else I might be on my knees begging you to do what you were planning.”

“Really? Oh goodness, James—oh yes, the Virgin Bride. Well, I was awake and then I sort of drifted off. But I wasn’t asleep, I’m positive about that. Then she was there, beside the bed, and she was looking down at me. She looked all floaty, sort of wispy, but I could see that she was beautiful, with lots of long, pale hair. She didn’t speak, at least I don’t think she did, but it felt like she was speaking to me, in my mind. She said it was you, James, said you were in danger. She didn’t say anything at all about your father, just you. What is going on? Oh God, what are we going to do? We’re alone here. Do you have a gun?”

“Yes, I have a gun.” He added with barely a pause, “I will buy one for you as well, all right?”

That calmed her as nothing else he could have said. He knew her that well.

“All right, that’s good. What shall we do?”

“I think,” James said slowly, kissing her forehead, “that it’s time you and I went back home.”

“I’m afraid, James.”

“Yes, so am I. Now, can you put this out of your mind until morning?”

She was quiet for a good minute. Then she twisted in his arms and shoved him onto his back. She smiled down at him even as she began to push down the covers. “About your belly, James—”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

IT WAS MIDNIGHT, a time when James, in decent weather, could be found lying on his back on some close-by hillock, gazing up at the stars. But for Jason, midnight was the time to sleep. He awoke with the sun on most mornings, his head clear, full of energy, and ready to take on the world. He many times passed yawning servants in the corridors of Northcliffe.

Moonlight spilled through the windows since Jason refused to have the heavy draperies drawn. If it weren’t so very cold, near to freezing this night, the windows would have been open, cold air on his face, and a pile of blankets to his chin.

He was dreaming of his grandmother. In his dream, he saw her as a young girl. The thing was, though, she looked just like she did today, her face all mottled red with rage and disbelief because his mother had finally told the old woman her reign of terror was over. The only thing different was that his grandmother looked smaller, not different or older. Suddenly, she was yelling at another girl he suddenly saw hiding behind a chair. She threw a doll at the girl.

His dream suddenly changed. His grandmother became the marten he’d saved when he’d been a small boy, and the marten’s breath was warm on his face, its body heavy on his chest, down the length of his body as well and that was strange. He couldn’t breathe, there was something—

Jason woke up, no blurry mind, all of him there and alert, to find Judith lying on top of him, kissing his face.

His heart jumped; the girl he loved was actually here, in his bedchamber, sliding about on top of him, and it wasn’t a dream. He was able, barely, to keep his voice slow and easy. “Judith, you’ve turned me into a bucket of sentiment and lust, but when all is said and done, you shouldn’t be here in my bedchamber at midnight, doing what you’re doing, which is a great pity.”

She laughed, her warm breath fanning his mouth. Then she kissed him again, just a light, tentative kiss, because he knew she had no experience.

“Judith, why are you here?”

She didn’t laugh. He heard nervousness in her voice. “Jason, I came here because I want you. I want you more than you can begin to imagine. I want you more than I did just a minute ago. Don’t send me away. Please.”

Jason didn’t know how it happened, but his arms were around her back, tightening. She felt soft against him, and he knew that within moments he would be hard against her belly and surely that would scare her witless. He kissed her then, keeping his tongue in his own mouth.

She liked that. When he managed to pull himself free, he said with great urgency, “Judith, you shouldn’t be here, it isn’t right. I love you, I’ve told you that—”

She reared up a bit. Her face was shadowed, but he could see those dark eyes of hers clearly enough. “You’ve never told me you loved me. You’ve always played around the point. And then you’ve gone off to your mistress.”

“Very well, listen to me now. I love you. There, is that clear enough for you? Now, you must leave. I can’t accompany you back to your bedchamber because there is no doubt at all in my mind that someone utterly unexpected would magically appear in the corridor and see us.”

She laughed.

“No, listen to me. I’m perfectly serious. Something would wake them up, and they’d come out into the corridor to see us skulking back to your bedchamber. So go now, while I’m still able to let you leave me. You can count on the fact that I’m not off to see any mistress.”

Her eyes were dark, even darker now at midnight. “I don’t want to leave you, Jason. Don’t you want me?”

“Even though you’re a virgin, you can answer that question, Judith. Surely you can feel me against you.”

She squirmed, and he thought he’d die. “Yes,” she whispered against his mouth, “I feel you. I know that part of you somehow comes inside me, and that sounds very strange, but I’ve decided that I want to learn all about it tonight. I’m nearly twenty, after all. I want you to teach me.”

“I can’t do this, I just can’t.” It took all his will to flip her off him and over on her back. When he immediately turned to look down at her, he wondered if it had been such a fine idea. He was balanced on one elbow. His left hand was free to stroke her hair, to touch her cheek, her lips, her chin. She was wearing a virginal white nightgown, a soft white wrapper over it, tied at her waist. His hand hovered then touched her throat. He leaned down and kissed her.

The hand that was on her throat an instant before was suddenly touching her breast. He leaped away from her, rolled off the bed, and came up, breathing hard, to stare down at the girl he loved, lying on her back in the middle of his bed, every naked delightful inch of her only two very soft muslin layers away from him.

She ran her tongue over her bottom lip, an action that nearly made him howl. “You’re incredible, Jason.”

“What? Oh.” He grabbed his dressing gown, but she came quickly up on her knees and pulled it from him. “I would like to stare at you for a while. I’ve never seen a naked man before and I’ve heard that every single inch of you is beautiful. I would like to see for myself that this is indeed a fact. Is that all right?”

“No, it isn’t a good idea. If you look at me even another second, I will leap on you, and it will be all over for both of us.”

“I think I’d like you to leap on me.”

“No, there are consequences to leaping, consequences you wouldn’t like.”

“What does it matter?”

He could but stare at her.

“You love me.”

“Yes, but—”

“Then why can’t you be with me tonight? Why does it matter if we wait?”

He said, his voice austere, like his father’s when he was set upon teaching one of his sons a lesson, “Because a girl is to be a virgin on her wedding night.”

“Does that mean that you want a wedding night with me? Couldn’t we just pretend that this is our wedding night?”

He was shaking, couldn’t help it. He was so wild with lust he didn’t know how he could put words together. He could actually feel his common sense being eaten away around the edges. He said, desperate now, “You want a wedding night now? But what if I get you pregnant? Such things happen, Judith, surely you know that. I can do things to lessen the risk, but—”

“What?”

He closed his eyes a moment. “I can withdraw from you before I spill my seed.”

“Oh. Well, then.” She gave him a siren’s smile. He didn’t see it clearly, but he saw enough of it to nearly stutter himself into the floor. He said slowly, “Th-that would mean marriage.”

“Yes, I suppose it would.”

Jason knew he was ready for marriage, knew he wanted to marry her, and here she was, wanting him, eager for him, and she didn’t want to wait.

Who cared?

He was breathing hard when he pulled her up against him. She was soft and willing and her hair fell nearly to her waist, thick, wonderfully soft hair, hair as dark as her eyes, contrasting dramatically with her skin that was as white as a cloudless moon. And he said into her hair, “If I get you with child, then we will wed very soon, all right?”

“Yes,” she said between kisses, “all right.”

He was twenty-five, old enough not to be awkward or selfish or too fast, but it was difficult. When he had her naked, he wanted to take her in that instant, and he saw the invitation in her eyes, saw it clearly, knew that she wanted him, but he had to make this very nice for her. How could he do that when he was ready to explode? Her hands were all over him, and she was encouraging him, parting her legs to bring him closer against her. When he was trembling he was in such bad shape, she lifted her hips to bring him into her. Oh God, it was more than a man could take, but he sucked in a deep breath and told himself he had to hold back or he would be consigned to that group of pathetic dolts who lost their wits when a naked woman was lying beneath them, their legs spread. No, no, he had to stop thinking like that. He looked down at her, and knew this was her first time and he wasn’t about to muck it up. When his mouth was on her, she began shaking. Then she was sobbing, deep in her throat, hitting her fists against his shoulders. When she reached her orgasm, Jason looked at her face as his fingers now caressed her. Astonishment, that was the first thing he saw in her wide dark eyes, then tearing pleasure, and her eyes went wild and blind. He eased the rhythm of his fingers slowly, very slowly; he came over her and came into her, slow and deep. To his surprise, she began to move against him, drawing him deeper, and he nearly fell off the cliff when she cried out in pain. “Hold on to me, Judith. Just hold on.” He gritted his teeth, and went deep, deeper, and when he touched her womb, he couldn’t hold back any longer. He didn’t want to yell to the ceiling, someone would hear him. He managed to keep that in his brain, but it was difficult. He swallowed his cries, his body heaving over her, and then as suddenly, every thought in his head, every feeling that had raced through him—all of it was hovering around him, indistinct and blurred, like the softest of veils, and it was easy and fine, and he eased down on top of her.

“You didn’t come out of me.”

He froze. “No,” he said slowly, “I forgot.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she whispered against his ear, “it doesn’t matter.”

He managed to kiss her before he fell asleep beside her.

WHEN JASON AWOKE just after sunrise, he was grinning like a fool. Delicious memories raced through him in an instant. He turned, but she was gone.

Well, of course she was gone. He fell over onto his back, stretched, and wondered when she’d left him.

Marriage to Judith McCrae. It would be a very good thing. He imagined, a fatuous smile on his face, making love to her every night, or perhaps twice or even three times a night, then waking up with her every morning. The good Lord knew that he could pleasure a woman in the mornings as well. Himself too. That was a fine image, a fine future for the both of them. He wondered if she’d stop trying to twist him up, keep him guessing about her feelings, keep him off-balance, as if she didn’t want him to know her all the way to her soul.

Jason whistled while he bathed, whistled while he strode down the wide corridor to the stairs, there to take them two at a time, going down.

At the bottom of the stairs stood James, Corrie just behind him.

James said without preamble, “Good. You’re here. I told Corrie you were up with the servants. We’re here because the Virgin Bride visited Corrie last night. We left to come home immediately.”

Corrie stepped forward, stood there at the foot of the stairs, staring up at him, her head cocked to the side, quiet for the moment. Finally, she said, “There is something different about you, Jason. Are you all right? You look rather vacant, and somehow immensely pleased with yourself.”

Jason said not a word to that, just came down and hugged her to him. “My new little sister. The only thing is you’ve been my sister for fifteen years already. Now, both of you, come into the dining room, and tell me what the Virgin Bride had to say.” He held on to Corrie, even as he said to his brother, “I trust you have pleased my little sister.”

James thought of her mouth on him, and coughed.

Corrie immediately said, “Why are you asking him since I’m the object of the pleasing? Can’t I answer that?”

“No, you cannot. Be quiet. James?”

“I would say,” James said slowly, looking from his brother to his wife, “that the two of you have the same look on your faces.”

“Oh dear,” Corrie said. “How is that possible? Jason, surely you haven’t—”

James said, his voice so quiet not even the Virgin Bride could hear him, “Is Judith McCrae here?”

“Yes, she is. Now, as to this look on my face, I ask that you both forget it. She has agreed to be my wife. I will fetch some tea from the kitchen. James, take your bride into the dining room.”

“HAS JASON SHOWN you the infamous gardens with all those lovely shocking statues?”

Judith’s eyes sparkled at Corrie’s question, but she looked around to make sure they were alone before she whispered, “You mean those lovely shocking statues that all appear to be having the time of their lives?”

Corrie laughed. “Yes.” She drew a bit closer. “Which was your favorite?”

There wasn’t a blush on either face. “The one where the man is kissing her in a way one would have to say is rather intimate.”

Corrie gulped. “Ah, what a remarkable coincidence. There are at least fifteen statues and yet we both like the same one. Yes, that one is my favorite as well. It wasn’t before I married James, but—oh goodness, this isn’t at all proper, is it? Well, the fact is, I really didn’t understand what the male statue was doing and what that meant, if you know what I mean.”

“Now I know exactly what you mean,” Judith said, then lowered her head. “Since Jason tells James everything you must know that I went to Jason’s bedchamber last night and seduced him, but the fact of the matter is—”

“The fact is that if I’d only had the chance, I would have tried to lock myself in a small warm room with James as well. It doesn’t matter. You and Jason will be married soon now.” Corrie leaned closer. “The truth is that there was simply never the opportunity, blast it. Nor did James, curse him, give me the least little hint.” She sat back, smiled, a soft smile that held memories for the rest of her days.

“Will you stand beside me, Corrie?”

“I should be delighted. Is this wedding to be soon or will your Aunt Arbuckle insist upon a long engagement and huge numbers of people spilling out of St. Paul’s?”

“I want it to be very soon.” Judith blushed, actually blushed. She pressed her palms against her cheeks. “Oh goodness, all I can think about is sitting on Jason’s bed, staring at him, and he’s standing there perfectly naked. Ah, he looks so very fine.”

“Oh my,” said Corrie.

“It was remarkable.”

Corrie felt both embarrassed and wicked, a delightful combination, but she knew that anyone could walk in on them, and she didn’t want to have to face Jason after hearing about his midnight encounter with Judith. She cleared her throat. “Tell me about how my mother-in-law finally buried the old bat.”

When James walked in a few minutes later, it was to hear Corrie and Judith laughing. That pleased him, and he smiled even as he said from the open doorway, “I have come to fetch both of you. Father wants to tell you where all the guards are stationed here at Northcliffe. He doesn’t want any of you getting accidentally shot.” He paused a moment. “Ah, he also wants to hear if either of you have any more ideas, even though he swears that you’re weak-headed, Corrie, what with your tale of the Virgin Bride visiting you. However, he is loathe to let me out of his sight, so what is one to believe?”

Corrie jumped to her feet. “Yes, I want to hear what your father has to say. How many more guards are there?”

“Two more.”

“He hasn’t told me to my face that I’m weak-headed. Do you think he will?”

“My father is an excellent diplomat. You are still too new to the family to be blasted. However, now that I think of it, your sneer and my father’s aren’t all that different.” He gave each girl an arm.

Lady Arbuckle wasn’t present, Judith telling them that her aunt was resting quite happily in her lovely bedchamber, drinking tea and eating toast.

Annabelle Trelawny was there, as she was nearly every day now. Today, though, her sweet smile was tinged with worry. She said, “I hope you are not displeased at my presence, my lord, but William believes that I have a fine brain. He wanted to see if I could be of any assistance at all. Now, this dream of Corrie’s.”

“It wasn’t a dream,” Alexandra said.

“Ha,” Douglas said.

“The point of the whole thing,” Corrie said, sitting forward, her hands clasped in her lap, “is that the Virgin Bride made it clear to me it is James who is in danger. Then she sort of faded away.”

“Then why was I shot at?” Douglas said.

“I don’t have an answer to that, sir.”

“It’s perfectly obvious that she would come to you since you’re now James’s wife,” said Alexandra. “It doesn’t mean she isn’t worried about Douglas as well, but since you are now James’s wife, he must be your first concern.”

Corrie said, “I wonder why she didn’t tell me who was behind this?”

No one had an answer for that. Alexandra said, “I have sometimes thought there are things she doesn’t know. In other words, a ghost isn’t omniscient.”

“But she knew you were taken by Georges Cadoudal,” Douglas said, then looked like he wanted to shoot himself. He closed down tighter than a clam, didn’t say another word.

Annabelle’s lovely white brow furrowed in concentration. “Why wouldn’t any young man want to kill the people he believed responsible for his father’s death?”

Douglas said, “That’s a good point, Mrs. Trelawny, but Georges and I weren’t enemies; I had nothing to do with his assassination. Surely his son must know that. But it hasn’t seemed to matter.”

“And now James has been added to the list. Why on earth would Georges’s son want to kill James? They must be about the same age. They’ve never met.”

The discussion continued until Hollis cleared his throat. “Cook wishes to feed all of you now. My lord, my lady, you will please rise and come into the dining room.”

“Ah, William,” Annabelle said as Hollis assisted her, “you are such a masterful speaker. Wellington should beg you to deal with those ridiculous French. Can you imagine, they’re rebelling again?”

“Oh yes,” said Hollis. “The French must needs fight against themselves; they must needs fight against others. Disagreement and perversity sing through their blood, poor blighters.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

The Devil gets up to the belfry by the vicar’s skirts.

THOMAS FULLER

IT WAS THE end of November. In England, in Corrie’s experience, that meant unrelenting cold, so much wind you couldn’t keep a bonnet on your head, and endless invading dampness that made your bones ache and your teeth chatter.

But not today. Today in southern England, at least, the sun was high overhead and clouds were fat and white against a brilliant blue sky. There wasn’t a hint of fog, not a breath of wind, only abundant sweet fresh air that wafted about your head, making you smile and breathe deeply.

“Just incredible,” Corrie said to one of the hunting dogs that trotted at her side, his tail a waving flag, as she walked toward the stable where James, Jason, and a half dozen stable lads were breeding the new mare to Bad Boy.

In her pocket she carried the small derringer James had bought her two days before. She’d practiced firing it, and James admitted yesterday afternoon, after watching her shoot for some ten minutes, that she was a natural. He sounded peeved about her skill, and that made her grin at him, wickedness overflowing in that grin, and he picked her up and whirled her around and around until she was dizzy and laughing so hard she could barely hang on. Then he’d carried her into a small maple copse and laid her down on his coat beneath a fir tree. Ah, so very nice that was. So it had been on the cold side. Who cared? It wasn’t cold at all today. Hmmm.

Corrie was smiling even as she quickened her pace. She heard the mare whinny, heard Bad Boy stomping. She came to the paddock, leaned her arms against the wooden railing, and looked toward James.

No, she saw immediately, it wasn’t James, it was Jason. How could she have been deceived even for an instant, no matter that he was standing some thirty feet away, examining Bad Boy’s front hoof?

Where was James? He should be here. But then she knew, and her heart plummeted. He was in danger.

She shouted, “Jason! Where is James?”

Jason dropped Bad Boy’s hoof and strode over to her. “Good morning, Corrie. I expected James to be here before now. He’s probably in the estate room reviewing documents with Father. He’ll be here sooner or later. Stay, Corrie, James would want you to.”

She was torn. James was on his way here. Very well, she’d wait. She settled herself on the paddock railing. Two minutes passed. “I can’t do this. Something’s wrong.” Jason, who’d been breathing a heartfelt sigh of relief, froze in his tracks. She said to the back of his head, “Forgive me, Jason, but I’m worried. I’ll go look for him. I’m afraid. You must be careful too, Jason. This man who is after James, he might not know that you are not he.”

Jason turned and walked to her, squeezed her arm. “Yes, I know, and yes, I understand you very well. I will be surrounded by people. But I wish you would stay here, where James knows you are. He’s probably still in the house; when he comes, he’ll bring Judith here with him.” He grinned up at her there, still seated on the railing. “If she’s going to be the wife of a horse breeder, she should understand what it’s all about.” Then he took her hands in his and separated them, held them tightly. “Don’t, Corrie. Everything will be all right, I promise you.”

“But you can’t know, you—”

“Ah, Mrs. Trelawny is here in her very smart landau. Excellent. Stay still, Corrie, and stop worrying.” He gave her another pat and shouted, “Lovejoy, let’s see how the mare’s doing. That’s right, that’s right, bring her out, slowly, SLOWLY! All right, that’s fine. Hold her still now.”

Bad Boy wanted the mare desperately. Jason had covered Bad Boy’s front hooves with soft cotton stockings so he wouldn’t hurt her. Corrie felt for the derringer in her pocket and was reassured. She watched, paying no attention to the trembling horses, her ears alert for James’s voice. Where the devil was he? Was he with Judith? She looked up to see Jason pull his watch out of his pocket, say something to Lovejoy, then come striding toward her. She would have sworn there was worry on his face, but when he looked at her, it was gone.

“I have an appointment with one of the Bow Street Runners. Stay here, trust James to come for you, I mean it. It’s important you remain here, Corrie.”

She watched him nearly break into a run toward the hall. Something was wrong, very wrong indeed. She was to stay here? Why, in heaven’s name?

DOUGLAS RAISED HIS head at the gentle tap on the estate room door. He paused only a moment before calling, “Come.”

The door opened quietly to show Annabelle Trelawny’s smiling face as she leaned into the room. “Oh, forgive me, my lord. I’m looking for my dear William.” She stepped into the room now, looked around. “Oh dear, don’t tell me that you’re alone?”

“Do come in, Annabelle. Yes, I’m quite alone.”

“I thought William might be with you. He is very fond of you, enjoys being in your company.”

“And I enjoy his company as well. You did not receive my message, Annabelle? I had a lad take it to you several hours ago, telling you that Hollis left to execute an errand for me today. I didn’t think you would wish to spend time here without his being present.”

“What errand did you send him on, my lord?”

If he considered her question impertinent, Douglas gave no sign. He said easily, “There is information coming in at Eastbourne. I believe it will answer most of our questions. I am very sorry Hollis isn’t here, Annabelle.”

“As am I, to be sure. However, my lord, I would pray that you not underestimate your own charms.”

“My charms, Annabelle?”

She pulled a long-barreled dueling pistol from her cloak pocket. “As a matter of fact, my lord, I am delighted Hollis isn’t here. He would have been in the way, would have tried to save you, and who knows? I might have had to shoot him.

“That you sent him away, I thank you, my lord. I am relieved.” She smiled at him. “Let me also thank you for sending the lad. I knew everything had to come to an end soon, but the right circumstances hadn’t yet presented themselves. But now all is as I would wish it. William is gone, Lady Alexandra is off visiting Lady Maybella, and Jason is at the paddocks. It is now just you and me. It will happen now.” She looked quickly through the crack in the door, then turned back to him. “No, my lord, do not move. I am quite a good shot. I fancied you were getting close, perhaps you were even ready to set a trap for me, my lord, but here I am, springing it before you were ready.”

Douglas sat back in his chair, his arms behind his head. “You duped us all, madam. You have a rare talent.”

“You only say so because you were the one deceived, my lord.”

“Tell me, Annabelle. Were the stories you told my wife about Miss Plimpton anywhere near the truth?”

She laughed. “Ah. William’s precious Miss Plimpton. I never met her, of course, but I suspect you figured that out, didn’t you?”

“Yes, a pity. I did not lie. I am glad that Hollis isn’t here. You also deceived him.”

Douglas looked at her with such contempt that she shouted, “I had to use the old man! There was no one else to give me entrée into this wretched house.”

“You did it very well. Now, you are English. How could you be related to Georges Cadoudal?”

“His wife, Janine, was my sister, well, halfsister, really. My mother was English, and I was raised in Surrey. She named me Marie because she believed that useless Frenchman who was my father would be pleased, perhaps leave his wife for her. I did not go to France until months before Janine died. I took care of Georges and the children.”

“What is your name?”

“Marie Flanders. My dear dolt of a mother dressed bonnets for all the wealthy ladies in Middle Clapton. A meager existence. She died far too soon, with nothing.”

“Why do you wish to kill me, madam?”

“I am going to kill you because you betrayed my sister. You raped her, made her with child, and left her.”

Douglas rose slowly as he spoke, splayed his palms on his desk, leaned toward her. “You know that is nonsense, Annabe—Marie. Why do you really want me dead? Come now, the truth. After all, you’re going to kill me. What difference does it make?”

She gave him a wonderfully warm smile. She leaned toward him, whispering, “No difference at all, my lord. You want the truth? It’s money, my lord, all your money, and your house, and your lovely title, once you are dead. Naturally one would wish to dress it up, claim a motive of pure vengeance, of righteous revenge, since it sounds so terribly tawdry and common to claim simple gain. Ah, I do believe she is here now. It is about time.” Marie turned her head just slightly. “Come in, my dear.”

Judith McCrae slipped in through the door, and softly closed it.

“I have checked, Aunt Marie. No one is in the house, other than some servants floating about. Everyone is out watching the horses mating. I should be there too, but now I won’t have to endure that disgusting display.” As she spoke, Douglas walked slowly around the side of his desk and stood against the bookshelves.

“Hello, my lord. From the look on your face, I have a feeling that you are not altogether surprised.”

Douglas took small steps toward the sofa, as if he was going to sit down. “No, I’m not surprised. I hoped I was wrong, for my son’s sake. No one had as yet brought in your name, but I knew I would have to. You wanted my son to give you entry to my house, just as your aunt did with Hollis, and you managed to snag him, something no young lady before has managed.”

“It was not difficult. Jason is a man, my lord, just a man.”

“And you sat in on all our meetings, learned of our thoughts and plans. My wife was ready to welcome you into the family. Do you know she told me she was blessed, to have two such fine daughters-in-law practically at the same time.”

For the first time, Douglas saw the resemblance between daughter and father, or perhaps he simply wanted to see it. Those eyes of hers were cold and dark with rage and purpose. “I watched you slap Jason on the back, acknowledging that you knew he’d had his pleasure with me. I would have liked to stick a knife in your heart at that moment.”

Marie Flanders said, her eyes on that closed door, “Damnation, I should have realized this sooner. His fine lordship here was baiting his trap last night. There is no more information that you’re waiting for in Eastbourne, is there?”

Judith said, “It doesn’t matter. He’s a fool, as are his sons. There is no trap. You’re wrong, Aunt Marie.”

“No, I’m not. Why do you think he kept inquiring about Lady Arbuckle? He was pushing us to act. And that note he sent me, telling me Hollis wouldn’t be here today. It was to lure me here, lure me into acting.”

Judith shook her head. “You give him too much credit. Fact is, I didn’t really pay attention to what he said. I had to give Jason my attention or he would have wondered what was going on. Do you know, my lord, I really preferred James. But Corrie already had him by the collar.”

Douglas never took his eyes off the two women. “James didn’t realize that until—well, that isn’t any of your business is it?”

“No, and I don’t care. Aunt Marie, I’m bored. I wish to get this over with. I don’t wish to kill any of the servants. They’ve been quite kind to me, so we will do it here, now, and slip out through the gardens.”

Douglas said slowly, “Both of you have much to answer for.”

“If ever we answer, my lord, you will not be here to hear it.”

Douglas called out, “James, Ollie, signal your men. Come in now.”

But James didn’t come from his post behind the glass doors. Neither did Ollie Trunk.

Jason walked slowly into the estate room, his arm at his side, a gun held loosely in his hand. “James is missing, Father.”

Douglas looked at Judith. “Where is my son?”

“Why, my lord, he’s with my dear brother.”

JAMES FELT THE trickle of blood slide down his face. His head hurt from the blow, but his brain was clear. He could think, he could understand, and what he both saw and understood was a young man he’d never seen before, a young man who was tall and well-made, dark-haired and dark-eyed, and this young man wanted to kill him.

James shook his head, started to get to his feet.

The man said, “No, stay right where you are. Ah, I see you’ve got your wits together again.” He stood, walked to James, and stood over him. “Hello, brother. It’s such a pleasure to finally meet you face-to-face.”

James looked up at him, saw the gun in his right hand leveled at his chest. “You’ve kept yourself hidden very well. You’re Georges Cadoudal’s son, aren’t you? We were right about that.”

“Yes, he was my father, at least in name.”

James understood a great deal in that moment, but it still didn’t make any sense. “You seem to believe that my father sired you. You weren’t terribly subtle what with using Douglas Sherbrooke as your name. What is your real name?”

“Douglas Sherbrooke is quite real enough.”

“How did you come to believe that you are my father’s son? How did you come to take his name?”

“I assumed my rightful name when I came to England to kill you and that dishonorable bastard from whose seed I come. It seemed only just to take his name.”

“What is your real name?”

The young man shrugged, but never did he look away from James’s face and the gun aimed at James’s chest. “My father and all my friends in France called me Louis. Louis Cadoudal. My father died insane, did you know that?”

James shook his head. “We knew he’d been assassinated.”

“Yes, an assassin shot him, and all believed he died from that, but his brain had already rotted. There were only a few who knew it. He spoke of so many things in his mad deliriums, of how your father had raped my mother; but then he would frown, and say no, rape wasn’t involved at all. Of course those were simply words spun from his madness. But I realized the truth of it the moment I saw your father. Our father.

“Don’t you think I look like him, brother? You and your damned twin, neither of you look like him, but I do. I am his firstborn son, not you, and I look like his son.”

“No, you don’t,” James said calmly. “You’re lying to yourself. You are dark like him, and you are tall like him, nothing more.” James knew he had to stay in control, knew he had to be ready. “Let us agree that my father sired you, Louis—”

“He did, damn you!”

“Very well, if he is indeed your father, it makes no difference to the succession. I am the firstborn legitimate son, so I ask why do you want to kill me? It gains you nothing but the hangman’s noose.”

“Ah, that a brother of mine could be so stupid. It will gain me everything. You see, my first goal was to kill your bastard of a father for what he did to my mother, but then I decided that if I killed him, it wasn’t enough. He’d robbed me of my rightful life. My aunt arranged for a document that shows marriage lines between our father and my mother, dated before he married your mother. All of it legal. I will be the earl of Northcliffe, wealthy beyond my wildest dreams, and it will be justice.”

“No, it will be murder. My father didn’t rape your mother. He rescued her from a French general, a man who was giving her to his cronies. He brought her back to England for your father. It was a bargain he and Georges Cadoudal made. My father wasn’t ever involved with your mother.”

“A fine tale that. Make my mother out to be a whore, to sleep with dozens of men.”

“She was raped. Listen to me.”

“No. I’ll wager both you and your brother lapped this up like cats, huh? But all of it is a lie. My father said—”

“You already said that your father was mad, that he would say one thing, then retract it. It is true that he first believed my father had raped your mother, but when it was all sorted out, he admitted he’d been wrong, particularly when your own mother finally told him she didn’t know who had made her pregnant since so many men had raped her.”

“You want me to believe that I am some unknown man’s spawn? You puking liar! Goddamn you. No one raped my mother but your damned father. Before she died, my mother told my aunt—her own sister—that it was the truth, told her that no one had raped her except for the earl of Northcliffe and that I was his son. God, I’m going to love killing you.”

“This aunt of yours—she lied. Ah, let me guess her name. Is it Annabelle Trelawny?”

Louis laughed. “Certainly she is my aunt, just as I am my father’s son. I will become the next earl of Northcliffe. I deserve it. It is just.” He raised the gun.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

JUDITH, NOT JUDITH. But he’d heard the damning words out of the women’s mouths—out of Judith’s mouth, all that exquisite detail, and he understood it, surely he did, but he couldn’t seem to bring it into his brain and make it real to him, all the way to his soul. That cold recitation out of her mouth, the small derringer pointing at his father’s chest, it brought him focus, it enraged him. They’d figured out that Annabelle Trelawny had been involved, but Judith? He looked at his father, realized in that moment that his father had come to suspect Judith as well, but he hadn’t said anything, even when the three of them had met the night before.

She was standing no more than ten feet from his father. Why had his father come from behind his desk?

He knew the answer, of course. He expected James and Ollie to be hiding behind those draperies covering the glass doors onto the gardens, not him.

“Do come in, Jason,” Marie said. “No, I can’t tell you and your brother apart, but since my nephew has James, then you must be Jason. Do drop your gun, my boy, else I’ll put a bullet through your father’s chest. My precious Louis managed to cosh James on the head and drag him behind the stables. He is very likely dead now.”

“No,” Jason said. “My brother isn’t dead.”

Judith looked at him, but didn’t move the gun from his father’s chest. “Is this some sort of twin communication?”

“I don’t know, but he’s alive.”

“It won’t be long. My brother is stronger than any man I’ve ever seen. He’s been waiting for this day. He’s ready,” Judith said, then she smiled. “I wish to thank you for inviting me here to get to know your family, Jason. The truth is that I never wanted to come here; I only wanted to kill your father and be gone, but there were always people with him.” She turned to Douglas. “Even here, in your own home, your wretched wife never left your side, until now. Oh, I see now. Your precious wife isn’t part of your trap. Is Corrie part of it or just the three of you? Ah, yes, the men to do the bad business, leave the little females in a closet where they can have hysterics in private.

“Well, I’m not a weak, hysterical female, my lord. I demanded to be the one to remove you from this earth, even though my brother wanted the pleasure of it. Ah, Jason, do I see you considering perhaps throwing yourself at me? If you lift so much as a hand, I will shoot your father. Did I surprise you, Jason, when you awoke with me kissing you?”

“You know you did.”

“I had thought you would come to me, but that old crone, Lady Arbuckle, told me that you would never sleep with a woman who wasn’t your wife while under your father’s roof. The witch told me that if I had an ounce of breeding, I would know that.”

“No, I wouldn’t have come to you.”

“Do you want to know why I came to your bedchamber?”

“I was fool enough to believe that you cared for me.”

“Poor boy, did you really believe that? It was originally James I wanted, but Corrie was already in the picture, and I didn’t want to kill her. I believed I had you, but then Lady Arbuckle—that ridiculous vain old bat—told me that you were wild, not as honorable as your brother, and were known to keep a mistress. She told me you flirted with young ladies, made them fall in love with you, made them believe that it was marriage you had in mind, then walked away. It wasn’t going to happen to me.

“And that’s why I came to your bedchamber at midnight. I knew that if you took my virginity you would feel honor-bound to offer marriage, and so I would win. We were under your precious father’s roof, now weren’t we? A young gentleman, no matter his true nature, couldn’t get away with seducing a virgin without marriage, now could he? And that would mean that I could stay here as long as I needed to with no one wondering about it.”

Jason said to the girl whose lovely wicked eyes were now cold as the ice floes in the North Sea, “I loved you, Judith, and I was ready to ask you to marry me. What Lady Arbuckle told you wasn’t the truth. Why do you think she said that about me?”

Judith laughed. “I have no doubt at all now that the old bitch told me that in an effort to protect you; she doubtless hoped that I would give up trying to attach you since you were such a flighty scoundrel, and that would mean that I couldn’t use you. And so I did what I had to do. I will admit that it was no hardship. I believe I shall have to punish Lady Arbuckle for her pathetic attempt at betrayal. You’re every bit as honorable as your brother, aren’t you?”

“Judith, my love, let’s end it.”

Douglas said, drawing away her attention, “You want me to believe that your brother is planning to kill my son?”

“Oh yes,” Marie said. “As Judith told you, he’s ready. My dear, I told his lordship why I was doing this, that you and I have maintained the fiction for Louis, poor boy, such a romantic he’s always been, wanting revenge and justice for his dead mother, believing implicitly that it was only right and for him to be the next earl of Northcliffe.”

“Yes,” Judith said. “I even told him it wouldn’t be healthy for his soul if he killed his own father. He believed me.”

Douglas had stepped a bit farther away from Jason. “Is Louis such a fool that he actually believes this lie you’ve told him?”

“He’s not a fool, damn you! The truth is that I wanted to kill you. Now, I am really tired of all this. Jason, you weren’t to be involved. I am sorry about that, but it will make things easier for Louis when he comes back to claim his title.”

Jason said, his voice low and vicious, “You lie to yourselves, both of you. England will fall into the sea before Louis Cadoudal becomes the earl of Northcliffe.”

“Oh, it will happen, Jason. It will happen.” Marie was smiling as she raised the derringer.

Douglas said quickly, “Why did you foist this charade upon two innocent children, Marie? You wanted what wasn’t yours, you were bitter because you were a bastard, your mother was poor. You saw your chance, and you took it.”

“How very smart you think yourself, my lord. When I found out how Janine had been involved with you, when she finally told me how she’d lied to Georges, it was then that I started thinking what could come of it. Only a fool doesn’t take a risk when there is such a huge gain.”

Douglas looked again at Judith. “She has made you want to be a murderess. You can still stop this madness, Judith.”

“I am sorry to say, my lord, that I agreed immediately when she presented her plans to me. Am I bad? Oh yes, I think so.”

Her smile was so very lovely, her eyes filled with intelligence and beauty and cleverness. But there was so much more. Jason saw clearly now, saw the darkness in her, and beyond that, nothing more.

Judith smiled at him, a smile filled with such disregard he felt it to his soul. “I never could tell you apart, not like Corrie, who can tell which one you are from your shadow. Now don’t move. I’m an excellent shot, as is my aunt. Your plan might have worked if James had been here, and that silly little Bow Street Runner.”

Jason met his father’s eyes, and nodded, nothing more.

Douglas said slowly, “So Lady Arbuckle is another victim?”

“Well, she certainly isn’t my real aunt. Just look at that face of hers, the ugly old cow. To gain her cooperation, my brother and two of his friends took over their country home, Lindsay Hall, in St. Ives. She was to introduce me to London society, and I would meet you. In exchange, her husband would live. A fair trade, don’t you think?”

“And is Lord Arbuckle alive?”

“I don’t know,” she said.

Douglas said to Judith even as he moved another couple of inches away from Jason, “You ordered Lady Arbuckle to keep away from the family, didn’t you? And that’s why she’s kept to her bedchamber.”

“Yes, my lord. I no longer needed her. I had my real aunt here, already completely accepted in your precious household. Annabelle Trelawny—what a stupid name, but one she believed Hollis would find romantic, and he did, that pathetic old man.”

“He’s not all that pathetic, Judith,” Marie said. “He still has most of his teeth. Almost as many as I have.”

Judith laughed, a contemptuous laugh that turned all of Jason’s raw pain and soul-numbing fear to rage. He felt another bolt of anger for Hollis, a man so honorable and good, his soul shined through his eyes.

Jason wanted to leap on her, put his hands around her neck and squeeze the life out of her, but his father grabbed his arm and steadied him.

Marie said, “It was a treat to listen to you stumble around, to know that I could have poisoned all of you at any time, but Judith wanted to kill you, so what could I do? Don’t move, my lord, because if she misses you, then it is I who will shoot you.”

Douglas said, “You want to know what I see, madam? I see a young girl who wants what isn’t hers and is prepared to kill to gain it, a young girl you’ve twisted into a monster. As are you, her aunt. Did Georges ever see through you, madam?”

“Yes, but it didn’t matter. The madness had him, made him a pathetic creature. But he endured, remembering scraps here, telling Louis things he shouldn’t have. It cost me very little to hire a man to kill him.”

Judith didn’t seem to care that her aunt had killed her father. She said, “Enough! I don’t wish to kill everyone in this house. I must shoot you, my lord.” She flicked a look at Jason. “And you too, I fear, Jason. A pity. You really are such a beautiful lad.”

LOUIS CADOUDAL WAS nearly over the edge. James felt numbing fear, felt his heart pounding heavily against his chest; he didn’t want to die; he didn’t want to leave his family, leave Corrie. In that instant, James saw Corrie’s face, saw her smiling up at him, touching him, kissing him. She loved him, had always loved him, but now she loved him as a woman loved a man. And he would give his life for her, he always would have. It had happened so suddenly, this knowledge that he wouldn’t want to continue if she were no longer in his life. And he knew if something happened to him, it would destroy her.

James felt calm flow through him, and determination. He wasn’t going to leave Corrie, ever. He knew that he had to control this madman, and that meant keeping him talking. He said easily, “You know, Louis, your English is quite fluent. How did you manage that?” And as he spoke, his fingers were sifting through the ancient hay that covered the rotted floor, to find something, anything, to help him.

Thank God it did the trick. Louis Cadoudal took a long deep breath, the wild color in his face faded, and he even laughed. “After my father died, we went to Spain. And after that, Ireland. I even had an English tutor. Since I was young, I learned to speak your ridiculous language without an accent. If you are wondering, my father had rich Irish cousins, a very good thing. My poor father, how he wanted to go down in history as the man who’d dispatched Napoleon. But he didn’t. He loved you English, wanted me to be an English gentleman, and it appears that is exactly what is to happen.”

“I don’t think so. Everyone knows about you, Louis. How can you imagine that you can simply kill me and my father, present forged marriage lines to the magistrates, and expect them to welcome you into the fold?”

“How arrogant you English noblemen are. You think me stupid? I will kill both you and your father, then I will simply leave. I won’t return for several years, but when I do, I will have witnesses to say that I was in Italy, and that I only just discovered the marriage lines in my dead mother’s trunks. There might be those to suspect me, but there will be no proof. Your brother, Jason, will be the earl. He will step down, naturally—if we and our aunt decide to let him live.”

“Who is we?”

“My sister and I, of course. She is, at present, dispatching our father to hell, where he rightfully belongs. Judith told me she didn’t want my father’s blood on my soul, as if I would care. And you will shortly join our father in hell, brother.”

James wanted to be surprised, but he wasn’t. Somewhere, deep down, he’d wondered. “You’re telling me that Judith McCrae is your sister?”

“Yes, of course. She will leave Lady Arbuckle in due course—another pawn who has performed her role sufficiently well—and come to Europe with me with our aunt, whom you know as Annabelle Trelawny. Both will return with me eventually and take their places at my side.”

James couldn’t help himself, the words flowed out of his mouth. “And what about Corrie? Is Judith going to kill her as well?”

“Ah, that little wife of yours. I must say that I was quite impressed with her ingenuity. Imagine a young lady in a ball gown jumping in the tiger’s perch on the carriage back, then charging like a knight into the cottage to rescue you. A pity she got you away, I so wanted to kill you then, but it wasn’t to be.”

James had felt through nearly all the straw he could reach, and was losing hope. Then his fingers touched something cold and hard. It was an old bridle bit, still attached to one leather rein. It was solid and heavy. It took him precious moments to pull it close enough to tuck it into his right hand. He had it; now he had to ready himself. He’d have only one chance.

He saw that Louis was smiling, and that frightened him. He’d rather have a madman angry than amused.

Louis said, still smiling widely, “Yes, I find myself very impressed with your young wife. I have discovered recently that she is also an heiress, that she lined your pockets, stuffed them to overflowing actually. Perhaps she will be ready for a new husband in a couple of years. A young gentleman who is well-traveled, such as I, can certainly please her as well as you. What do you think, brother?”

James prayed harder than he ever had in his life when he lurched up to his knees and hurled the bridle bit at Louis’s face. “I’m not your goddamned brother!”

“GO TO HELL, my lord,” Judith said, and fired the derringer, the shot sounding loud and sharp in the drawing room.

Jason screamed “No!” and threw himself in front of his father at the moment she fired.

At the same time, another voice yelled, “No, Judith! No!” And there was another sharp report.

Corrie saw Jason leap in front of his father, saw Judith’s bullet slam into him, then saw her own bullet hit Judith through the neck as she was turning toward Corrie’s voice.

At the same time, Annabelle Trelawny, or whoever she was, whirled about, the dueling pistol aimed at Corrie. But Hollis, now coming up quickly behind her, shoved her to the floor. He stood there a moment, staring at the first woman he’d loved in more years than he could remember, and said, “It is enough, Annabelle. It’s over. Give me the gun.”

“I’m Marie, you ridiculous old man.” She raised the gun to shoot him when another shot rang out. She grabbed her chest, stared for a moment at Corrie, who was now on her knees on the carpet, holding her derringer in both hands, the smell of gunpowder sharp and powerful in the still air. Slowly, Marie swayed where she stood. She looked over at Judith, who lay on the floor, blood gushing from her neck and out of her mouth. Then she fell, making little noise, her skirts cascading around her.

Corrie heard a noise, a keening sound, and realized it was coming from her own throat. Douglas held Jason in his arms, tearing open his shirt to bare the wound. He never looked up, but his voice was more urgent than she’d ever heard it. “Corrie, quickly, fetch Dr. Milton here right away. Hurry.”

Douglas wasn’t even aware Corrie had run out of the room. He was aware that Judith was probably dead, lying on her side not ten feet away, the derringer beside her, her aunt lying not far from her. He was looking down at Jason’s still face. His son had saved his life, the last thing Douglas would have wanted. Then Jason’s eyes slowly opened. “I brought her here, Father, I brought her here. I’m sorry.”

“No, Jason, you didn’t know. None of us realized. Be still now, don’t move. I swear to you that everything will be all right. Corrie’s going to get Dr. Milton. She shot Judith and her aunt. I think both of them are dead. Even though your brother hates it, I’m very pleased that Corrie is such an excellent shot.”

A small smile touched Jason’s mouth, then his head lolled to the side. At that moment Alexandra came running into the drawing room, saw her husband holding their son in his arms, rocking him back and forth, his face leached of color but the rage in his eyes still burning deep.

“Jason? Oh God, Douglas, oh God. Where is James? Oh God, where is James?”

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

THE BRIDLE STRUCK Louis squarely in the nose, all of James’s strength behind it. The force of the blow knocked him back, and he yelled with the shock of pain and furious surprise. Blood spewed from his nose. He howled as he jerked the gun up, but James was faster. Even as he fired, James was rolling toward him. The bullet struck the floor, sending rotted splinters flying upward.

James was on him in an instant. He was aware of a sharp stab of pain in his head where Louis had struck him down, and ignored it. He grabbed Louis’ wrist and squeezed, feeling the bones crack. He wanted that gun. He wanted to shove it down Louis’ throat and pull the trigger. Louis’ nose was broken, blood still gushing out. But he was strong, and death was in his eyes and in his brain. He wanted James to die; he wanted to take his place, and he fully intended to.

They grappled, rolling across the hay-strewn floor, rotted through in many places since this old barn had been abandoned many years. They were of nearly equal strength, but it was James’s soul-deep rage that gave him the edge. He knew it, nourished it, let it fill him. He heard the words come out of his mouth, so calm he sounded, the rage banked, “I’m going to kill you, Louis. I’m going to kill you right now.” James jerked down Louis’ arm until the gun was between them. James felt Louis’ wrist break, heard him moan, but it didn’t matter. Louis drove his knees into James’s back. James nearly buckled with the pain, but he managed to hold on. He drew the gun lower, lower, until it was pointed at Louis’ chest. He looked down into the young man’s eyes, the young man who wanted to obliterate his family for no other reason than he believed he could do it. All the rest of it, a lie woven to justify his greed.

James squeezed the trigger.

The bullet slammed into Louis Cadoudal’s chest. His body heaved, arched upward. Then he fell back. He looked up at James, opened his mouth, his blood bubbling out. “Brother,” he said, then he said no more.

James threw himself to the side and jumped to his feet, breathing hard. He was alive. Alive. He didn’t waste time on Louis. He grabbed up the gun and began running. He was a half mile from the Hall. And Judith was there. Had she and Annabelle Trelawny killed his father?

JAMES CAME RUNNING through the front doors of Northcliffe Hall at the same time Dr. Milton arrived. Neither man spoke to the other, James because he was breathing too hard. Hollis was there, tall and straight, but his face was pale. “In the drawing room,” he said, then watched both men run into the room.

For the first time in his seventy-five years, Hollis didn’t know what to do. His mind was a barren wasteland. He walked slowly after Master James and Dr. Milton into the drawing room, and stood there by the door, guarding all of them, he supposed, and then he simply prayed. He looked up to see Ollie Trunk, the Bow Street Runner, stagger through the front doors. Hollis said, “The doctor is here, thank God.”

Ollie whispered, “The blighter got me, Hollis. He got me!” And he collapsed onto the front entrance hall.

It was in that moment that Hollis came back into himself. No matter what had happened, it was up to him to make things right. He knelt beside Ollie Trunk and said, “You’ll be all right, Ollie, you’ll be all right. I’m here now.”

Douglas looked up at Dr. Milton, saw James, and thought he would yell with the relief of it. He slowly raised his palm that he’d been pressing hard against Jason’s shoulder and saw that the wound was bleeding only sluggishly now. “The bullet struck him in his left shoulder, too close to his heart, dammit; it’s still in him. It looks bad. Charles . . . please hurry.” He recognized in that moment that he’d been scared when Freddie had come to them in London and told them that James was ill, but it was nothing compared to this. His boy had saved his life, damn him. Douglas was beyond fear now; he planned to kill Jason himself if only he would survive this.

James stood there, white-faced, watching his father move aside for Dr. Milton, looked at his father’s hands, covered with Jason’s blood. He watched his father take his mother into his arms, and they stood there together, holding each other, making no sound, their eyes on Jason. Then he heard someone whisper his name.

“Corrie, oh God, Corrie,” and she was in his arms, pressed hard against him, and she was whispering about Judith and Annabelle Trelawny.

Judith, he thought. Judith. Then he saw the blanket covering a body some feet away from where Jason lay on the sofa.

“I killed her, James,” Corrie said, but she didn’t cry, held on tight. “I shot her just as she fired at your father, only Jason ran in front of him, then I killed Annabelle Trelawny because she was going to kill Hollis. She’s really Judith’s aunt.”

“Good for you,” he said against her hair. “I’m very proud of you, Corrie, more proud than I can say. You belong to me. Don’t you ever forget it.”

She became perfectly still against him, then she sighed, a soft deep sigh and leaned into him, her head on his shoulder.

They stood silently until Dr. Milton looked up and said, “I will not lie to you, my lord, my lady. It will be a close thing. However, Jason is young, healthy, and very strong. If anyone can pull through this, he can. Now, we must get him upstairs in his bed, and I must get that bullet out of him.”

TWO NIGHTS LATER

“I knew he was going to die,” Douglas said, his face in his wife’s hair. “At midnight, his breathing hitched and then it just stopped. I knew he was dead, Alex. I nearly died myself. I held him against me, then I shook him, I was so angry at him for throwing himself in front of me. Then, thank God, he started breathing again.”

She held him even more tightly. “He’s all right now, Douglas. He will survive this.”

“Yes, I know that now.”

They weren’t alone in Jason’s bedchamber. James and Corrie were sitting very close together on a sofa that had been moved in, both of them awake when Douglas had brought Dr. Milton from his bedchamber to see to Jason.

Douglas said, “Jason didn’t say anything to me, but he opened his eyes, Alex. Opened his eyes and he smiled. Then he fell unconscious again.”

Douglas looked over at Dr. Milton, who took Jason’s pulse, then lifted his eyelids. He said quietly, “He isn’t unconscious, my lord, he’s asleep. For the first time. His breathing is deeper now. I think he’s escaped the fever.” Dr. Milton rose, lightly touched his hand to Jason’s shoulder, and straightened. “I think he will pull through this. Now, all of you, go get some rest. I will remain by his side.”

No one left Jason’s room, of course.

Douglas didn’t rest for a very long time. James and Corrie were leaning against each other, finally asleep. Alexandra’s head was against his shoulder, and he heard her soft breathing. He thought of Lady Arbuckle’s ordeal; Douglas had sent Ollie Trunk, recovered from the blow on his head, back with her to Cornwall this morning, Hollis still clucking over him. Lady Arbuckle was scared to death for her husband, and no wonder. So was Douglas. He doubted that Lord Arbuckle was still alive, but he wasn’t about to say it out loud.

No one had said a word about Annabelle Trelawny. Hollis had come into Jason’s bedchamber that first evening, stood by the door, straight and tall. “I am ready to retire, my lord.”

Douglas had looked up, realized what Hollis had said, and frowned. “What is this nonsense? You will not retire, old man. A family member does not retire from the family.”

Hollis stared over at Jason, unconscious, his breathing so shallow it didn’t seem like he was breathing at all. He looked at his bare chest, covered with a large white bandage. His boy was unconscious, his face still, too pale. Hollis’s breath hitched. “I must, my lord. I am responsible for all of this.”

Douglas was scared to death for his son, and here was Hollis, wanting to shoulder all the blame. He wanted to tell Hollis to go to bed and sleep for all of them, but one look at the old man’s face, and he stilled. “You are not responsible for any of it, Hollis.” He didn’t say Annabelle Trelawny’s name. He never wanted to say that name again for as long as he lived.

Hollis drew himself up even straighter. “I brought that woman here. I was so besotted, my brain ceased to function properly. She used me, my lord, to make all of you trust her.

“I must retire, my lord. I have hurt all of you. I must somehow make retribution.”

Alexandra, red-eyed from lack of sleep, worry, and tears, said, “I will think about this, Hollis. There will be fitting retribution for your crimes. Now, we want you to go to your bed. Drink some of his lordship’s brandy. Sleep, Hollis, else you won’t be able to carry out your punishment. Believe me, retirement is far too easy.”

Hollis bowed, said “Yes, my lady,” and left Jason’s bedchamber.

Douglas looked at his wife. “Well done,” he said. “I believe his shoulders were even straighter when he left than when he came in.”

DOUGLAS WAS FINALLY dozing, dreaming of a day long ago when he’d first taken his boys fishing, and Jason had caught a trout and gotten so excited that he’d lost his balance and fallen into the water, losing that fish. Douglas was grinning at the memory when he came awake suddenly. He looked over at the ormolu clock on the mantelpiece. It was nearly four o’clock in the morning. Three branches of candles kept the shadows away from the bed, but the rest of the chamber was in gloom. Dr. Milton was asleep on the truckle bed three feet away. Both Corrie and James were asleep, as was Alexandra. The bedchamber was dead silent. What had awakened him?

He rose immediately and walked to Jason’s bedside. He sat beside him, picked up his hand, a well-shaped hand, tanned, strong.

Jason opened his eyes and said, his voice a rusty whisper, “I suppose I am alive?”

“Yes, and you will stay that way,” Douglas said. He wanted to hold his son against him and never let him go, but that would hurt him. He lifted his hand, stroked it, felt the warmth of his flesh, the blood that flowed through his son’s body. Thank God he was alive. Then Douglas wanted to yell at him. But he didn’t yell, not quite. “I love you, Jason. I also fully intend to beat you to within an inch of your life for throwing yourself in front of me to save my life.”

Jason smiled, then a spasm of pain made his eyes pale. “Judith?”

It was Corrie, now awake, standing behind his father, who said, “I shot her, Jason, the very instant after she shot you. She’s dead.”

Jason said nothing for many moments. Then he sighed. “It appears I’m not a very good judge of character.”

“It appears none of us are,” his mother said. “All of us were fooled—all of us. We liked her and accepted her as we did Hollis’s Annabelle Trelawny.”

Jason felt his mother’s hand lightly stroking his forearm, saw his twin smiling at him from the foot of the bed since he couldn’t get any closer. James didn’t look good, Jason thought, didn’t look good at all. Then he wanted to laugh because of the way he himself must look right now. Then he thought of Judith, her wicked eyes, her wit, her charm. He thought of those wild, urgent feelings she’d brought him, feelings he’d never experienced before in his life. He thought of her gone, forever. He didn’t understand all of it, but it didn’t seem all that important right now. When his mother whispered next to his face, “We love you. Rest now, Jason. Everything will be all right,” he did.

EPILOGUE

Life is the greatest bargain, we get it for nothing.

YIDDISH PROVERB

TWO AND A HALF MONTHS LATER

NORTHCLIFFE HALL

James and Jason stood side by side on the edge of the cliff overlooking the Poe Valley. It was early afternoon, a windless, bone-cold day in early February. A thick gray fog was creeping up from the valley floor.

They could see their breaths.

“Dr. Milton said you’re fit again,” James said.

Jason said as he put his hand on his brother’s arm, “I’m leaving for Baltimore next week. James Wyndham has invited me to live with them and work on their horse farm. He will teach me.” He smiled then, the first smile James could remember seeing for a very long time. “He wrote that his wife, Jessie, can outride just about any jockey in the races. I could see him grinning as he wrote about how he was simply too big to beat her, and I knew he was laughing at himself for making excuses.”

“Do you really want to go, Jason?” James looked at his twin’s profile. He didn’t think anyone would confuse them now. Jason’s face was thinner, austere as a hellfire preacher’s, his brilliant eyes shadowed, all the joy sucked out of him. His body had healed, but his mind, his spirit, were distant, even from James, who was closer to him than any other human being.

Jason didn’t reply for several minutes, then he drew in a deep breath as he turned to his brother. “I must go,” he said simply. “There is nothing for me here. Nothing at all.”

“You know that isn’t true. Father and Mother are here. I’m here. You can remain in England, buy your own stud farm, do whatever you wish.”

“I cannot, James. I cannot. It’s—” His gloved hand raised a moment, then fell back to his side. “Everything is too close to me here, just too close. I must get away.”

“You’re running away.”

Jason arched a dark brow, smiled. “Of course. Ah, look, I do belive the fog will clear soon.”

James knew in that moment that his twin’s mind was made up. He would leave. James prayed he would eventually come to grips with the horror of what had happened here, forgive himself for loving Judith McCrae, a monster. “Yes,” he said. “The sun will come out soon.”

“I must tell Mother and Father. This evening. Will you stand with me?”

“I have always stood with you, and I will again, even in this. I really don’t want you to leave, Jason. Dear God, how I wish everything could be different.”

“Nothing can change now, James. Let it go.”

James knew when he was beaten. “Do you know that since Father moved Grandmother to the dower house, Corrie and I have decided to remain here, at least for a while?” He paused a moment, flicked his riding crop against his thigh. He wanted to tell Jason that their mother and father were worried sick about him, about the profound depression that had changed him from a laughing, carefree man into this silent one none of them really knew or understood.

Jason laughed, not the sort of laugh that made you smile back. It was a strained sound that held a good deal of loathing. For himself? James didn’t know.

“It wasn’t your fault,” James said, unable to keep himself quiet, though he knew well enough that it was something that Jason didn’t want to hear, didn’t want to talk about, probably didn’t want to remember for the rest of his life. But it had changed him, and James was scared for his brother, scared to his very soul.

“Ah, and whose fault would it have been then, James?”

That mocking voice was mocking himself, of course, and James hated it. “It was Judith’s fault. It was Louis’ fault. It was that dreadful woman’s fault who used poor Hollis.” He wanted to say that at least Hollis was smiling a bit more now, unlike Jason. “They were bad, Jason, bad to their black souls. There was nothing but greed in them. None of it was your fault.”

“At least Hollis didn’t retire.”

James grinned at that. “Mother’s punishment—forcing him to spend a week with our grandmother while overseeing her move to the dower house. He told me it was surely more punishment than a man deserved, even the man who’d believed himself passionately in love with a younger woman who was still older than our mother. Here he was, a loyal family member whose first mistake had occurred in the twilight years of his career. Mother laughed and laughed.”

But Jason didn’t smile at that, just nodded. “Yes, she handled him well, used exactly the right touch. She gave him his worth again.

“I will miss you, James. We haven’t been separated before, not like this.” He swallowed, shut up, and drew his brother into his arms, holding him tightly.

Jason said finally, pulling away, “I must go, James, surely you know me as well as I know myself and thus you understand why I must leave. There is nothing for me here. I will be back, you know. But I must—” He simply stopped, looked out over the fog-shrouded valley, then turned and left him. James knew he didn’t want him coming after him.

James stood on the cliff edge, the fog swirling about his legs now, the sun still hidden, and watched his brother stride to Dodger, who would be traveling to Baltimore as well. James had always said that Dodger was born to race the wind.

He looked after his brother until he was lost from view. He stood there for a very long time.

He was surprised to see that the sun had burst out, now shining brilliantly from high in the sky, the fog burned off. He was thinking of his brother, wondering if there wasn’t something he could have said to change his mind, some new argument he could use to make him slough off the terrible guilt, when he chanced to walk into the hidden Sherbrooke gardens and see his wife staring up at her favorite statue.

The sun seemed to shine even more brightly. He felt a leap in his heart. He came up behind her, kissed her neck, then kissed the squeak of surprise right out of her mouth. “Did I tell you this morning that I love you all the way to my boots?”

She pulled him close, then went up on her tiptoes to kiss him. “No, you didn’t. I like to hear those words, especially from you. Ah, James, I do love you so.”

He smiled, kissed the tip of her nose, felt her burrow in even closer. “I see where your thoughts are, Corrie. I believe I am ready. I don’t need any lunch even though I have been working very hard all morning and my ribs are bumping against my chest. No, if you must have me right this minute, I will sacrifice myself. I am yours.”

Corrie Sherbrooke grinned like that masked smuggler whose identity hadn’t yet been discovered, and hooked a leg behind his knee, sending him to the ground.

“It’s not at all too cold for this,” she said once she was lying on top of him. “I would have thought it was, not above a minute ago, but not now, James.”

“That’s because you’re on top. Come along, Corrie, I won’t be able to do my very best with my back frozen to the ground.”

Douglas and Alexandra Sherbrooke watched their son and his wife racing across the lawn toward the gazebo.

Douglas said, “It’s too cold.”

“They’re young. The last thing they need is more heat,” said his wife as she hugged him. “I’m very glad that your grandfather built that gazebo. I wonder, do you think he was young once?”

Keep reading for an excerpt from

THE PRINCE OF RAVENSCAR

by Catherine Coulter

Available in November 2011 from

G. P. Putnam’s Sons

• 1 •

Near Saint Osyth

On the Southern Coast of England

March 1831

The night was as black as the Devil’s dreams, not even a ghost of a moon, not a single star to pierce through the thick rain clouds.

It was a perfect night.

Julian tethered his sixteen-hand bay gelding, Cannon, to a skinny branch of a lone bent oak tree and made his way carefully down the steep narrow winding path to the hidden cove, a trek he’d made countless times in the years before he’d left England. It was good to be back. He slapped his arms against the cold, the wind off the channel slamming against his thick coat, wheedling in to cozy up to his bones. Down, down he went. When he finally reached the shadowed overhang in the cliff, he lit the lamp and held it up, flashed it three times, a signal he himself had established many years before.

Three answering flashes of light came five minutes later, some fifty yards offshore. Two boats were moving closer now with every passing second. Soon they’d be close enough for him to hear the oars dipping rhythmically through the water. Julian felt his blood pump faster, as it always did with the ever-present threat of excisemen suddenly appearing over the edge of the high cliff, waving guns and yelling. He could only hope the bribes his man Harlan had put into place held, though to his knowledge no one even knew about this small hidden cove.

No matter how you dressed it up, smuggling—free trading always sounded high-flying and righteous—was still against the law. And smuggling would continue until those idiots in the government finally did away with the high import duties. Would they ever see reason? Julian hoped it would take the old curmudgeons a while, since he’d enjoyed the midnight hide-and-seek since he was sixteen, when Sergeant Lambert had introduced him to the adventures of smuggling. Teas, brandy, tobacco, China rice, gin—it didn’t matter, he did it all. Every time Julian walked down to this beach, he thought of Lambert, who’d died the way he’d lived, all flash and excitement, charging forward, his bayonet fixed, a yell coming from his mouth when a howitzer shot had exploded at his feet. Julian remembered falling to his knees, tears flooding down his face as the mayhem continued around him, searching, tearing at the bloody ground, but there’d been nothing left of Lambert. Julian knew someone had dragged him away from where Lambert had died, because he remembered Wellington buffeting his shoulder, telling him to carry a message to his left flank. It was demmed important, move! And Julian had run faster than he ever had before.

He still wondered how he’d managed to survive Waterloo with only one sword gash, in his left shoulder. Blessedly, his memory of those long hours that became days blurred with the battle blood and screams and death, and with Wellington’s voice, yelling orders, always encouraging, even at the end of the day, when exhaustion sapped everyone’s will.

His mother had asked him once about Waterloo, but evidently the look on his face had stopped her in her tracks. She simply pulled him against her and said nothing more about it. But she’d been very proud when the Duke of Wellington himself had sent a commendation to the sixteen-year-old Julian.

Until Julian had left England three years ago, every June seventeenth he’d visited Sergeant Lambert’s empty grave at his farmhouse near Saint Osyth. Julian was certain Lambert’s spirit knew he was using his favorite smuggling cave, and perhaps he occasionally slipped through from the other side to watch Julian bring in his boats. Is there smuggling in Heaven, Lambert? Why, he’d asked Lambert on the eve of Waterloo, couldn’t men ever be content? Because greed and envy and jealousy were sewn into the very fabric of a man’s body, Lambert had said, and spat.

So quickly the future became the present, and the present became a collection of memories, some bringing a smile, others still with the power to smash you with despair. Would he die in the next war, blown apart, as Lambert had died at Waterloo? Witness what was happening in Europe, revolution everywhere, and death and destruction, and always there was hope that something good would come of the violence. He wondered if this was ever true.

“All’s well, Captain!”

He smiled and walked down to greet Cockeral, a madman, some whispered—but only out of his hearing.

He stilled. He’d heard something, he knew it. Excisemen? He held up his hand for quiet, and Cockeral and his men fell flat beside the boats.

Someone was there, watching, waiting, Julian knew it. But what? Who?

Time passed. They unloaded the cargo, mostly brandy and tea this time, and stored it in the hidden cave. Julian listened but heard only the wind.

When he fell exhausted into bed an hour before dawn, he knew in his gut his prized hidden caves were no longer a secret.

• 2 •

The Prince Returns

Ravenscar

Near Saint Austell, Southern Cornwall

April 1831

Corinne threw her arms around him, hugged him close, and breathed him in. He smelled of a wild wind and a storm-tossed sea. His face was darkly tanned from months spent striding the deck of his ship, and his eyes were alight with pleasure. He looked fit and healthy and splendidly male. Her son. She’d thought of him every single day he’d been gone, savored his letters, most arriving each and every week, and she’d worried, but he hadn’t wanted her to come to Genoa, where he’d lived. Too dangerous, he’d written.

She stepped back, her hands still clutching his arms. “At last you’re home, dearest. Ah, three years, Julian, three whole years—but now you’re here safe and sound. Come and sit down, and I will serve you tea, just as you like it, a tiny squirt of lemon, nothing more. Oh, dear, you haven’t changed, have you?”

“Not about how I like my tea, no, I haven’t.” Julian lightly laid his palm on his mother’s soft cheek. She looked not a day older than she had when he’d left her on that miserable stormy Tuesday, only two days after Lily’s funeral. Her eyes and hair were nearly as dark as his, but unlike him, her complexion was fair. “You’re still as beautiful as when I left you three years ago.”

“That is very kind of you to remark upon, dearest.” She studied his beloved face for a moment, so very beautiful he was, and she could see some of herself in him, the way his eyes shined when he was pleased, how he threw back his head when he laughed. Did he look at all like his father? She didn’t know, she’d never seen a portrait of her husband as a young man. She supposed there was a portrait hanging at his ancestral home, Mount Burney. She’d sometimes wondered if the father had resembled the son when he’d been young, if he’d had Julian’s habit of tilting his head when he listened, if he’d usually thought before he spoke, if he’d been as beautiful as his son. Such a pity Julian’s father had been old, white-haired, but never stooped, no, the old duke had stood straight as a sapling until his death, and he’d had most of his own teeth when he’d breathed his last breath.

“Three years, Julian,” she said again. “I hope you have—” Recovered from your grief hung in the air, unspoken. “That is, how are you feeling, dearest?”

He grinned down at her. “I am fine, Mother. Three years is a long time, too long, truth be told. I am very glad to be home. No, I do not still mourn Lily, but I miss her. I suppose I always will.”

Corinne looked up when the drawing-room door opened. “Pouffer! There you are, tea and some black cake for my returned prodigal.”

“Yes, your grace,” Pouffer said, his old eyes on Julian, but he bowed grandly in both their general directions. He gave another wide grin to Julian, so happy he was to see him at last.

“Ah, Prince, I was remarking to Mrs. Trebah that you look as grand a gentleman as even the sternest critic could demand. She agrees, though she only saw the veriest glimpse of you.”

“Thank you, Pouffer.” Julian’s earliest memory of the Ravenscar butler was from his third year of life—he’d rolled a ball against Baron Purley’s feet, and Pouffer had bowed to the baron as grandly then as now, scooped Julian up, rubbed his head, stuck him under his arm, and carried him out, Julian yelling for his ball. Pouffer had little hair now, only a white tonsure circling his head. As for Mrs. Trebah, the Ravenscar housekeeper, she’d been here even longer than Pouffer, come when the old duke had been a mere seventy, five years before he’d married Julian’s mother.

“Come and sit down, Julian.”

Julian hugged his mother once more and gladly accepted her fussing over him. She gently slipped a thick blue satin pillow behind his back, positioned the hassock directly in front of his wing chair, and even lifted his booted feet. He was laughing. “Enough, ma’am, I am not used to being so spoilt.”

“I am your mother, I will spoil you as much as I like. Now, while we wait for Pouffer to bring in sustenance, I will tell you we must leave for London very soon.”

He looked at her blankly. “London? But I just came from London.”

“You went to London? Already?”

“Well, yes, I had business with Harlan.”

“Ah, well, Mr. Whittaker and business, that is very different. No, dearest, I mean London, as in the Season. You did turn thirty-two last month—although you were not here to celebrate your birthday—and in my disappointment, I downed an entire bottle of champagne. I drank so many toasts to your beautiful self I was flat in my bed all the next day. It is past time you were wed again.”

The words burst out of her in a torrent. Julian raised a black brow at her as he pulled his watch out of his waistcoat pocket. “I have been home exactly ten minutes, Mother. Perhaps we can wait to leave for London? Perhaps in a day or two?” Past time for him to wed again? What was this?

He found himself looking around the vast drawing room, giving his mother time to marshal her arguments, always entertaining, always worth waiting for. “I like what you have done with this room, Mother, the blues and cream shades suit it nicely, and the Aubusson carpet is magnificent.”

“I am glad you admire the carpet, since you paid a substantial number of groats for it.”

“As for London, you’re right, Mother, I was there only a few days. As you said, I spent most of my time with Harlan, reviewing all Ravenscar expenditures, tenant profits, repairs to be done, crops to be adjusted. You’ve done an excellent job, Mother.”

“Well, none of the stones are crumbling away, all our tenants are content—well, several of them would complain even if God himself were to take tea with them. Actually, since you wrote detailed instructions to me every single week, it required little thought on my part.” She paused for a moment, gave him a fat smile. “Did you not notice the score of palm trees—so very tropical they look, and so very distinctive—and the silver maple and oak trees I had planted along the drive? And now all the bare ground is covered with heath and daffodils. They have softened the landscape, which is what I wanted. I always thought Ravenscar looked so brutally stark.”

Actually, Julian had always liked the barren promontory that sloped down until the land fell away gently into the channel. “I must admit the new trees add interest. I suppose since there are no more enemies to invade our shores, Ravenscar has no more need to intimidate anyone, so the clumps of daffodils waving in the breeze add a nice romantic touch.” He paused, thought of Elena, and smiled.

“Ah, Pouffer, here you are at last. Bring on the black cakes for my beautiful son. He is fair to dwindling away before my eyes.”

When Pouffer grandly lifted the silver dome to uncover Mrs. Coltrak’s black cakes, Julian’s stomach growled.

He was drinking his second cup of tea when his mother said, “Lily died three years ago, and you left England, not, of course, to avoid scandal, since there wasn’t any, but to leave the Langworths and their terrible grief, and their blame. It is behind you now, Julian.”

The gentleness dropped from her voice. She became brisk. “You are not getting any younger, dearest. I will remind you yet again that you are turned thirty-two years old. You really must have an heir.”

This was an interesting approach. “An heir? Why? Mother, I’m a duke’s son, true, but I am only a second son, not a duke’s heir. Why is it so important that I produce a male child?”

His very smart mother realized her logic wasn’t sound and retrenched in an instant. “Well, what I really meant is that I have the fondest wish to be a grandmother.”

Now, that was a lie that didn’t bear scrutiny. He lifted a dark eyebrow. “Shall you be called Grandmama, or perhaps Nana Corinne?”

She shuddered.

“Mama, I have no desire to return to London. Indeed, I have an overdue ship from Constantinople, the Blue Star. I must travel to Portsmouth.”

“Why? How can your being in Portsmouth hurry the ship up?”

She had a point.

She hurried on before he could muster another objection. “I miss all my particular friends, dearest. I miss attending balls and routs.” She closed her eyes. “And there are many new plays to be enjoyed on Drury Lane.”

And shopping, he thought.

“And shopping, naturally. I do adore shopping on Bond Street, you know.”

She also adored shopping in Saint Austell, Julian thought, recalling the quantity of clothing bills that arrived punctually on Harlan’s desk.

“And you need to visit your tailor. Your coat is very well indeed, for Italian society, but not exactly what you would want here in London, and your boots, well—”

Yes, he did need new boots, but—

She rose from the blue brocade settee opposite him, patted his shoulder, leaned down to kiss his cheek. “I truly wish to go. There has been so much rain here, and to be blunt about it, I am growing mold, not an elevating sight. It is time for a change of scene—specifically, it is time to visit London, for the Season this time, not for your wretched man of business.”

Julian felt the earth shifting beneath his boots, his old boots. At last he was home. He wanted to settle in, manage his property, play with his spaniels on the dog run that ended at the low cliff above the beach. He knew it was time to see if Richard Langworth and his father, Baron Purley, still blamed him for Lily’s death. “You really don’t need me, Mama. You could as easily travel to London, open the town house, and do whatever pleases you. Why do you want me along?”

She said, with a good deal of hauteur, “Do you forget you are my son, my only son, and I have not seen you for three—three—years? I wish all of society to gaze upon your exquisite self, admit there is no finer-looking a young man in all of England, and be jealous of me.”

What was going on here? He said slowly, “Don’t forget the other Monroe lady, namely, Lorelei, your stepdaughter-in-law. She will doubtless be there. You know you would rather have your eyebrows plucked than have to deal with her.”

His mother had thick black brows like his, and he’d heard her shriek when her maid, known as Poor Barbie, had to pluck them every week and a half.

“I shall firmly plant myself above Lorelei this time; I shan’t allow her to give me the headache with her obnoxious little observations on my looks and health and how you should never have been born and how your dear father turned into a pilchard-headed old moron when he turned seventy-five, and just look what came of it—namely, me—and would you look what I did—brought you into the world. And then, naturally, she will go on and on about you, her chins quivering all the while—a duke’s son, even though you should never have been born in the first place, and you’re obviously deficient, since you sprang from an old man’s tired seed, and not the healthy, intelligent seed of a vigorous man, as your dear father was many decades ago. Worst, you indulge in trade, and what a horror that is.”

She paused to take a well-earned breath. She tapped her long fingers against her teacup and brightened. “If I recall, Lorelei had gained flesh when I last saw her, and I haven’t, and I’ll wager she still persists in wearing all that purple.” She gave a small shudder.

Julian said nothing.

She eyed him. “Devlin is always in London for the Season. I know his father is beginning to agitate for a daughter-in-law, since Devlin is now twenty-seven—can you believe that?—and he needs to get himself wed and set up his nursery.”

“Both Devlin and I are to be consigned to leg shackles?”

She ignored that. “Really, Julian, do not concern yourself about my dealing well with Lorelei. I shall give her my most regal nod and continue on my way.”

Julian gave it one more try. “As I said, you really don’t need me with you, Mother.”

To his surprise, her small rounded chin began to tremble, and those beautiful dark eyes of hers sheened with tears.

“All right, I see you will have the truth out of me, Julian.”

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

Lyon's Gate

A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author

All rights reserved.

Copyright © 2005 by Catherine Coulter

This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.

For information address:

The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is

http://www.penguinputnam.com

ISBN: 978-1-1012-1483-1

A JOVE BOOK®

Jove Books first published by The Jove Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

JOVE and the “J” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.

Electronic edition: June, 2005

To Yngrid Flores Becker: you are a very special woman, and a delight. I am so pleased you are part of our family. So are Corky and Cleo.

CATHERINE

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

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER 39

CHAPTER 40

CHAPTER 41

CHAPTER 42

CHAPTER 43

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER 1

Baltimore, Maryland

April, 1835

Jason Sherbrooke knew it was time to go home when he rolled away from Lucinda Frothingale, stared into the fat ugly face of her pug, Horace, who growled at him, and suddenly, with no warning at all, saw his twin, eyes sheened with tears as he’d waved good-bye to Jason from the dock at the Eastbourne Harbor. Waved until the ship was too far away for Jason to see him. Jason felt tears choking his throat and an ache so deep he knew his heart was cracking clean in two.

Jason eyed the dog curled up against his mistress’s side, then turned onto his belly, listening to both Lucinda’s and Horace’s breathing. It was true, only moments before he’d felt sated all the way to his heels, and then suddenly he’d been flooded with that particular memory, and the pain of it. Now, just moments later, he was impatient, so restless he could barely keep still. He wanted, quite simply, to jump out of Lucinda’s warm bed and start swimming across the Atlantic.

After nearly five years, Jason Sherbrooke wanted to go home.

At eight o’clock that morning, Jason was seated at the big breakfast table in the Wyndham dining room. He looked at the two people who’d welcomed him into their home so many years before, and at their two boys and two girls who had all become very dear to him. He cleared his throat to get everyone’s attention. He prayed that lovely, fluent thoughts would flow flawlessly out of his mouth, which, naturally, didn’t happen. He said only, a lump in his throat the size of the Crack County racetrack, “It’s time.”

Jason didn’t realize he looked like a blind man who’d suddenly regained his sight. He was wondering why there were no more words, just those two that popped out of his mouth, hanging there in the Wyndham dining room.

James Wyndham, seeing the expression on Jason’s face, but not understanding it, raised a dark blond brow. “Time for what? You want to race Jessie again? Haven’t you had enough punishment at her hands, Jase? Even riding Dodger doesn’t give you all that much of an edge.”

Jason jumped at the familiar bait. “Like you’ve always said, James, she’s skinny, doesn’t weigh more than Constance here, and that’s why she usually beats us. It has nothing to do with skill.”

“Har har,” Jessie Wyndham said. “Both of you are pathetic, always trotting out the same tired old excuses. Now, the two of you have seen me ride Dodger—Jason’s own horse—we’re like the wind, so fast we blow your hair into your faces. All Jason can do when he rides Dodger is raise a slight breeze.”

That was an excellent slap to the head, Jason thought, and grinned at Jessie.

“Papa’s right,” seven-year-old Constance said. “Although,” she added, looking at her mother thoughtfully, “perhaps Mama does weigh a little bit more than I do. But Uncle Jason, you’re just like Papa, you’re too big to race, you nearly drag the horse down into the dirt. Jockeys have to be small. Even though Grandmother says it’s a disgrace, what with Mama out there aping men and not staying here in the parlor mending, she still remarks on how skinny Mama is even though she’s birthed four children, and that isn’t a bit fair.”

Jonathan Wyndham, the eldest of the Wyndham children at nearly eleven, nodded. “It was a bit rude of you to say it so starkly, Connie, and Grandmother shouldn’t speak so badly about Mother, but the fact remains that Mother is a female and females aren’t supposed to be racing against men.”

Jessie threw her slice of toast at her eldest son.

Jonathan laughed and ducked. “Mama, you know gentlemen can’t stand it when you beat them. Once I saw Papa nearly weep when you raced ahead of him at the last moment.”

“On the other hand,” Jason said, “everyone I know seems to think you were born on a horse’s back, you’re so good, and who cares if the best jockey in Baltimore has brea—er, never mind that.”

“That’s exactly what I was thinking, Mama.”

“Dear Lord, I hope not,” Jason said.

“I hope not too,” Jessie said. “No, don’t ask, enough said.”

Jonathan began picking toast crumbs off his jacket sleeve, and only his little sister Alice saw the wicked gleam in his lowered eyes. “Like I was saying, Mother, you’re a bruising rider, mean as a snake when you have to be, but still, isn’t a smartly mended sheet much more fulfilling for you, so—”

“I don’t have anything else to throw at you, Jon. Ah, look, this nice heavy fork just hopped into my hand.” Jessie aimed the fork at her son. “I suggest you retire from the fray or face very bad consequences.”

“I’m done,” Jonathan said, splaying his palms in open surrender, a huge grin on his face. “Retired, that’s me.”

“Time for what, Uncle Jathon?” four-year-old Alice asked, lisping charmingly. She was leaning toward him, and Jason knew that if they weren’t at the breakfast table, she’d have already crawled onto his lap and curled into him the way she’d done since she’d been six weeks old. When he didn’t immediately speak, his brain empty of words, huge tears shimmered in her beautiful eyes. “Thomething wrong, ithn’t it? You don’t like uth anymore. You want to shoot Mama because she beat you?”

Jason looked at that precious little face and sought for the right words, but what came out of his mouth was, “I love you all dearly. It’s not that at all. It’s—” And then the truth burst right out. “I want to go home. It’s time. I’m leaving Friday, on The Bold Venture, one of Genny and Alec Carrick’s ships.”

Instant and utter silence fell over the breakfast table. Everyone stared at him, including the Wyndham cook, Joshua, who was handing Jessie a fresh piece of toast. As for Lucy, their serving maid, she was so distracted by the awesomely beautiful young master Jason’s words that she was in danger of pouring coffee into Mr. Wyndham’s lap. James grabbed her hand just in time.

“Home?” said Alice. “But you are home, Uncle Jathon.”

He smiled at the little faerie, the very image of her mother, who’d been born after he’d arrived here in Baltimore. “No, sweetheart, this isn’t my home, although I’ve been here longer than you have. England is my home, where I was born, at a beautiful house called Northcliffe Hall. That’s where my family lives, where I spent twenty-five years of my life.”

“But you’re ours, Uncle Jason,” nine-year-old Benjamin Wyndham said even as he passed a crisp slice of bacon to Old Corker, the family hound, who’d been born within a week of Benjamin. “You don’t belong to them over in that foreign country anymore. Who cares about Northcliffe Hall anyway? We could name our house—make it sound all sorts of grand—if you wished us to.”

“We’re already named, bacon-brain,” Jon said to his brother. “We’re Wyndham Farm.”

“You’ve got quite a few cousins in England,” James Wyndham said to his son, but his eyes were searching Jason’s face. Then he smiled. “You know, it’s time for us to pay a visit to England as well. The months and years slip by, don’t they? Time simply marches forward, and so very quickly. Nearly five years. That’s amazing, Jase. It seems like yesterday we met you at the dock in the Inner Harbor and Jessie couldn’t take her eyes off of you, said you were even more beautiful than Alec Carrick, surely the most beautiful man God had ever created. She said you had an identical twin, and that meant there was another one like you. I’ll tell you, I was grateful she didn’t swoon.”

“You remember I said all that?” Jessie said, a dark red eyebrow cocked up.

“Certainly. I remember every word you’ve ever uttered, my sweet.”

Jessie made a gagging sound that reduced her four children to giggles.

James felt both immense sadness and joy in that moment. Evidently Jason had finally come to grips with the past.

“Uncle Jason is prettier than Aunt Glenda,” Constance said and grinned, showing a missing front tooth. “When she’s not staring at him, she’s looking in the mirror, trying to figure out how to make herself look more like him. I told her once to give up. She threw her hairbrush at me.”

James cleared his throat. “You’ll make your uncle Jason blush, Connie, so let’s move along. Marcus and the duchess were here last year, and North and Caroline Nightingale the year before. Yes, it’s our turn to go to England and visit with everyone, your family included, Jase. I want to see if my wife swoons when she meets your twin, and you’ve told the children so many stories about Hollis, I know they’re expecting him to deliver stone tablets to them. Ah, and your father and mother, of course.”

“But they talk funny there,” said Benjamin. “Like Uncle Jason. I don’t want to go to this place.”

“Think of it as an adventure,” said his mother.

“Yes, that’s it exactly, Ben,” said Jason. He was thinking it would be an adventure for him as well as he sat back in his chair and laced his fingers over his lean belly. “All my family will welcome you as you welcomed me.” He paused, looked at James and Jessie, shrugged. “I want to go home. I’ll be thirty years old next January.”

“That’s still only twenty-nine so you’re not that old, Uncle Jason,” Benjamin said. “When you’re as old as Papa, then you can go back there.”

“Your father is only thirty-nine, not all that great an age,” Jessie said, then paused and blinked. “I’m nearly thirty-one, more than a year older than you, Jason. Good heavens, how the time leaps away from one.”

Jason said, “Do you know I have a pair of twin nephews nearly three years old now, and I’ve never seen them?”

“Yes,” Jessie said. “They look like their father, which means they look like you too.”

Jason nodded. “My brother wrote that meant yet another generation looked like my aunt Melissande.” James had written so amusingly about how it drove their father mad, that Jason easily pictured his twin’s smile and his father’s face as well. So many letters over the years, and he’d only begun really answering three years before. For the first two years he’d been here, he’d written acknowledgments, nothing important, nothing that really meant anything, if indeed anything did mean anything back then. But things had slowly begun to change. He’d begun to see behind the words in the letters that arrived weekly from his family, begun to feel again what they meant to him, and his letters had grown longer and, perhaps, richer, because he himself was now in them.

“Yes,” Jessie said. “We know. I feel we know all of your family very well indeed. It will be like seeing dear friends.”

Jason hadn’t realized that he’d spoken about his family all that much.

Alice said, “But none of your family have ever come here, Uncle Jathon. Why haven’t they come? Don’t they like you? Did they thend you away?”

“No, Alice, they all wanted to come to visit me. The truth is, I asked them not to come. And no, no one sent me away.” He paused a moment. “The truth is, I sent myself away.”

“But why?” Jonathan asked, sitting forward, hands on the table since he had no more bacon to slip to Old Corker.

Jason said slowly, “Some very bad things happened five years ago, Jon, and I was responsible for them. Only me.”

“You killed a man in a duel, Uncle Jason?” Ben asked, eyes shining, nearly ready to leap out of his chair.

“Sorry, Ben, no. What I did was worse. I brought evil to my family, and that evil nearly destroyed them.”

“You brought the Devil home, Uncle Jathon?”

“That’s close enough, Alice. Fact was, I couldn’t stay, couldn’t bring myself to find anything good in my life there. I couldn’t face all the people I’d endangered, and so I asked your parents if I could come here and learn all about running a stud farm.”

Jessie knew the children didn’t understand—not that she understood all that much herself—and, knowing they had a dozen questions to fire at him, she said quickly, “You’ve helped us more than we’ve taught you. And even though James and I have tried our best to fill up this blasted house”—she paused a moment, waving her hand to encompass her four children—“there was more than enough room for you.”

“Oh no,” Jason said. You’ve taught me endlessly.”

“Don’t be a dolt,” James said, then raised his hand when he saw that all four children wanted to speak at once. “No, no, children, be quiet. No more arguments to try to make your uncle Jason feel guilty about leaving you. He’s obviously made up his mind, and we will all respect his decision. You will not ask him any more questions. No, Jon, I see that busy brain of yours working hard. Let me repeat, you won’t ask questions and you won’t make him feel guilty about leaving.” He paused a moment, smiled toward Jason. “Besides, we’ll visit him in England. And you want to know something else? He’ll come back for visits. He won’t be able to help himself—he has to try again to beat your mother in a race.”

“But why didn’t you want your family to come thee you, Uncle Jathon?” Alice asked. She was sitting on a pile of six books so she could reach the table, the top one being a huge volume that held an article by Jason’s brother, James, Lord Hammersmith, on a huge orange ball of gasses that had glowed brightly in Venus’s acrid northern hemisphere three nights running the previous April.

Alice’s father opened his mouth to scold her, but Jason said quickly, “No, it’s all right, James. That’s a good question, Alice, and I want to answer it. I want all of you to understand that my family didn’t want me to leave. They didn’t blame me for what happened. They should have, but they didn’t.”

“What did happen?” Jonathan asked and James Wyndham rolled his eyes.

“Just know that it was bad, Jon, that my father, Hollis, and my twin could have been killed, and that it was all my fault. Now, they all wanted to come, but you see . . .” He paused a moment, trying to find the right words. “The thing was, I wasn’t ready to see them. To look at them was to see my own blindness, I suppose.” Badly said, but close enough.

James said, “No more, children. No more.”

Jessie rose from her chair and clapped her hands. “That’s right, you will now hold your tongues, as impossible as I know that is. Uncle Jason has made up his mind. Leave him alone about this. All of you know what you’re supposed to do after breakfast, so go do it and no complaints, if you please. James, Jason, if you two gentlemen will come with me into the parlor.”

Jessie Wyndham faced her husband and the young man she’d come to love like a brother. “Now, Jason, it will be all right. I doubt the children will leave you alone, but feel free to tell them to shut their traps. That’s up to you. Now, it’s April the fourth. It will take you two weeks to get home. We will come to England to visit you in August. What do you think of that, James? Can we get away then?”

James nodded. “August it is. Funny how both your twin and I share the same name.”

Jason nodded. “It made me feel quite odd for a good six months saying my brother’s name to another man’s face.” He searched both their faces now, faces that had become so dear to him over the years. “I don’t know if I’ve really told you how very much you mean to me, you and the children. I am of no blood relation to you, but you didn’t hesitate to make me part of your family, to teach me. And you, Jessie, to beat the dirt off my heels in racing, laughing merrily all the while, no concern at all to the continued bruising of my fragile male self.”

“That’s because James has the biggest fragile male self in all of Baltimore, and yours is paltry in comparison.”

James said, “We won’t talk about huge female selves. Now, Jason, you became part of the family very quickly, but the rest of that is nonsense. Everything we had to teach you, you learned in the first year. You are magic with horses, they respond to you on an almost human level. It’s as if they know you’re there for them, that you will do whatever they need.” James shrugged. “It’s difficult to put into words, but I know any horse racing or breeding you do in England will be a success.”

Jason stared at him, nonplussed.

“That’s right, Jason,” Jessie said. “Now, when you go back, where do you plan to settle?”

“Near Eastbourne, near my father’s home, Northcliffe Hall. Since my father forced my grandmother to move into the Dower House five years ago, James and Corrie and their twins stayed on at Northcliffe.” He paused a moment, gave James a crooked smile. “So that you will understand why my grandmother’s absence from the great house made such a difference, let me say that knowing your mother, James, has made me feel like I never left my grandmother. Undoubtedly my grandmother’s removal was an unadulterated blessing. She was very unpleasant to my mother and to Corrie.”

“Oh dear,” Jessie said with some awe. “Your grandmother is like my mother-in-law?”

“Yes, but she never tried to be subtle like Wilhelmina. She was always a hammer, went after her victims with a good deal of enthusiasm.”

Jessie said matter-of-factly, “We are very grateful we only have to see her once a week. She’s always hated me, as if you didn’t guess that immediately, Jason. She says these horrible things, all thinly disguised to sound innocuous. Sometimes I just wish she’d shoot it all out, like your grandmother evidently does.”

James laughed. “Actually, you’d have to be a blockhead not to understand that you’re being insulted down to your toes.”

Jason said, “Like Wilhelmina, my grandmother hates every woman in the family. The only female she isn’t rude to is my aunt Melissande.” He paused a moment. “I desperately want to see my parents again. I want to see my brother and Corrie, and my nephews. And the funny thing is that it just came upon me early this morning—”

Jessie’s right eyebrow went straight up. “Before or after you left Lucinda’s house?”

“Before, actually,” Jason said, his voice and expression suddenly smooth and austere. “She was rather surprised when I bounded out of bed like Satan was on my heels.”

“We will miss you, Jason,” Jessie said as she took her husband’s hand. “But we’ll all be together again in August. Not long at all.”

She smiled up at her husband, blinked back tears, then walked into Jason’s arms. “I always wished I had a brother and God finally gave me one.”

“He gave me a brother too,” James Wyndham said. “One with honor, immense goodwill, and a brain. Whatever happened all those years ago, Jase, it’s time to let it go.”

Jason didn’t say a word.

James quickly added, realizing that Jason wasn’t yet ready to let anything go, “I just wish you weren’t so bloody handsome.”

Jessie leaned back in Jason’s arms, laughing. “It’s true, all the females between the ages of fifteen and one hundred follow you, Jason. Don’t even try to deny it. You would not believe how many ladies have cornered me, every word out of their mouths about you. Oh yes, they all want to be my best friends and visit me.” She turned to her husband. “As I said at breakfast, Jason is first, then Alec Carrick. Hmm, I wonder what Alec thinks about that.”

Jason said on a sigh, “I wish you would believe me that Alec, like me, thinks it’s a bloody nuisance. Who cares about a face anyway?”

That was so stupid, Jessie didn’t say anything.

Jason paused, then hugged Jessie again. “The thing is, I always wanted a sister. And do you know what? You have hair just as red as my mother’s, and though your eyes are green and hers are blue, there is a great resemblance between you. She’s the most beautiful woman I know.” Jason touched his hand to her fiery red hair, a thick braided rope falling halfway down her back. “If, that is, beautiful faces make any difference at all.” He paused a moment, and his eyes darkened. “Thank you. Thank you both so very much for bringing me back to life.”

CHAPTER 2

Northcliffe Hall

Near Eastbourne, Southern England

Jason guided Dodger toward the Dower House at the end of the lane. It was a good three hundred feet from Northcliffe Hall, far enough away, Corrie had written, so that his grandmother couldn’t flounce in, wreak havoc, and flounce out, grinning with her few remaining teeth. His grandmother was an amazing eighty years old, even older than Hollis. He wanted to see her, hug her, and thank the Lord she was still here to be nasty. Perhaps great quantities of vinegar kept a person healthy.

His father had written just prior to Jason’s departure from Baltimore that Hollis still had a surfeit of both hair and teeth. Jason was simply grateful that Hollis, like his grandmother, was still alive.

Jason tethered Dodger, who was so happy to be home that he couldn’t stop tossing his head and sniffing the air. Jason hugged his neck, and the horse whinnied. He’d withstood the two-week voyage well. “You, old man, have more heart and fortitude than any other horse in the world.” He looked at the ivy-covered Queen Anne–style house and the beautiful garden surrounding it, which he knew was probably tended by his mother. The windows sparkled in the mid-afternoon sunlight, and there was an air of contentment about the place. He wondered if his grandmother had ever breathed a word of thanks. He doubted it.

He smiled when he hit the brass knocker against the thick oak door.

He couldn’t believe it when Hollis opened the front door. The old man stared at him, clutched his chest, and whispered, “Oh dear, is it really you, Master Jason? After all these years, is it really you? Oh my dear boy, oh my precious boy, you’re finally home.” Hollis threw himself into Jason’s arms.

Hollis was so much smaller, Jason realized with shock, holding the old man as gently as he could. He’d known Hollis his entire life; indeed, his father had known him nearly all his life as well. Hollis had strength in those old thin arms of his, thank God.

He breathed in the old man’s scent, the same scent as it had been all twenty-nine of his years on this earth, a mixture of lemons and honey wax, and said, “Ah, Hollis, I have missed you. I received your weekly letters, just like from my brother and from my mother and father. Corrie too. I’m sorry it took me so very long to begin to really answer them, but—”

The old man cupped Jason’s face in his hands. “It’s all right. You will not feel guilty about it, you will not apologize. You’ve been answering my letters for three years now. That was enough.”

Jason felt guilt rip at his throat, but he saw such love and understanding in Hollis’s wise old eyes that he nodded instead of throwing himself at Hollis’s feet. “Do you know Corrie has been penning letters from my nephews?” He drew in a big breath, then hugged the old man again. “I’m home, Hollis, I’m home now, for good.”

“Hollis! What is this? Who is here? I allow you to bring me nutty buns when you take your afternoon constitutional, but look what you’ve done—you’ve let someone follow you. You’re handing over my nutty buns to some riffraff, aren’t you, Hollis? What absolute gall.”

Jason recognized that sour old voice. “Some things never change.” He grinned as Hollis stepped back, rolled eyes that held both infinite acceptance and a great deal of amusement, and called out, “Madam, your grandson is here, not to steal your nutty buns, he assures me, but to visit you.”

“James is here? Why on earth is James here? That wife of his tries to keep him away, I know she does. She’s a disgrace, that silly girl, like her mother-in-law, that hussy who’s married to my Douglas and refuses to look old like she’s supposed to.”

Jason looked up to see his grandmother walking slowly and carefully toward the front door, using a highly polished cane with a lovely hummingbird knob. He could see her pink scalp through her snow-white hair, all done up in tightly crimped little curls.

“It’s not James, Grandmother. It’s me.” Jason walked to the old woman whose eyes still shone brightly with both intelligence and malice.

She stopped dead in her tracks and stared at him. “Jason—You’re not James pretending to be Jason, are you? I haven’t lost my final wit, have I? Is it really you?”

“Yes, it is.” He strode quickly to her because she looked to be weaving a bit with shock. He took her very gently into his arms, realized she was even more frail than Hollis. Her old bones felt as if they could easily snap in a strong wind. He felt her dry seamed mouth kiss his neck, then he drew back, and looked down into his grandmother’s face, lines scored around her mouth, downward, naturally, since she was always berating everyone around her, never smiling. To his immense pleasure, that seamed old mouth parted in a smile. She kept smiling as she patted his face. “My beautiful Jason,” she said, and she kissed his neck again. Her look was suddenly searching as she said in the gentlest voice he’d ever heard from her in his life, “You’ve forgiven yourself, boy?”

He looked down at that cantankerous old face, and instead of vinegar all he saw was a wealth of concern and love, and it was for him. He couldn’t take it in, no more than he could begin to explain why he’d wanted to stop here first, to see her. He’d received two letters from her a year, one near his birthday and one near Christmas.

“You told your father and your brother not to come see you,” she said, still patting his cheek. “And then you wrote only niggardly excuses for letters for a very long time.”

“I wasn’t ready.”

“Answer me, Jason. Have you forgiven yourself?”

“Forgiven myself?”

“Yes, that’s it exactly. For some reason no one can fathom, except for James, who claimed he understood even as he knew you were dead wrong, you blamed yourself for what happened. It’s nonsense, of course. It’s probably an excuse for immense self-pity since you’re a man, and the good Lord knows that men love to wallow in self-pity, lap it up like cats do milk. Do it so that the women who have the misfortune to love them will spend endless amounts of time to reassure them and to stroke their brows—”

“—and pour tea down their gullets and overlook their indiscretions,” Hollis said. “I believe I’ve learned the litany.”

“Ha! You are a great deal too smart, Hollis,” the old woman said, and tried to hit him with her cane.

Now this was more like the grandmother Jason remembered. He gave her a huge grin. “Do you have any brandy to pour down my gullet, Grandmother?”

“Yes, but I daresay you’d rather have one of my nutty buns. You were riding by, weren’t you, and you smelled them wafting out the window, although the windows are supposed to be shut tight to keep out the noxious vapors.”

“Actually,” Jason said, “I didn’t smell the nutty buns. I haven’t smelled a nutty bun in five years. I came because I wanted to see you. Er, may I have a nutty bun now that I’m here and the nutty buns are here as well?”

She actually took several moments to weigh this—he could see it in her bright old eyes.

She yelled, “Hollis, you old stick, bring the nutty buns to the drawing room! Yes, my boy, I’ve decided that if there are at least a half-dozen, then yes, you may have one too. Hollis, your bony old self was just here. Where have you gone now? Are you doddering somewhere? Trying to stuff a nutty bun down your gullet? I’ll wager you are since you think I’ll not say anything since my precious boy is finally home.” Her grin was bright with spite as she spoke.

The grin fell away as she looked back up at Jason. “So you don’t wish to answer me, do you? That’s all right for now. Perhaps it’s too soon for you to realize what’s in your heart.”

Hollis, who had just entered the hall carrying the brandy, was having trouble believing his eyes. His mistress was treating Jason with more affection than she’d ever treated anyone in her entire life. He’d heard what she’d said, and was outraged. “You will allow Master Jason to eat one of your nutty buns, madam? You have never before offered me a nutty bun.”

The dowager countess looked him up and down. “I have always counted the nutty buns you bring me, knowing that it’s always supposed to be half a dozen, but there rarely are. I know you many times filch one for yourself. Don’t try to deny it, Hollis.” The old lady finally nodded, a curl of silver hair falling over her forehead. “Very well, Hollis, I will not berate you today. Look at your face—it’s begun to look like a starving monk’s, more than you did just last week when you deigned to come visit me with one nutty bun missing from that lovely covered plate. Hmm. You may also have a nutty bun, but get them now or I will rescind my offer.” The old woman released Jason, tapped her cane a couple of times, a prelude, Jason thought, to her tottering off to the drawing room.

Jason watched Hollis, stately and tall, those old shoulders as square as they’d been when Jason had left, walk down the hallway into the nether regions of the house to get the nutty buns. He heard him muttering how miracles did happen, that it appeared he would have one of the dowager’s nutty buns before he croaked it. Jason wondered if Hollis realized that two maids were hovering just beyond the staircase, ready for any assistance should he require it, asked or unasked for.

Jason said grandly, “Grandmother, may I offer you my arm?”

“Certainly, my boy. It has to be better than hanging on to Hollis. That old man is as weedy as a dormouse.”

CHAPTER 3

Northcliffe Hall

Silence hung heavy in the drawing room that evening. Tension swirled in the air, thick with bone-deep concern, unspoken worries, and unasked questions. Then Corrie appeared in the doorway carrying a freshly scrubbed twin under each arm, their beautiful small faces alight with excitement and shock because it was so very late and they weren’t in their beds, Nanny snoring not six feet away from them.

“Uncle Jason, it’s us again!” Douglas Simon Sherbrooke, older than his twin by exactly eleven minutes, broke free of his mother and ran as fast as his legs could carry him to Jason, who caught the little boy when he leapt into the air in his general direction.

“I see that it is,” Jason said, nuzzling Douglas’s neck. He smelled just like Alice Wyndham, after her evening bath. He felt tears well up. He looked down to see Everett Plessante Sherbrooke tugging at his trouser leg, ready to yell or burst into tears, Jason couldn’t tell which. He scooped up the little boy and held both of them close, letting them pat his face, give him wet kisses and talk nonstop, words that weren’t really words but rather twin-talk bursting out of those small mouths, just like the incomprehensible language he and James had shared.

Douglas drew back and said, “Everyone said you looked just like Papa and Aunt Melissande, but you don’t, Uncle Jason.”

“That’s true, Douglas. I don’t look exactly like your papa, but it’s close, don’t you think, Everett?”

The other impossibly beautiful little face scrunched up in thought. Everett then announced, “No, Uncle Jason, you look like yourself, and you look like me too. Not Douglas—he looks like Papa. Yes, that’s it, you look like me.” And that little face wore the same wicked look Jason had seen on his mother Corrie’s face.

Douglas said, after another wet kiss on the right side of his uncle Jason’s neck, “Grandpapa can’t stand that I look like Papa and Aunt Melissande. She always brings Everett and me little almond cookies when she visits. Grandpapa says blessed hell, he’ll never be free of The Face. What’s The Face, Uncle Jason?”

Jason heard his father groan, his mother laugh. He turned to his father, brow raised. “Cursing, in front of this little scamp?”

“He’s got ears as sharp as you and James had when you were his age,” Douglas Sherbrooke, the earl of Northcliffe said, and poked his wife in her ribs. “Be quiet, Alex. I don’t believe a lad can be too young to learn of the Sherbrooke curse.”

“I agree,” Corrie said. “No, don’t you dare disagree with me, James Sherbrooke. Blessed hell is always your prelude when you’re ready to cut loose.” She grinned over at Jason. “He gets mad at me—only the good Lord could possibly understand why—and I know he wants to throw me out a window, but he has to make do with blessed hell and stomp out of the room.”

“A monstrous lie,” James said, then loudly cleared his throat when his two little boys turned wide eyes to him. “Jason, do you want me to liberate you from at least one of those imps?”

Both imps wrapped their arms more tightly around Jason’s neck, nearly choking him. Jason shook his head. “Not yet. All right, lads, can we settle ourselves down for a moment or do you want me to dance you around the drawing room? Your grandmama can play a waltz on the piano, if you like.”

“Let’s dance!” Douglas shouted, his feet kicking out.

“I want to waltz too,” Everett shouted in Jason’s other ear. “What’s waltz?”

There was laughter in the air now, the awful deadening stress and anxiety swept under the carpet, at least for the time being. To Jason, it felt wonderful. He began to waltz slowly about the drawing room, tightening his hold on the squirming little bodies, kissing their ears and their chins, and watched his mother pick up her skirts and walk quickly to the piano where she soon was playing a waltz he’d heard at a ball in Baltimore some two months before.

James Sherbrooke, Lord Hammersmith, twenty-eight minutes older than his twin, sat back, aware of his smiling wife’s warm self now pressed close to his right side, and looked toward his brother. He wasn’t surprised Jason looked as natural as could be waltzing around with two small boys in his arms, since James Wyndham had often written about how well Jason handled his own four children. He wondered if James Wyndham had ever told Jason about all the letters he himself had written here to Northcliffe Hall, at first to reassure all of them, then later detailing Jason’s successes on the racetrack, the mares he’d selected for James’s breeding program, the wonderful stallion he’d found for his host that had made him a bloody fortune in stud fees.

But all the letters didn’t make up for the lost years. He felt his heart fill to bursting. At least his twin had finally begun acknowledging all of them after two years of perfunctory, emotionless letters.

Little Douglas was right; they were no longer identical. Well, they were, objectively, but anyone who knew the both of them wouldn’t confuse them anymore. Jason was more—what was the word? More spare, maybe that was it, though they were still of a size. The big changes were on the inside. James could see the suffering deep in his twin’s eyes, and it hurt him, even as he understood it.

They’d never been identical on the inside, but they’d been connected, had known what the other worried about, what the other was feeling at any given moment. Their experiences had made them into vastly different men, the advanced age of thirty not all that far distant. He looked toward his smiling father, nearly sixty, his black and silver hair still thick, as he was always pointing out to his wife.

James saw that Hollis was stationed near the drawing room door, his foot tapping to the beat of the waltz. He was smiling, and there was such love and relief in that smile that James felt warmed to his soul. He knew how Hollis felt.

Now James had to find out what was in his twin’s mind. But not tonight. His precious, loud, and demanding little boys had saved the evening from being a silent torture, everyone afraid to say anything that could be taken the wrong way, everyone walking on eggshells around Jason. He said to Corrie, “Have I told you recently that you are very smart indeed?”

“Not since last May, I believe it was.”

He rubbed his knuckles on her cheek. “You brought Douglas and Everett into nail-biting silence and look what happened. Jason is waltzing with them.”

“It seemed the thing to do,” she said.

James took Corrie’s hand in his. He leaned back, and allowed the warmth of the laughter to flow through him.

Jason was home. At last he was home and that was all that mattered.

CHAPTER 4

The two brothers stood side-by-side on the cliff overlooking the Poe Valley.

The silence between them was awkward. James finally said, “We spent so many hours here as boys. Remember the time you hurled my book on Huygens off the cliff, you were so mad at me?”

“I remember throwing the book over the side, laughing when the wind caught it and sent it even farther away, but I don’t remember why I was mad.”

James laughed. “I don’t either.”

“I do remember you and Corrie lying on your backs on this hill on clear evenings, staring up at the stars.”

“We still do that. The boys have heard me talking about the Astrological Society, listened to me whine about how my telescope doesn’t magnify enough. Unfortunately, now they’re demanding to come with their mother and me. Can you imagine? Two three-year-olds holding still for longer than thirty seconds?”

Jason said, smiling, “No, it won’t happen. Alice Wyndham, James and Jessie’s four-year-old, would be looking up at the stars while sucking her thumb, loudly, and be demanding an apple tart in the next breath. But it won’t be long at all before the four of you are stretched out like logs on the hearth looking at the heavens.”

They fell silent. Then James couldn’t stand it any longer. He grabbed his brother, held on tight. “By God, I’ve missed you. It’s like part of myself simply disappeared. I couldn’t bear it, Jason.”

Jason held himself stiff, utterly rigid—for about three seconds. Then he saw James’s utter relief that he, Jason, who’d nearly cost him his life, was back again. His generosity astounded Jason. Jason couldn’t help himself; he pulled away. He felt self-conscious, clumsy, and so very sorry that he wished for the thousandth time that what had happened could be undone, but of course it couldn’t. Nothing could ever be changed once it happened. He said, voice thick, “Forgive me, James, it’s still difficult for me. I’m so very sorry for what happened. Your acceptance of me now is so very like you.”

“Don’t you understand? I never didn’t accept you. I never blamed you, nor did anyone else.”

Jason waved that away. “The truth is the truth. You knew I couldn’t stay here, not after what I did.”

James accepted the rebuff though it hurt him to his soul. “I knew how you felt and I did understand, but I still couldn’t bear it. Neither could Mother and Father. It’s been difficult without you, Jase.” He paused a moment, drew himself together, and stared out over the green Poe Valley. “You’re staying home now?”

“Yes. I’ll be looking for my own property. I want to own and operate my own stud farm.”

James felt a surge of pride. He wanted to tell Jason that James Wyndham had written that Jason was magic with horses, that he would soon be one of the premier breeders in England. He asked, trying his best to sound nonchalant, “Where are you interested in buying?”

“Why, near here of course.”

James nearly whooped aloud. He let himself breathe again. He gave his brother a fat smile. “You’ll not believe this, Jase, but old Squire Hoverton—remember, we called him the Old Squid, because he always had a hand to catch you no matter how many thieving little varmints there were in his apple orchard? Well, he died. You remember his son, Thomas, don’t you? He and his father were constantly arguing about the money the squire spent?”

“Yes, I remember. I also remember wanting to throw Thomas in a ditch. What a fool he was.”

“He’s still a fool. He’s wanted to sell out since the minute after his father’s funeral. There have been no buyers because Thomas is asking too much, probably because he owes an immense amount to his creditors. I’ve heard that he gambles at every hell in London.”

Jason nodded. “Fortunately Squire Hoverton spent a great deal of money modernizing the stables, the paddocks, and the stalls.”

James said, “The house is probably moldering on its foundation, but who cares? Well, a wife would care, but since you’re not married, it doesn’t matter. What you’re interested in is the condition of the stables and stalls, the health of the land itself, and the beech and pine forests. I’m not sure of the acreage, but a thousand acres comes to mind. We’ll ask.”

Jason couldn’t contain his excitement. “What good fortune indeed. Bless the kind Lord for letting such blighters as Thomas appear occasionally. Let’s go now, James, let’s go see it.”

Thirty minutes later, the twins pulled Bad Boy and Dodger into the lane leading to Lyon’s Gate, once one of the premier stud farms in southern England. Jason said, “I remember Thomas was a bully, and that’s always a disguise for weakness.”

“I agree. Thomas must be in desperate need of money by now. I’ll wager you’ll be able to buy the property at an excellent price. Father’s solicitor can deal with it for you if you decide you want it.”

“Wily William Bibber?”

“Yes, old Wily Willy is still working his magic. Father says he’s like Hollis—he’ll probably be dead six months before he stops working. Now, Thomas immediately sold off all the horses. I wouldn’t be surprised if he sold off all the furniture in the house, and all the tack as well. His creditors probably made him sell the silver. But look at the stables, Jason, they look solid even from here—some paint, some horses, new equipment, some excellent grooms, good care and management, and—” James shut up. He didn’t want to overdo. His blood was surging in his veins. He was praying hard now.

Jason said, looking about, “It doesn’t look all that bad, does it, given that it’s been sitting here abandoned for what? Over a year, you said?”

“Nearly two years now.”

“Thomas is indeed a wastrel and I’m grateful for it,” Jason said in a voice so filled with excitement, James wanted to sing.

Jason pulled Dodger up in front of the neat redbrick Georgian home, ivy hanging off in clumps, dead bushes surrounding it, glass from broken windows scattered on the barren ground. “I can see Mother rubbing her hands together, picturing how everything will look when she’s finished, ordering around a dozen gardeners, all of them staggering around with buckets of plants.”

“Think of the flowers,” James said. “She’ll have more color cascading out of the flower beds than you can imagine.”

Jason rubbed his own hands together. “I hope there’s a retainer here to show us about.”

“Probably not. I’ll wager the front door isn’t even locked. We’ll show ourselves around.”

The house was indeed moldering on its foundation. Jason doubted it had been touched after Squire Hoverton’s wife had died trying to birth her sixth child somewhere around the first part of the century. Such a pity that only Thomas had survived. The house was filled with shadows and smelled of damp. Tattered draperies hung askew over long dirty or broken windows.

“The floors look solid,” James said.

“Let’s see how bad it is upstairs,” Jason said. “Then we can visit the stables.”

It was bad, more dank gloom and dirt.

“Lots of white paint should take care of things, Jason, don’t you think?”

“Oh aye, at least a half a dozen cans of white paint. Let’s get out of here, James, it’s depressing.”

James buffeted him on the shoulder. “The price has just gone down a good bit.”

There were four different paddocks, each fenced with solid oak planks, some needing repair, all needing paint. But the size of the paddocks was perfect and the holding paddock gave directly into the huge main stable. There were a total of three stables, all desperately in need of paint as well, but until two years ago, they’d been prime, and Jason could see that all of them were quite modern. The empty tack room was nicely proportioned, with a goodly sized area set aside for a head groom to work close to the horses. There were half a dozen small rooms for the stable lads.

“It reminds me of James Wyndham’s main stable,” Jason said.

There were twenty stalls, ten to a side, in the big main light-filled stable, a wide aisle between them. Beautifully built. Moldy hay and equipment parts were strewn on the floor. Jason stood there, right in the middle, sucking in great gulps of air.

“If I close my eyes I can see the horses’ heads bobbing over the stall doors, hear them neighing when they know oats are coming. Plenty of breeding and birthing stalls. It’s perfect.” Jason jumped up and clicked his heels together.

At that moment both Bad Boy and Dodger let out loud whinnies.

“What’s this?” James said and strode to the stable’s double-door entrance.

A large raw-boned chestnut stallion was pawing the ground, looking at Bad Boy and Dodger, head thrown back, nostrils flared, ready to take on both of them.

A girl’s voice called out, “Who are you and what the devil are you doing here?”

CHAPTER 5

James and Jason Sherbrooke stared from the huge bay stallion, who looked like he chewed nails for breakfast, to the girl astride him, dressed in trousers, a dusty leather vest, full-sleeved white shirt, and an old hat pulled down over her head.

“Blessed hell,” James said. “It’s Corrie five years ago, down to the fat braid hanging down her back.”

Jason said slowly, never looking away from her face, “You look familiar. Do I know you?”

“Of course you know me, you dolt.”

Jason’s eyebrow arched a good inch.

She pulled off the cap. Tendrils of golden hair had pulled free of the braid and hung in lazy curls down the sides of her face.

“You do look familiar,” he said again. “Oh yes, whoever you are, forgive my ill manners, this is my brother, James Sherbrooke, Lord Hammersmith.”

“My lord.” Hallie stuffed her hat back down on her head, but didn’t give him her name. “I had heard you were twins, identical in every way. But that isn’t true. Let me say, my lord, that you most certainly appear the more acceptable twin. You don’t really look like this other one at all. Did you know that he would strut down the streets in Baltimore, knowing that every female between the ages of eight and ninety-two would stop and stare at him, dropping fans, parasols, umbrellas, even in the rain, to get his attention?”

James, enjoying this unusual girl who was making his twin feel like a fool said easily, “Ma’am, a pleasure. No, I didn’t know this about my twin. To the best of my memory I haven’t ever seen him strut. I shall ask him for a demonstration.”

Hallie said, “Ladies would lurk in doorways, waiting for him to pass by. They’d throw a handkerchief or a reticule or their little sister in his path to gain his attention. You haven’t seen him strut? No wonder, since he ran away from home five years ago, you haven’t had the opportunity to witness the strut in all its glory. Conceited oaf.”

When Jason didn’t respond to this face-smacking, she went on, “I understand you’re going to be thirty years old next year. Thus it takes your brain longer to function properly. Or is it that your eyesight is already faulty?”

Jason was more amused than not. He was used to insults after living with Jessie Wyndham for five years, so he didn’t leap on her. He knew he should recognize her, but he simply didn’t. Obviously this was an insult of major proportions to her, but there was nothing he could do about it. He shook his head, still looking at her horse, who appeared quite ready to take a bite out of Bad Boy’s flank. “You’d best pull that beast back before my Dodger breaks his neck.”

“Ha, I’d like to see that.” Still, she forced Charlemagne back, one unwilling step at a time. It took skill to make the horse obey. Jason gave her silent credit for it. Who the devil was she? That golden hair of hers was spectacular, certainly he should remember a girl with hair that color.

“I do admire Dodger though. He’s a fine racer. Did you ever manage to beat Jessie Wyndham riding him?”

So she’d seen him race, had she? Even though she sounded British, she’d obviously lived in Baltimore.

“No horse stood a chance against Dodger. As for Jessie, that’s another matter. If you were more familiar with Baltimore horse racing, you’d know Dodger was the best, most of the time.”

Her mouth was opening when James said, “You’re an American? But you sound like a Brit. Why?”

“I am English actually. My family lives here half the year and the other half in Baltimore. However, four years ago my parents sent me back here to live year round to get me polished up.”

“When will the polishing begin?” Jason said, looking at her from head to toe.

“I’ve heard it said that cleverness is in the eye of the beholder, and I must say that I’m not seeing much of anything.”

“Then how could you see me strut if your eyesight is so bad?”

She tossed her head and nearly lost her hat. “Another pathetic attempt at a clever remark. I live with my uncle and aunt at Ravensworth Abbey. They provide a marvelous home for me when my parents aren’t here.”

James said, “Burke and Arielle Drummond, the earl and countess of Ravensworth? You’re their niece?”

“Yes. My mother was the countess’s sister. She died when I was born.”

Jason said, “I’m sorry about that.”

“But what are you doing here?” James said. “Here, as on the Hoverton property?”

The chin went up, as if she expected sarcasm, argument, a fight even. Jason couldn’t wait to see what would come out of her mouth. She said, “I will be twenty-one in December. I am an adult. I love horses.”

Jason said slowly, “I remember you now. It was a long time ago, just after I’d arrived in Baltimore. You were that skinny little girl who was forever hanging around the racetracks. There was someone always trying to find you. Jessie brought you home a couple of times, but you stayed with the children. Then I didn’t see you anymore. Ah, yes, I remember Jessie saying that you’d come to England to live. You’re Hallie Carrick. I came home on one of your father’s steamships, The Bold Venture. Yes, I remember. Your father went to America some fifteen years ago to buy a shipyard and ended up marrying the owner’s daughter.”

“Yes, that’s what happened. I was in Baltimore three years ago, but I believe you and James Wyndham were in New York, buying horses.”

She had an astounding memory for his brother’s whereabouts, James thought, staring at her. Why?

“Allow me to correct you. My father and Genny—my stepmother—run the Carrick Shipping Line together now. I believe Genny built The Bold Venture.”

James arched an eyebrow at that. “Really? That is very impressive. Very well, then, Miss Carrick, what are you doing here? By here, I mean Lyon’s Gate.”

“That’s easy to answer. I intend to buy Lyon’s Gate. You are very nearly on my property. What are you two doing here?”

Jason came to instant attention. He stood appalled, disbelieving, staring at this absurd girl who had the golden hair of a princess and had suddenly become the enemy. “What do you mean, you intend to buy Lyon’s Gate?”

She shot a look at James, who was standing with his back against the stable door, arms crossed over his chest. “Is your brother hard of hearing?”

“No,” James said. “He is merely astounded. You’re a girl. You shouldn’t even be here alone, much less garbed in clothes many stable lads would despise.”

“That has nothing to do with anything, and you know it. Unlike my stepmother and father, I have no interest in either shipbuilding or running ships across the Atlantic or down to the Caribbean.” She turned to Jason. “If you had paid any attention at all to that skinny little girl—to me—you would have realized that I was more horse-mad than you are, Jason Sherbrooke. Of course, even five years ago, you were a grown man with every woman in Baltimore after you. What was I but a fifteen-year-old skinny rope of a girl who paid you no attention at all?”

Suddenly she grinned, showing lovely white teeth and a smile so beautiful it should have made the sun burst through the overhanging clouds. “Yes, I was shy, and thinner than a windowpane. Tell me, did Lucinda Frothingale, who’s never been any of those things in her entire life, ever get you into her bed? Did Horace try to bite you?”

“Do you mind telling me what you know of Lucinda Frothingale?”

“I get letters from my siblings and my parents. Genny occasionally tells me which ladies manage to snag you, if but for a little while, since you’re fickle. Well? Did Lucinda finally manage to get a hook in your mouth?” She tossed him another impudent grin, and with that grin, he suddenly saw her father’s face. He waved away her words. It was hard to tell if she had his astounding male beauty, but pull a gown over her head, scrub her face, and he would wager she’d be a stunner, a lady to stop the male population of London in its collective tracks.

She said, a wealth of disappointment in her voice, “I suppose you won’t speak of Lucinda. It wouldn’t be gentlemanly, even though—”

“It’s best you don’t finish that thought, Miss Carrick. I believe I can see your father in you now.”

“Glory be,” she said and rolled her eyes. “But you might as well be honest, Mr. Sherbrooke. My father is the most beautiful man ever born, to my mind more beautiful than you two. As for myself, I gave it up years ago.”

James said, fascinated, “Gave what up?”

“Thinking I would ever have even a dollop of the beauty he has.”

Jason said, “I suppose you could take off that ridiculous hat again, then we could see.”

She didn’t say a word, but her horse snorted.

Fact was, Jason thought, she could have looked like an old crone and it wouldn’t have mattered. He said, “I’m buying Lyon’s Gate, Miss Carrick, not you. It seems to me you’d be better off buying something closer to home. Where is your father’s estate?”

“Carrick Grange is in Northumberland. It isn’t particularly good horse country.”

“Fine, then buy something close to Ravensworth. How about some property in America, near Baltimore? You could race Jessie Wyndham.”

“No, it’s Lyon’s Gate for me. Get used to the idea, Mr. Sherbrooke. It’s mine.”

James felt his brother stiffen beside him, and since he knew Jason as well as he knew himself, and he knew bloodshed was close, he said before Jason could leap on her, “Do you have step-siblings, Miss Carrick?”

She nodded and shoved her old hat so low on her head, she nearly covered her eyes. “Yes, I have three stepbrothers and one stepsister, the youngest. We’re a large family, as the dolt here could tell you if he ever applied his brain to anything other than getting women into bed, and racing horses.”

Jason looked ready to leap, James thought, followed by throwing her into the dead flower bed. He said rather loudly, “Then there are step-siblings who will carry on the Carrick shipping tradition?”

“You are certainly nosy, my lord.”

“He’s trying to keep me from pulling you off that brute’s back and throwing you in that horse trough, Miss Carrick.”

“It’s empty.”

“Yes, I know.”

“You just try it, Jason Sherbrooke. Charlemagne would pound his hooves into your belly.”

James cleared his throat. “I believe you were going to tell me about your step-siblings, Miss Carrick.”

“Very well. Go ahead and protect him. He probably needs it. He is on the puny side, isn’t he?” Since both men looked at her like she was a moron, which maybe she was in this particular instance, Hallie gave it up. “Very well, my father and mother are building very few sailing vessels now. It’s all steamships, and that is a very different thing indeed. Can you imagine, it takes only two weeks to voyage from Baltimore to Portsmouth on a steamship? It was closer to six weeks when I was a little girl.”

“Progress is everywhere,” James said to his twin. “There are gaslights in most all the public buildings in London now.”

“London is behind. Gaslights are simply everywhere in Baltimore, my father tells me,” Hallie said. Since all she got for that remark was a raised eyebrow from James, she continued. “If you must know, my lord, I have one stepbrother, Dev, only thirteen, but I know he will be a very accomplished shipbuilder by the time he’s twenty. My oldest stepbrother, Carson, will run the company one day, and my youngest stepbrother, Eric, is only ten but still, he’s sailing mad. My sister, Louisa, wants to write novels. However, she’s only nine years old, a bit early to know if her stories will improve.”

Jason said. “I know your step-siblings. They are friends with the Wyndham children. Whenever I was close by, Louisa would spin a tale for me. She always told me she wanted me to be the hero of all her novels, and that there would be at least one hundred since she planned to write until she croaks over her quill at the turn of the century. She’ll have me perform deeds of derring-do and rescue ladies from villains, starting with her, she hopes, when she grows up.”

Hallie rolled her yes. “Louisa doesn’t know any villains. The thought of my father letting a villain get near her is about as likely as a week passing in England without rain.”

“A novelist, Louisa has given me to understand, can spin villains out of red yarn if she wishes to.”

She looked him up and down. “I must write Louisa about losing her perspective over a pretty face, wide shoulders, and a flat belly.”

CHAPTER 6

“I thought I was a dolt.”

Not even a second passed before she said, “That’s true enough, but Louisa is small for her age and simply doesn’t recognize it as yet.”

Jason laughed at that quick, clean shot, and smiled, thinking of Jessie Wyndham.

Hallie felt a glow in her own belly at that laugh and smile. “I’m the only one in the family who prefers four-legged transportation to rudders and wood. I sailed all my life until I came to live year-round in England. Let me tell you, I’ve run my uncle’s stables for two years now. It’s time I went out on my own, that’s what my uncle finally told me since I was tired of waltzing with chinless young men and lecherous old men who wanted to stare down my gown.”

Jason said, “Ha. Did you get your uncle drunk?”

“There was no need to. I had his sons tell him it was time. I’m not stupid. I got them on my side two years ago.”

“I should have known. Given that they’re young and impressionable, they were easy targets.” Jason turned to his brother. “This is the typical behavior of an American female, James. Yes, yes, I know you’re English, but you were raised in America for much of the time, and that’s what counts.”

“That’s not true. I spent my first five years traveling the world with my father.”

Jason ignored her. “James, American girls plot and scheme and simper and wheedle, all with equal facility. They are a scary lot, particularly those with a modicum of intellect and a pocket full of groats. In Miss Carrick’s case, evidently her father has allowed her to dip deep into his pockets. Did I forget to mention spoiled? Another American female trait. Hopefully she isn’t instructing our English girls on how to—” He stalled, Judith’s face so clear in his brain that he wanted to pound his head with a rock to get her out.

“Trust me, Mr. Sherbrooke, your English girls don’t need any assistance from me. The way they can freeze you in place with only a raised eyebrow—” She shuddered. “They are very much in control, your English girls.”

James, who had seen the sudden pallor on his twin’s face, wanted to tell him not to think about the girl who’d betrayed him, who’d betrayed all of them, but he knew he couldn’t. He said, all bland and easy, “So all the gentlemen in London bored you, Miss Carrick?”

“Yes, they bored me senseless, my lord. I told my uncle that I had no intention of marrying, no intention of returning to America or moving in permanently into Carrick Grange, and that announcement helped spur him toward agreement to my buying my own property. Naturally he hied himself off to his study to write my father, but my father won’t interfere.”

“I can see why your uncle would resign himself,” Jason said. “Since you haven’t managed to find yourself a husband and are well on your way to your dotage, he doesn’t want you hanging about Ravensworth. How many seasons have you had? Five? Six? Of course if your father is providing a big dowry, it wouldn’t matter if you were sixty, without a tooth in your mouth. Some fool would be on his knees begging you to make him the happiest of men.”

“Not so far into my dotage as you are, Mr. Sherbrooke. May I ask why you bothered to come home? I heard you were content to live with James and Jessie Wyndham and raise their children.”

“Didn’t you say I only thought about sleeping with women and racing?”

“That too.” She frowned as she patted her horse’s neck, keeping him calm. Charlemagne loved to fight or gallop with the wind, he didn’t care which. She knew he was keeping a hopeful eye on the two Sherbrooke horses, hoping she’d let him go kick them into the fodder bin. She let him rear up on his back legs, fling his great head from side to side, and give a very fine show.

“See to your horse, Miss Carrick,” Jason said, “else the gentlemen will have to rescue you.”

“As if I would ever expect one of your ilk to rescue me.” She sneered.

James felt as if he’d been pulled back in time. He burst out laughing, couldn’t help himself. It was a Corrie sneer, one she’d perfected more than seven years before and used with flawless timing to make him so angry his eyes crossed. He wondered if his twin would fall for it, turn purple in the face, yank her off her horse, and wallop her butt.

But Jason merely sneered back at her, a sneer more potent than hers. He’d learned that in America? “Listen to me, Miss Carrick,” Jason said slowly, as if speaking to the village idiot, “I plan to buy Lyon’s Gate. It will be mine. Go away.”

“We will see about that, won’t we?” Hallie Carrick wheeled Charlemagne about, let him rear up and paw the air one more time. She smiled as he bugled a clear challenge to Bad Boy and Dodger, whose eyes were rolling, on the brink of pulling free of their tethers.

Jason spoke in a low quiet voice and both horses calmed.

“Wait,” James said. “Where are you staying? Surely Ravensworth is too far a ride for you today.”

“I am staying at the vicarage in Glenclose-on-Rowan with Reverend Tysen Sherbrooke and his wife.” She struck a pose. “Why, I do believe they’re your aunt and uncle.”

Jason stood there, shaking his head back and forth. “No, that isn’t possible. Why ever would they have you there? Rory wrote me from Oxford, not above a month ago, so even he’s not at home any longer, and there are no spinsters your age—”

“Leo Sherbrooke is marrying a dear friend of mine, Miss Melissa Breckenridge. I’m supporting her to the altar on Saturday, and that’s why I’m visiting the vicarage.”

“You make it sound like you’re going to have to carry her.”

“No, Melissa is actually a blithering idiot when it comes to Leo. She’ll probably be running, skirts held high, to get to him as fast as she can. I will precede her, strewing rose petals from Mary Rose’s garden, all the while praying that Melissa doesn’t gallop over me to get to her groom. Whilst I’m strewing, I will marvel at the stupidity of girls giving over all their freedom, not to mention their money, to a man.”

“Their father’s money,” Jason said.

“Jessie Wyndham would surely shoot you if you said that in her hearing. As would my stepmother.”

“That’s true,” Jason said, surprising her. “There are exceptions, albeit very few.”

James’s eyebrow arched. “I take it you don’t care for Leo?”

Jason said, “I think Miss Carrick would like to serve all men up in the same soup, chopped into small pieces.”

She gave him a considering sneer. “Very small pieces. However, for a man, Leo isn’t all that bad. I wouldn’t care to deal with him every day of my life, but I’m not the one who has to marry him. If he follows in his father’s footsteps, at least he won’t run to fat or lose his teeth, and that’s saying something. Perhaps he laughs as much as his father as well. All in all, I suppose I must admit that if one has to be shackled in leg irons, Leo just might be one of the best of the lot.”

James said, “Leo is more stubborn than his hound Greybeard. Does your friend know that?”

“I don’t know, but I imagine it’s too late to tell her now. She wouldn’t believe me. Or if she did, she would doubtless believe it charming.”

“Greybeard also sleeps with Leo.”

“Oh dear, Greybeard is rather large.”

“Indeed,” said James. “I see conflict on the near horizon.”

“Surely Leo would rather sleep with his new wife than his old dog.”

“For a while, at least,” Jason said, cynicism dripping from his mouth.

James said, “So Leo is all right, as is my uncle Tysen. I assume you also admire your father and uncle?”

“Well, yes, I suppose I must.”

James said, “Well, then, it seems to me you can hardly say we’re a bad species.”

“You have made a good point, my lord, but the fact is, you could be a rotter and I just don’t know it yet. But experience with your twin here suggests that a girl—spinster—better tread warily around him or suffer the consequences.”

“What consequences?” Jason asked.

He’d stumped her, both James and Jason saw that he’d left her with not a word to fire back. She opened her mouth, closed it. She looked at Jason like she wanted to ride her beast right over him. She finally managed to get out, “To my mind, calling men a species grants them too much importance.”

“That was paltry, Miss Carrick,” Jason said, a potent sneer on his mouth. “Let me ask you, what man hurt you so badly that you’ve painted every one of us with your manure-covered brush?”

She froze in the saddle. Jason watched her force herself to ease, force herself back in control. It was amazing how quickly she got hold of herself again. What he’d said had hit close to home. So, there had been a man who’d hurt her. Would she screech at him like a fishwife? What came out of her mouth was, “I found out about this property from your uncle Tysen. He was telling us about Squire Squid and how he’d spent so much money on the stables and paddocks. And Leo chimed in about the son, Thomas, who was a wastrel and a bully, and how he wanted to sell out to pay off all his creditors. Leo brought me here yesterday and I knew the moment I saw the stables I wanted it. He also agreed to escort me here today, but since he is a man, and since today he managed to drag Melissa along, he clearly had other things on his mind. Since Melissa would try to shoot the moon out of the heavens if Leo wanted it, you can be certain that he’s hauled her off to some private place in the woods to frolic.”

“Frolic?” Jason’s eyebrow was up, the sneer sharp. “What a blurry, watery-as-soup word that is, fit only for females who don’t like to speak clearly and to the point.” An infinitesimal pause, then, “Or they can’t be any clearer since they don’t know what they’re talking about.”

James eyed his twin. What was going on here? Well, it had been five years, and Jason had been living in a foreign country. Perhaps men in America insulted women in this fashion?

James cleared his throat, bringing both sets of eyes toward him. “The house is a disaster. Surely you don’t wish to be bothered with such a moldering ruin.”

“Who cares? It’s the stables, the paddocks, this beautiful breeding room and birthing stall that are important. Did you see the tack room? I will be able to work there with my head stable lad.”

Jason wanted to tell her he’d shoot her between the eyes before he’d let her buy Lyon’s Gate, but instead, he turned to his brother. “Let’s go. I intend to buy this property immediately. You, Miss Carrick, are out of luck. Good day, ma’am.”

“We’ll just see about that, Mr. Sherbrooke,” she called over her shoulder as she galloped off down the drive.

“Leo getting married? I can’t imagine Leo married,” Jason said, laughing.

“I suppose no one mentioned it in their letters to you. You haven’t seen him in five years, Jase. He’s as horse-mad as you are, spent the last three years up at Rothermere stud with the Hawksburys.”

“Have you met the girl he’s going to marry? This Melissa who’s mad for him?”

“She’s quite charming, really. Very different as girls go, you could say. I hadn’t met her friend here, though.”

“Even being British by birth, she still acts like an American, more’s the pity. That means what I said before—she’s brash, overconfident, doesn’t know when to back down . . . Well, that’s neither here nor there.”

“She’s very beautiful.”

Jason shrugged. “Why isn’t Leo trying to buy this property? How old is Leo now?”

“About our age, maybe a bit younger. Actually, Leo has his eye on a stud up near Yorkshire, near Rothermere and his future wife’s family. Oh yes, we’re all going to the vicarage Saturday for the wedding, spending the night there, which ought to be an experience given that Uncle Ryder is bringing all the Beloved Ones. We’ll be piled to the rafters. Oh yes, Uncle Tysen is marrying Leo and Melissa.”

Jason had turned to watch Hallie Carrick ride away, that fat braid of hers flopping up and down against her back. She rode well, damn her. Could be she rode as well as Jessie Wyndham.

“I’m leaving for London within the hour. I will have this property. I will see Thomas Hoverton myself. It will be done before that girl can begin to sort out a plan of action.”

James doubled over in laughter. “This is simply too rich. Corrie isn’t going to believe this.”

He was still laughing when the two of them walked into Northcliffe Hall, Jason’s boots pounding up the front staircase to get himself packed and off to London.

Twenty minutes later when Jason was riding down the wide Northcliffe drive, James shouted, “Don’t forget to be at the vicarage on Saturday.”

CHAPTER 7

At first Jason didn’t recognize her. He heard a light, lovely laugh, and his head turned automatically in its direction. Was this the bride? No. It was Hallie Carrick. Gone were the old breeches, the ratty hat, the thick dirty braid, the boots as dusty as her face. In their place was a gown of pale lavender, with big billowy sleeves, a neckline that could be more modest, and a waist the size of a doorknob. Very tightly pulled stays, he imagined, but what he was looking at now was her hair. It was golden, no other way to describe the color, the exact same color as her father’s—shiny as the satin gown his aunt Mary Rose was wearing—woven into a thick, intricate braid on top of her head with little wisps and curls dangling artistically around her ears. Small diamond earrings sparkled through those myriad wisps, sparkled just like her laugh.

Jason smiled an easy, very masculine smile. She was a girl, despite her boasts and braggadocio. Why not admire her since Lyon’s Gate was now his? He could afford to be gracious. He’d won. His ownership hadn’t ever been in doubt, even though Thomas Hoverton hadn’t been in London when Jason had gotten there. It had taken him only an hour to track down the Hoverton solicitor, Arlo Clark of 29 Burksted Street, who’d nearly broken into tears and fallen on his neck when he’d realized Jason was there to actually make an offer for the Hoverton property. Mr. Clark had the papers right there in a drawer, where they’d moldered for nearly two years. The offer was more than generous, though Jason realized the solicitor would never admit that. One had to play the game. The game was finished soon enough, and Jason had signed his name with a flourish and a sense of deep pleasure. Mr. Clark then signed in Thomas Hoverton’s place since he was his legal representative.

Yes, Mr. Clark knew Wily Willy Bibber, the Sherbrooke solicitor, and they would see to the transfer of funds. Everything was right and tight. Jason could take possession of Lyon’s Gate as soon as he wished to.

Yes, Jason could be gracious to this American baggage with her British accent and British blood. Now he could even appreciate her virgin blue eyes, her golden hair that surely belonged to a fairy tale princess—an image that didn’t suit her personality at all—and a figure to make any man whimper. And that laugh of hers—too free, too easy, far too American—sounded like she didn’t have a care in the world. Well, she shortly would when she realized she’d lost to him.

He’d arrived no more than ten minutes before the ceremony and had instantly been surrounded by his huge family. For today at least, there would be no swirling tension in the air because he wasn’t the focus of everyone’s attention, thank God. No one would ask how he was feeling or if he’d yet gotten over the betrayal that had nearly destroyed his family. His uncle Ryder, a child sitting on each leg and a child on either side of him, had everyone press together so Jason could fit on the same pew. His aunt Sophie was seated between two older children, Grayson next, holding two small children on his legs. Grayson, a born storyteller, was his uncle Ryder and aunt Sophie’s only natural child, tall with the Sherbrooke looks, and eyes as blue as a clear summer sky.

Jason’s parents, Hollis, James, Corrie, and the twins, twitching and yawning and jabbering in twin talk, were in the pew in front of him. Jason saw that every adult was responsible for one child, including his grandmother, who wasn’t frowning at the small human being seated quietly beside her, surely a special gift from God. He saw his aunt Melissande, all of fifty now, seated two rows up. She was still so beautiful she stopped young men in their tracks. She looked more like his and James’s sister than their mother’s elder sister. Uncle Tony, her husband, was seated next to her, one arm resting on the pew behind her, his fingers playing with a strand of her beautiful black hair.

The church was filled to bursting since all of the groom’s relatives had come to Glenclose-on-Rowan for the wedding. The only missing relatives were Aunt Sinjun and Uncle Colin from Scotland and Meggie and Thomas from Ireland. Jason settled in on the pew next to a four-year-old boy who, Uncle Ryder whispered over the top of the child’s head, was named Harvey. He looked too old for his years, and he looked afraid, but that would change now that he was with Ryder. He was a very lucky little boy. He would eventually forget all the bad things that had happened to him. Harvey had large, very dark eyes, nearly as dark as Douglas Sherbrooke’s eyes, and straight, shiny, dark brown hair. His cheekbones were still too sharp, his body too thin, but that would change as well.

When Miss Hallie Carrick glided down the aisle to support Miss Breckenridge, strewing rose petals from Mary Rose’s garden, he caught her eye and gave her a cheerful little wave. Was there a sneer of triumph on his mouth? No, surely he was too well-bred to allow any sort of gloating to appear.

Evidently she didn’t consider his little wave and smile gloating because, funny thing was, she looked momentarily surprised, and nearly dropped the lovely bouquet of flowers she carried. Jason would swear she giggled as she had to do a fast step to grab the small ribbon-tied roses. Then she smiled back and returned his little wave.

Harvey poked him in the ribs. “Who is that angel wot’s sashshaying down the aisle flingin’ rose petals about and eyin’ ye?”

“That’s Miss Carrick, the bridesmaid to Miss Breckenridge, the bride,” Jason said. “She is rather flinging the rose petals about, rather than gracefully strewing them, isn’t she?”

“Lawks,” said Harvey, his voice loud and crystal clear over the organ music, “she could dump ’em out o’ a bucket right on me ’ead. Ain’t she jest purtier than the sun shinin’ down on a puddle of clean water in Watt’s alley? I wants to marry the angel when I grows up.”

“No you don’t, Harvey. Trust me. She’s no angel. She’d chew your ears for breakfast.” He took the little boy’s hand and drew him closer. There were smiles and some laughter following Harvey’s announcement. Harvey opened his mouth, but Jason, well practiced with the Wyndham children, said quickly, “I want you to count the hairs you can see on my arm until you’ve got them all.”

“There ain’t many showin’,” Harvey said, “an’ that’s good ’cause I can only counts to four.” That was too bad, Jason thought. Four-year-old Alice Wyndham could count to fifty-one. At least Harvey counted with great precision. It kept him quiet for about twenty seconds. Jason looked down the bench at his uncle Ryder, who’d just kissed a child’s head. He was nodding at Jason, smiling. Since his uncle Ryder had been a very young man of twenty, he’d been taking in abandoned children or rescuing them from drunken parents or sadistic masters. It was his aunt Sinjun who’d started calling his children the Beloved Ones.

Jason lifted the fidgeting Harvey onto his left leg, and thankfully soon felt the small body collapse back against his chest. Jason managed for the most part to keep his eyes on his cousin Leo Sherbrooke as he stood tall and proud opposite a heavily veiled girl who was, evidently, Melissa Breckenridge. She didn’t leap on Leo, at least until her new father-in-law, Reverend Tysen Sherbrooke told her, a wonderful smile on his face, that the bride could kiss the groom.

At the reception following the ceremony, guests overflowed the vicarage into the lovely vicarage gardens. Reverend Sherbrooke was heard to bless God for delivering up this magnificent sunny day a good dozen times. After three toasts of the excellent champagne provided by the earl of Northcliffe, Tysen cleared his throat to draw everyone’s attention. Unfortunately at that particular moment, one of the children shouted, “I have to go behind that bush!” which had everyone dissolving into laughter. Tysen tried again. “My wife has informed me that to keep us all from becoming drunk as loons, eating and dancing is required. The countess of Northcliffe has consented to play if all the young men will assist in clearing space in the drawing room.”

Within four minutes, Alexandra had struck up a lilting waltz with Leo leading his bride to the center of the floor. Jason turned when he heard the catch of a breath. He saw his uncle Tysen staring at Leo, shaking his head in bewilderment, probably because his son was actually now married. He had one arm around Rory’s shoulders, all of nineteen, a student at Oxford, nearly a man grown. So many changes, Jason thought, all the cousins getting married, producing the next generation.

He watched his brother lead Corrie onto the floor, the twins in their grandfather’s arms, waving wildly toward their parents. His cousin Max, Uncle Tysen’s eldest son, gave his hand to a young woman Jason hadn’t seen before. He looked down to see Harvey tugging on his trouser leg. “I wants to dance wit’ the angel.”

“You can’t. The angel is dancing with my cousin Grayson, who’s probably telling her a ghost story. Why don’t you and I show this group how to waltz properly?” Jason lifted Harvey in his arms and began to waltz him around the perimeter of the room in great dipping steps. One of the twins shouted, “Uncle Jason, I want to waltz with you!”

Jason laughed, called back, “Dance with your grandfather.” From the corner of his eye, he saw his father, holding a twin in each arm, swing into the waltz, sweeping around the room, not six feet behind Jason and Harvey. Laughter flowed as freely as champagne. Adults and children waltzed. All in all, it was a fine afternoon, Melissa’s family mixing well with all the Sherbrookes.

An hour later, Jason was seated on a swing in the vicarage gardens, his right foot lazily pushing off every now and again to keep the swing moving in a nice smooth glide. Harvey, stuffed to the gills, exhausted from dancing, was sprawled on his lap, his head against Jason’s chest. A female voice said quietly from behind him, “I don’t expect you to congratulate me, but I suppose since I did have the lead in our competition, I should tell you that you probably ran a fine race. However, truth be told, I don’t know what you did. You could have simply sat in a ditch and given up, for all I know. Also, you didn’t ask me to waltz. I believe every single male at the wedding asked me to waltz. All save you. Surely that doesn’t bespeak a gracious loser, and I had high hopes for you after that smile and little wave at the ceremony.”

Jason, who didn’t want to disturb Harvey, didn’t turn, and said toward the graveyard beyond the far garden wall, “I always run a fine race, Miss Carrick. I usually win except when it is against Jessie Wyndham. I kept encouraging her to eat so she would gain flesh, but it never happened. She laughed at me.”

Hallie laughed herself, walked around the swing and stood there, eyeing the beautiful man holding the boneless little boy who had chocolate smeared on his mouth. She said, “I watched Jessie race for as long as I can remember. She’s a killer, is Jessie.” She paused, frowned down at the sleeping Harvey. “He’s too thin.”

“Yes, a bit. That will change. My uncle Ryder bought him two months ago from a factory owner in Manchester. He was working fourteen hours a day, fixing machines that knotted thread.”

“I heard Melissa’s parents speaking about your uncle Ryder and all the children he’s taken in over the years. They couldn’t quite come to grips with it.”

“And you, Miss Carrick? What do you think of the Beloved Ones?”

“That’s a lovely name for them. Actually, I’ve never seen such magic as your uncle has for the children, except perhaps for you. They want to crawl all over him. It’s amazing. Did you see all of Melissa’s relatives waltzing with the children? I don’t think Mellie’s father has danced in thirty years, yet he was carrying about a little girl no more than seven. So much laughter today. Quite amazing, really. You wouldn’t see that in London, perhaps even in Baltimore. It would be all adults trying to act superior and eyeing each other’s jewelry. How many children has he taken in?”

“I don’t know. You will have to ask him or my aunt Sophie. There are usually fifteen or so children in residence at any given time.”

“I think he is a very good man. He sees and he acts. Not many people do.”

“No, not many do. So, we have another man of which you must approve. The list is growing, Miss Carrick.”

She struggled a moment, kept quiet, and reached out her hand to give the swing a shove. Harvey snorted in his sleep. “Yet again I’ve left you speechless.”

“Aren’t you going to congratulate me, Mr. Sherbrooke?”

“On supporting your friend to the altar? Harvey here was certainly impressed with you.”

“I nearly dropped the bouquet.” She leaned over, pulled a handkerchief out of a pocket in her gown he couldn’t have found even if he’d been looking for it, and, just like Jessie, spit on the handkerchief, and efficiently wiped Harvey’s face. She saw him staring at her and said only, “I raised four children, myself. Did you see Melissa grab Leo at the end of the service? I thought Reverend Sherbrooke would laugh out loud.”

The vicarage gardens smelled of honeysuckle and roses in the late afternoon, or maybe it was her unique scent, he wasn’t sure. He said, “I remember when I was a very young boy, Uncle Tysen rarely laughed, especially when he gave a sermon. His life was dedicated to God, a God who evidently was only interested in hearing about endless sins and avoiding transgressions, always impossible. This God of Uncle Tysen’s didn’t believe in laughter or in everyday sorts of pleasures. Then he met Mary Rose. She brought God’s love and forgiveness into his life and into his church. She brought laughter and peace and infinite joy.” He paused a moment, felt his voice thicken as he said, “I didn’t realize how much I’d missed my family until today when they were all around me. And my aunt Melissande, who always patted my face and called me her mirror. She didn’t this time, she hugged me until my uncle Tony finally pulled her away. There were tears in her eyes.” Why had he said any of that to her? After all, he’d beaten her. Shortly she would want to drive a knife between his ribs. Harvey snorted again in his sleep. Jason automatically tightened his hold, rocked him.

“What you said about your uncle Tysen—it was quite eloquent.”

He ignored that, feeling something of a fool for speaking of it to her. “Why should I congratulate you, Miss Carrick?”

She’d forgotten her victory, her absolute triumph, but for only a moment. She grinned down at him. “Because, naturally, I am the new owner of Lyon’s Gate.”

Jason stopped swinging. He looked up into a face that could have given Helen of Troy a hell of a race. “No,” he said matter-of-factly, wondering what her game was, “I own Lyon’s Gate. If you would like to see it, to ensure I’m not lying, I can show you the deed. I have it in my pocket.”

That drew her up short. “Why are you saying that? That isn’t possible, Mr. Sherbrooke. I have the deed in my reticule, which is in my bedchamber upstairs. Your joke isn’t funny, sir.”

“No, I don’t make jokes about something as important to me as Lyon’s Gate is, Miss Carrick. I went to London, I met with Thomas Hoverton’s solicitor, and I bought the property.”

“Ah, that’s cleared up then.” She looked ready to dance and fling about more rose petals, the light of victory back in her eyes. “Not that it was ever in any doubt.”

Her grin grew bigger. Jason frowned at her. “What are you talking about? What have you done?”

“I knew where Thomas was—he’s staying with his aunt Mildred in Upper Dallenby, only twenty miles from here. I rode over, and he and I came to an agreement. Lyon’s Gate is mine.”

Now, wasn’t that a kick in the ass, was all Jason could think.

CHAPTER 8

It was after midnight. Leo and Melissa were long gone on their honeymoon, their first night of married bliss to be spent in Eastbourne, then they were off to Calais on the morning tide on Alec Carrick’s packet, HiHo Columbus, named by Dev when he’d been five years old.

The Sherbrookes and Miss Hallie Carrick were seated in the drawing room. Jason knew that every one of them would willingly bash Hallie Carrick on the head, maybe bury her in the garden, so that he, their beloved returned prodigal, would have Lyon’s Gate. It was close to Northcliffe Hall, which meant he would be near. They would be a family again, as soon as they got rid of this English-American upstart who’d had the nerve to stick her oar and her money in to steal what their beloved son wanted for himself. But they were all polite, solicitous, his mother going so far as to pour milk, not arsenic, into Miss Carrick’s tea, which she doubtless would have preferred.

Hallie said suddenly, breaking the butter-thick silence, “Listen, all of you. I bought the property from Thomas Hoverton himself, not his solicitor. It seems very clear to me that I am the new owner of Lyon’s Gate.”

Jason said, “Mr. Clark is Thomas Hoverton’s legal representative. Mr. Clark showed me the document giving him the power to transact any of Thomas Hoverton’s business, with both their signatures on it. It is his right to act on Thomas Hoverton’s behalf, and he did. I bought the property before you did, Miss Carrick. The deed is not only duly signed, it is dated, even down to the time of day our signatures were affixed to the bill of sale.”

Hallie looked at all those perfectly pleasant faces, knowing full well they’d like her to disappear, perhaps by violence, given the blazing red of Jason’s mother’s hair. “Thomas is the owner,” she said. “No one else. A solicitor, when all is said and done, is still only a solicitor.”

Douglas rose, smiled at the group. “This will get us nowhere. I suggest we travel to London tomorrow. Miss Carrick, you may stay with us on Putnam Square since it would not be appropriate for you to open up either your father’s or your aunt and uncle’s town houses.”

“I will stay with Melissa’s parents,” she said.

James said, “They’re journeying directly back to Yorkshire tomorrow.”

Douglas continued, “We will all gather together at the solicitor’s, and the legal minds will help us sort this out. Now, it’s time for bed. I, for one, am still swimming in too much champagne.”

Since it was the patriarch who had spoken, everyone dutifully rose.

As James had said, the vicarage was packed to the rafters of the third floor. Jason and six other young men, including the bedchamber’s owner, Max, Uncle Tysen’s eldest son, were sleeping lined up like logs on thick piles of blankets, collected from Uncle Tysen’s parishioners.

Except Jason. He couldn’t sleep. All his plans, all the magnificent execution of his plans, what would happen now? He hated the uncertainty of it. He listened to the snoring, the grunts and groans of all his cousins, wondered how wives ever got any sleep, what with all the racket men made, pulled on a dressing gown his cousin Grayson had loaned him, and slipped out of the vicarage. He walked into the moonlight-drenched gardens, pausing by a thick twisting honeysuckle vine to breathe in its night scent.

“Do you know that women snore?”

He nearly jumped out of his bare feet. He whipped around, stepped on a sharp twig, and began dancing on one foot.

The witch laughed.

“Women’s snores aren’t as earsplitting as men’s,” he said, rubbing his foot. “Just little mewling sounds, delicate little snorts and whistles.”

“I suppose you would know, what with all the women you’ve put to sleep over the years.”

He raised an eyebrow at that. “Is this why you’re up, Miss Carrick? You couldn’t sleep with all the little grunts and groans?”

“It was almost like I was lying there listening to some sort of strange string quartet. A little wheeze here, a heady sigh from across the room, a deeper rumble from beside my left elbow.”

“And you couldn’t join in the orchestra?”

“I was lying there, wondering what we’re going to do about all this mess. Not that I have any doubt about the correct outcome, naturally, but getting there, the plowing through your very rich and powerful family, who would like to send me to China. In a barrel. Filled with herring.”

“Plowing? You think my family would be dishonest? I assure you, Miss Carrick, there is no reason to be since I have the right of it. Thomas Hoverton is a wastrel, a small-minded, womanizing, gambling wastrel, and that is why his solicitor has the power to make financial decisions for him. Thomas initiated it himself to keep him separated from his creditors who would probably like to jerk his guts out through his nose. Besides, you’re not some poor little waif. Talk about a powerful family; your uncle, Burke Drummond, the earl of Ravensworth, is a very powerful man indeed. As for your father, he is Baron Sherard. Contact them, Miss Carrick. Until your father arrives, your uncle can represent your interests, he and his solicitor. Stop your whining. Actually, my parents would seriously consider China or perhaps Russia. Somewhere remote.”

Hallie sighed. “Yes, that’s all true. But it will take days for Uncle Burke to get to London. Was I really whining?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that isn’t very attractive, is it? No, don’t you dare say it’s what all American girls do or I’ll knock you into those rosebushes.”

“All right, I won’t say it. The fact is, I’m charmed with the image of you climbing out of a herring barrel after six or so weeks at sea, on a rutted road that will take you to Moscow, in about six months.”

“English herring or American herring?”

He wanted to laugh, but he didn’t. “British herring are saltier in my experience. Not that I don’t like a whiff of salt, naturally.”

“You’re making that up.” She paused a moment, then said, “The fact is I like being more American than British. I have a different perspective on many things. You know, the way I look at people, the way I respond to situations.”

“That must mean you’re not an insufferable snob yet.”

“Is that how you see English girls, Mr. Sherbrooke? As snobs?”

“No, not at all. You’re right about American girls—they’re more likely to kick a man in the shins if he offends her rather than whimpering behind a potted palm in a corner.”

“Are you speaking from experience?”

“Yes, of course. I’ve seen both. For myself, I’d prefer the attempt to the shin.”

“No attempt. I’d do it, fast and hard.”

“I suppose you could try. A gentleman is at a disadvantage, of course, since he can’t kick you back. You’ve a sharp mouth on you, Miss Carrick. You’ve got a vicious streak too, if I’m not mistaken—about the female of the species, I rarely am mistaken.” Except one time, he thought, feeling the damnable familiar pain slice through him. One time he’d been so damnably blind—No, he wouldn’t think about it. It was long in the past. He was home again, and he knew, knew to his heels, that no one blamed him. It never ceased to amaze and humble him. He wondered if he would ever stop blaming himself and knew he wouldn’t.

He looked back at her, wondering what she’d look like with that marvelous hair of hers loose around her shoulders instead of in a single fat braid. If he wasn’t mistaken, and he didn’t think he was, he thought she looked hurt. Hurt at what? What he’d said? No, impossible, not this tiger of a girl, this baggage whose mouth would have to be taped over to keep her quiet. “Perhaps it would make you feel better toward me if you knew I’ve never had a girl try to kick me in the shins or sob behind a potted palm.”

“That’s because every female in the vicinity is hanging all over you,” she said quite matter-of-factly. “Enough pandering, else you will become even more conceited than you are now. Listen to me. I’m worried, I’ll admit it. I mean, I know that since Thomas Hoverton sold me his property, I am the real owner, but this solicitor business, well—”

“As I said, Miss Carrick, there are many properties for you to buy. This is the only one that is close to my home.” He hated going over problems when he could see that each side had some right going for it. He said instead, “Did you know that your name nearly rhymes with my sister-in-law’s?”

“Corrie. Hallie. Yes, it is close, looking at the names. She is very smart.”

“Why do you think Corrie is very smart?”

“It’s obvious. Oh, I see, as a man, you wouldn’t notice a female brain if it winked up at you in your soup. She deals well with her husband.”

“Yes, she would kill for James.”

“Like Melissa would kill for Leo.”

“Evidently.”

“Your feet are bare, Mr. Sherbrooke. And that dressing gown you’re wearing is very tatty and old.”

“It belongs to my cousin Grayson. I forgot to pack anything. I arrived home just in time to change clothes and come galloping here. You look like a whipped-up dessert, Miss Carrick, all soft and fluffy and peachy.”

“Yes, well, it was a gift from my aunt Arielle when she thought I was going to marry—” She slammed her hands over her mouth, looked horrified that those words had popped right out of her mouth. She took a step back, clutched at the flowing peach silk dressing gown and pulled it so tight over her breasts that beneath that lovely moonlight, he could see through to her lovely white skin.

She knew he was going to blight her: she’d just blurted out some powerful ammunition, but “Hmm,” was all he said, nothing more. She still backed up three steps until her back hit against a climbing rosebush. A thorn must have stuck her because she jumped, stepped away.

Then, he saw, she simply couldn’t stand it. “Oh, go ahead and mock me about this, I know you want to.”

“Actually, I don’t. Now, my father will speak to Melissa’s parents since they’re in charge of you.”

“They aren’t in charge of me, damn you.”

“Very well, but you are their guest, are you not?”

“Yes, I suppose. I was going to leave for Ravensworth tomorrow in any case. But not now.”

“No, not now. You will have to come back to Northcliffe Hall with us tomorrow,” he said. “Then we will all go to London together. My father will send a messenger to your uncle.”

“Yes, all right. I want this to be resolved quickly. I want to move into my new property.”

“I don’t suppose you planned on living at Lyon’s Gate alone? You’re a young lady—well, you’re more young than not, I suppose.”

“I hadn’t really thought about it,” she said slowly. “This has all happened so quickly. There must be some spare relative hanging about who could come to Lyon’s Gate to live with me. My aunt Arielle is sure to know of someone.”

“How about my grandmother?”

“I didn’t meet her, but isn’t she dreadfully old?”

“Not beyond her eightieth year. She would refuse in any case. She doesn’t like ladies, except my aunt Melissande. I was joking with you. However, finding a chaperone won’t be a problem since you’re not moving to Lyon’s Gate.”

“I wish you would give it up, Mr. Sherbrooke. I bought the property from the actual owner. It’s done.”

“I have a feeling that Thomas will prefer the sale going through his solicitor.”

“Why?”

“Because the money that goes to Mr. Clark might be a bit more safely hidden from creditors than if it went directly to Thomas Hoverton. Hmm, I wonder what Thomas will have to say if that is true?”

“No, that can’t be right. You made that up. The money goes to Thomas in any case.”

“We will see, won’t we? Go to bed, Miss Carrick.” He towered over her. “Jessie Wyndham is taller than you are.”

“These things happen. Perhaps James Wyndham is taller than you. We grow big in America.”

He smiled down at her. “It’s better this way, Miss Carrick. Lyon’s Gate is a grand property, its potential can be reached only by a strong man who has a vision. I am that man, Miss Carrick.”

“Your foot is bleeding, Mr. Sherbrooke. Brought low by a twig. Some strong man you are.”

Jason reached out his hand and lightly touched his fingertips to her chin. A firm, very stubborn chin. “Give it up, Miss Carrick. Go back to Ravensworth. Buy something there.”

“Good night, Mr. Sherbrooke. If I am found dead beneath one of Mary Rose’s honeysuckle vines, you can be certain you or one of your family members will be blamed for it.”

“Oh, were any of us to resort to that, you would simply disappear, Miss Carrick. Don’t forget that herring barrel.” He gave her a small salute and walked back into the vicarage, trying not to limp even when he stepped on another sharp twig.

CHAPTER 9

Jason didn’t return to Northcliffe Hall. He rode directly back to London in clothes he borrowed from his twin.

When everyone arrived at the Sherbrooke town house late afternoon of the following day, he was waiting for them in the drawing room.

He wasn’t all that surprised when Hallie Carrick ran into the drawing room ahead of everyone, her right hand fisted, blood in her eyes.

He managed to catch her fist before it landed. “You miserable sot.” She managed to twist her hand free and hit him in the belly. He grunted as he grabbed both wrists.

She stood on her tiptoes, right in his face, squirming and tugging, but he wasn’t about to let her go again. “You paltry cretin, you puling weasel—let go of me so I can hove your ribs in!”

“I might be paltry and puling, but I’m not stupid. I’m not about to let you get loose again, Miss Carrick.”

“Let me at you, let me have more leverage, and I’ll send my fist into your liver.”

Corrie said, “She’s been muttering all the way to London about the most satisfying ways to kill you, Jason. Even my best conversational efforts didn’t deter her from quite innovative murder schemes, including stuffing you in a herring barrel and sailing you off some place on the other side of the planet.” Corrie paused a moment, tapped her fingertips against her chin, and sighed. “But you know, Hallie, in the end, you’ve let me down.”

Hallie jerked around at that. “What do you mean let you down?”

“You obviously are not acquainted with boxing science. When all’s said and done, you hit him like a girl—a straight shot, nothing subtle, nothing surprising at all.”

James said, “I hesitate to insert myself in the middle of this battlefield, but how the devil do you know anything about boxing science, Corrie?”

“I followed you and Jason to a boxing match near Chelmsley when I was twelve. You, Jason, and a half dozen wild young men from Oxford came down to get debauched and lose your groats on some sweating idiot trying to kill another sweating idiot.”

Douglas said, “You never saw her, James? You never knew about this until now?”

“She was always sneaky,” James said. He raised his eyes to the ceiling. “Thank you, God, for not letting all the gentlemen present realize she was a girl. You were wearing your britches, weren’t you?”

“Yes, naturally. I even won a pound betting on the very sweaty man—now what was his name? Crutcher, I believe. I wagered on him because he had longer arms. I figured that gave him the advantage.”

“You’re right,” Jason said, “Crutcher was his name. No, Miss Carrick, don’t try to knock me into the fireplace again. That’s better, hold still. Your wrists are staying right where they are. I bet on him too, Corrie. Won a hundred pounds off Quin Parker. I’d never even seen a hundred pounds before that day. James tried to extort a share, but I hid my booty.”

James said, “I searched your room at least three different times looking for that money. Where did you hide it?”

“In the gardens, not a foot from Corrie’s favorite statue.”

“Oh dear, how do you know which is my favorite statue, Jason?”

“It’s every female’s favorite statue,” Jason said.

Jason and James’s mother, Alex, said kindly to Hallie even as her husband gave her an astonished look, “They are large, very nicely carved statues of men and women in an unclothed state, very artistic, naturally, and I suppose you would say their subject matter is explicit. They were brought over by one of my husband’s ancestors in the last century.”

“Explicit what?” Hallie asked.

“I’ll show them to you, Hallie,” Corrie said. “They are vastly educational.”

“But how?”

“Well, they show you all the ways that a man and a woman can be intimate—”

“Intimate?” Hallie asked, her voice lower, vibrating with interest. “What do you mean ‘intimate’?”

“Well—oh dear, perhaps we’d best not discuss that here.”

Jason rolled his eyes.

“Amen,” said Corrie’s husband. “Forget about the statues.”

Hallie said, “They’re naked, you say? The male statues?”

“Well, yes,” Alex said.

“Hmm. You can show me these statues, Corrie—I don’t suppose the weasel here compares favorably to them?”

“Actually, truth be told, the statues don’t compare favorably to the weasel. Or to James.”

“Enough!” Jason roared.

Hallie jerked, found that he hadn’t let up on his grip at all, and said, “I’ll wager you dug up the one hundred pounds as soon as you could and lost it all in twenty minutes in a gaming hell.”

Douglas said, “My sons only visited a gaming hell once, Miss Carrick, and that was with me, their father, when they were seventeen.”

Alex said, “Goodness, Douglas, you never told me about that. How I should have liked to have seen it. I could have dressed in a pair of Corrie’s britches, perhaps worn a mask, sipped on brandy—”

“It was pretty bad, Mother,” James said. “Men were drunk as loons, wagering huge amounts of money as if they didn’t have a care in the world. The place smelled, to be blunt about it. As for the man who owned the hell, he looked like he’d willingly shove a knife in your belly if you didn’t pay up your losses.”

Corrie said to her father-in-law, “That was quite brilliant, sir. You did it as a lesson.”

Douglas nodded. “The unknown is a powerful lure. Strip away the mystery and you see the rot beneath. As I recall, my own father took me to a notorious hell when I was about that age.”

Alex said on a sigh, “I don’t think it ever occurred to my father to take Melissande or me on an educational experience like that one. I’ll wager there were gaming hells in York, don’t you think, Douglas?”

“Lord give me strength,” Douglas said, eyes heavenward.

Hallie jerked once more on her wrists, but Jason’s hold was still unbreakable. “This is all well and good, all these educational lessons, my lord, but may we get back to business?”

“What business?” James asked. “Oh, sorry, I forgot. You want to kill my brother.”

“No,” she wailed, “I want my stud farm! It’s mine, it belongs to me, I paid good money for it right into the cupped open hands of the owner himself, not his smarmy solicitor.”

“Before we return to that subject,” the earl said, “I’m curious about what you did with the money, Jason.”

“Do you know,” Jason said slowly, “I forgot about it. I think it still must be buried there.”

“You forgot one hundred pounds?” Hallie said. “That’s impossible. A young man never forgets his money, even one like you with more looks than brains.”

“Excellent,” Corrie said. “Hallie, you’ve regained your sense of humor.”

Hallie wanted to leap on Corrie, but Jason kept tight hold of her wrists. He did give her enough freedom so she could shake one fist in Corrie’s direction. “You have the unmitigated gall to make fun of me?”

Corrie said, unruffled as a sleeping hen, “Not at all. You still want to flatten Jason? I’ll teach you to box, Miss Carrick. What do you say to that?”

James’s eyes, like his father’s, went heavenward. “She saw one boxing match when she was twelve and now she’s going to give lessons?”

“Well,” Douglas said. “I gave her lessons. And your mother as well.” He gave a pirate’s grin to his slack-jawed sons.

Jason tightened his grip even more, shot his father an appalled look. “Now, Miss Carrick, enough reminiscing, though it has brought revelations that have shaken my poor brother to his toes. You never saw Corrie in britches. Now, Corrie is right. Simple hits in the gut show no real depth of boxing science.”

Hallie said, “I merely wanted to get your attention. Murder comes later.”

The earl, who now stood with his shoulders against the mantel, arms crossed over his chest, said, “I wonder where Willicombe is. He should be in here pouring tea down our gullets and—”

“My lord! Ah, Master Jason is home as well. What a delight, what a brave new day it is. Just see how the sun is now pouring in through the large window to shine upon your returned face. I say, Master Jason, why are you holding that young lady by her wrists?”

“Willicombe, this girl wants to lay me out. Her name is Miss Hallie Carrick.”

“Shall I fetch Remie to deal with her, Master Jason?”

“Not yet, Willicombe, I’m currently holding my own.”

Willicombe turned to Alex. “Refreshments, my lady?”

“Whatever cook can put together would be fine, Willicombe. How is Remie?”

“He pines, my lady, pines until he has become thin as a chicken’s leg. Trilby is a lady’s maid and she knows all the tricks from her mistress on how to make a young man sweat.” He shook his head as he left the drawing room.

“Remie in love,” Corrie said. “Trilby? Who is her mistress, I wonder? Did Willicombe say she learned tricks from her mistress? Hmm, I wonder—”

“Corrie, I will teach you all the tricks you need to please me.”

Douglas said, “Why don’t we all sit down? No more baiting, Jason, no more violence, Miss Carrick. Now, Jason, I tried to explain to Hallie that this wasn’t some sort of underhanded trick, that you were simply trying to get things moving. Your mother tried to assure her you were honorable and you simply wanted to get things moving as well. Your brother tried to assure her that moving things smartly forward was one of your special gifts—”

To Douglas’s absolute astonishment, the young twit had the nerve to interrupt him. “Ah, yes, everyone was talking about moving things along. What things, I asked, but naturally, no one had an answer to that.” She jerked once more, then looked up at Jason. “As for your bloody twin, he turned up his nose at me for daring to accuse you of being a foul creature fit only to have your guts stuffed in your ears. Let me go!”

“All right.” Jason released her and strolled over to sit in a high-backed wing chair. He steepled his fingers, stretched out his long legs and crossed his ankles. “Miss Carrick, what did Corrie say? After all, you were telling me how smart she is.”

“What’s this? You think I’m smart?”

“Be quiet, Corrie,” Jason said. “Miss Carrick?”

Hallie was still too angry with him to think straight, and now he was sitting at his ease in a damned chair. What had Corrie said? She managed to get herself under control. She became aware that all the Sherbrookes were strewn about the large drawing room, looking on, obviously enjoying themselves at her expense. “Corrie said you were one of the more moral men she knew and I was to stop carping.”

There was a lovely moment of silence.

“You really said that about me, Corrie?” Jason asked.

“It’s the truth,” Corrie said.

James said, “Well, maybe she is pretty smart after all. Just look at the twins she produced. You waltzed with them, Jason, saw how graceful and enthusiastic they were. It was Corrie who taught them how to dance.”

Corrie laughed. “Yes, they nearly float, they are so light on their feet.”

Hallie felt bludgeoned to the carpet. They were all laughing, happy as larks, and her role, which she was playing superbly well, was that of an ill-bred harridan.

Jason looked at Hallie for a long moment. “If you are ready to listen to me now, Miss Carrick?”

“Yes, I am ready.”

“It isn’t good news.”

“I wasn’t expecting any,” she said.

Douglas didn’t like the look on his son’s set face. Something was very wrong. It was hard not to leap right in and protect him, but he forced himself to say nothing. He walked to his favorite wing chair and sat down opposite his son. Alex moved to stand next to him, her hand on his shoulder. He looked up at her, smiled, and pulled her down onto his lap.

As for James, he studied his twin’s face. Like his father, he didn’t like what he saw. He didn’t want his brother to be unhappy, dammit, he wanted him to have Lyon’s Gate. He wanted him to have what he deserved and that was whatever he wanted. James didn’t want his twin to leave again. The excitement in Jason’s eyes when he’d walked into the Lyon’s Gate stables had made James want to dance. He heard the fear in his own voice as he said, “What is it, Jase? What is the bad news?”

Jason sighed, rubbed the back of his neck. “It turns out Thomas Hoverton had already sold Lyon’s Gate to a Mr. Benjamin Chartley of Manchester for a modest sum of money. He hadn’t bothered to notify Mr. Clark, his solicitor here in London. When Miss Carrick showed up on Thomas’s doorstep, he saw his opportunity and took it. When he heard from his solicitor the following day that he’d sold Lyon’s Gate to yet another buyer, Thomas decided it would be best for his health if he left for the Continent that very evening. Of course, what’s really important here is that Mr. Chartley now owns Lyon’s Gate.”

The silence in the room was absolute.

“Well,” his father said finally, “I didn’t think Thomas Hoverton had the guts for this sort of thing.”

Alex said, “He must have been very desperate. And to leave England, that is indeed a surprise.”

Hallie said nothing; she walked to the fireplace, stared down at the empty grate, and kicked a log.

Jason said to her back, “I’m sorry, Miss Carrick. I know this comes as quite a shock. It did to me as well.”

She turned to face him. “I’m leaving tomorrow morning to find that little worm and shoot him. I will get my money back, and yours as well, Mr. Sherbrooke, since you are the one who discovered what he’d done so quickly.” She picked up her skirts and walked quickly from the drawing room.

Alex said, “That was a fine exit, but she doesn’t know where her bedchamber is.” She regretfully left her husband’s lap and hurried after her.

“What are you going to do, Jase?”

“I’ve already contacted Mr. Chartley. He is willing to sell me Lyon’s Gate, but the price has now doubled. He owns three successful factories in Manchester. He knows desperation when he sees it.”

Douglas said, a dark eyebrow raised a good inch, “Does the fellow know who you are?”

“Well, he knows that I’m Jason Sherbrooke. Does he know that I’m your son? If he didn’t, he probably does now. But what difference would that make in any case?”

Douglas smiled at his innocent boy. “The first thing we need to know is why Mr. Benjamin Chartley, factory owner, is in London. I’m thinking it’s very likely he has hopes to enter London society. More than likely he has a daughter of marriageable age. If that is the case, we’ve got him.”

“But I don’t—”

“Jason, he will sell you Lyon’s Gate at the price he paid for it or he will find every door in London closed to him. Then I’ll consider ruining him.”

Jason laughed. “Now, aren’t I a moron for not thinking of that?”

Douglas said, “You would have, given a couple more hours. You’ve been in America too long. Do you really think Miss Carrick is off for France to bring Thomas Hoverton to ground?”

“I wouldn’t doubt it. I keep telling her that she’s more American than English and this certainly proves it. It’s exactly what Jessie Wyndham would do. Give her a whiff of a villain and she’d be off. She’d take at least two guns with her, the whip she uses on jockeys who don’t play fair on the racetrack, and a knife in her boot, strapped to her ankle.” He laughed, couldn’t help himself, and shook his head. “What a debacle.”

Corrie said, “It is something we never considered. I like Hallie, but let me be painfully honest here. I was perfectly ready to have her kidnapped and removed to the Shetland islands. I fancy she could spruce up one of those ancient Viking huts and be perfectly content raising the local ponies.”

The twins’ nanny appeared suddenly in the doorway, looking harried, nervous, and resolute. James and Corrie were on their feet. “Yes, Mrs. Macklin? Is something wrong?”

Mrs. Macklin said, “No, no, don’t worry, my lord. It’s just that Master Everett wants to waltz.”

“Waltz?”

“Yes, my lord. With his uncle.”

At that moment, they heard a loud yell.

“He is rather insistent,” said Mrs. Macklin over another yell that made James’s left eye twitch.

Corrie said, “You waltz very well, Eliza. Why don’t you take him for a spin around the nursery?”

“Master Everett says I’m not man enough to do it right,” said Mrs. Macklin.

“Oh dear,” Corrie said. “It’s begun already?”

“Master Everett says my feet don’t cover enough ground.”

Jason was laughing. “Well, who can play the piano whilst I dance with Everett?”

His mother appeared in the doorway, Willicombe behind her, a large silver tray on his arms. Alex said, “I’ll do it. Goodness, Everett’s gotten bigger in the last day and a half.”

“We’re off then to the music room. Mrs. Macklin, what about his brother?”

“Master Douglas is currently chewing on Wilson’s bone and the puppy is trying to drag it away from him.”

Corrie said, “He is only seven weeks old, a Dandie Dinmont terrier, so ugly and precious all you want is to hug him until he creaks. Wilson and Douglas are good friends.”

“More ugly than precious,” James said. “But he fits quite nicely against my neck at night.”

Mrs. Macklin said, “I’m sorry, my lord, but Wilson slept against my neck last night.”

“Well, Wilson is in a new house,” Corrie said. “We’ll see whose neck he seeks out tonight.”

“Unfortunately,” the earl said, “it would appear that Douglas also likes to eat from the puppy’s bowl.”

“Oh dear,” Mrs. Macklin said, “and here I hid Wilson’s bowl underneath Everett’s bed.”

Smacked in the face at the same time by both the absurd and the ridiculous, Jason thought as he hauled Everett off to the music room, the little boy kicking his legs and waving his arms and singing at the top of his lungs in Jason’s right ear. James and Corrie went with Mrs. Macklin to pull the bone out of Douglas’s mouth all while slipping the new puppy another one. Neither of them doubted Douglas would be waltzing with his uncle in under five minutes.

As for Hallie Carrick, she was upstairs in a lovely bedchamber, changing into her oldest clothes.

CHAPTER 10

When Hallie appeared thirty minutes later, a single valise clutched in her hand, a lovely dark blue cloak over her shoulders, Willicombe, the Sherbrooke butler, sent his lovesick nephew Remie to inform Jason, who gave Everett and Douglas over to their grandfather for the next waltz. Jason came into the entrance hall where Hallie was giving instructions to Remie, who stood frozen with horror.

“Just a moment, Miss Carrick,” Jason said. “I’ll need to change before we can leave.”

She whipped around. “You think you’re coming with me, Mr. Sherbrooke? You think you’ll stomp this blighter’s liver before I can? No, you stay here and beg and plead with this Mr. Chartley whilst I go fetch our money from Thomas Hoverton. When I return I’ll see to Mr. Chartley. In the meanwhile, don’t you dare let this man fleece you, do you hear me?”

“You’re thinking like an American,” he said, picking a spot of lint off his sleeve, suppressing a smile.

“What do you mean by that snide remark?” He saw her right hand tighten into a lovely fist.

“Oh, I don’t know. How about you’re exhibiting a marked lack of subtlety? Or you’re simply forging ahead without pausing even a moment to think things through? There’s no need to boil over with rage.”

A lovely arched eyebrow went high.

Remie took two quick steps back, hoping to escape.

Jason said, “There’s no reason to go haring off after Thomas Hoverton right now. If you still wish to go after him once I’ve told you some things, why, I’ll be forced to accompany you.”

“You won’t be forced to do anything of the kind. What sorts of things?”

“London is very different from Baltimore, Miss Carrick, surely you learned that. You’re a bright girl. As you must know, London society doesn’t allow just anyone through its august portals. Money doesn’t matter. For example, Lucinda Frothingale’s now-dead husband wouldn’t have ever been admitted into London society for the simple reason that he owned and operated flour mills. The fact that he would have been richer than many of England’s vaunted peers wouldn’t have mattered. Flour mills constitute trade, Miss Carrick, and folk in trade, who have no ancient lineage, no powerful family behind them, aren’t allowed into the club. Do you understand?”

“Yes, of course, but I still don’t see what—” Jason saw the instant she realized what he was talking about. He refused to acknowledge she’d caught on more quickly than he had. She said slowly, “I think I’ll go see my uncle’s solicitor. He can find out just exactly who this Mr. Chartley is.”

He realized, of course, that he should have encouraged her to go after Thomas Hoverton, despite the fact that she was a young lady, quite alone. Did she have any money left after paying Thomas Hoverton for Lyon’s Gate? And if she didn’t have very much money, would she arrive in Calais and realize she couldn’t afford a baguette much less respectable lodging? Jason said, “There’s no need for you to do anything, Miss Carrick. My father has already taken care of it. We will know all about Mr. Benjamin Chartley soon enough.”

“But I—”

“I’m beginning to believe you have more hair than brains. And I’m thinking your hair is probably lovelier than your brains as well.”

To his surprise, she didn’t hurl herself at him. She didn’t move at all. She stared down at her shoes, the oldest pair she had, which were very fine indeed. “Yes, I suppose you’re right. My father was always telling me that I should make it a habit to sit in a corner for three minutes and think before I acted. He said whenever I acted too quickly, he had to clean up the most abominable messes.” She looked up at him, a glimmer of a smile lighting her eyes. “I thank you for stopping me before I could make a mess. I should hope that my hair looks better than my brains. That’s a horrifying thought, though I’ve never seen what brains look like. Now that I think about it, I don’t have much money either.”

“I wondered.”

“I don’t think my father’s bankers would stuff more money in my outstretched hands, particularly after they found out how easily I was swindled. They would believe I was naïve and incompetent, in short, a woman. But money isn’t what’s important here. I have my pistol, a small riding crop, and a knife, strapped to my ankle. Thomas Hoverton wouldn’t ever imagine that I’d come after him. I’d probably find him in Calais, toasting his good fortune. Then I could carve out his gullet.”

“Or villains would find you first. Maybe you’d shoot one villain, Miss Carrick, but the second and the third lurking in the alley? With those skirts it would be hard to get to the knife fast enough.”

She raised her hand and fisted it.

He laughed.

He realized she was staring up at him, her head cocked to one side.

“What is it?”

“I know you don’t like me, Mr. Sherbrooke. I don’t understand you. You could have simply let me leave. I would be gone and you could do as you please. Now there will be endless complications.”

“I don’t want you to get hurt and that’s very likely what would happen. I have never trusted the French, particularly after the dealings I had with Mademoiselle Benoit in Baltimore who—Well, never mind that.”

“I heard my father say the French believed God didn’t intend the Ten Commandments for them since he hadn’t written them in French, and that’s why the French pox was so prevalent.”

Fascinated, Jason said, “He spoke to you about the French pox?”

“No, I was eavesdropping. When I managed to slip French pox ever so skillfully into a conversation, I thought he would explode, he turned so red in the face. Who is this Mademoiselle Benoit?”

Jason wanted desperately to laugh, but managed to hold it in. He didn’t want her to pull her pistol, her whip, or her knife out of her boot and dispatch him. He cleared his throat. “Mademoiselle Benoit isn’t any of your business. Now, stop fretting. We will work this out.”

“How?” She struck her palm to her forehead. “How stupid I am. There won’t be any complications at all. If your father threatens Mr. Chartley with social ostracism, then he will sell the property to you. I will have no chance at it.”

Jason shrugged, as it was the truth, after all.

“It will be done before I can get my uncle here to do the same thing to him.”

“Yes, that’s true enough.”

“So you’ve won, Mr. Sherbrooke.”

“That’s very nice of you to say so, Miss Carrick, but a bit premature. I suggest you hold off on your congratulations until after we find out what Mr. Chartley’s hopes and aspirations are in our fair city.”

“I’ll wager he has an eighteen-year-old daughter he wants to marry off to some bankrupt baron, whose pockets he’ll fill to brimming.”

“One can but hope.”

“I might as well go after Thomas Hoverton, or else my siblings will never let me hear the end of it. I can hear them now. ‘Hallie, you say you bought a property and the owner sold it to someone else first then flew off to another country?’ ‘You knew he was a rotter and you didn’t even take any precautions?’ ‘How big did you say your brain was, Hallie?’ And on and on it will go until I garrote myself.”

Yet again, Jason wanted to laugh, but didn’t. “Let’s just wait and see what happens with Mr. Chartley. Regardless of whether or not I end up with Lyon’s Gate, I will help you find Thomas.” He couldn’t believe he’d said that. He fell silent, watching her.

“You’re not as angry as you should be with Thomas Hoverton,” she said slowly, eyeing him. “Why is that?”

Jason smiled. “Fact is, he didn’t get my money. Not because I’m such an excellent man of business, mind you. It was the Sherbrooke solicitor, Wily Willy Bibber, who refused to pay the solicitor a single groat until I had taken actual possession of Lyon’s Gate.”

Hallie felt like a complete and utter fool. She turned on her heel and went back up the wide staircase. Midway up, she paused and turned to see Jason standing in the entrance hall, staring up after her.

She said, her voice emotionless, “I understand now why Lord Renfrew took Mrs. Matcham for a lover not two weeks before we were to be married. He believed I was too stupid and too infatuated with him to find him out. Do you know what? I didn’t find out about Mrs. Matcham until after I had broken our engagement. What I did find out was that his tailor, a Mr. Huff, hadn’t been paid for six months. He came to me, you see, hoping I would pay him. He told me not to be surprised if more tradesmen arrived on my doorstep since all his lordship’s creditors knew now that his lordship had found a lovely plump pigeon who was so green she’d probably start blooming before spring.”

“That’s a goodly dose of humiliation,” Jason said. “Are you talking about William Sloane?”

“No, William Sloane gambled away nearly all the money before he conveniently died, and his brother, Elgin Sloane, became Lord Renfrew.”

“But didn’t your uncle meet him? Make certain he wasn’t marrying you for your money or—”

“Yes, he did. It was William who had the bad reputation, not Elgin. After all, Elgin Sloane had only been on the London scene for seven months before he met me. No one knew the real state of his finances.”

“So only the tradesmen knew the truth about him.”

“Evidently so.”

“At least you found this out before you married.”

“If I’d found out after the wedding, I would have shot him.”

“That’s an American thing to say.” But he laughed. “You would have been hung here. It was then you decided you wanted to own a stud?”

“Yes. I will become independent, and never marry.”

“As I’ve said, Miss Carrick, there are probably many properties for sale as well as many men out there who aren’t rotters like Elgin Sloane.”

She waved away his words. “Or, I suppose, I could become a nun.”

“I can’t imagine any mother superior worth her salt taking you on. I strongly doubt you are docile enough to take orders.”

She shrugged. “Regardless, I will never marry, not unless I lose my wits entirely and pour my money into another bounder’s hands. I believe I’ll hire someone to watch me. If I am in danger of falling into that wretched trap again, that person will simply shove me into the herring barrel.”

“Like I said, not all men are bounders, Miss Carrick.”

She shrugged again, not looking at him.

He felt her pain and hated that he felt it. She turned to go back up the stairs when he called out, “Like you, Miss Carrick, I have also determined that I will never marry. I am fortunate that it isn’t my responsibility to provide an heir for the Sherbrooke line, so it won’t matter.”

She said nothing, but he knew her attention was focused on him. Still, he wasn’t about to say anything more, and was horrified at himself for saying this much. Never would he speak of it, never—“It happened to me nearly five years ago.” He shut his mouth. He was a fool, an idiot. None of this was her business, anyone’s business.

“You were going to marry a girl who wanted you only for your money?”

He laughed, this time a low, vicious laugh from deep inside him, and the words tumbled out. “Oh no, I far exceeded your paltry betrayal, Miss Carrick. I picked a girl who would have killed my father if Corrie hadn’t shot and killed her.” He couldn’t stand himself. He’d poured all that out just to make this outrageous girl feel better. Thank God there was nothing else to burst out of his damned mouth. A pity one couldn’t retrieve hasty words and stuff them back down one’s throat. He turned on his heel and left the town house.

Hallie Carrick stood on the stairs for a very long time. She’d heard all sorts of gossip about why Jason Sherbrooke had abruptly left England and gone to live with the Wyndhams, but nothing close to this. He was right. She was hurt and humiliated because one dishonorable man had tried to get his hands on her money. What had happened to her was common, but what had happened to him—the way he’d been used, it would rot the soul. He had run away to America; he’d tried to run away from himself. She didn’t think he’d succeeded. She turned to go up to her bedchamber. He would never trust another woman. She would wager her substantial dowry on that. She couldn’t blame him.

CHAPTER 11

At lunch the following day, Douglas said, “I’m very sorry, Miss Carrick, but Mr. Chartley is selling Lyon’s Gate to Jason for the sum he himself paid for it.”

“And a paltry amount it was. Yes, it is what I imagined would happen,” Hallie said. “Isn’t it interesting that after all of this, you, Mr. Sherbrooke, have gained what you wanted and paid only a pittance for it?” She rose slowly. “I would like to thank you for your hospitality, my lord, my lady. I’ll be leaving in the morning for Ravensworth. I must pack now.”

She nodded to each of the Sherbrookes in turn, and walked out of the drawing room to see Willicombe standing at the foot of the stairs, clearly blocking her.

“Yes, Willicombe?”

“I just wanted to tell you, Miss Carrick, if you’ll forgive my impertinence, that I have a cousin who worked for Lord Renfrew. My cousin said his lordship was a smarmy, mean-spirited man, the kind who would seduce a parlor maid and pat himself on the back for his virility. Never said a thank-you to any of his servants. It was my cousin Quincy who told Lord Renfrew’s tailor, Mr. Huff, that his chances for gaining money owed him were not good. Quincy had no idea, of course, that Mr. Huff would come to you with his hand out. Still, it turned out for the best, didn’t it?”

“Yes, indeed it did. What a very small world it is.” Willicombe gave her a small bow and she walked up the stairs, only to stop again halfway up. “Do you know what happened to Lord Renfrew, Willicombe?”

“His lordship married a Miss Ann Brainerd of York. Her father owns many canals criss-crossing the north country, and made his fortune carrying goods up and down those canals. Now trains are making the canals obsolete because goods are transported much more cheaply and quickly that way. It’s rumored Lord Renfrew hasn’t gained as much from the marriage as he’d expected. Evidently, his wife’s father realized quickly enough that Lord Renfrew wasn’t a man of sterling character.”

“Well, that’s some justice, isn’t it?”

“Except for her poor ladyship.”

“There must always be someone who loses, Willicombe.”

“Yes, miss, isn’t that the truth?”

“Your cousin, what did he do for Lord Renfrew?”

“He was his lordship’s lead coachman both here in London and at his estate in the country.”

“What is your cousin doing now, Willicombe?”

“He is a junior coachman for Lady Pauley, Miss Carrick, over on Bigger Lane. She is quite fat, is Lady Pauley, fair to makes the horses groan when two foot-men shove her up into the coach, Quincy says. It’s a pity.”

“Is Quincy a strong fellow?”

“Nearly as strong as Remie, my nephew.”

“Thank you, Willicombe. I must think about this.” She left Willicombe looking up after her. The young lady had lost, right and proper, proving what she’d said—someone always had to lose. It was the way of the world. He wondered what would happen to her now. He wondered why she was interested in Quincy.

At dinner that evening, Douglas eyed a silent Hallie a moment, then said, “Let me tell you more about Mr. Chartley. As we suspected, there is a Miss Chartley. We met her when we visited Mr. Chartley at Twenty-five Park Lane, a lovely corner mansion that Lady Bellingham’s heirs rented to him for the season.

“Miss Chartley has just turned eighteen. She is, ah, not terribly toothsome, rather she’s on the plump side and her teeth are a bit long and forward, and her laugh, well, it made my nerves jump.”

Jason looked at Hallie, whose head had been bent over her plate until his father had begun to speak. He saw her jaw drop. He burst into laughter. To her surprise, Hallie joined him, the first sounds out of either of them since the family had sat down to an excellent dinner of braised beef and onion-dunked potatoes, two of Cook’s specialties.

The earl nodded at them, pleased. “Now, the truth of the matter is that Miss Chartley is quite lovely. She has been raised well, has lovely manners, and will do well now that I will allow her into society.”

Alex said to her sons, “Your father hasn’t had a chance to be charmingly ruthless for a good while now. Everyone is in awe of him; some actually quake in their boots, and it has become too easy for him to get his own way outside the portals of Northcliffe. Inside those portals, however, it is a vastly different matter.”

Douglas raised his glass of Bordeaux and toasted her across the long expanse of table. “Behold what happens to a man when he’s been married close on to forever.”

“You look quite splendid, sir,” Corrie said. “It occurs to me that perhaps I should take lessons from my mama-in-law. James gets his own way far too often for my tastes. If it continues, he will be a domestic tyrant within another year, maybe two.”

“I will give you lessons, Corrie,” Alex said. “It is perhaps more needful since James is so very beautiful. Given how their aunt Melissande is still so glorious, I fear that James and Jason will continue to season well, and that could be a female’s downfall. Yes, lessons you must have, dearest.”

Hallie said, “When my stepmother is angry at my father, her face turns red, she calls him wonderfully inventive names, and tells him he can sleep in the stables. I remember one morning I walked into the stables to see them asleep together in a stall. Hmm. Perhaps, my lady, I can pass the lessons along to Genny.”

But she was leaving in the morning, Jason thought.

The following morning at precisely ten o’clock, Mr. Chartley rose to face a lovely young lady who stood in the doorway of the drawing room. “My butler tells me you are the daughter of Baron Sherard and the niece of the earl of Ravensworth.”

“Yes, Mr. Chartley, I am. I am here to buy Lyon’s Gate from you.”

“This is quite remarkable, Miss Carrick. Do come in, won’t you? Some tea perhaps?”

“No, sir, but it is kind of you to offer. I am offering you ten percent more than Jason Sherbrooke is offering you. Plainly, I am offering you more than you paid Thomas Hoverton for Lyon’s Gate. Selling to me, you will make a profit.”

“You know, Miss Carrick, that I have already agreed to sell Lyon’s Gate to Jason Sherbrooke.”

“Yes, sir, but you haven’t yet signed over the deed to him. It isn’t yet legal.”

“I don’t know what to say.” Mr. Chartley brushed his fingers through his thick black hair. “This is quite remarkable,” he said again. “Young lady, how long do you think I would retain my reputation if I failed to carry through on an agreement I made? No, you needn’t say anything, that is something that concerns you not one whit.” Mr. Chartley sighed. “If I don’t sell you Lyon’s Gate, your uncle will prevent my precious daughter from entering society. On the other hand, if I don’t sell Lyon’s Gate to Jason Sherbrooke, his father will prevent my precious daughter from entering society. I believe that I am between the proverbial rock and the hard spot.”

“That is correct, sir. I am the rock. I suggest you accept my offer since the hard spot isn’t in sight. That way you will make a profit.” She gave him a fat smile. “Ah, my uncle—the earl of Ravensworth—looks upon me as a daughter. He was a military man, you know. I wouldn’t want to cross him, were I you. As for my father—”

“I know all about your father,” said Mr. Chartley. “As I do the earl of Northcliffe. Indeed, I see very clearly now. If you will take a seat, Miss Carrick—”

The drawing room door burst open and Jason strode in, the butler behind him, flapping his hands.

Mr. Chartley said, “I believe the hard spot just entered, Miss Carrick.”

Hallie leapt to her feet. “I was so very quiet, I didn’t tell anyone—what are you doing here?”

Jason gave a brief bow to Mr. Chartley. “Forgive me, sir, for barging in like this, but I followed Miss Carrick here.” He stood there, hands on his hips, looking like he wanted to throw her out the wide drawing room windows.

“You can leave, Jason. No one asked you here. Mr. Chartley and I are conducting business.”

“He has already agreed to sell Lyon’s Gate to me. Give it up, Miss Carrick, give it up.”

“No, never. Two can play the same game, Mr. Sherbrooke. You have only your father to pound nails in Mr. Chartley’s social coffin, whereas I have my father and my uncle to use as, er, leverage—”

“Mr. Sherbrooke, Miss Carrick, I see that I must make a decision. If the two of you would excuse me.” He was out the door, closing it quietly behind him.

Jason and Hallie stared each other down from the length of the drawing room.

“How did you know?”

“I asked Remie to keep an eye on you. If one trusts a woman, one should leap immediately into the Thames and drown oneself.”

“I saw Lyon’s Gate first!”

“That doesn’t merit a response, Miss Carrick. Go away now. You’ve lost. You admitted it last night. Go home.”

“My threats are just as potent as yours, Mr. Sherbrooke. Why don’t you—”

“I could hear the two of you in the hall.” Mr. Chartley stood a moment in the drawing room doorway, then walked in, smiling at both of them impartially, and held out an envelope to each of them. “Now, this is the very best I can do to ensure my daughter’s social success. I trust that neither of you will feel compelled to seek my destruction.”

“What have you done, sir?” Jason asked, taking the envelope. “You’ve already accepted my offer.”

“I did, Mr. Sherbrooke. But now I have a new understanding of the situation. I suppose you and Miss Carrick could bid on Lyon’s Gate until I was close to making a fortune, but I am not a stupid man.” He smiled impartially at both of them. “Call me Solomon.”

“What is this, sir?” Jason asked.

“Sir, surely we can come to an arrangement that will prevent the earl from ruining you. What is in this envelope?” asked Hallie.

“Ah, would you just look at the time. I must meet my precious daughter on Bond Street. She has a fitting today at Madame Jordan’s. Your father so kindly recommended her to me, Mr. Sherbrooke. May I have tea sent in?”

“No,” Hallie said, clutching the envelope to her chest. “I must be going.”

But Mr. Chartley was faster. Jason and Hallie faced each other again, both holding a sealed envelope.

“Mr. Chartley says he’s Solomon?” Jason said.

“I don’t like this. I don’t like this at all.” Hallie picked up her skirts and left Jason standing alone in Mr. Chartley’s drawing room, the envelope still unopened in his hand.

Thirty minutes later, Douglas folded the paper and slid it back into the envelope. “Well, I think I wish to share a bottle of wine with Mr. Chartley. This is quite well done of him.”

Hallie paced the width of the estate room, a small, thoroughly masculine room of rich brown leather with a mahogany desk and matching bookshelves. Both Douglas and Jason watched her. She stopped at the window and shook a fist in the direction of Mr. Chartley’s rented house. “He’s a scoundrel, no better than Thomas Hoverton. He’s sold the property to two people.”

“No,” Douglas said. “He sold two people each a half a property.”

“Well, yes, he did, but—”

“It was very clever of him. You, Miss Carrick, placed him in an utterly untenable position.”

“No, it was you who did that, sir. I simply played the same cards. You threatened to exterminate the poor man and his poor daughter if he didn’t roll over like a dead dog and do exactly what you said. I merely followed your example, and look at what it has brought us.” She waved the deed and the draft on the Bank of England in his face. Her own face fell then, and she sat down hard in one of Douglas’s big leather chairs and put her face in her hands.

Jason said to his father, “I’m gratified. She didn’t pull an elegant stiletto out of her sleeve and plunge it through your arm.”

Hallie’s head jerked up. “I didn’t think of that. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll get my knife. But there is a problem. These sleeves are so blasted big you can’t hide anything in them. A knife would clatter to the floor.”

“Don’t move, Miss Carrick,” Douglas said. It was his turn to pace the room, his eyes on his boots. He stopped, turned to face the two young people. “I suggest we think of Mr. Chartley as an agent of fate.

“The fact is, the both of you now own Lyon’s Gate. I further suggest you both sit down like the two adults you are, and figure out how you’re going to make this work. I hesitate to destroy Mr. Chartley, given his ingenious solution.” Douglas walked to the door, then turned to face them. “Miss Carrick, using my tactics on Mr. Chartley was an excellent strategy. You are a woman of backbone. I must admit that Jason and I were both gloating last night, not blatantly, naturally, since that would be rude.”

“I knew you were gloating.”

But the earl was gone.

“Quietly gloating,” Jason said, frowning at the empty doorway. He heard his father’s boot steps receding down the corridor toward the front of the town house. His father was a smart man. Jason eyed Hallie Carrick. “What the devil are we to do?”

“Sign over your half to me. I will pay you for it, naturally. I will even give you a profit.”

“You managed to get more money from your bankers?”

“Oh yes. I went to Mr. Billingsley’s house on Berkeley Square. Mr. Billingsley tried to hem and haw, but his wife has known me since I was born. She told him to hie himself into his study and write me out a bank draft. I was smart, she said, and wasn’t my father always telling him how very smart I was?”

“Sometimes I don’t like fate,” Jason said. “I’m going riding in the park. Hopefully I will gain some inspiration from the swans in the Serpentine.”

It was dinnertime on that drizzling May evening when Jason opened his bedchamber door to find Hallie Carrick standing there, her fist up to knock, a determined look on her face. “Mr. Sherbrooke, I have a solution. You will sleep in the stables. We can fashion a lovely suite of rooms there for you off the tack room. It will be no problem. You can take your meals with me in the house.”

He didn’t move, didn’t look away from her. “No.”

“We can’t very well share the same bloody house, you know that.”

“You can have the stables then. You can have your meals with me in the big house.”

“If you were to inhabit the big house, you wouldn’t do a thing to make it beautiful again. I will get rid of the mildew, I will put new draperies on the windows and new carpets on the floors. I will buff those floors and replace what is necessary to replace.”

“Wherever did you get this blighted notion that men don’t care about their surroundings?”

“My stepmother told me that men would be perfectly content to live in a cave. Throw them a meaty bone and give them—Well, never mind that. The stables are perfect for you.”

At his hoisted eyebrow, she said, “Very well. Step back.”

She nearly walked over him, her hand out, pressing against his chest. He backed up in her wake. She came to a stop in the middle of his bedchamber and waved her hands. “Just look. A monk could be living in here. The only reason this lovely room isn’t covered with dust and muddy boot prints is because of the servants’ diligence. This is pathetic, Mr. Sherbrooke. This is how Lyon’s Gate would continue to look were you to live in the big house.”

“May I remind you that I haven’t been here in five years, Miss Carrick?” He should tell her that he’d selected most of the furnishings for the Wyndhams, chosen the fabrics for the new drawing room draperies, and arranged every single interior item.

She thought he was defeated, and she laughed. “I’m right, admit it. You will do just fine in the stables, Mr. Sherbrooke.” She nearly danced out of his bedchamber. Jason stood in the middle of the room, his arms crossed over his chest, wondering what was going to happen next.

CHAPTER 12

Northcliffe Hall

End of May

“We should have brought blankets,” Jason said and vigorously rubbed his arms with his hands. In addition to being cold, he was beginning to think the ground was a graveyard of rocks. James considered this warm?

“You’ve become soft in your years away,” James said. “This is the first perfectly clear night we’ve had since you arrived home. Would you look at Orion’s Belt, Jase—it looks like diamonds sparkling.”

They were lying atop the cliff above the Poe Valley, James’s favorite star-gazing place. Jason said, “You’ve been showing me Orion’s Belt since we were six years old. I remember you used the word sparkling each and every time.”

“And I remember I nearly had to tie you down so you would hold still long enough. At least you’re nice and quiet now, except for the complaining.”

“If I don’t move, maybe I won’t freeze to death.”

James laughed, came up to a sitting position, and turned to look down at his brother, lying on his back, his head now pillowed on his crossed arms. “Jase, are you certain you want to actually share your house and your stables with this girl? You scarcely know her. She could be a harridan.”

“She is.” Jason’s face was calm, and he looked nothing more than sleepy.

“You’re telling me that you’re knowingly going to share a house with a disagreeable female who will make your life miserable?”

“That’s it. Think of it as an arranged marriage.” Jason came up to clasp his arms around his legs. “What other choice do I have?”

“You tried to buy her out?”

“Oh yes. She very nearly gulleted me.” Jason suddenly smacked the side of his head. “Come to think of it, maybe I could still have her kidnapped and taken to the West Indies. What do you think?”

“Mother wanted to send her farther away. She’d do it now in a flash. I remember Father left the room, telling her over his shoulder that he believed there was a ship in port bound for Charlotte Amalie.”

Jason laughed. “She would. He would.” He rubbed his arms again. “Come to think of it though, Hallie’d probably be running the island within five years. Damn, James, I can’t believe you think this is warm. Has my blood thinned that much being in America?”

“It would appear so. However, you were bred from hardy English stock, you’ll get used to it again. I’m wondering what Miss Carrick’s aunt and uncle—not to mention her father—will think about this arrangement, sharing a house with a man who isn’t her husband.”

“If there’s one thing Miss Carrick does well, it’s argue. Interesting you should bring up the earl of Ravensworth. I don’t believe she plans to tell her aunt and uncle until we’ve actually split the house in half, her far-removed great-cousin Mrs. Tewksbury is installed, and the three of us have moved in. A fait accompli, as it were.”

“She’s not twenty-one until the end of the year. I suppose her aunt and uncle could order her to move back to Ravensworth Abbey.”

Jason arched his left eyebrow. “That is possibly the stupidest thing you’ve said since I’ve been home, James. Can you honestly imagine giving Miss Carrick orders to do anything she doesn’t want to?”

“Well, where do her aunt and uncle think she is?”

“I believe she’s allowing them to assume she’s still with Melissa’s parents in London. I don’t suppose they realize that Melissa’s parents have already returned north. And now we’ll have Miss Carrick for a guest until Lyon’s Gate is ready for us. She arrives tomorrow.”

James brooded on that awhile, then said, “Speaking of Melissa and Leo, did I look as besotted as Leo when I married Corrie?”

“No, nothing like that.”

James moaned. “Don’t ever say that in Corrie’s hearing. She’d lock me in a small room with the twins.”

“You looked like you wanted to rip off that lovely wedding gown she was wearing and take her right there in the central aisle of the church.”

James’s head jerked around to face his brother, an eyebrow arched a good inch. “Well, then. You can tell her that.” He paused a moment, took the plunge. “That was a time, wasn’t it?”

Jason said nothing, continued to rub his arms.

James felt his brother withdraw, though he didn’t move a muscle. He backed off. “All right, you puny lad, let’s go home. I don’t want you whining to Mother that I tried to freeze you to death.”

After the twins rose and dusted themselves off, James took one final long look at the heavens. Jason felt the pull of it in his brother, something he couldn’t begin to understand. On the other hand, present James with a stud farm to run and he’d probably stare at you, baffled.

James said as he mounted Bad Boy, “Corrie is wonderful, Jason. She’s a brick, you can always count on her, and the good Lord knows she makes me laugh. She gets along famously with Mother, Father adores her, only Grandmother maligns her, but that doesn’t upset her overly. Do you know that she and I lie on the cliff looking up at Andromeda and find myself blessing all the stars that circumstances threw us together?”

“I heard the two of you yelling this morning.”

“She does have a knack for making me so mad I want to lock her in her armoire. In the next instant, I’ve got her pressed against the wall and she’s got her legs around my waist and—Well never mind the details. Hmm. I’ll never forget over a dinner of buttocks of beef she thanked Father for educating me so splendidly.”

“Don’t tell me he knew what she meant?”

“He pretended he didn’t.”

Jason tapped his boot heels into Dodger’s muscular sides. “Just as you will teach the twins.”

“That boggles my brain. Here they were this afternoon, left alone for but a moment. When Corrie came back into the room, they’d stuffed three apple tarts in their mouths. They looked up at her, innocent as angels, all the while filling dripping off their chins.”

“I wish I could have seen that. I imagine we did the same thing at their age. Are you and Corrie thinking of more children?”

James paled, making Jason reach out his hand to grab his brother’s arm. “What’s the matter?”

James drew a deep steadying breath. “Corrie had a very bad time of it with the twins. I don’t want her pregnant again. It could kill her. She squeezed my hand so hard she broke a bone.”

“You stayed with her?”

“Oh yes. She said since I got her into this mess I could very well see her through it. Then she cursed me, but she didn’t know that many curses, so she had to keep repeating herself. Between the contractions, I taught her meaty new ones. She uses them today—usually on me. It was scary, Jason. You would not believe the number of good deeds I promised if she would survive, and I’ve done every single one of them.”

“I didn’t know. She appears so sturdy, she glows with good health.”

“Yes, but the twins were big. It—it was terrifying, Jason. As terrifying as when I thought you were going to die and there was nothing I could do about it except pray. If you hadn’t survived, I probably would have curled up next to you. It was the same with Corrie.”

Jason never turned in the saddle to acknowledge his brother’s words, though they struck him deep. He felt the old rancid pain filling his throat, the bitterness of it making his belly churn. His head began to ache because his brain didn’t want to think about the past, simply couldn’t.

Jason said, “Damn, the wind’s come up—a cold wind. Don’t you dare claim that you’re still as warm as the back of Father’s knees when Eleanor the Third is tucked there at night.”

James forced a laugh, but it was difficult. He had to give his twin more time. At least he was home, and that was the most important thing. “Just a nip in the air, nothing more. Eleanor the Third now has a brother, William the Fourth, a big black tom who keeps the back of Mother’s knees warm.”

“I saw the two of them trotting into our parents’ bedchamber, tails high, ready for the knees. Any racing cats around?”

“Mother had hopes for William, but the truth is, all he likes to do is eat and sleep and allow Eleanor to wash him, which she does, endlessly.”

“I’d like to have a racing cat. I remember all cousin Meggie’s triumphs.”

James laughed. “Remember Ellis Peepers, who’s now our head gardener? He’s all wiry and long, red-haired, full beard that’s so bright it looks like his face is on fire?” At his brother’s nod, James went on, “He was schooled by the Harker brothers in training techniques and how to select good racing cat owners. Maybe he’ll deem you worthy.”

“Ellis will find me to be the most responsible of racing cat owners. But I suppose it will have to wait. Just now, what with my partner coming tomorrow, there’s simply too much to do.”

“So you and Miss Carrick will be spending all your days at Lyon’s Gate, repairing the house and the stables.”

“Yes,” Jason said, voice now grim. He turned to face his brother as they drew in their horses at the stable. “Can you begin to imagine the fights we will have? And unlike you, I won’t be able to kiss her until she forgets her own name.”

“Or until she’s wearing a silly grin and forgotten why she wanted to rip your throat out.”

“Now there’s a thought.” Jason laughed and smacked his brother on the arm. “It would be so much easier were she a man.”

Late the following afternoon, Jason was pleasantly tired after working all day at Lyon’s Gate. The stables were nearly ready for their tenants. Perhaps he could list out for Miss Carrick the joys of being close to her horses, both day and night. Or perhaps not. He’d just placed his boot on the first step of the ten broad, deeply set front steps of Northcliffe Hall when he heard a carriage rolling up the long drive. He stepped back down, knowing it was Miss Carrick.

Despite the fact she was a thorn in his flesh, and that fate had planted her right in front of him with no rhyme nor reason, Jason realized he felt good. He crossed his arms over his chest and watched Miss Carrick lean out the window, waving to him. He hoped she didn’t leap out before the driver stopped the carriage. He watched the coachman draw in smartly right next to him. Jason saw it was a rented carriage, an expensive rented carriage. There were two outriders.

He started forward when the door flew wide and Miss Carrick jumped down before either he or the coach driver could assist her. He wasn’t particularly surprised.

“Mr. Sherbrooke! I’m here. How nice of you to be waiting out here for me to arrive.”

CHAPTER 13

She was the height of fashion in a dark hunter green gown with wide sleeves tapering to fit snugly at her wrists and a belted waist that looked the size of a man’s fists bunched together. Her hair was tucked up under a bonnet of the same dark green, several curls lazily floating down in front of her ears. And in her lovely little ears were sparkling diamond studs. “I see that you are, Miss Carrick. Both you and your equipage look quite grand.”

“Yes, the carriage cost me very nearly all the money my father’s banker would give me, the dolt. I must write my father and have him send instructions.”

“Unlimited funds for you, Miss Carrick?”

“Don’t be a knothead. Oh, thank you for the compliment to my person as well as to my carriage. The gown is from Madame Jordan, who tells me that your father selects all your mother’s clothes, and your brother selects all of Corrie’s. I’ve never heard of gentlemen dressing women. Isn’t that rather odd? Is it some sort of tradition in your family?”

“To be honest, I’ve never thought about it, although the men in this family have excellent taste—Hmm, now that I think about it, I don’t know that I would have selected such a very dark green for you, Miss Carrick. I could, of course, be mistaken—perhaps the late afternoon sun shining too brightly in my eyes—but is bilious the right word?”

She let the bait dangle in front of her nose for a moment, then laughed aloud, a bright, quite lovely sound. “That was well done.” She turned to the carriage. “Come along, Martha. We’re here at Northcliffe Hall. Isn’t it beautiful? Look at all the colors.”

Her maid hopped out of the carriage, landing lightly on very little feet. She couldn’t be more than seventeen, Jason thought. She was very small, her pointed chin trembling in excitement. “Oh yes, it be glorious, more than glorious. So many thick trees, jest like in the park. I didn’t know you was acquainted with such grand folk, Miss Hallie.”

“Only the grandest folk for me, Martha.”

Jason laughed as Hallie rolled her eyes. “Let me see to your coachman and your outriders.” Jason turned to the coachman. “Any problems?”

The coachman gave Jason a smart salute. “None, milord. Benji and Neally, our outriders provided by Miss Carrick’s banker, well they wanted a highwayman or two to break the monotony, but nary a rascal showed hisself.”

“He’s twenty-eight minutes too young to be a lord, John,” Hallie said. At Jason’s raised eyebrow, she added, “I overheard Melissa telling her mother about how close in time you and James were born.”

Hallie turned when Martha lightly tugged on her sleeve. “Yes, Martha?”

Martha whispered, “Who is that god, ma’am?”

“God? What god?”

“The young gentleman, ma’am. Oh Lordie, is he ever a beaut. I’ve never afore seen such a glorious young gentleman, meybe more than jest plain glor—”

“Yes, yes, I understand, Martha. We will look into getting you spectacles.”

“But I gots eyes wot can see birdseeds, Miss Hallie.”

So both he and the Hall were glorious? He saw Hallie open, then shut her mouth. Routed by her maid. He said to the coachman, “That is Hollis standing in the front door. He will see that all three of you have dinner and beds for the night. Thank you for taking such fine care of Miss Carrick.”

The three men stood gazing up at Northcliffe Hall and Jason knew what they were seeing. One of England’s great houses, three stories, with three wings coming off the back of the house, making it look like an E. The first earl of Northcliffe had built the Hall, quarrying the lovely gray stone at Hillsley Dale some three centuries before, mellowed now to a soft cream color in the late afternoon light. Northcliffe would look utterly stark and coldly formal like so many of the other great houses of England if not for the current countess who’d planted oak, lime, larch, and maple trees all along the drive and throughout the grounds more than twenty-five years before. As for the myriad bushes and flowering plants, they crept close to the stone walls, softening the lines of the house even more, and presented so many colors and blossoms in the summer that the Northcliffe gardeners would find small groups of strangers on the grounds staring at the incredible summer foliage. It looked like a great house conjured up in a fairy tale.

“Thank ye, milord,” the coachman said and turned when Hollis called out, his old voice firm and steady, “Come along, lads, Bobby here will take you to the stables to see to your horses and the carriage, then you’ll go to the kitchen.”

The three men, leading the horses, with Bobby three strides ahead of them, disappeared around the side of the house. Hollis said as he came down the deep, wide steps to stand beside Jason, “You are Miss Carrick?”

“Yes,” Hallie said, staring at the old man with his sharp blue eyes and his flowing thick white hair. “I saw a painting of Moses once. I would accept your Ten Commandments before I would accept his, Hollis.”

Hollis gave her a lovely smile, showing a mouth still filled with sufficient teeth to chew his mutton.

Jason, serious as a judge, said, “James and I believed he was God. You never corrected us, Hollis.”

“You and his lordship never disobeyed me when you believed I could smite you both with but a flick of my finger.”

“James and I feared more than smiting, Hollis. We feared you would give us pustules all over our bodies.”

Hollis looked thoughtful. “Pustules. Hmm. That never occurred to me. I suppose it is too late now?”

“It’s perfect for the twins. Ah, would you please see to Miss Carrick’s maid, Martha? I will take care of the disposition of Miss Carrick.”

Hollis, who’d been studying Hallie, said in a low voice that Hallie could hear perfectly well, “You will not cause her bodily harm, will you Master Jason?”

“You mean as in tossing her into Reever Lake? No, I’m too tired to do away with her today.”

He heard a gasp from young Martha and smiled down at her. “I won’t strangle your mistress. Don’t worry.”

Hallie said, “I’ll tell you when to worry, Martha. Go with Hollis now.” She watched small Martha walk very slowly up the stone steps next to the ancient butler, her hand ready to steady him if he faltered. Both Hallie and Jason saw Martha look up at him, and heard her whisper, “Ye’re glorious, Mr. Hollis, meybe even more than glorious.”

Hallie laughed, couldn’t help herself. She was still very nervous. “And here I wondered if Martha and I would suit.”

“Since she makes you laugh, she’ll suit you well enough.”

“I didn’t meet Hollis when I came here after Melissa and Leo’s wedding.”

“I believe he was in his bed nursing a cold. He is quite well now, thank God.”

When Hollis and Martha had negotiated the steps and disappeared into the house, she looked up at Jason. “I don’t know about glorious, but you are a beaut. Such a pity that you know it too well.”

An eyebrow shot up. “You are something of a beaut yourself, Miss Carrick. However, unlike you, I am not vain. I do not array myself in such a way to draw attention to my attributes.”

“And what would you do if you wished to draw attention?”

She had him, and she knew it. She grinned up at him shamelessly. “You really couldn’t push your chest up and out, now could you? Hmm. As for rice powder on your face, I daresay you’d sweat it off in the middle of your first waltz.”

He quickly took the opening she gave him. “And ladies don’t sweat off their rice powder?”

“Certainly not. Ladies are made of fine porcelain, not porous mud.”

Since that was exactly what he felt like at the moment, Jason threw back his head and laughed. He realized in that moment he’d missed that fast brain of hers, not to mention her tongue.

“Ravensworth Abbey is as grand as Northcliffe Hall, but it’s very different. You have a beautiful home.”

“Lyon’s Gate is now my home.”

“Our home, Mr. Sherbrooke. Our home.” She lightly patted his white sleeve. “Twenty-eight minutes. Not even half an hour and your fate is decided.”

“Please believe me, Miss Carrick, I would rather share a house with you than one day be the master here.”

She noticed then that he wasn’t dressed like a son of the house. Odd that she hadn’t noticed how sweaty and dirty he was, his old boots scuffed, his white shirt open at the neck and a bit down his chest, and she wasn’t about to stare, not when all that lovely dirt meant he’d been at Lyon’s Gate and she hadn’t. “You’ve been spending the past three days at Lyon’s Gate, haven’t you?” Her voice rose an octave. “What have you done?”

He’d have to have been dead not to hear the outrage, and was tempted to string her along. No, better not, since her eyes were already bulging in her head. Besides, his precious mother might hear her shouting at him and come down and shoot her. “Nothing you would disapprove of,” he said mildly. “I hired three men from the village to help me clean out the stables. We nearly finished today. I’ve already spoken to the man who will decide what is necessary to repair the house and he and his workers will begin tomorrow. You can speak to them then. Oh yes, my mother sent over a half-dozen gardeners, who are all pulling the ivy from the house and getting rid of the weeds. It begins to look much better.”

Hallie chewed this over a moment, nodded. “All right. You are lucky you didn’t paint any rooms, Mr. Sherbrooke.”

“Paint, you say? I was picturing a lovely bright crimson for the drawing room, perhaps one wall a pale blue. What do you think?”

She looked up into those incredible lavender eyes of his and said, “You surprise me, sir. An excellent choice. And lovely crimson draperies, don’t you think? Or perhaps the pale blue?”

“Crimson, with thick braided gold tassels looping them up. Velvet would be utterly charming. How nice. We should have no arguments at all.” He offered her his arm. “Let me take you inside to greet everyone. I imagine they should be assembled by now.”

She laughed as she walked beside him up the steps. “May we leave early tomorrow to go to Lyon’s Gate? I want to see everything.”

She was as excited as he was. He hated it that she lusted after Lyon’s Gate as much as he did.

He called out, “Hello, Mother. Look who’s arrived.”

Alex stood just inside the imposing front door, eyeing the young woman who’d had the gall to ruin her son’s dream. She knew her duty, gulped once, and presented a smile. Sometimes being well bred was the very devil. “Miss Carrick. How very lovely to see you again.”

Hallie curtsied. “Thank you, ma’am, for having me. It is very kind of you.”

What to say when she’d really had no choice in the matter? Best to keep her mouth shut.

Hallie gave her a shameless grin. “I do hope you don’t have a gun behind your back.”

Alex felt an unwanted tug of liking. “Hmm. Be very deferential to me, Miss Carrick, nod in modest agreement at everything I say, and you might survive.”

“Sorry, Mother. Even if she tried, I can’t see that happening,” Jason said.

“In that case, then you must come into the drawing room, Miss Carrick. My dear mother-in-law, Lady Lydia, the dowager countess of Northcliffe, is here for her weekly visit. You can meet her and have a lovely cup of tea.”

Jason groaned.

Hallie looked suddenly wary.

Jason tried to catch his mother’s eye, but she’d taken Hallie’s arm and was steering her in a straight line toward the drawing room. He’d rather be tossed on the back of a wild two-year-old, with no bridle, perhaps even boiled in oil. A firing squad was a good option.

His grandmother hated every female in the known universe except for his aunt Melissande, including his mother and Corrie, and that was why his father had finally moved her into the dowager house at the end of the lane five years before.

He said from behind them, “Mother, perhaps you should reconsider this particular course of action. She’s a lamb to the slaughter.”

“Nonsense. You are a bit on the dirty side, dearest, but your grandmother won’t mind. And Miss Carrick surely is a well-enough behaved girl to sail smoothly through, don’t you think?”

“No. Miss Carrick, do you know Wilhelmina Wyndham?”

“Oh dear.”

CHAPTER 14

Jason would rather empty chamber pots than walk into that drawing room with the tethered goat, but he simply couldn’t leave Miss Carrick to his grandmother alone and unarmed. It would be too cruel. Not that his presence would make much difference. She would be crushed by that malicious aged tongue; his grandmother would look at Hallie and see fresh meat. Odd how she never turned her cannon on either him or James or his father. Just those unfortunate enough to be female.

Jason saw Corrie seated in a wing chair, James standing behind her, his hand lightly on her shoulder, doubtless to keep her from leaping up and kicking over his grandmother’s chair when she started shooting insults.

His grandmother’s eyes lit up when she saw him. “Dear Jason, what a sight you are, my boy, but that certainly isn’t important, now is it? What’s a little dirt in the flow of time? Come and give me a big kiss.”

Jason grinned at the old woman, leaned down and kissed her parchment cheek. She lightly touched his hair and whispered, “I have some nutty buns Hollis brought me this morning. Come later and I will share them with you.” Jason gripped her veiny old hands and whispered back that indeed he would.

When he stepped back, the dowager countess looked up to see her daughter-in-law, the red-haired hussy, gripping the arm of a young lady she’d never laid eyes on before.

Jason saw it in her eyes as clearly as if she’d spoken aloud: new prey, bring me new prey.

“Who are you?”

Alex dropped Hallie’s arm. “This is the young lady who is moving into the neighborhood, Mother-in-law. I fear”—she cleared her throat—“that is, it appears she will be staying with us for a while. Isn’t she lovely? Don’t you think she’s beautifully gowned? And observe how gracefully she moves. Miss Carrick, this is Lady Lydia, the earl’s mother.”

“Well, come here, girl, and let me look at you.”

There was a moment of stark silence in the drawing room. Hallie saw that everyone was staring from her to the old woman, and not breathing.

She looked at the little old lady, with her shiny pink scalp showing through her white hair, and couldn’t imagine her being the least bit like Wilhelmina Wyndham. Surely not; Jason was joking with her. Lady Lydia was by no means frail, nor did she have the look of a placid old lady to have her hand patted and pillows settled behind her ancient back. She looked as substantial and solid as Hallie’s mare, Piccola, and surely that wasn’t a bad thing. On the other hand, Piccola could bite her and whip her with her tail at the same time. The dowager’s old eyes gleamed, her mouth opened, and suddenly out of Hallie’s mouth came, “Do you remember the French Revolution, my lady?”

Lady Lydia froze. “The what, girl?”

“When the French people rose up against the king and queen and guillotined them?”

Lady Lydia studied that lovely young face for a very long time before saying quietly, “I remember it like yesterday. None of us could believe the French rabble had locked their king and queen in the Conciergerie. There were reports the king and queen would go to the guillotine. We waited, wondering how such a thing could come to pass. And then one day they cut off the king’s head.

“I remember so many people tried to save the queen after that, but you know, she’d become quite dotty toward the end, and the final escape failed. She insisted on the coach stopping so she could smell some flowers. Do you know something else, girl? I also remember Waterloo.”

“Did you ever meet the duke of Wellington, ma’am?” As she spoke, Hallie sat down on the foot cushion at Lady Lydia’s feet.

“Certainly, a clever man is Arthur Wellesley. When he returned to London in the summer of 1815, he was fêted every evening; ladies threw themselves at him, gentlemen wanted the honor of being seen with him. So much gaiety, and such relief that the monster was finally vanquished.”

Hallie leaned up. “It must be so wonderful to have lived as long as you have, through so many amazing happenings, and you know the duke of Wellington. Did you also know George III before he went mad?”

“Oh yes. There were rumors, of course, but in 1788, it was finally announced that the king’s reason had flown the royal head. George got better, but of course, the illness struck him again until finally it never left him. Poor man, shamed by his son and heir, but his queen, Charlotte, ah, such strength she had. Such a pity, such a pity.”

“I cannot imagine being as old as you are. You are so very lucky.”

Lady Lydia would have liked to arch an eyebrow, but she didn’t have any left. “No one has said anything like that to me before. Hmm. I’ve never looked at all my decades in precisely that light. My daughter-in-law is right. Your gown is lovely even with those ridiculous big sleeves that make you six feet wide.”

“At least they fit at the wrist now. You wore those lovely Regency gowns that fit up high and fell straight to the ground.”

“Aye, they were lovely, all that light muslin, no corsets or petticoats to weigh you down, but so many ladies caught dreadful colds because they wore so little. At least today you won’t catch an inflammation of the lung. Hmm. I find it unusual that you know how to dress since you don’t appear to have a husband to select your gowns for you, like these two.”

“I have a fine sense of style, ma’am. Thank you for remarking upon it.”

Alex was utterly baffled, as were the rest of the people in the room. There was utter silence save for Hallie and the dowager’s low voices. The door opened and Douglas came striding in, evidently on a mission to save Miss Carrick. Alex grabbed his sleeve. “Don’t move,” she whispered. “I can’t believe this, but you’re not needed.” Douglas looked at Miss Carrick, and saw his mother’s hand lightly caressing her green sleeve. He froze as had everyone else in the drawing room, his jaw dropped.

Lady Lydia looked over and smiled at her eldest son. “My darling boy, have the red-haired girl pour the tea. At least she’s learned how I take it now.”

“And you appreciate that, don’t you, Mother?”

What was going on here? Hallie wondered. Lady Lydia’s mouth was a tight seam. At the earl’s continued silence, she nodded. “Yes, I am most appreciative.” She turned back to Hallie. “Are you here to marry Jason? My poor precious boy is in need of a good steady girl, a strong girl with nerves of oak. Yes, that is probably the most important requirement of his wife.”

“Why, ma’am? Is he of such a delicate disposition?”

“Oh no, it’s entirely something else. Well, are your nerves strong as a carriage wheel?”

“Yes, ma’am. But why?”

“Both my beautiful grandsons are gentlemen to their quite well-shaped feet, more’s the pity. Jason’s wife must be able to protect him from all the hussies who continually hunt him down with the intent of taking advantage of him.” She shot a look over at Corrie, who was staring fixedly at her, her mouth open. “What is the matter with you, Coriander? You look like a landed trout. It is not attractive. It will give your husband a disgust of you.”

Corrie shut her mouth.

Lady Lydia said to Hallie, “My James’s wife is many things, Miss Carrick, but I will say this for her, she’s strong as the stoutest oak branch. James rarely goes about without her. He knows she will protect him. She has learned to throw herself in front of him when ladies hurl themselves in his path to gain his attention. Coriander tells him his attention is all he will ever bestow, and then only if the female in question has gained her fiftieth summer.”

Jason said, “Grandmother, Miss Carrick is not here to marry me. We barely know each other.”

“I believe the best marriages begin with the exchange of names, nothing more,” said the dowager. “Look at you, my dearest boy, no female with eyes in her head would not try to hunt you down. Poor James now—”

The earl cleared his throat loudly.

“Humph,” said the dowager.

Jason didn’t understand why she hadn’t yet blasted Hallie, but since no one had drunk any tea as of yet there was time for her to change her mind and decide Hallie was an encroaching hussy, like his mother.

“Then why are you so dirty, my boy, if you weren’t chasing her all about the grounds?”

“And she caught me several times and dirtied me up?”

“That’s it, yes.”

“Sorry, Grandmother. You know I bought Lyon’s Gate. I was working there today. I had no time to change my clothes. Forgive me.”

“You were working like a common laborer?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Lady Lydia accepted a cup of tea from her daughter-in-law. Douglas watched her shake it around in the cup for a moment, saw that she wanted desperately to complain about it, but she knew if she did, she would not be invited back until the hussy herself invited her back, and she could be dead by that time. Hollis passed a lovely large tray filled with scones, lemon tarts, tiny seed cakes, and small cucumber and ham sandwiches, sliced into myriad shapes.

Jason saw Miss Carrick place her tea and plate containing two lemon tarts on the floor beside her. She looked perfectly content to remain at his grandmother’s feet. Just you wait, he wanted to tell her, just you wait until she decides your hair is brassy, or those lovely eyes of yours are sly, or God knew what else.

The dowager sipped her tea, grimaced only a little bit, then announced, “No matter Coriander’s faults, and they are multitudinous, she has presented James with two lovely boys, the very image of his beautiful aunt Melissande, who should have been wedded to—”

Douglas cleared his throat, watched his mother poke a tart into her mouth and chew it vigorously, and said, “Jason, you have the look of a contented man. Tell me how everything is going at Lyon’s Gate.”

Jason sat forward, clasped his hands between his knees, forgot that he was dirty and smelled of dried sweat, forgot that Hallie would be living with him and that she was half owner of Lyon’s Gate, and said, “Oh yes. I want you to come over soon, Grandmother, and tell me what you think of my home. The stables are a perfect size, and once we got them all cleared out and cleaned up, we could see the excellent workmanship.” He continued to speak, and everyone smiled at him, nodded, asked questions. It was as if no one else in the room existed except Jason, Hallie thought, eyeing him. Not a word about her, but she’d quickly realized that no one wanted to shock the dowager. And, of course, he’d just gotten home after being away for a very long time. Were they all afraid he would leave again? This time for good? So no one said anything to bruise his tender feelings?

When Jason wound down, a silly grin on his face, Hallie said in a quiet voice to the dowager, “Perhaps you and I could visit Lyon’s Gate together.”

The old lady chewed slowly on her ham sandwich, which had been shaped by Cook to look like one of the full oak trees outside the drawing room window. Slowly, she nodded. “Yes,” she said, patting Hallie’s sleeve, “I should like that very much.”

Hallie finished a lemon tart. “We will visit early next week.” She grinned. “Do you know when I first saw Hollis only a while ago, I asked him if he was Moses?”

“Moses? That crickety old man? Hmm. He does look rather like some ancient prophet, doesn’t he? I can remember the days when he chased down James and Jason, tucked them under his arms, and delivered them to their tutor, he was that strong. They were ten years old, I remember. What did Hollis tell you?”

Hallie’s lip quivered. “He said no, he wasn’t Moses, he was God.”

The old lady laughed, a cackle really, but it was full-bodied, even though it sounded like rusty nails grinding together. “Did you really, old man?”

Hollis, who was serving some cream onto Corrie’s scone, finished what he was doing, then raised his head and smiled at the dowager. “Certainly, madam.”

CHAPTER 15

Five mornings later at the breakfast table, Alex said, “The messenger you sent to Mrs. Tewksbury returned today with her reply.” She handed Hallie a pristine white envelope, for the messenger had carefully wrapped the letter in a white cloth. She wanted to tell Miss Carrick it was her responsibility to pay the messenger, but that might be a bit heavy-handed.

“Jason, listen. Angela is arriving at the end of the week!”

Douglas said, “You know, Jason, you cannot move into Lyon’s Gate until it’s habitable enough for the ladies.”

“I agree. However, I can.”

Hallie said without missing a beat, “You’re going nowhere near Lyon’s Gate with a pillow and a bed unless I’m with you.”

Douglas choked on his coffee.

“My lord, are you all right?” Hallie was on her feet in an instant and sending the heel of her hand into Douglas’s back.

“I’m fine, Miss Carrick,” Douglas said at last. He looked at Jason, who rolled his eyes.

Hallie reseated herself. “I plan that all of us will move to Lyon’s Gate together.”

Jason said to his relatives, “She doesn’t trust me. It’s an insult to my mother, Miss Carrick, and surely you would wish to rethink that.”

“I beg pardon, ma’am. It is my experience, however, that sometimes the fruit falls some distance from the tree, through no fault of the fine tree.”

“Is this a reference to rotten apples, Hallie?” Corrie said.

“Oh no, surely not,” Hallie said, and grinned like a sinner.

“As the tree in question, Miss Carrick, I forgive you,” said Alex, “However, I do not appreciate your insulting my fruit. You must realize that a tree will go to any length to protect her fruit, no matter how far away it falls. A tree can cast a very long shadow.”

The twins and their father stared at the countess in awe. Jason said, “Ah, speaking as a cherished fruit, I thank you, Mother. Well, Miss Carrick, would you like to graciously ask my parents if they would allow Mrs. Tewksbury to spend some time here?”

Hallie smiled at the countess of Northcliffe, who, she was certain, would prefer her to move to Russia. “My lady, I would be very grateful if you would allow both my cousin and me to remain here for a little while longer. It won’t be much more than a couple of days after she arrives. We’ve visited Mr. Millsom’s furniture warehouse in Eastbourne. We’ve selected fabrics and styles. Truly, well, perhaps three more days after Friday.”

Such a bright, charming girl, Alex thought, wishing she could strangle her and toss her body in Cowper’s well. But it was not to be. “Certainly, Miss Carrick. That will be our pleasure.”

Corrie said, “May I visit Lyon’s Gate today, Jason? See how everything is coming?”

He nodded. “Don’t bring the twins yet. There is too much danger of them getting hurt. You know, Miss Carrick, three days might be about right. Perhaps four. Not everything will be finished, but enough.”

“Oh that would be wonderful! It’s actually going to happen!” She jumped from her chair, grabbed Jason by the hand, pulled him up, and began to waltz him around the breakfast parlor. She was laughing and hopping about, and nearly struck the back of a chair. Suddenly she stopped cold. She was panting a bit. “Oh goodness, I don’t know why I did that. Do forgive me for making a spectacle of you.”

He was laughing at her enthusiasm. “I didn’t mind. I haven’t danced with such enjoyment since just after dawn this morning with my nephews.”

“What is this?” his father said.

“They fetched me out of bed at five-thirty this morning. Actually, they jumped on me and began dancing on the bed.” Jason shrugged, grinned. “We had a fine time of it. Thankfully the little devils collapsed after about ten minutes and all three of us went back to sleep.”

James said, “Their nurse was frantic when she discovered the boys were gone. Corrie and I didn’t panic, however. She stood in the dark hall and said to me, ‘Listen,’ and sure enough there was this muffled singing coming from behind Jason’s bedchamber door. We opened the door very quietly, and there he was dancing with the twins. We left. The next time we saw him was an hour later, one twin tucked under each arm, their heads on his shoulders, sound asleep, all three of them.”

Jason’s smile slid off his face. “Corrie, er, you didn’t really look into the bedchamber the first time, did you? I mean, you didn’t actually see me dancing, did you?”

“Oh yes.” She had the gall to giggle.

He felt the flush rise to his eyebrows. He’d been naked. The twins’ nightshirts had left their feet uncovered, and those small toes had been cold.

Corrie said to the table at large, “Neither James nor Jason wear nightshirts.”

“Thank you for informing everyone of that fact, Corrie,” her husband said, now as red-faced as his twin.

Hallie said, “It can’t be that embarrassing, Jason. You are your brother’s twin, and Corrie’s been married to him a good long time. No surprises, surely.”

Jason’s eyebrow went up. “Isn’t that a tad indelicate for the breakfast table, Hallie?”

“No more indelicate than what your sister-in-law said.”

“But she lives here, has lived here since she was nearly three years old.”

“Oh dear, you’re right. I am very sorry. Sometimes I speak before I think.”

“I think all of us would like some more tea,” Alex said.

Douglas said, “Did you dance with James and Jessie Wyndham’s children?”

“Oh yes. We had competitions. I believe that Alice and I won the last one, only three days before I left.”

“Alice?” Douglas asked. “Oh yes, she’s the youngest, isn’t she?”

Jason nodded. “She’s all of four years old, has a mop of red curls, and a precious lisp. She sang the American anthem at the top of her lungs, all of it while we danced, demanded that I sing it along with her. Everyone was laughing so hard when we finished that Alice claimed the prize while everyone was too weak to argue.”

Hallie said when everyone stopped laughing, “And what was the prize?”

He opened his mouth, then closed it. “Nothing much of anything, really. Now, when was the last time you saw Mrs. Tewksbury?”

“I was all of seventeen. My father and Genny asked her to visit Carrick Grange for the Christmas season. She’s in love with my father, but every woman is since he is the most beautiful man in the world. Genny paid it no mind since Angela is of the age to be Genny’s mother. She is something of an original.”

“You honestly believe your father is more beautiful than James and Jason?” Corrie asked, her fork stopped six inches from her mouth.

“Certainly. If the three of them were walking down the street, the ladies would all try to chase my father down. If my father were too fast to be caught, only then would they turn to James and Jason.”

James said quickly, before Corrie hurled a forkful of eggs at Miss Carrick, “No matter. I am looking forward to meeting the original Mrs. Tewksbury.”

Alex said, “As for me, I want to meet Hallie’s father.”

Douglas said, eyebrow hoisted up, “You, my dear wife, may observe Alec Carrick from a distance if ever he chances to appear. Is that clear?”

“You always order me about so prettily, Douglas.”

James said, before Corrie could accuse Hallie of being a blind moron, “Now, Jason, you’ve had ten men hammering, painting, carrying wood, not including the three of us, and ten women scrubbing, with Hallie supervising all of us. You’ve agreed on furniture, have you not?”

Jason said, “Surprisingly enough, we managed to come to agreement, for the most part, and that includes draperies and paint colors as well. I scarce remember how bad the house looked when I first saw it. And the paddocks, all freshly painted, the tack room—” and on and on he went, his family so very pleased they smiled and nodded and asked questions even though they’d heard this nearly same recital every evening. When finally no one could think of another question to ask him, James turned to Hallie, “When are you taking your mare to Lyon’s Gate?”

She said, “Piccola’s stable is all ready for her, but she will remain here until Jason and I actually move to Lyon’s Gate. Did I tell you—”

Unfortunately, Hallie wasn’t the long absent son of the house, and was cut off by Corrie. “Oh yes, you told us all about her, Hallie. Goodness, Jason, another week and even the furniture will be there. This is marvelous. And less than an hour’s ride from Northcliffe. We are all so very pleased, particularly my husband.” She beamed at him only to see that Hallie and Jason were now arguing in low voices. It was so common to see them going at it, she said something sure to snag Hallie’s attention. “Hallie, you’re very nearly as beautiful a woman as Jason is a man.”

Hallie turned in her chair so quickly, she knocked over her teacup. She stared at Jason’s sister-in-law and found herself without a word to say. As for Jason, he was laughing.

Hallie said, “Well, thank you, Corrie. However, truth be told, I am only a very vague copy of my father.”

Corrie said, “Come now, Hallie, he’s your father, thus you see him with less objectivity than you would another man. Come now, admit it.”

But Hallie shook her head. “Wait and see.”

As everyone filed out of the breakfast room, Alex placed her hand on her husband’s arm. “Do you know, everything has changed so utterly since Jason came home. I’m quite enjoying myself.”

Douglas looked ahead at Hallie and Jason, still arguing about God knew what, and said thoughtfully, “I wonder.”

Alex said, “Don’t wonder, I beg of you. Can you believe that Hallie and your mother had a fine time visiting Lyon’s Gate? Hallie told me later that when she confessed to Lady Lydia her partnership with Jason, your mother told her to take the upper hand as soon as possible because her two precious grandsons were stubborn as stoats. But then again, she told Hallie, all gentlemen were stubborn and used to getting their own way. Since, she told Hallie, she’d lived eight decades she’d witnessed this many times and Hallie would be wise to take note of it.”

Douglas laughed. “If you had been the one to tell her, she would have accused you of fostering immorality and God knows what else.”

“Well, I must say I’m relieved that Hallie was the one who told her. I thought that at last she’d blast her.”

“Don’t sound so disappointed.”

“I can’t help it. Do you know that Hallie took both Lady Lydia and Hollis to Lyon’s Gate yesterday in the carriage? She even thought to bring a picnic lunch.”

“Yes, I knew. Hollis was grinning from ear to ear, told me about everything going on, just as Jason does every single evening.”

Alex sighed. “Why would Lady Lydia like Hallie Carrick so very much and detest me?”

“I’ve thought about that. I think it’s because Hallie jumped her before she could get the bit in her mouth and chew on it. I think it would behoove both you and Corrie to learn a lesson from this. It might be too late, but who knows?”

“Hmm. Are you going to work at Lyon’s Gate today?”

Douglas shook his head. “With James gone all the time, I must see to business here.”

She went up on her tiptoes, drew him down to her, and whispered against his ear, “I haven’t minded rubbing down your sore muscles, my lord.”

“I married a baggage, thank God.”

CHAPTER 16

Lyon’s Gate

Five Days Later

“Everett! Don’t eat that nail!”

Three adults and Martha ran toward the little boy, but his mother was the fastest. Corrie whipped him up in her arms, pulled the nail out of his hand, spit on her handkerchief and wiped his mouth. “No, no, no!” she yelled in his face and shook him for good measure.

Everett stared at his mother, screwed up his face, threw back his head and yowled.

His twin, Douglas, grabbed his mother’s skirt and yanked hard. Corrie, both hands trying to hold Everett still, crooned down to Douglas, “Just a moment, baby, just another moment, and Mama will pick you up too.”

Everett’s voice went up another octave. Douglas screwed up his face, opened his mouth and matched his twin’s volume. Martha patted their hands. “Heavenly groats, my lady, me own little brother niv—never—made so much racket as these little nits.”

Jason called out, “Who wants to waltz with me?”

There was an instant of complete silence, then, “I do!”

“I do!”

“Me first, Uncle Jason!”

Everett was trying to pull away from his mother and Douglas was jumping up and down, now pulling on Jason’s dirty pant leg.

Jason, laughing, picked up Douglas and gathered Everett to his other side, and called out, “I need some music, please.”

Hallie, who’d come running out of the house at Everett’s yells, didn’t hesitate. She started singing one of Duchess Wyndham’s ditties, written some twenty years before and still a favorite in the king’s navy. She sang it in three-quarter time to a popular waltz tune so the words fit the rhythm of a waltz, for the most part, making anyone listening laugh his head off.

Jason whirled and dipped and glided. The twins laughed and shrieked. Every adult within one hundred feet stopped working to watch, and listen.

“ ’E ain’t the man to shout ‘Please, my dear!’

’E’s only a lout who shouts ‘Bring me a beer!’

’E’s a bonny man wit’ a bonny lass

Who troves ’im a tippler right on ’is ass.

And to hove and to trove we go, my boys,

We’ll shout as we please till ship’s ahoy!”

Three of the workers knew the ditty and began singing along with Hallie. They were all swaying, then Mackie, a bricklayer, yelled to one of the women, “Meg, come dance wit’ me!”

Soon there were at least four couples waltzing, Martha herself doing very well with young Thomas the blacksmith’s son, who had just celebrated his tenth birthday. Alex heard her say, “She’s my mistress, she is. Jest listen to those beautiful pipes inside her purty self.”

The dowager countess, Lady Lydia, hummed and swayed in her chair, in blessed shade beside the front door, Angela Tewksbury at her side, laughing, trying to clap her hands in three-quarter waltz time.

Hollis stood in the doorway smiling benignly, foot tapping. He caught Jason’s eye and pointed to the platter and formed the words lemonade, biscuits. Jason whispered in Everett’s ear, then in Douglas’s. To his astonishment, both little boys grabbed him around the neck and yelled,

“Dance!”

“Dance!”

It required another full rendition of the sailor’s song before the twins decided they wanted lemonade, all because Hollis was drinking a big glass, letting a dribble run down his chin, not three feet from them.

Soon they were seated on a blanket in the shade next to Lady Lydia and Mrs. Tewksbury, a plate of cakes and biscuits on the blanket between them. They were jabbering in twin talk, each trying to grab the most cakes.

“Give me water, Hollis,” Jason said, breathing hard. “Merciful heavens those two have more energy than Eliza Dickers. I don’t think even she wore me out as much as those two.”

One of his father’s eyebrows kicked up. “A Baltimore belle?”

Hallie sneered, her expression condemning as a nun’s. “Ah, yes, my lord. I understand that Jason’s belle, Eliza Dickers, could perhaps be considered something of a virtuous widow, once upon a time, before your son’s arrival to Baltimore.”

Jason stiffened straight as the new fence poles he’d hammered into the ground only an hour before. He gave her a look to curdle butter and a voice to freeze the outskirts of Hell. “Eliza Dickers is a lady who is one of Jessie Wyndham’s best friends. She, unlike you, Miss Carrick, is an adult. She hurts no one, either with actions or words.”

He turned on his heel and walked back to his brother.

Hallie stared after him. “Oh dear.”

Douglas said, “Why do you dislike my son so, Miss Carrick?”

“Oh dear,” Hallie said again. “I didn’t mean—truly I didn’t, it’s just that I’m—”

“You’re still furious with him because he owns half of Lyon’s Gate?”

“No,” she said, staring at Jason whilst he spoke to his mother now, his hand on her sleeve.

“Ah,” said Douglas’s father, and smiled at her.

Hallie stilled. “I don’t like what you’re thinking, sir, even though I don’t know what it is, and I don’t ever want to know what it is.”

She watched Jason raise a glass of water and down the entire glass, his strong throat working. His shirt, open halfway down his chest, was sweated through and clinging to him. The hair on his chest was dirty and shiny as well with sweat, which she wasn’t going to think about.

If Douglas wasn’t mistaken, and he never was about things like this, Hallie Carrick was staring at his son with a rather alarmed expression on her face. He would wager a bundle of groats that she’d been jealous. Yes, she’d given a display of nice, raw jealousy, as low and human as could be. It was difficult to see another side to her, Douglas thought, a charmingly human side, since he’d wanted to strangle her for so long.

He watched Jason toss his glass to one of the workers standing near Hollis. Douglas said to Hallie, “Your voice is good and strong. Do you know that Duchess Wyndham is James Wyndham’s cousin-in-law?”

“Oh yes, she’s very famous in Baltimore. I believe Wilhelmina Wyndham quite hates her, although she hates a goodly number of people so that’s no particular distinction.”

“I can’t believe you made that ditty fit waltz time, sort of. Well done.”

“Thank you, sir. I suppose it’s time for me to get back to hanging the new bedchamber draperies.”

Douglas watched her walk into the house, her eyes on her shoes, and, if he wasn’t mistaken, her shoulders a bit slumped.

James came up behind his brother, his arms folded over his own sweaty shirt. “Hallie hasn’t worn breeches since that very first time we met her.”

Jason, no hesitation at all, laughed. “I’m not about to say anything. She’d strip off her gown and pull on breeches just to spite me. Blessed hell, it’s hotter now than it was a minute ago.”

James took a glass of water from one of the workers, took a sip, then dumped the rest of the glass over his twin’s head. “Better?”

Jason yelled, then groaned in pleasure. “Much better. Why don’t we swim later?”

“You’ll freeze your parts off,” said their father.

“I can’t wait,” Jason said. He heard an ancient cackle and looked over at his grandmother, sitting close to Mrs. Tewksbury, an elderly lady herself, but not by any means an octogenarian. She couldn’t be older than seventy. She had white hair threaded with soft brown strands, a sweet round face with few lines. She seemed utterly unflappable, and the greatest shock of all—his grandmother seemed to like her immensely. Not five minutes after they’d met, Jason heard them yelling at each other in the drawing room. He’d never heard a single person yell back at his grandmother before. He was nailed to the spot.

His grandmother sailed out of the drawing room some minutes later, saw him standing there, and gave him a sweet smile. He’d hugged her to him. “You don’t like Mrs. Tewksbury, Grandmother?”

She eased back from him and patted his cheek. “Angela? I do believe she’s got a nice wit, my boy. You may call Horace. I wish to go home now and speak to Cook. Angela’s coming to dinner.”

James’s voice brought him back. “I like Angela. You never know what’s going to come out of her mouth. I do believe she fascinates Grandmother, and vice versa.”

“It is a miracle,” said their mother, hugging both of them even though Jason was wet and dirty, James only dirty. She stepped back and raised her face to the sky, her eyes closed, her lips moving.

“Mother, what are you doing?”

“Ah, James, I’m praying this miracle doesn’t disappear with the arrival of nightfall.”

Douglas said, “If the miracle fades away, I’ll do my best to cheer you up tonight.”

His boys looked at each other, then down at their boots, not a word coming out of their mouths.

That evening, after dinner, the weather continued warm, a sickle moon hanging high in the sky. Jason walked into the east garden where all the naked male and female statues cavorted in timeless pleasure. Strangely enough, he was thinking of the last race he’d run against Jessie Wyndham. He’d been on Dodger, she on Rialto’s son, Balthazar. Dodger’s head was down, he was dead serious, focused on the finish line in the distance. With not more than twenty feet to go, Jason turned to look over his shoulder to see exactly where Balthazar was. His heart fell to his boots. Jessie wasn’t on his back. Oh God, she’d fallen. Jason, terrified she was hurt or even dead, immediately wheeled Dodger about only to hear Jessie laugh. Laugh? He watched numbly as she hoisted herself back straight in the saddle, dug her heels into Balthazar’s sleek sides and galloped past him, over the finish line a moment later. She whipped a rearing Balthazar around and called out between shouts of laughter, “Jason, I’m sorry to do that to you, but Balthazar can’t bear to lose a race. He stops eating. Once he nearly died he was so distressed over a loss at the McFarly racetrack. I had to do something.”

And Jason said mildly, “It’s no problem at all, Jessie. That was an excellent trick.”

“I’ve been doing it since I was twelve. I’ve never had to fling myself sideways with you before. I’m surprised James didn’t warn you.”

“No, James never said a thing.”

“I wonder why the children kept mum.”

“There was no reason for anyone to warn me since I’ve never before beaten you in a race.”

She’d given him a fat smile and nodded, recognition that if she hadn’t done him dirty, he would have won. When she dismounted, praising Balthazar, Jason rode up to her, smiling, and let Dodger at him. He bit Balthazar’s flank, hard. Dodger hadn’t been as philosophical about the dirty trick.

He was smiling absently as he looked up at Corrie’s favorite statue, a kneeling man frozen for all eternity between a woman’s legs.

He turned quickly when he heard a gasp. “Hallie. You found your way in here.” She didn’t look at him, only stared around at the various statues.

Jason said, “There are fifteen statues. Each, I suppose you could say, with a different approach to the theme. I believe it was my great-grandfather who brought them back from Greece.”

She didn’t say a single word. Her eyes did not waver.

He pointed up at the statue. “Most women prefer this one, once they are married, but only if their husbands aren’t clods.”

She looked more closely and blanched. “Oh dear, what is he doing?” Her voice shook, but she didn’t look away from the statues. Jason said, his hand on her arm, “Come along.” When she still didn’t move, he grabbed her hand and pulled her away. He left the east gardens, still pulling her back toward the glass doors that opened into his father’s—no, James’s—estate room.

“No, no, please, Jason, please, let’s not go in yet.”

“You shouldn’t be looking at those statues. You’re too young and too ignorant.” He said nothing more, merely looked down at her, his arms crossed over his chest. He watched her tongue rub over her bottom lip.

“I’m not young nor am I particularly ignorant, but I will be honest here. It was difficult to break myself away.”

“You’d still be there, staring up, your mouth open, if I hadn’t dragged you away.”

“Probably true. Please, don’t go in yet. I wanted to talk to you, and it’s not about the statues.”

A elegant brow went up.

She was scuffing her slipper against a small rock.

Finally, after the silence dragged out, he sighed. “Spit it out, Miss Carrick.”

Her head came up and she said, all stiff and cold, “Please don’t call me Miss Carrick in that awful formal voice again. You’ve called me Hallie for a good week now.”

“Ah, the princess gives a direct order.”

She wrung her hands. “No, I didn’t mean that, truly, I only meant that when you speak in that tone it makes me feel lower than a slug. I hate it when you use my last name like you despise me so much you don’t even want to acknowledge Hallie.”

Jason leaned back against a sessile oak tree older than his grandmother, arms folded over his chest, and waited.

“I wanted to talk to you—All right, I really wanted to apologize. I was wrong to speak like that about Mrs. Dickers. It was such a shock to know that you and she—”

“You’re ruining it, Miss Carrick.”

Hallie sucked in her breath. “You can freeze someone with that voice.”

“Yes. I learned it from my father. James as well.”

“Don’t you see? She’s so much older than I am, and I simply couldn’t imagine you and she were, well—”

“This is getting better and better. How long do you plan to make excuses for yourself?”

She took a step toward him, reached out her hand, then dropped it again at her side. “We’re going to have to live together, Jason. I can’t live with you freezing me like this, like you’re still angry, perhaps still disgusted with me. Oh, very well, I’ll spit it out like you want. No more excuses. What I said was mean, it was petty, I’m a horrible person. Are you content now?”

“Hmm,” he said, turned on his heel, opened the door to the estate room and disappeared inside. She stared after him, angry that he’d walked away and wanting to fall to her knees and beg him to forgive her.

Jason turned back to see her still standing where he’d left her, her face pale in the moonlight. He called out, “If I were a man who wished to marry, something I will never wish to do again in this lifetime, I would be strongly inclined toward Eliza Dickers. She is warm and kind and very funny.” He didn’t look back again.

And she wasn’t.

Well, all right, so perhaps she wasn’t warm and kind and funny all the time. She doubted strongly that Eliza Dickers was either. How could one be all those good things all the time? Surely even Mrs. Dickers had moments of pettiness. A pity her husband was dead, or he could be consulted. Surely she’d occasionally called him a bonehead or a fleabrain.

Hallie turned and walked back to the east gardens. It took her a while to find the entrance even though she’d already been in there. She supposed it made sense to keep these awesome statues well hidden. She wondered at what age James and Jason had found them. She stood in front of the married woman’s favorite statue—if the husband wasn’t a clod—whatever that meant.

The fact was, she was a jealous bitch. She shook her head. No, she wasn’t jealous, that was ridiculous, she was simply a bitch, no jealousy involved. She had imagined he’d bedded every woman he’d wanted to in Baltimore, that Eliza Dickers had been one of many. But maybe there hadn’t been a long line of women, and that he, like a sultan, had to merely crook a finger to the one he wanted for the night. Maybe she’d been wrong about him, and he only shared himself with Eliza Dickers. He was certainly fond of her. But the fact of it was, he was so beautiful, so finely fashioned, she couldn’t imagine him not taking what was offered. After all, he was a man, and her stepmother, Genny, had told her candidly that every man Hallie met would think of little else other than bedding her, that it was simply the way of the species, and that they couldn’t help themselves. But Jason, he’d never shown any lecherous tendencies around her, and how could that be? Surely she was pretty enough to warrant at least one interested look, wasn’t she? Perhaps he was simply very good at hiding what apparently all men wanted.

“You’re a fool, my girl,” she said, looking up at the woman lying on her back, her mouth open on some sort of scream. Why was she screaming? Was the man hurting her? A woman would willingly allow her husband to embarrass and hurt her?

She continued to study the statue. The man’s mouth was where she couldn’t imagine a man’s mouth being anywhere near, particularly not all settled in like he appeared to be.

Well, no matter. Jason Sherbrooke never wanted to marry. That was good. That was fine with her because she didn’t want to marry either, ever.

She ran back to the Hall, aware that she was feeling warm, but not all over. No, not all over at all.

She found Martha curled up in her chair, sound asleep. She’d told her to go to bed, but naturally she hadn’t. Hallie led Martha into the dressing room where she slept, took off her shoes and covered her. She’d worked as hard as any of the women, jumping around, exclaiming over this and that, happy as a lark.

Hallie wondered, as she lay in bed that night, exactly what had happened to Jason five years before.

CHAPTER 17

Two mornings later, all the male workers moved the furniture from the very clean stables into the house. They grunted and carped, stretched and sweated, but were stoic and nicely silent when Hallie asked them to move a piece more than once. Hallie seemed to be enjoying herself, so Jason didn’t say a word until he walked into the room as she directed the men to move the main sofa in front of the windows. He stared. Hallie called out, all delighted, “Yes, that is perfect, simply perfect. Thank you. Now, I’m thinking a chair should sit in front of the fireplace, perhaps that lovely brocade wing chair that Master Jason likes so very much. No reason to be cold, is there? Of course it’s very warm now since it’s summer. Oh, hello, Jason. What do you think, should the chair still be in front of the fireplace so visitors will know that they’ll be warm when the cold hits?”

He was amazed and disbelieving, at what she had wrought, but he said in a straightforward voice, “There is something to be said for reassuring visitors, but I’m thinking the sofa and chair should be together, don’t you?”

“But there isn’t enough room in front of the windows for both.”

“Well then, why don’t we try the sofa and chair somewhere else. Perhaps to the left side of the fireplace.”

Hallie heard one of the men say to another, “It’s about time the master got involved. The next thing she’d want us to do is block the doorway with a hassock.”

“Of course I wouldn’t want a hassock in the doorway. A hassock can’t be separated from its chair. Everyone knows that.”

The men shuffled their feet. They didn’t notice the twinkle in her eye.

“They didn’t mean anything, Hallie,” Jason said. “However, you do have some rather curious notions about furniture placement.”

Hallie sighed deeply. “The truth is, my father and Genny quite despaired of me six years ago when I tried to redecorate my own bedchamber. I selected lovely colors and furniture, but when it came to placement, I put my bed with its back to the one big window. At least I sometimes recognize when the furniture is placed correctly.” She sighed and stood in the doorway.

After Jason had finished with the downstairs furniture, the men grinning, he said to Hallie, “Should we let Cousin Angela make decisions about her own bedchamber and sitting room?”

“After she sees what you’ve done, she’ll probably beg you to do it for her.”

“All right, I’ll arrange her furniture. If she doesn’t like it, I’ll change it myself. Now, don’t whine and act pathetic. Everyone has things they can do and things they can’t do.”

“Oh yes? What can’t you do?”

He stroked his fingertips over his chin. After a very long march of moments, he said, “Do you know, I’ll have to keep thinking about that.”

She said something under her breath and stomped away.

“What did you say?”

She mumbled something else, something rather unpleasant, he fancied, about his antecedents. She turned at the front door to see him grinning after her, a lovely white-toothed grin that made her want to both smack him in the head and fling him to the ground. Now, where had that come from? So she flung him to the ground—what would she do then? She’d kiss him until he swooned, that’s what she’d do. How long, she wondered, eyes glazed, would it take him to swoon? Oh dear. She kept walking.

After Cousin Angela’s bedchamber and sitting room were charmingly arranged, Jason went back downstairs to see Hallie standing in the open doorway looking off at something in the distance. He called to her, “Come back in, Hallie. Let’s take one final look.”

“A storm is coming. Do you know when it will hit?” When he stood next to her, she pointed.

“Any minute now. Those are fast clouds and black as a pit. Come, let’s look at our handiwork.”

He’d even done a perfect job in her bedchamber. She started to sigh, but refused to give him the satisfaction. They walked into each of the other rooms, Jason telling her what an excellent job she’d done selecting the fabrics and design of the draperies. It didn’t take long before she was smiling and nodding.

“Didn’t you select the hallway carpet?”

She beamed. “Isn’t it lovely? It won’t show much dirt.”

“No, indeed.” If someone had told him he would like a dark yellow rug with dark green vines, he would have puked, but oddly, it looked lovely running the distance of the corridor.

When they looked into Jason’s bedchamber, at the opposite end of the house from hers, Hallie said, “And this carpet you selected is very distinctive. Very masculine.”

“In short, very manly.” Actually, it was a lovely Aubusson his father had selected for him.

The floors were buffed to a high shine, the furniture and fabrics light, making all the rooms look airier and larger.

When at last they walked into the drawing room, Callie discovered her throat was tight.

“What’s wrong? You still want the chair in front of the fireplace?”

“Oh, no, it’s just that this is my first home.” She blinked up at him. “My very own first home.” She whooped, grabbed Jason, and soon they were waltzing around the room and out into the entryway. They were laughing, then suddenly Jason stopped in his tracks. Hallie, looking up at him, saw something close to panic on his face, and quick as could be, she locked her arms around his neck. She was still waltzing in place when she went up on her tiptoes and kissed him.

For an instant, he kissed her back. Then suddenly, he grabbed her hands and pulled them away from his neck. “No, no, Hallie, I will not dishonor you nor will I—Never mind, you’re a lady.” He paled, something akin to terror dilating his beautiful eyes, turned on his heel and left the house, nearly at a dead run.

It began to rain, hard.

After dinner, their final evening at Northcliffe Hall, Hallie found Corrie in the nursery, softly singing a lullaby to the twins, who lay like two small spoons, front to back. Hallie watched her lean down and kiss both of them, then pull a light cover over them. She straightened to see Hallie at her elbow. “Goodness, I didn’t hear you. What are you doing here, Hallie? Ah, aren’t they absolute loves?”

Hallie said, “I’ve been watching them. Their fingers fell out of their mouths when they fell asleep.”

“Yes, that’s always the giveaway. They’ve tried to fool me into thinking they’re asleep, but it’s the fingers that do them in. James will be here in a moment. What is it? There’s nothing wrong, is there?”

“Oh no. Well, perhaps. Could I speak to you for a moment, Corrie?”

Now, this was interesting, Corrie thought, as she motioned Hallie into a small sitting room down the corridor that overlooked the spectacular back gardens. They heard a man’s step in the corridor. “That’s James. He’ll probably pick both boys up and rock them. They always smile at him in their sleep when he rocks them. Now, tell me what this is all about.”

Hallie sat forward in her chair, realized she wasn’t certain how to introduce the subject of Jason and what exactly had happened five years before. What came out of her mouth was, “Jason said the statue where the man is kneeling between the woman’s legs is your favorite. He also said it was every married woman’s favorite so long as her husband wasn’t a clod.”

Corrie’s left eyebrow shot up. She laughed, couldn’t help it. “Well, that’s the truth. Oh, I see, forgive me. You don’t understand. But didn’t you look closely?”

“Well, no, not really. It looked to me like the woman was screaming. It looked to me as if that sort of married thing was painful for the woman.”

Corrie stared at a young woman who was only two years younger than she. Well, she’d be ignorant as dirt herself if she hadn’t married James. And thank the good Lord, James wasn’t a clod. She grinned. “No, there’s no pain involved. When you decide to marry, I promise I’ll have James make certain the man you’ve chosen knows what he’s doing. That’s all I’m going to say about it.”

Hallie sucked in a deep breath. “That isn’t really what I wanted to ask you. The thing is, well, do you think you could tell me exactly what happened five years ago? Why Jason swears he’ll never marry?”

Corrie’s face tightened, she tightened all over. She hated thinking of that awful time, and the memories were always there. She saw that Hallie wasn’t asking out of simple curiosity, that there was something else at work. But what? Corrie said, “Was it spoken of in Baltimore? What do you know?”

“In Baltimore there were rumors that Jason and James had loved the same woman and she’d chosen James.” Hallie shrugged. “He gambled too much, he angered his father, anything you can think of. People talk and gossip because they must, I suppose. All Jason told me was that the girl he loved betrayed him and he was responsible for nearly getting his father and brother killed.”

“I see.” Corrie fell silent. “I’m surprised Jason said that much to you.”

“At the time, I told him that my betrothed was with another woman. I suppose Jason told me what he did to make me feel better.”

Corrie was astonished. “You’re joking, surely. This idiot man was your future husband and he betrayed you?”

“He must have believed I was very stupid. Actually, he was right. I found out he was marrying me for my money. When I confronted him, he admitted he’d been with this other woman, though only one time, the lying worm swore to me, and then proceeded to promise it would never happen again. I’m not that foolish. It was then that I told him I knew he was a fortune hunter.”

“Did you shoot him?”

Hallie sighed. “I would have enjoyed that, perhaps right through his ear, but instead I locked myself in my bedchamber and licked my wounds.”

“What happened to him?”

“He married a rich merchant’s daughter last year. Poor girl.” She paused a moment. “And that’s why I don’t ever wish to marry.”

Corrie rose and smoothed down her skirts. “Well, that’s bad enough. I’m sorry you had to care for a man of that ilk. You never suspected?”

Hallie shook her head, saying as she did so, “Not for a moment. Goodness, I was naïve. However, Jason’s experience must have been much worse than mine. But the thing is, I can’t imagine any girl betraying either James or Jason. They’re both so beautiful and, well, they both appear quite honorable.”

“Yes, they are. The fact is, I loved James from the moment I first saw him at the advanced age of three. Do you know that most people can’t tell James and Jason apart?”

Hallie shook her head. “No, that’s not possible. They’re very different from each other. Please, Corrie, tell me what happened.”

“It was a very bad time, Hallie, for all of us.” Corrie patted her shoulder. “I don’t think it’s right for me to say anything. You must ask Jason. Shall we go downstairs and play whist? Or perhaps we can waltz.”

CHAPTER 18

The move to Lyon’s Gate occupied a good three hours, an additional two to install both Martha and Petrie, who had begged Jason to allow him to be both his permanent valet and Lyon’s Gate’s butler, since Hollis had taught him everything over the past five years. Jason had to admit that occasionally he’d missed Petrie’s services in America. He agreed to Petrie continuing as his valet and Hallie agreed to Petrie as their butler. Jason knew she was accepting Petrie in all goodwill and innocence. Well, she’d find out soon enough what a misogynist he was. They hadn’t been in Lyon’s Gate more than an hour before Petrie told Martha she was a mouthy girl with no respect for his craft and skill. Jason had seen seventeen-year-old Martha, hands on hips, chin out, tell him he was an insufferable prune-faced old tick, and he wasn’t even that old yet.

Old tick or not, it was nice to have someone looking after him again. Jason could always smack Petrie if he stepped over the line with any of the females in the house.

Good God, he’d moved into a house with a woman he hadn’t known more than two months, and Cousin Angela, whom he’d known a week. His world had turned sideways.

As for Martha, she was so excited she danced in and out of every room, saying over and over, “Our first ’ouse, er, house. Heavenly groats—ain’t—isn’t—it jest grand, Miss Hallie?”

“It’s the grandest,” Hallie agreed, and realized she was moving into a house with a man who looked like a god. In the dark hours of the night, she knew she would be quite content to drop him to the floor, hold him down, and kiss him, forever.

The house was quiet. Jason lay in his bed, the first time he and his new bed had been together. He stretched, pillowed his head on his arms, and stared up at the dark ceiling. There wasn’t much of a moon tonight, so little light came through the windows. Some minutes later, from downstairs, came twelve mellow strokes from the lovely Ledenbrun clock, a gift from his grandmother.

His first home. Hallie’s first home. Oh yes, he’d heard Martha’s excited voice, anyone who’d been in the house at the time had, much to Petrie’s tight-lipped disapproval. Yes, the house was just grand. He smiled, but it soon fell away. She’d wanted to kiss him. She’d held on until he’d jerked her arms from around his neck.

Their cook, Mrs. Millsom, so bosomy she could probably balance a vegetable or two quite nicely, had prepared them an excellent dinner—some fish and mutton, if he remembered right, but he’d been so wrapped up in sitting in the master’s chair at his own dining room table in his own dining room, that he really didn’t remember what he’d eaten. Perhaps there’d been some peas as well. He’d been aware of Cook watching him and so he’d complimented her extravagantly. Mrs. Millsom fluttered her fingers and removed herself back to the kitchen, singing if he’d not imagined it, and Hallie had said, “Oh no, not Mrs. Millsom,” but he hadn’t asked her what she’d meant by that.

He frowned at one memory. Hallie had said as they’d shared a glass of port after dinner, “I’m so excited I can scarcely keep myself from bubbling over—my first home, my first dinner in my own home.”

And Angela, seeing that he was ready to open his mouth, said quickly as she raised her glass, “I propose a toast: to yours and Jason’s first home and our first home together.”

It was her home too, dammit. Her dining room table in her dining room. Not his alone. He’d seen her looking about, in tearing spirits, and he’d known she’d wanted to ask him to waltz again throughout the house with her. But she hadn’t, probably because of his blatant rejection of her—and that brought Judith McCrae from that hidden part of his brain out in front of his eyes, the girl who’d been a monster, the girl who’d nearly killed him. Yes, whenever he dredged Judith up, his mind settled back into its proper path.

When he fell asleep, he dreamed of that afternoon again, saw himself jumping in front of his father, felt the bullet tearing into his shoulder, and the endless pain that had drawn him deep into himself, almost killing him. He jerked awake, breathing fast and hard, sweat covering him. He hadn’t had that dream for many months. Now, tonight, in his new bed, it had come and brought it all back. He didn’t want to go back to sleep. He didn’t want to fall back into that nightmare. When he fell asleep again, he slept soundly, nothing at all coming into his brain to break him.

The next morning, as Jason walked down the stairs, the events of that long-ago day tucked back into the shrouded darkness, he heard Petrie saying, “Your step is entirely too light. It shows lack of respect for your betters. You are nearly dancing, Martha, and a lady’s maid shouldn’t dance. Her step should be slow and stately. Her eyes should be looking upon her feet. I won’t have your high spirits in my house.”

Petrie’s house? Well, why not? It was damned near everyone’s house. Jason started to call out when he saw young Martha standing right in front of Petrie, hands on hips, foot tapping, a lovely sneer on her thin young face. “Well, now, you itchy old codswallop, you’re not even fat and jowly yet, and ’ere—here—you are acting like a stern grandfather without even a flicker of laughter in him. Dear Mr. Hollis must be ten times your age, yet he’s never tight-mouthed and disapproving, and what’s more, he quite likes females, unlike you, who would like to bake all of us in that wonderful new oven the mistress bought.

“Listen to me, Mr. Petrie. Of course I have a light step, I’m only seventeen years old. Go away now, I heard your master stirring ever so long ago. You do tend to him, do you not?”

Petrie stared down at her, mouth agape. “I am not an itchy old codswallop.”

“My ma always said that sour and stiff and nasty is an old man’s sack, no matter you’ve still got all your teeth.”

Jason realized in that moment that Martha hadn’t dropped a single h and she’d spoken all fluently and fast, her diction and grammar perfect. Anger did strange things to people. He had nothing to do. Martha had quite taken care of Petrie herself. He wondered if Petrie was ready to commit murder. He wished he could simply slip past them. He didn’t want to see his valet/butler when he was mortified. But Lyon’s Gate wasn’t near the size of Northcliffe Hall, so Petrie would have to see him, feel guilt, and suffer.

“Good morning, Martha, Petrie. No, Petrie, I didn’t need your services. I’m having breakfast now. Martha, is your mistress up and about?”

“Oh yes, sir. She’s an early riser, that one is, fair to made me turn around me—my—’ours—hours.”

“Cheeky and fresh,” Petrie said under his breath, but of course, it wasn’t under enough.

Martha turned on him, recalled the master was three feet away, and gave him a lovely curtsey before she seamed her lips.

“That was quite well done, Martha.”

“Thank you, sir. Miss Carrick, she taught me. She’s ever so graceful when she curtsies.”

“Possibly,” Jason said and walked into the breakfast room. When he sat down, his plate piled high with eggs, bacon, kidneys, he said to Hallie, who was sipping a cup of tea at the other end of the table, “We need a housekeeper, else Petrie will be murdered in his bed by all the female staff.”

“Cousin Angela wanted to be the housekeeper but she is my chaperone and a gentlewoman.”

“I will ask Hollis to recommend someone for us.”

Jason ate while Hallie continued to sip her tea, her fingertips drumming lightly on the tablecloth.

He missed the London paper he would normally have at Northcliffe Hall. “What’s wrong with you this morning? Didn’t you sleep well?”

“Oh yes. Actually, I would very much like you to give me permission for Dodger to cover Piccola, er, without charge for his stud services.”

An eyebrow went up. “No charge for Dodger’s services?”

“Since we’re partners, I deserve a bit of consideration, don’t you think?”

He’d handled Piccola several times since she’d arrived. She was a Thoroughbred, a glossy bay with four white socks and a slash of white down her face, a long graceful neck, a sound chest. “Yes,” he said. “If her first foal is a filly, she’s yours, if it’s a colt, he’s mine. All right?”

“Hmm. If it’s a colt, can I have the next colt?”

“All right.”

She gave him a big grin. “Very well, I’ll go speak to Henry. I think she’ll be in season very soon now. As you already know, summer is the best time for mating, so we need to hurry. I asked your uncle Tysen to bruit it about that we were open for business. My uncle Burke as well. Dodger will be very busy.”

“We are lucky to have Henry back with us again. He told me about the last few years of Squire Hoverton’s life, how Thomas was always—” His voice dried up when she suddenly rose, and he nearly fell off his chair. He couldn’t believe it. She was wearing black breeches, a loose white shirt covered with a black vest, and shiny black boots. She’d tied her hair back with a black velvet ribbon. It was quite obvious that everything she wore was new and well-made. He remembered the first time he and James had seen her at Lyon’s Gate. She’d been dressed in dusty old boy’s clothes. Now that he thought of it, he’d never seen her off Charlemagne’s back, either.

He found his voice as he roared out of his chair. “Don’t you move, Miss Carrick!” For an instant he couldn’t think. Her long legs were on very nice display, leaving very little to a man’s imagination. Her rear end—

Thank God Hallie slowly turned to face him and he could make himself look up at her face. He leaned over, splaying his palms on the table. He hit his fork and it flew across the breakfast room, but he paid it no heed. She said, eyebrow arched, “What do you want, Mr. Sherbrooke?”

He tried to get ahold on himself. He wasn’t her father, dammit, nor was he her husband. But the outrage rolled out; he simply couldn’t hold it in. “You will go upstairs this minute and have Martha put you in a proper gown. You will not show yourself outside until you are properly dressed, more or less like a lady. You will not wear men’s clothing ever again. Is that perfectly clear to you?”

“Since you’re nearly yelling, yes, of course, it’s clear. Excuse me now, Mr. Sherbrooke, I have work to do in the stables.”

“Don’t move, Miss Carrick!” His face was red, the pulse pounding in his neck. Luckily his brain was holding on and told him to retrench. “Damn you—” No, no, try again. Calm, he needed calm and control with her. His voice slowed, deepened, surely a master’s voice, a serious man’s voice. “Don’t you realize that everyone in the district will hear of your man’s charade? Don’t you realize you will be labeled loose?”

“That is absurd. I already have an interesting reputation in the district simply because I am living with a man who isn’t my husband. But let me assure you, no one believes me at all loose.”

She’d started out all light and dismissive, amused even, but by the time she’d finished, her voice had risen an octave and her face was red. Well, Jason thought, she was an uncontrolled female, what was one to expect? Where he was calm, his reason sound, she was a stubborn uncontrolled twit. He actually flicked a bit of lint off his coat sleeve. “You can’t see yourself from the back, Miss Carrick, whereas I can see every curve—your backside in particular is finely outlined, and your long legs, nicely shaped they are. Trust me on this. Every man who manages only the slightest glimpse of your shadow will be positively delighted. He will immediately see his hands cupping your bottom.” Actually, he was seeing himself doing that, and he would swear his hands tingled.

She shook her head at him. “I looked at the back of myself in my mirror. My britches are loose. There’s no hugging, no outlining. You’re being ridiculous. Now, good morning to you, Mr. Sherbrooke.”

He spaced his words out for maximum effect. “If you try to leave the house dressed like that, I will carry you back upstairs, and change you into a gown myself.” He shuddered then. “Do you realize what you look like from the front?” He shuddered again.

“I look just like you do, like all men do. There’s nothing at all diff—”

“Would you like me to press yourself against me, Miss Carrick, so you can feel the difference between us? Would you like to simply look at me at this very moment to see the differences?”

He stepped from behind the table and walked toward her. “Look, Miss Carrick.”

She looked. “Oh dear.” Then she brought shocked, excited eyes back up to his face and took a step back. “So this is what happens to you when you look at the front of me?”

“Or the back of you or, I fancy, the side of you, perhaps even from fifty feet.”

He stopped not an inch from her, took her upper arms in his big hands and shook her. “You’re my bloody partner and you’re a nitwit.”

She jerked away from him.

He should simply haul her upstairs, strip off her clothes, burn all the breeches she’d had sewn up for herself without his knowledge. No, it wasn’t possible. Well, it was—Angela would probably be on his side—but no. Better to try a different tack. Shame, that was it. He drew in a deep breath.

“Attend me, Hallie”—he saw her ease immediately at the use of her first name—“the men working here will tell their wives and their friends how the mistress of Lyon’s Gate prances around dressed like a man. The wives will be horrified, they won’t want their husbands working for us. As for the men who remain, they will sneer at you, they will be insolent, they will look at you every chance they get and trade jests with each other about your endowments and very probably your lack of character. Is that what you want?”

“The wages we’re paying are far too good for any of the men to quit. Also, I can deal with any insolent man in the world.”

He nodded. “Possibly you can. But here is the truth of the matter, Hallie. Your reputation will suffer irreparable damage—” He slowed, his voice deepened. “As well as mine. I will be known as the flagrantly debauched earl’s son who openly lives with a woman who is nothing more than his lightskirt. And every man and woman in the district will believe I’m rubbing their noses in my open philandering. It will redound upon my parents and on my twin and Corrie. Do you begin to understand the consequences of your britches?”

Hallie grew very still. She’d simply not considered this. “Your parents?”

“Oh yes. As for Angela, she’ll be snubbed. She will be regarded not as a respectable chaperone, but a procurer, no better than a madam who owns a brothel in London.”

“Surely not. That makes no sense. I simply want to take care of my horses, nothing more than that. It’s so much easier in britches. I could fall and break my neck wearing a wretched gown, you know it. All know it.”

“I understand your plight, but it can’t be helped. It is the way of the world. Given our very irregular living arrangements, neither of us nor our families can afford any more questionable actions. Britches are beyond questionable. Do you believe me now?”

Hallie folded; she looked ready to burst into tears. “The three shirts have beautiful stitching and the britches—they’re the finest knit. Oh goodness, and would you look at the boots? You can see your face in them.” She raised eyes now sheened with tears. She looked kicked and broken. “Three outfits, Jason, two pair of boots. They cost me a lot of money to have everything made. It isn’t fair, you know it isn’t.”

“Yes, I know. I’m sorry. Everything looks quite fine, and I say that as a man, not a fashion judge.”

She cocked her head to the side. “Does seeing me in these britches really drive you mad with lust?”

Jason laughed, not about to remind her that she saw proof of his lust. “Perhaps there is a bit of lust mixed with the outrage. Does that make you happy?”

She searched his face for a long moment. “You truly feel that I will ruin all of us if I step outside wearing britches?”

“When you saw Petrie this morning, what did he do?”

“He’s not the one to ask about, Jason. He quite detests women.” She grinned. “Actually, he closed his eyes tight, clutched his heart, and looked ready to swoon.”

Jason could also imagine Petrie’s eyes rolling back in his head. She was fortunate Petrie hadn’t forgotten himself and blasted her. “Let me ask you another question. When I first met you at Lyon’s Gate you were wearing dirty old boy’s clothing. Did my aunt Mary Rose or my uncle Tysen see you?”

Her eyes fell to her shiny boots. She’d used her own recipe, one she’d experimented with endlessly to get just right. She’d wanted to look perfect.

“I didn’t think so. What did you do, change in the woods before you came here?”

“Perhaps behind a lovely maple tree.” She looked up and smiled. “Then I was riding like you ride, firm in the saddle and not hanging on for dear life in those idiot sidesaddles, and I rode like the wind. It was wonderful.”

Jason paused. It was true, everything she’d said. “Jessie Wyndham always claimed sidesaddles were the invention of the devil.”

“She always wears britches.”

“Jessie isn’t really Jessie unless she is wearing britches and racing, she’s done it all her life. People are used to it. They don’t expect anything else. I’m sorry, Hallie. Perhaps when we are alone—”

There was a shriek from the doorway.

“Goodness gracious, burn a feather beneath my nostrils!” Angela slapped her palms over her chest. “My dearest girl, I’ve never before seen a young lady’s, er, after parts in such great detail.”

CHAPTER 19

Angela finally stopped patting her lace-covered chest. “Oh dear, Hallie. It’s not that you don’t look delightful in those exquisite pants—I daresay the gentlemen will surely think so as well, as will those males who aren’t gentlemen at all. And that doesn’t include all the men at Lyon’s Gate with the exception of dear Jason here, and I saw that even he was looking at—well, now, never mind that. I’m sorry, dearest, but the men’s britches aren’t possible. However, I have an idea. It’s been done before, at least I’ve heard that it has. Go change into an old gown, and I will see what I can do. Yes, dear, you must. Trust me.”

Jason, whose eyes were firmly fixed on Angela’s face, and not on Hallie’s britches, said, “Wouldn’t you like some breakfast before you go off to see what you can do?”

“Oh yes, dear boy. That would be quite nice. Do have my Glenda bring a tray up to my room. Jason, I am very fond of the furniture arrangement. It is so cozy, I feel like I’ve lived in those rooms for a good twenty years.” And she glided out on her fairy feet, humming.

“Whatever is on her mind,” Jason said, “I fancy it is going to be something very clever. Pick your lower lip off the floor, Hallie. Have faith.”

Hallie wasn’t so sure. All she knew was she had to give up her wonderful britches. She sighed deeply. “I don’t know what clever can do about this. Oh, all right, I’ll go change into one of my ancient gowns.”

She sighed again and strode like a young man from the breakfast room, eyes down, shoulders slumped, which meant, he supposed, that her lower lip was still scraping the floor.

He heard Petrie gasp and choke, a gurgling sound from deep in his throat, which meant he was in extreme distress.

Jason looked upward. Thank God for Angela. What was she going to do? Whatever it was, he couldn’t imagine it would make Hallie happy. But then again, wasn’t Angela now his grandmother’s cohort? Surely even the good Lord couldn’t have predicted that miracle. Indeed, they visited together at least three times a week.

He saw Hallie’s britches again in his mind’s eye and nearly groaned. Didn’t she realize she was going to have enough trouble gaining acceptance without adding her quite lovely bottom to the mix?

Lord Brinkley from Trowbridge Manor in Inchbury, Sussex, brought his mare Delilah the following morning.

Petrie, elegant in full black regalia, showed him ceremoniously into the drawing room, announcing him in a low, mellifluous voice Hallie had never heard before. She supposed it was because he was more in control of his vocal cords when Martha wasn’t around.

“Miss Carrick, is it? Delightful to meet you.” Lord Brinkley, a man her father’s age, who could have passed for her father’s father, bowed, quite gracefully for such a portly man.

“Hello, Lord Brinkley. Welcome to Lyon’s Gate.”

He smiled at her, thinking she looked quite dashing in her full skirt, blouse, and lovely vest. Rather exotic, actually. He pulled his eyes from the vest. “I knew old Hoverton before he passed on. Fine stables, a bit of corruption I heard at the racetrack, but so long as it doesn’t happen to my Delilah, I’ll live and let live.”

Hallie, who doubted that horse racing would ever be free of corruption, said, “Delilah is a wonderful mare. I saw her last spring in a race near Spalding, one I might add that all the owners agreed to run fairly.”

“Did you now? Delilah didn’t win that one, lost out to the most beautiful mare I’ve ever seen, truth be told. I don’t remember her name.”

Hallie grinned from ear to ear, showing beautiful white teeth that Lord Brinkley envied to his boots. “Her name is Piccola and she belongs to me. That’s why I was at the race.”

“Well, now, is that a fact? I don’t remember you voting for an honest race.”

“I voted in absentia.”

“Ah, probably a good thing to have a man dealing with such things since you’re a female. Is Mr. Sherbrooke here?”

“I believe so. He’s probably at the stables tending to Delilah. Would you care for tea, Lord Brinkley, or would you like to meet Dodger?”

“Did you know it was Lord Ravensworth—your uncle I believe—who told me I couldn’t do better than a foal off Dodger? He said Mr. Sherbrooke raced him in Baltimore for five years and he rarely lost.”

Hallie nodded. She wasn’t about to tell him that Dodger, with Jason on his back, couldn’t ever beat Jessie Wyndham. “Come with me, my lord.”

“Er, you are coming with me, Miss Carrick?”

“Of course. I am Mr. Sherbrooke’s partner, you know. Didn’t my uncle tell you that?”

“Well, yes, but I thought it was all an uncle’s pride, didn’t really take him all that seriously, you know.”

“He was quite serious, as am I. Come, Lord Brinkley.”

She actually heard him debating with himself as he trailed after her. “—damndest thing, a girl, nothing but a young girl—yes, she’d fill a man’s dreams and really she looks striking, lovely vest—but here she thinks she knows about breeding racehorses? Well, that Piccola of hers won, now didn’t she? Maybe all Miss Carrick did was wave her ribbons around the mare to encourage her. It just isn’t right for a young girl to see horses mate. So blatant it all is, so immensely intimate, so disgusting actually. Oh dear.”

Hallie didn’t know whether to laugh or scream as she listened, striding fiercely ahead of Lord Brinkley, forcing his lordship to take some double steps. Jason looked up from reassuring Delilah to see Lord Brinkley trailing Hallie, his head shaking, seemingly talking to himself. She’d already argued with him? Jason had been expecting this. He quickly gave over Delilah’s reins to Henry, their head stable lad, former head stable lad of Squire Hoverton. Henry stood back from Delilah, told her what a purty girl she was, his voice soft as silk, then finally, he lightly stroked the base of her neck, scratching gently here and there, always speaking quietly to her. He slipped her a lovely fresh carrot, a donation from Cook.

“Aye, would ye look at that, I’ve got me a friend for life, I do. Mr. Sherbrooke, ain’t she a lovely one? Jest look at them ears o’ hers, all turned forward.”

Jason turned and smiled. “Yes, she’s alert and interested.” Jason was grateful for Henry. He and Hallie had found him living with his widowed sister in Eastbourne, drinking too much ale because he suffered from melancholia. Jason couldn’t recall any individual ever being so excited before at an offer of a job. He had rubbed his hands together, grinning like a loon. Henry indeed had magic hands and a soft country voice that made every horse in the stable whinny and come trotting to him. He’d discovered four additional stable lads for Lyon’s Gate. He gave a quick bow to Lord Brinkley, told him not to worry, and turned back to Delilah. “Here now, beautiful girl, ye just come with Henry, he’ll feed ye all right ’n’ proper, let yer munch on another carrot or two. Jest ain’t ye a fine, fine girl. Yer going to like ole Dodger, he’s going to make a fine pa for yer baby.”

“Lord Brinkley,” Jason called, as he strided to the elderly man. “I am Jason Sherbrooke.” As he shook Lord Brinkley’s hand he continued. “I see you’ve met Miss Hallie Carrick. Henry will settle Delilah. We will continue with Dodger tomorrow morning.”

“Ah, may I see the stables, and Dodger?”

“Certainly. In a while Henry will turn her loose in this small paddock, and you can see how she likes her temporary home.”

Hallie let Jason give Lord Brinkley the stable tour. Well, she’d nearly gotten through her first dealing with a gentleman whole hide, or almost. It hadn’t been too bad. At least not yet. She was forced to laugh now, thinking back over his monologue. She wondered which one of him had won the argument. Probably the outraged one. She wondered if Lord Brinkley was staying for the mating tomorrow if he found it so disgusting. She knew if he did, he would be embarrassed to his toes if she were also present.

When the two men emerged, Henry had just loosed Delilah, a lovely chestnut Thoroughbred of perfect size and proportion, only fifteen hands tall. She had a refined head, a long arched neck, sloping shoulders and a deep chest. The only thing she didn’t have was hard legs. They were on the thin side and that was why Piccola had beaten her. She didn’t have the endurance in those too-skinny legs. Naturally, Hallie wasn’t about to say that to Lord Brinkley. Then, to her surprise, Jason said, “You saw that Dodger is immensely strong. His ancestry goes back to the Byerley Turk. Dodger’s endurance is legendary in America. He has dominant characteristics that appear in all of his foals—the most important one for Delilah’s foal is his thick muscled hindquarters and his hard legs. Dodger is bold and spirited, his will to win is unmatched.”

“Well, he hasn’t won here in England,” said Lord Brinkley. “Hmm, that does make his stud fee cheaper, and that is a good thing.”

Hallie nodded. “That is true. You are lucky, sir, for as soon as Dodger begins winning races here in England, his stud fee will rise quickly.”

After a moment Lord Brinkley announced, “Her legs look hard enough to me.” Neither Jason nor Hallie said anything to that, and after a pitiable sigh, Lord Brinkley admitted, “I heard someone say her legs were too skinny, but I ignored it, put it down to spite and ignorance. Her dam was crossed with Sultan, but her beautiful legs didn’t breed true. Still, I’ve always thought her legs quite elegant.”

Jason said, “Yes, they are elegant, but too skinny as well. But she is sturdy; look at that short strong back. With Dodger, she will birth a foal with his additional endurance. Just look at her. She’s ready.”

Delilah was prancing, as if for Dodger, back and forth in the paddock, head high, ears forward, tail up, whinnying. Lord Brinkley swelled with satisfaction.

Hallie said, “Look at the pride in her, my lord, and the graceful line of her neck. The intelligence in her eyes—yes, that will doubtless breed true.”

Lord Brinkley continued to puff out his chest until he chanced to look down. “My God, young woman, you’re wearing a man’s boots!”

Hallie immediately removed her booted foot from the bottom paddock rail.

She said mildly, “Slippers really aren’t the thing for stable yards, my lord. All the mud and muck and scattered pebbles everywhere. These boots were made by G. Bateson, a longtime apprentice of the great Hoby himself.”

“Hmm. It offended me when Hoby had the gall to die, fell over a boot he was fashioning, face landed in a pile of leather. Aye, I always gave Hoby my custom until that fateful day. Look at those boots of yours. I can see my face in the shine. Don’t tell me your maid knows how to shine a man’s boots?”

Jason rolled his eyes, but Hallie said, her eyes shining nearly as clear as her boots, “Actually, my lord, I take great pride in the appearance of my boots so it is I who polish them. It takes me a good half-hour, you know, sometimes longer, until I can see myself clearly in the shine.”

“I must ask your recipe, my dear. I’ll give it to my man.”

“It’s all in the size of the hand that measures out the vinegar, and my very special ingredient, anise seed. Does your man have large hands?”

“Oh, aye, Old Fudds has hands bigger than my mother-in-law’s, God rest her soul as of two months ago, amen. Used to sport in the ring, you know, Old Fudds did, not my mother-in-law. Oh dear, what am I to do? That is really a marvelous shine. Anise seed—who would have ever thought it important for anything save making your breath smell strange and sharp? I can see my eye twitching back at me, clear as day in that shine. My eye—been twitching like this for a good twelve years now, drives my wife quite distracted, particularly in company, She believes I’m winking at other ladies.”

“What do all the other ladies think, my lord?”

He grinned at Hallie. “They think I’m winking too. Quite dizzies them up.”

“Then it’s a good twitch, don’t you think?”

Jason said, “Er, Lord Brinkley, could you care to see Dodger out of his stall now?”

“What? Oh yes, certainly.” Lord Brinkley gave a wistful glance back at Hallie’s boots, then turned to follow Jason.

Hallie called out, “I will provide you with an exact measure, my lord, for Old Fudds.”

Lord Brinkley stopped in his tracks and gave her a charming bow. If she wasn’t mistaken, he winked at her. Hallie didn’t believe for a moment it was a twitch. She heard him say in a lovely carrying voice, “Nice girl, Mr. Sherbrooke. Does she know a single thing about horses or is she only good at shining boots?”

“She trained Piccola, my lord.”

“Hmm. That would raise a man’s confidence, now wouldn’t it? Or terrify him out of his wits. Ah, but it’s still difficult—I don’t like books that don’t fit their covers.”

“Sometimes the books in question turn out to be unexpectedly interesting though, don’t you think?”

CHAPTER 20

The next morning it rained enough to make everyone, horses included, hunker down to stay warm and dry. Lord Brinkley sent them a messenger who looked nearly drowned when he knocked on the kitchen door.

Jason read the short note, then looked at Hallie. “Lord Brinkley is leaving for Inchbury, doesn’t want to wait until the rain stops. He sends you his direction so you may send him the recipe for his boot polish. He mentions you’re not to forget the exact amount of anise seed for Old Fudds.” He grinned over at her. “That was very well done of you, Hallie.”

“If he accepts me because of my dandy boot shine, then I’ll willingly accept it. Jason, I don’t suppose Delilah or Dodger have any interest in getting on with the business today?”

“Not a dollop, at least not when I saw them earlier. Henry came to the back door a few minutes ago, said Dodger was napping, said the nap looked to be a long one. The fact is, Dodger has no interest in females when it’s raining, unlike gentlemen, who are interested in females even when the snow is piled to their noses and—never mind that. Ah, where was I? Oh yes, Henry covered Dodger with a blanket he’d warmed on his own stove top, and kissed his forehead.”

“What you said, Jason—no, I’m not even going to think of snow all the way to gentlemen’s noses and why—no, I’m not.” Then she laughed. “Oh dear, I can picture Henry lovingly laying that blanket over Dodger’s back, and kissing him. What about Delilah?”

“When I looked in on Delilah before breakfast, she was eating. Henry said he’d allow her to eat as much as she wanted today. She was frustrated, he said, and eating helped her—all females actually—get through the dry spells.”

“Henry said she was eating because Dodger wasn’t interested in mating with her?”

“Oh yes. He also told me that was why ladies who didn’t have good men or were in what one might call a desert of, want, tended to be on the plump side.”

“I have never been in any sort of desert of want—indeed, I have no notion of what you’re talking about. Nor do I have a good man, if such a thing is possible—and I’m not plump.”

“You’re young and ignorant, so you don’t count. Angela’s plump.”

“Not much, and her husband’s been dead for years—that is—no, this is absurd. You’re making it all up.”

“Not a bit of it. As for Piccola, according to James Wyndham, she’s pregnant—she’s rubbing her belly against the stall door, a sure sign. Not that I ever observed a mare rubbing her belly, mind you. Have you?”

“No, never even once. What does Jessie say?”

“She said she always rubbed her stomach on doors when she was newly pregnant. James used to say it was ever so delightful to watch, but it wasn’t really good for anything except more play, that is—never mind that.”

Hallie punched him in the arm. “You’re making all this up, I know you are.” She looked down at her flat stomach. “Imagine rubbing your belly on something when—” She realized what she’d said and turned red to her hairline.

“You doubtless will be rubbing in the not-too-distant future.”

She stared up at him, said not a single word, looked at his mouth. She blinked. “Ah, I didn’t see you when you came in.”

“I went right to my bedchamber.”

“So you got soaked going to the stables this morning?”

He shrugged, took a step back from her. “Of course. But only one of us needed to get his bones soggy, and I did draw Angela’s shortest knitting needle. If anyone croaks of an inflammation of the lung, it will be I. You’re safe.”

“Well, you’re all dry now, and your wit is overflowing. You had more fun than I did, sitting around here in a blasted gown and ever-so-dainty green satin slippers.”

“Dainty? Do you really think so, Miss Carrick? I believe your feet are nearly the size of mine.”

She threw her empty teacup at him, grinned as he snagged it out of the air not an inch from his left ear. “You have very fast reflexes. What will we do today?”

“We will improve upon our bookkeeping. I’ve spoken at length with James and his steward, McCuddy. We will incorporate some of their practices, change others that fit our operation better. Come along, I’ll show you.”

They worked, heads together, until late afternoon when Angela knocked on the estate room door. She heard some arguing, laughter, solid silence, and she frowned as she knocked. She didn’t open the door until she heard Jason call, “Enter.”

“Children,” she said to them, quite on purpose. They were sitting too close together, but on the other hand, neither of them looked the least bit guilty or embarrassed, a huge relief.

“Yes, Cousin Angela?”

“Now, my boy, you may call me simply Angela. I’m here to fetch you both so you may beautify yourselves for dinner. I believe Petrie was moaning over the state of your clothes, Jason. Martha told him to get a grip on himself, his whining didn’t set a good example for the staff. And what, she said, would our new housekeeper, Mrs. Gray, have to say about it?”

Hallie said, “What did Petrie say to that?”

“I didn’t hear, but I’ll wager his mouth closed and his shoulders straightened right out. You’ve met Mrs. Gray. She’d straighten the shoulders on God.”

For a moment, Jason frowned down at his tapping pen. He looked toward the far wall, its big window now sporting lovely new pale golden draperies. He heard the rain slapping in windy gusts against the clean glass panes.

He rose quickly, smiled at Angela, and said, “It’s nearly five o’clock. I had no idea. We have accomplished nearly everything we set out to accomplish. Thank you for fetching us, Angela. I won’t be here for dinner this evening. Hallie, let’s put away our new record books. We’ve worked hard enough.”

Hallie sat back in her chair, crossed her arms over her chest. “That is the truth. You are very good at mathematics, Jason, excellent indeed. I’ve always done much better with musical notes.”

“Your entries are much neater than Jason’s, dear,” Angela said. “You could also set your entries to a jaunty tune if you wished. Jason couldn’t.”

Hallie laughed. “I had my knuckles rapped by my governess if every line and curl wasn’t perfect. However, I’ll get the hang of all of it. Jason, where are you going tonight? To Northcliffe Hall?”

“No,” he said, not looking at her. “I’ve an appointment in—Well, that’s not important. I will see you ladies in the morning.”

“But look, Jason, it’s still raining hard.”

He nodded and left the estate room.

“How very odd,” Hallie said to Angela. “He suddenly seemed very distracted. I wonder why. I also wonder who would agree to an appointment on this perfectly dreadful evening, and where it is.”

“You could follow him, I suppose,” Angela said.

“Hmm,” Hallie said. “I could, but this time I don’t think I will. With my luck, he’d see me—”

“—and toss you in a ditch to drown.”

“I was thinking something else, but no matter. I’m starving, Angela. What did Cook prepare for dinner?”

“Lovely baked sole, I believe, and some fresh green beans. It’s a pity Jason won’t be here. I do believe Cook excels when he is present.”

“He toadies up to her.”

“No,” Angela said. “He’s polite and he smiles at her. That’s all it takes. She told me that looking at him made her recipes take wing.”

Hallie said slowly, nodding, “I heard that every cook in Baltimore wanted to feed him; it was a competition of sorts to gain his attention. Absolutely ridiculous. They did the same thing for my father. Genny always said she couldn’t believe he never became fat as a stoat. He doesn’t gain flesh, you know. I hope I am like him.”

“You are his female image. Ah, two such glorious men, that’s the truth.”

Hallie grunted.

Angela said, “It’s better I don’t speak to Cook. Maybe she won’t find out Jason’s not here, and we’ll enjoy the fruits of his bonny self. Also, I must tell you that Petrie was telling Martha that her English is not what a lady maid’s should be, and thus she should keep her mouth shut until it improves.”

Hallie laughed. “Did Martha smack him?”

“It was close, but she said smartly that she could only continue to improve if she practiced all the time, and why wasn’t he smart enough to figure his way to that conclusion? And if he was going to continue as an old trout-tooth, she might forget her lessons on purpose. Then she flounced off with Petrie huffing and puffing behind her, without a word to say. Poor Petrie, a misogynist all these years—though he isn’t old at all, is he?”

“No, Petrie isn’t old at all, just a trout-tooth, Martha’s right about that.” As she walked upstairs to her bedchamber to change—and why should she bother anyway?—she wondered yet again where Jason had taken his bonny self. It must have been dreadfully important for him to go out in this weather. Maybe she would ask Petrie. She excelled in subtlety. He didn’t stand a chance.

She saw her prey just before she went into the dining room, coming out of the drawing room, humming, oblivious of his looming surrender. “Petrie,” she said, all smooth and guileless, “I wished to ask Mr. Sherbrooke about a matter of importance. Do you know when he will return home?”

The hum died in Petrie’s mouth, his face turned to stone. Chin going up just a bit, he said, “He did not confide in me, Miss Carrick.”

But he knew, damn him. Petrie wouldn’t let Jason out of the house if he didn’t know where Jason was going and with whom he was meeting. What was he hiding? How to pry it out of him?

“It concerns the Dauntry mare coming tomorrow, an urgent matter we must discuss as soon as possible. Surely he said something.”

“My master spoke only of the bloody rain, Miss Carrick. Ah, he did mention he might ask you to shine his boots for him tomorrow.”

“Surely you didn’t agree with that, did you, Petrie? A female shining your master’s boots?”

Petrie said slowly, “I have never before considered anise seed. We will see. Oh yes, Mrs. Gray sent a message saying she wouldn’t be with us tomorrow. It seems her brother has a broken leg and she must tend to him. She believes the first of next week will be all right for both her and her brother.”

Hallie realized she was stumped. What else could she ask? Better to quit the field with some dignity. “Ah, well, no matter. Thank you, Petrie.”

“Of course, Miss Carrick. I am at your service, naturally, at any time at all.”

His slyness smacked her in the back of the head. She would never give him the exact measure of anise seed. “You gave me no service at all,” she said over her shoulder as she marched, with not much dignity, into the dining room.

Cook burned the sole, mashed the fresh green beans, and placed lovely warm rolls on the table with doughy centers. The promised blancmange for dessert never appeared, probably a good thing. Angela remarked that she heard Cook singing a funeral dirge, and who knew funeral dirges for heaven’s sake? Who had told her of Jason’s defection? Hallie decided she should have tried a little toadying. Maybe it would have worked as well as male beauty and Jason’s smile.

Or maybe not.

CHAPTER 21

The following morning was sunny and warm. No one would guess it had rained hard enough to fill the rain barrel unless they slipped in an occasional three-foot mud puddle.

It had taken Hallie and three stable lads to hold Delilah still and keep her calm while Henry and Jason controlled Dodger, who was snorting, wild-eyed, nostrils flaring. He was so well-rested and excited, saliva was dripping from his mouth, but he didn’t hurt the mare, which was a relief.

After Dodger had performed his duty with Delilah, Hallie wondered how Delilah could have enjoyed herself at all. It was a messy business, sometimes dangerous. The thing was, Henry told Hallie, that Delilah was no longer interested in her food. Dodger was something, wasn’t he, he’d rescued Delilah from a desert of want. Hallie had no answer for that.

Everyone was exhausted and tired and sweaty when it was over. The men hadn’t even seemed to notice she wasn’t one of them there toward the end of the business what with sweat running down her brow.

As Hallie wiped Delilah’s sleek neck, she said, “You’re a brave girl, Delilah, a stoic princess faced with a toad, not a prince. Yes, you were able to bear that clod of a horse with that disgusting spit hanging out of his mouth.” She was reaching for a damp sponge when she saw Jason standing in the stall doorway, arms crossed over his chest, an elegant eyebrow arched over wicked eyes, grinning at her.

Her chin went up, her voice defensive even as she willed it not to be. “Well, it’s the truth. Dodger wasn’t at all, er, graceful and considerate, as he was to Piccola.”

“As I recall, Piccola nearly slept through it.”

“Well, Delilah wanted to kill Dodger. She was quivering, her eyes were rolling, and she looked really mad. The more upset she became the more of a brute Dodger was.”

“Some men are as well,” Jason said, realized what had come out of his mouth, and bit his tongue. What was the matter with him?

That made her frown at him. She started brushing Delilah too vigorously and was nearly bitten. She jumped aside even as she said with a lovely sneer in his ever-so-lovely smiling face, “Well now, haven’t you been in a deliriously happy frame of mind since the moment Petrie dragged you out of bed this morning? Very late, wasn’t it? I do believe that Angela and I had long finished eating. If it wasn’t for your damned face, you would have gone hungry.”

“Well, I didn’t since our cook is excellent and ever so flexible. She served me fresh nutty buns, scrambled eggs and, I do believe, bacon crisped just as I like it. We are very lucky to have her.”

“Go ahead, trade on your wretched looks. It means nothing.”

“Careful, Hallie, you’re not exactly a knotty stick, you know. Hypocrisy isn’t attractive. Also, what do you mean by that? I don’t trade on anything, much less my damned face, it’s absurd.”

“None of that is to the point.”

“And the point being?”

“Look at that grin on your sorry face—all vacuous and silly, like you’re so pleased with yourself. What sort of meeting did you go to? Who made you so happy? No, I see, you drank a lot, didn’t you? Gambled away our profits?”

“Perhaps a bit of brandy. I couldn’t gamble because we don’t have any profits yet.” He scratched his belly and leaned against the stall wall. “Delilah will try for another bite if you don’t stop rubbing her so hard. Use the sponge on her. I’m not about to say anything more about that.”

“What do you mean about men being clods?”

He seamed his lips, shook his head. She could pull out his fingernails, but he wasn’t doing any explaining, particularly since he’d never meant to say it in the first place to a young lady who was as unbroken as a newly born filly. “Sex,” came out of his mouth, followed by, “It’s a fine art. Some men are too selfish or simply uninformed, well, never mind. Curse me again for opening my mouth. When you’re through with Delilah, Henry said Angela wanted us to know that Cook has outdone herself for lunch, though I have no idea why she would do that since every meal she’s prepared for us has been quite excellent.”

Hallie stared at him, swallowed, managed to get herself together and say, “She cooks for you.”

“What does that mean? No, don’t even think something so utterly ridiculous. She’s always cooked for the three of us.”

“Never mind. You’re quite conceited enough. Go away. I’m starving. What is she preparing?”

Jason looked blank. “I don’t know, I never asked. Normally she usually stands there, saying nothing at all, when I speak to her.”

Hallie snorted.

The shaved ham was lovely, sliced as thin as Cook’s at Northcliffe Hall, and so Jason told her after luncheon, only Mrs. Millsom didn’t thank him, simply continued silent, staring at him. He thanked her once more, and left the kitchen, shaking his head. The woman might be dim-witted, but she was magic with the cook pans.

Angela was taken aback when Petrie, voice rich and formal, announced a gentleman was here to see Miss Hallie.

She said, “This is odd. It can’t be any friends or relatives or they’d know she was likely at the stables. Hmm. Show this gentleman in, Petrie.”

A very handsome man indeed, Angela thought as the gentleman in question walked with a gentleman’s saunter into the drawing room. He paused a moment, stared all about before focusing his attention on the only occupant, namely Angela.

He sketched her an elegant bow. “Ma’am, I’m Lord Renfrew. I’m a special friend of Miss Carrick’s.”

Angela, who didn’t know a thing about Lord Renfrew’s nefarious marital schemes for Hallie, rose, her smile welcoming, and stretched her hand out to him.

Lord Renfrew took her hand, raised it to his lips. Ah, a very graceful gesture, Angela thought, feeling her heart trip for a moment. He must have met Hallie during her season. What a very lovely man indeed. Why had Hallie never mentioned him?

“Won’t you sit down, my lord? Hallie is riding, I believe.”

Lord Renfrew eased his elegant self into a high-backed chair with lovely patterned brocade cushions. “I have been out of town, ma’am, and thus didn’t hear until I returned to London a short time ago that Miss Carrick had moved here to run a stud farm with a gentleman she met not two months ago. I cannot imagine her doing such a thing. Miss Carrick is a lady. Since you say she is riding, that rather puts a period to that ridiculous rumor, doesn’t it? A lady rides, after all.”

“Well, yes, of course a lady rides. Actually, though, my lord, there is much more than riding involved. Are you familiar with the Sherbrooke family?”

Lord Renfrew nodded, laid a graceful hand on the chair arm. “Certainly everyone in society knows the Sherbrookes, ma’am. However, this son, Jason Sherbrooke . . . I understand he’s not been in England for many years.”

“He’s home now. He’s here, to be more specific. He and Hallie are partners. I am her chaperone.”

“Chaperone? What is this? I don’t understand. This makes no sense.”

Angela said, “The reason they’re here together is because they both wanted Lyon’s Gate. Neither would sell out to the other. It’s a bit more complicated than that, naturally, but that’s the essence of it.” She paused a moment, then added, “Anyone in London could have told you that.”

“As I said, I did not believe it.” He looked around the drawing room. “This is a charming room, and the grounds and paddocks look prosperous, but still, why would Miss Carrick wish to own this particular property? It is not as grand as she is used to. You know she lived at Ravensworth Abbey for many years. Surely she wouldn’t be content coming so far down—” At that moment, Petrie, knowing the gentleman’s worth, wheeled in a fine old tea cart donated by Lady Lydia. Petrie’s entrance was a good thing, and Lord Renfrew realized it. He’d been unmeasured in his criticism of this undistinguished property that smelled of stables. He bowed his head and said nothing more.

What is all this about? Angela wondered as she gave him a cup of tea with three sugars, and two small cakes. She said, as she sipped her own tea, “During the mornings, Hallie and Jason are always working at the stables or exercising the horses.”

“Do you know when Hallie will be coming back to the house, ma’am?”

They both heard the front door open and close, and Hallie’s voice calling, “Martha! Come quickly, I’ve had a dreadful accident!”

“Oh dear.” Angela was on her feet and running. Lord Renfrew rose more slowly. His instincts were excellent. He waited, saying nothing. He heard a young girl say, “Heavenly groats, Miss Hallie—look at that tear. Petrie said the Dauntry mare was arriving this morning. Did the beast snag your skirt?”

“Her name’s Penelope and she’s fast.”

“I can fix it. Come along, Miss Hallie.”

Petrie said, “It’s a large tear, one more suited to the skills of a seamstress, not a poorly educated young lady’s maid who should, at best, be a tweeny.”

“Now, you see here, Mr. Sweaty-Breath, I can do almost anything at all, I—”

Hallie was laughing. Lord Renfrew heard that sweet laugh quite clearly. He’d always liked her laugh. Toward the end, though, she hadn’t laughed as much. He waited.

“It’s all right, Martha. Petrie will soon see how very talented you are. Let’s go upstairs. Don’t worry, Angela, the mare got the skirt, not me. I should have been paying more attention. I left Jason holding his stomach, laughing his head off, the moron.”

“A moment, Hallie. You have a visitor in the drawing room.”

Petrie inserted himself between Angela and Martha. “I was going to inform her, Mrs. Tewksbury. Indeed, I am standing right here, preparing to inform her of her visitor in the drawing room. You did not give me a chance, and Martha here—but all’s well, really.” He pumped up his lungs. “Miss Hallie, there is a visitor to see you in the drawing room.”

“A visitor?” Hallie asked. “Oh, you mean Corrie is here to visit? Yes, I remember. Give her some tea, Angela, and I will join her in but a moment. I am not ready to be seen.”

“But Hallie—”

“I’ll be right back, Angela.”

Lord Renfrew heard her quick steps up the stairs. Or maybe that was her poorly educated, too-young lady’s maid. The older lady with all the lace marching from her waist to her neck hadn’t told her his name, nor had the butler with the lovely voice. She would probably find out though before she came back downstairs. He didn’t know if that would be good or bad, though he always preferred surprise. He always had the advantage when he did the surprising. He walked to the fireplace, looked at himself in the mirror, knew that he looked elegant, beautifully garbed and as handsome as a minor god. He seated himself again, sipped his tea, and waited.

To his surprise, it wasn’t ten minutes before Hallie appeared in the drawing room doorway, a bit out of breath. She saw him and stopped dead in her tracks.

“You’re not Corrie.”

He gave her a smile that had once burned her to her toes. She looked strange. It was that full skirt, that strange-looking shirt and vest she was wearing. Why was she dressed like a Romany gypsy?

She said, “I hurried because I thought it was Corrie visiting. Both Angela and Petrie are in the kitchen trying to fix Cook’s new stove. Had I known it was you, I would have taken my time.”

“It is all right, Hallie. You look lovely.”

She hadn’t meant that at all, the conceited buffoon. “Lord Renfrew. What the devil are you doing here, sir?”

Not an auspicious beginning. On the other hand, he would have been a fool to expect otherwise. “It is wonderful to see you again, Hallie. Won’t you call me Elgin again, my dear?”

He strolled over to her, forcing her to look up because he was tall. He took her hand before she realized what he was about, and kissed the inside of her wrist, licking where he’d kissed. Hallie jerked her hand back. Before, so long before, she would have gone pale and hot with excitement. “What are you doing here, sir?”

He wanted to slap her. “I am here to see you, naturally. I have come to beg your forgiveness for my errant stupidity.”

She nodded. “Yes, you were excessively stupid. I suppose it means something that you can admit to your perfidy now and apologize for it. However, I have no intention of forgiving you for the entire length of my lifetime, so take yourself away.”

“No, not yet. Give me but another moment, Hallie. You were always a kind girl, sweet-natured—”

“Don’t forget naïve.”

He sighed deeply, walked back to the fireplace, knowing he presented an excellent impression, knowing she would be blind if she didn’t admire him, and turned slowly to lean back against the mantel, his arms crossed over his chest. “How very sorry I was for the loss of your trust in me. It was all a mistake, a dreadful mistake that happened because I was taken in by a woman who was more experienced than I, a simple man from the country. I was weak, I admit it. This is no excuse, pray don’t think it is. The fact is that I was weak and was led astray. That woman is no longer in my heart or in my mind.”

“That was certainly fortunate, since you then married that poor girl in York. Do I have that right?”

“Ah, my poor little Anne. She died nearly a year ago, you know, so unexpectedly, leaving me and her father bereft.”

“I am sorry. I had heard she died late this past fall.”

“The time has passed so slowly, my despair so deep, it could be ten years,” he said. “After her tragic death I could not look backward or forward. Only recently have I felt the moments of life flicker again within me.”

“I had forgotten how very lovely you speak. Such eloquence, such grace.”

“It is not kind to mock a man who’s known such pain. What I said is true.”

“Was she as young as I was when you married her?”

“She was eighteen, a woman who knew her own mind, a woman grown.”

Hallie shook her head. She picked up the teapot on the side table and poured herself a cup. She sipped it as she looked over at Elgin Sloane, Lord Renfrew. “I have been thinking that females shouldn’t be allowed into society or into the company of men until they are twenty-five.”

He laughed, a dark brow climbing up to what she’d always considered a highly intelligent forehead. “A marvelous jest, my dear. You know very well that no gentleman would wish to wed a female that old.”

“How old are you?”

“I am thirty-one.”

Hallie sat down and drummed her fingertips on the arm of the chair. “My uncle always said that men needed more years to leaven than women. One could think you were far too leavened now.”

“I am considered a young man.”

“And twenty-five is old for a woman?”

He had to regain control, not that he’d had any sort of firm control over her yet, truth be told.

She toasted him with her teacup. “Goodness, you were far too old for me before, but I was such an infatuated young fool I never even noticed those wrinkles around your eyes. Or perhaps they weren’t there a year and a half ago.”

His hand flew to his face, then, not looking away from her, he slowly lowered his hand back to his side. “I have always loved the way you joke. You will keep me humble, Hallie, a good thing for a man.”

“This is really too much, sir, since—”

There was a horrible crashing sound from the back of the house. Hallie was out of her chair and through the drawing room doorway in an instant.

The kitchen, Lord Renfrew thought, that dreadful noise had come from the kitchen. A man didn’t appear to best advantage in the middle of a mess in a kitchen. Best to remain here, above all the chaos, calm and clear-eyed.

“Good grief, who are you? What’s going on?”

CHAPTER 22

“I, sir, am here to visit Miss Carrick. I believe she just ran back to the kitchen, some sort of female disaster.”

Female disaster? Jason stared long and hard at the elegant vision standing at languid ease in front of him, thinking that he didn’t particularly care for the latest gentlemen’s style. The waist looked too nipped in, the tails too long, altogether unpractical, at least if one were mucking out stalls.

Jason heard a shriek. When he ran into the kitchen, it was to see Cook, Petrie, Martha, Angela, and Hallie bent over coughing, covered with the settling smoke still billowing up from the new Macklin stove. Since he and Hallie had been assured that this modern wonder would be in use until the turn of the century, Jason didn’t believe this to be a propitious beginning. He saw that there was no fire, only smoke. He opened the kitchen door and the three windows and waved.

“Is everyone all right?”

Black tears streaked down Petrie’s face. He was wringing his filthy hands. “Oh, Master Jason, look at what that smoking monster has done to my linen, all spotless only three hours ago, and now look.”

Martha poked Petrie in the shoulder. “Here now, Mr. Petrie, don’t cry or I’ll tell Mr. Hollis meself—myself. Get yourself together—be a butler.”

Jason hoped Petrie wouldn’t throw Martha onto the still-smoking stove.

“Anise seed won’t help get us clean, I’m afraid,” Hallie said, wiping a hand across her face. “Don’t worry, Petrie, Martha is good with all sorts of stains. Angela, your face is a bit black.”

“So is yours, dear. Do you know this lovely gown was once green?”

Hallie grinned, shook her head. “Jason, I believe we were cheated by that lovely man who talked us into buying this modern marvel.”

Angela said, “Perhaps it’s simply breaking itself in, getting itself used to our house.”

Jason said, “I’ll have One-Armed Davie look at it once it’s cooled down. The wood is embers now; it won’t take long.”

Angela said, “It amazes me what that man can do with only five fingers and his teeth. Cook, are you all right? You’re not hurt, are you?”

Mrs. Millsom had forgotten her stinging hand. She stared, eyes fixed, at Jason, who was standing right in her kitchen, not three feet away. “Mr. Sherbrooke saved us,” she whispered.

“Oh dear,” Angela said.

“Well, actually not, Mrs. Millsom,” Hallie began, but Mrs. Millsom appeared not to have heard. She continued to stare at Jason, who continued to look splendidly male, hair windblown, white shirt open, leaving his brown neck bare, his britches lovely and tight, his boots dusty, and Hallie could only roll her eyes. “Actually, all he did was open the door.”

“And the windows,” Mrs. Millsom said, still in a whisper.

Jason stretched out his lovely brown hand and came to within a foot in front of her. “Cook? Mrs. Millsom? Are you all right? Ah, you’ve burned your hand.”

Cook stared at him, shook her head as she held out her hand, which he gently held between his own. “It’s not bad. Angela, hand me some butter, we’ll cool it down. Petrie, fetch some bandages.” To his astonishment, Cook looked down at her hand held by both of his, and fell into him, almost knocking him down. He caught her even as Hallie grabbed his arm, pulling him upright.

Angela called out, “Ah, Jason, be careful of the—”

Jason went down on the large spoon covered with some sort of batter, pulling Hallie with him, Cook on top of him.

“Oh dear,” Angela said.

Jason felt flattened. As gently as he could, he rolled Cook onto her back even as Hallie came up onto her knees over him. Jason said, “Why did she swoon? Is she in pain?”

Hallie could only laugh at his utter bewilderment. “Jason, you are such a moron. You touched her, that was all it took.”

He patted Cook’s face even as he shook his head, and everyone began to laugh. Cook’s eyes fluttered. She stared up into the delicious young master’s concerned face. Concern for her. The breath whooshed out of her. “Oh, Mr. Sherbrooke, oh, sir, I only wanted to make you a lovely ginger cake.”

“Ginger cake.” Angela fell against the kitchen table she was laughing so hard. As for Petrie, he found himself slapping Martha on her thin shoulder, telling her that her face was black as one particular All Hallow’s Eve he remembered as a boy.

“I say,” came an astonished voice from the doorway, “there is no more tea in the pot.”

Hallie looked at the elegant man she’d once believed she’d loved, once believed was as near a perfect man as her father. She said to the kitchen at large, “Heavenly groats, was I mad and blind, or simply stupid?”

“Oh dear,” said Petrie, trying to wipe his face and clean off his linen all at the same time, “I should be hung perhaps, but not drawn and quartered. My lord, I pray you will forgive my unforgivable negligence in my duties. I will fetch you tea immediately, sir, well perhaps not exactly immediately, if you will see and comprehend this niggling obstacle that confronts me.”

“Of course my good man.” Lord Renfrew gracefully inclined his head. “Good God, Hallie? Is that you on your knees? The only thing left white about you is your teeth. What are you doing in here? Surely—”

“Sir,” Hallie said, not moving, “please take yourself off, or if you must, at least take yourself back to the drawing room.”

Angela said, “She’s right, my lord. I would never forgive myself were you to get a single black speck on your beautiful pearl-gray tailcoat.”

“It’s true that a gentleman should not take careless chances with his appearance,” said Lord Renfrew and backed quickly out of the kitchen.

“I wish I could stick his head in the oven,” Hallie said, rubbing her arms, streaking the soot.

Jason wrapped Mrs. Millsom’s hand in a soft washing cloth, assisted her to her feet and eased her ample self into a chair. “Martha will take care of you, Cook. Rest for a moment.”

Mrs. Millsom looked ready to swoon again. Martha quickly stepped close, propping her up.

Jason began backing out of the kitchen. “I will see to the dandy in the drawing room.”

“Elgin a dandy?” Hallie said, a newly blackened brow arched. “Surely not.”

Jason grew very still. “Did you say Elgin? Wasn’t he the fellow who brought back the marbles from Greece?”

“Well, yes, but Elgin is Lord Renfrew’s first name.”

To her surprise, Jason’s face turned grim as any reaper’s. “He’s the one, isn’t he, Hallie?”

“Well, yes.”

“What the hell does he want? Why the devil is he here?”

“Stop tearing into me. I don’t know why he’s here.”

“You didn’t invite him?”

Hallie threw the spoon he’d tripped on.

He caught it not six inches from his forehead. “You nearly nailed me with that spoon,” he said, and was gone from the kitchen.

“Don’t kill him, Jason,” she called after him. “You wouldn’t like Australia.”

Angela grabbed her arm before she could take one step.

“Who is Lord Renfrew? Why is Jason angry?”

“He was the bounder I was going to marry when I was eighteen.”

“But dear, I don’t understand why the man is here—”

Hallie was gone. She paused at the open doorway to the drawing room, and watched in bewilderment as Jason, who no longer looked like he wanted to hurl Lord Renfrew through one of the sparkling front windows into the newly planted primroses, was jovial and welcoming, shaking Elgin’s lovely strong-looking hand, the hand that had once skimmed over her breasts, something for which he’d apologized profusely. She hadn’t understood at the time, but now she did. She crossed her arms over her chest, leaned against the open door, and tapped her foot. What was Jason up to?

“How very nice to finally meet you—did Hallie say your name was Eggbert?”

“Elgin.”

“A distinguished name.”

“Yes, yes, it most certainly is.” Lord Renfrew wondered at Mr. Sherbrooke’s bonhomie. But then again, why not? Jason Sherbrooke was a second son, twin or not, and probably didn’t have much money, given how paltry this property was compared to his father’s vast estate. The man doubtless saw Lord Renfrew as the embodiment of what he wasn’t. Yes, that was it, and he wanted to lick his boots. Lord Renfrew would allow it.

On the other hand, Mr. Sherbrooke was sharing the property with Hallie, and she was rich—his solicitor had confirmed that. Hmm, he didn’t like the sound of that. Sharing. Lord Renfrew cleared his throat. “It is an unusual situation you and Miss Carrick are in, Mr. Sherbrooke.”

Jason gave him a white-toothed smile, a sort of man-to-man smile, if Lord Renfrew wasn’t mistaken, and no man was ever mistaken about that. “Not really,” Jason said. “Miss Carrick is, ah, a very accommodating girl, you know.”

Hallie’s jaw fell two inches while Lord Renfrew’s jaw tightened.

Jason, cheery as an octogenarian with a new bride of eighteen, said, “Won’t you sit down, my lord? Our servants aren’t at all well-trained yet—really, such a small problem in the kitchen—but I imagine some more tea will be along shortly.”

Small problem? They were all black as newly polished boots and Cook had swooned on him, knocked him over. That was small? Petrie not well-trained? He had been trained by Hollis himself. What was going on here?

Lord Renfrew seated himself, made certain his coattails were smoothed neatly beneath him. “What do you mean, ‘accommodating’?”

“Why Miss Carrick is always anxious to please, to do whatever one wishes her to do.”

What did he mean, anxious to please? She could be bad-tempered in the morning. Maybe she was anxious to please when she wanted something badly, Hallie thought as she looked up to see Petrie carrying the lovely silver tray Jason’s mother had given them, his face still black as night. Oh dear. She ran to look in the mirror over the small table and nearly shrieked. She’d known what had to be in the mirror, but the fact of her black face—she raised her skirts to run to her bedchamber when she stopped cold. She smiled at Petrie. “We,” she said, patting his arm, “will make an entrance. Ah, do I look as toothsome as you do, Petrie?”

“Surely you must consult the dictionary, Miss Hallie. We both look like critters escaped from the mud flats. There was no time for me to set myself to rights since one can’t leave a gentleman waiting for his tea. Oh dear, oh dear, your face, Miss Hallie, my face—This is disastrous. Whatever will the gentleman think?”

“I, for one, can’t wait to find out.” She walked into the drawing room, her stride long as a boy’s, all possible because her full skirt was slit like very wide-cut trousers, giving Jason a smile scary enough to curl his toes. “I had Petrie bring the tea. Ah, does that please you, Jason?”

CHAPTER 23

Jason nearly fell over. A siren’s voice coming out of a filthy face. Lord Renfrew rose quickly to his feet, nearly en pointe. He said in a loud voice, “I am very pleased, my dear, very pleased indeed. I always believed you were delightfully accommodating.”

“Did you really, my lord? How very gallant of you to say so. May I ask why?”

Lord Renfrew gurgled deep in his throat.

She preened, black face and all.

So she’d heard that, had she? Jason walked to her, stopped not a half-foot from her nose and reached out his hand. He began twisting a long tangled hank of hair that fell nearly to her breast. He leaned closer, his warm breath on her cheek, lust in his eyes. “You smell like smoke.”

She batted her eyelashes, but didn’t move, felt his fingers wrapping round and round her hair. She said, “Does it displease you, Jason, the smoke? I do so ever wish to please you.”

“I will think about that.” He tugged her hair, then stepped back. “Please don’t sit down in that dirty dress, Hallie. Our furniture is new and it would be a shame to dirty it up so soon.”

Lord Renfrew pulsed with questions, none of which he could ask in Hallie’s presence, dammit. He cleared his throat. She looked over at him. A witch, she looked like a witch. What if she wanted to touch him? Perhaps he should step back so she couldn’t easily reach him. “Perhaps, Miss Carrick—Hallie—you’d best go to your bedchamber and prepare yourself.”

“Prepare myself for what exactly? Oh, you mean the way I do for Jason?”

Jason shook his head, wagged his finger at her. “You baggage, where are your manners? You will shock poor Lord Renfrew. Who did you say you were, Lord Renfrew? A longtime friend of Miss Carrick’s? Perhaps a friend of her father’s? You don’t have a grandfather still living, do you, Hallie?”

“No, my father’s father died many years ago, long before I was born. My father became Baron Sherard when he was only seventeen. Genny’s father died when I was only five.”

Lord Renfrew said, “I came into my title two years ago. I am Viscount Renfrew, you know.”

“I didn’t know,” Jason said, “but it has a nice ring to it.”

“I would like my tea.”

“Certainly,” Hallie said, pouring a cup and nearly spilling it in his lap when Lord Renfrew said to Jason, “I am a very close friend of Miss Carrick’s. Indeed, it would be more accurate to say that we were beyond close. I never met her father, although I would have met both her parents if things had progressed in the smooth way they were meant to progress.”

Hallie said to Jason, “It’s hard to be smooth when one is picking flowers in another garden, don’t you think?”

The air pulsed with hot silence, until Jason said, voice limp as a dead lily, “So you excel at growing flowers, my lord? Perhaps you will give us advice on what to do with our gardens. My mother planted the primroses beneath the front windows. Alas, neither Hallie nor I have much of an eye for blooms.”

“I don’t either,” Lord Renfrew said, and added a fourth spoonful of sugar to his tea.

“Then why would you be picking flowers? Oh, I see, you are a romantic, not a connoisseur.”

Lord Renfrew stirred another spoonful of sugar into his tea. It was nearly painful to watch him drink it, but Jason nodded and continued to smile.

“Look here,” Lord Renfrew said, waving his teacup, so full of sugar Hallie was surprised he could lift it, “none of this is to the point.”

“What is the point?” Jason asked politely.

“It is very strange to have a lady standing whilst the two of us are sitting.”

“Possibly so,” Jason said. “However, unlike you, I am not slurping tea in a lady’s presence. I think Hallie must realize how thoughtful and polite I am, thus making her more accommodating.” He gave her a smile that would have made Mrs. Millsom swoon again.

Lord Renfrew saw that smile, knew there was power in that damned smile, and it burned him to his feet. Bastard, damned toad of a second-son bastard. He’d always recognized that the Sherbrooke twins were considered very handsome men, but since he himself wasn’t an affliction to the female eye and had always been admired by both men and women—perhaps women a bit more than men, as he’d been told many times—he hadn’t begrudged them their additional dollop of physical beauty. He did now. He saw the clout of that beautiful face aimed at Hallie, and hated the man to his toes. He wanted to seduce her, he wanted her money. This wasn’t to be borne. “Miss Carrick, I am Lord Grimsby’s guest, Viscount Merlin Grimsby of Abbott Grange. I am here to ask you to attend a ball this Thursday evening, a ball in my honor, and you would be my special guest.”

Jason leapt to his feet. “A ball? Did you say a ball? I haven’t been invited to a ball since my return to England. I would be delighted to attend, my lord. I shall bring Hallie with me. Do you have a suitable gown, Hallie?”

“Will it be a costume ball, sir?”

“No. It will be a regular sort of ball. Actually, Mr. Sherbrooke, I only—”

“I believe I packed away a lovely medieval maiden’s gown in one of my trunks. A pity it isn’t a costume ball.”

“I am certain the gown is lovely, Miss Carrick—Hallie—but it is, as I said, a regular sort of ball. Mr. Sherbrooke, about the ball, I can only invite—”

“I know what you are thinking, my lord,” Jason said, “and you are right to be concerned that I have been out of civilized England for too long, that I have nothing fashionable to wear. I will ask my brother. He’s the viscount, you know, and he is always a well-dressed fellow. Sometimes he gives me his last-year britches, sometimes even his coats. Very few stains since his valet is such a superb fellow.

“As for Hallie, I believe my brother’s wife could lend her something. Don’t worry, my lord, both of us, I fancy, will look quite dashing.”

“Miss Carrick is rich; she has many gowns, all lovely. Besides, since she is rich, surely she wouldn’t lower herself to borrow anything from your blasted sister-in-law.”

Hallie said, “I must say it’s ever so predictable you remembered the groats in my pockets, though I’m not surprised. I think a ball would be delightful. Thank you for inviting us. Jason, do you know Lord Grimsby?”

“Oh yes, though I haven’t seen him in a long time, since James and I were at Oxford and observed him with a delightful young lady who, I believe, was no relation to him at all.”

“Now, see here, Mr. Sherbrooke. Lord Grimsby wasn’t all that old then.”

Hallie said, “Isn’t Lord Grimsby married?”

“I was being indelicate,” Jason said. “When James and I were quite small, Lord Grimsby let us ride his prize pigs, big pigs, you understand, so fat they could barely walk and thus weren’t hazardous to the health of two three-year-old boys.”

“Your father let you ride pigs?”

Jason nodded. “He said if we could stay on Ronnie and Donnie’s backs for three minutes without sliding off, we would be ready for our own ponies.”

Lord Renfrew said, disdain radiating from his lovely tall self, “I have never ridden a pig in my life.”

“Well, I haven’t since I was three-and-a-half and my father set me on my first pony. How about you, Hallie?”

“I wish I had the memory of a fat pig from my childhood, but alas—you know that my father and I sailed everywhere when I was little and the deck rocked too much for livestock to roam about.” She turned to Lord Renfrew. “Perhaps you were too young to remember your pig-riding.”

“Of course I would remember. I don’t.” He shut his mouth. He was in Bedlam. This was absurd, ridiculous. Both his host and hostess were smiling at him, ready to offer him more tea, ready to misunderstand what he said. He rose, bowed in Hallie’s direction, sighed, knew there was no hope for it. It was either both or none. “I will see you Thursday night. Mr. Sherbrooke, it’s been pleasurably irksome to meet you.”

He bowed again and nearly ran from the drawing room. They heard Petrie’s rapid footsteps toward the front door. “Oh, my lord, do give me just a moment. The door is heavy, it must be opened just right. I am re-prepared, and at your endless service.”

They didn’t hear a word from Lord Renfrew. The front door closed, a bit on the loud side. A moment later, Petrie appeared in the drawing room doorway. “How very odd, Master Jason, the gentleman didn’t take his hat or cane, and you can be sure I held them both out to him.”

CHAPTER 24

The Dauntry mare, Penelope, was made at home in the stall next to Delilah’s, where it soon became apparent that they didn’t like each other. Jason and Hallie watched Henry jerk Delilah back before she could sink her healthy yellow teeth in Penelope’s lovely chestnut neck.

“It’s because of Dodger,” Jason said to Hallie. “Both Delilah and Penelope want him. They know they’re beautiful, used to winning, and have sharp teeth. What will we do?”

“Let them tear each other’s manes out,” Hallie said.

Jason laughed. “What a sight that would be. No, it’s a sight I never want to see again in my life. Put her in the end stall, Henry.”

Henry looped Penelope’s lead reins around his hand. Her new accommodation was probably too close to Dodger’s stall because Delilah whinnied, tossed her head, and kicked out, making the wood shudder. As for Piccola, she continued to chew on her hay, her eyelids heavy. Dodger looked up to see what the excitement was about, saw Penelope swaying toward him, and nodded his big head. “I swear his ears perked up,” Jason said, “when Penelope came into his view.”

Henry called over his shoulder, “I will take his sultanship into a paddock so we’ll have no more carryings-on between the ladies.”

Hallie said slowly, “I don’t think I have laughed so much in a very long time.”

“With Elgin hanging about, I can believe it. You’re lucky to be rid of him.”

She shuddered. “I once thought he was very amusing.” She turned to leave the stables, paused a moment, turned back to him. “But not now. I am going to try to balance our expenditures with our profits. Will you check my figures later?”

He nodded, watched her stride back toward the house. He remembered the Wyndhams—the laughter, the shouting, the arguing, natural to a house with four young children. He missed that very much.

Both Jason and Hallie met at the top of the stairs at eight-thirty the evening of the Grimsby ball. They stared at each other.

Jason, because he was older, more experienced, more used to dealing with ladies than Hallie was dealing with men, said easily as he took her arm, “I don’t know, Hallie. Corrie has this lovely pale green gown that is the perfect shade for you. But this blue? Don’t mistake me, it’s lovely, and I’m sure the style of the gown is fashionable, but the truth? That particular shade of blue makes you the slightest bit sallow.”

She poked him in the stomach with her left fist.

He grinned down at her. He was so beautiful in his formal evening clothes it would make any living female so dizzy with excitement, she just might fall over, or vomit. “All right, not a sallow patch can I see on you. You look quite the thing. I’m glad Martha kept your hair simple, the braids look very fine on you.”

“She told me she’s the best braider this side of London, that the profusion of crimped curls defeat her. She patted my hair when she was done with me, said better braids for me than little sausages. As for you, Jason—” She drew a deep breath. It wouldn’t be wise to tell him the truth—that he looked like a god, so absolutely perfect, every artist in the world would have wanted to sculpt him, or paint him, or murder him when their wives got a look at him.

Thankfully, Petrie called out from the foot of the stairs before she could say something stupid, “Ah, Master Jason, every lady between the ages of fifteen and one hundred and five will believe you have the best valet in the entire world. It’s a treat you are to the senses, sir, a treat. Forgive me, Miss Hallie, you look as lovely as one could expect a female to look. Ah, isn’t this exciting? Our first ball in the neighborhood.”

“As for me what, Hallie?” Jason asked.

“I had a temporary affliction of my brain,” Hallie said. “Forget it, Jason.”

He was grinning as Angela came out of the drawing room looking like a fairy queen, all in pink and white lace. “Oh my dears, both of you look splendid. Oh dear.”

“What’s wrong, Angela?” Jason asked her, taking a quick step toward her. Since he hadn’t released Hallie’s arm, he pulled her with him.

“It’s Cook.”

“What about her?”

“She’s breathing hard. I fear the worst.”

Jason spun around to see Mrs. Millsom standing not two feet from him, staring up at him. He caught her before she hit the floor.

Jason, Hallie, and Angela didn’t arrive at Lord Grimsby’s lovely old manor house, Abbott Grange, built during the early years of Queen Anne’s reign, until nine o’clock. The night was warm, little gusts of wind stirred the oak branches, and the moon nearly full.

“What a perfect night to be out and about,” Angela said, and patted Hallie’s knees. “Or inside and about, for that matter. And you will have a lovely visit with your family, Jason. How very nice of your father to lend us one of his carriages. I hear that your father has known Lord Grimsby forever.”

Hallie said, “Will your grandmother attend as well, Jason?”

“Yes, I believe so. Do you know, I’ve never seen her dance? My father told me once when she was young, she danced until the sunrise. However, since Angela will be there, who knows?”

Angela said, “Lydia told me yesterday she was coming. I told her you would dance with her, Jason. James as well.”

“If she can meander around the dance floor with her cane, we should have no problem,” Jason said.

Hallie said, “I plan to ask James if he has fond memories of the pigs.”

“He will,” Jason said. He gave Angela a grin to smite her dead.

“Poor Cook,” Angela said.

“Don’t encourage him, Angela. His head is already so big—not much heft up there to speak of, just air—it’s ready to float.”

Abbott Grange sprawled over a half acre, every window filled with light, probably a good five hundred candles lit, Hallie thought, wondering at the expense and the sheer number of fingers required to light that many tapers. There were more carriages than Hallie could count lined along the entire perimeter of the long drive. After Angela and Hallie were handed down by two liveried servants who looked to Jason as if they’d come directly from a boxing match, he thanked John Coachman, whose name was really Benjie, and slipped him a bottle of Mr. McFardle’s fine ale from his tavern in Blaystock.

“This could be in London,” Hallie said behind her hand as the three of them joined another dozen guests wending up the wide, deep stone steps past liveried servants holding flambeaux high above their heads. They were no sooner announced to the sixty or so guests in the Grimsby ballroom, than a young man’s voice said, “By all that’s wicked, isn’t it Jason?”

A lady’s voice said, “I believe it must be since the girl with him isn’t James’s wife.”

“Jason, is that really you? You’re home at last?”

“This is the young lady who—”

“Jason, you look tanned as we ever did in the summer as boys. Remember that time at Punter’s Pond?”

“She’s far too pretty to be a partner. Look at that gown.”

“My God, man, it’s been too long. Welcome home.”

Jason was laughing, shaking hands, clapping backs, a huge smile on his face, and he didn’t let go of Hallie’s hand. He introduced her and Angela to all the gentlemen and ladies who crowded around him. Hallie curtsied, nodded, presented her right hand to be kissed a dozen times, and smiled. The ladies were a bit on the cool side, but as Jason had said when they’d first walked in, “They’re my friends. They’ll accept you fast enough.”

“Goodness,” Angela said from beside Hallie, fanning her face. “Our Jason certainly knows everyone. He’s very popular, Hallie. Is this ball really in honor of Lord Renfrew?”

Hallie said, “Difficult to believe. Now, a lovely get-together for his hanging, that I can believe. He’s over there, Angela, speaking with that young lady with all the black hair. Drat, he’s coming this way.”

Lord Renfrew swept down on her, ignored Jason, and took her hand in his. She gave a little tug, but he wasn’t about to let go. He gave her a man’s look that she recognized quickly enough, and asked her to waltz.

She chanced to see a half a dozen ladies, none of them older than she was, coming straight at Jason in the form of a wedge, the lead girl a lovely blonde, no more than eighteen, with an impressive chest that was on prominent display. Jason was trading jests with a man he appeared to have known since he was born, unaware of the approaching armada. She smiled up at Lord Renfrew. “I am sorry, my lord, but I have already agreed to dance with Mr. Sherbrooke. I will need my hand. Would you please escort Mrs. Tewksbury over to Lady Lydia?”

The wedge was nearly on him. She heard one gentleman say, his voice near a squeak, “I remember this all too well. The devil take it. Why, I—”

Hallie grabbed Jason’s arm. “I’m saving him, sir. Jason, come along quickly or you will be swept away.”

Jason knew female determination when he saw it, grabbed Hallie’s arm, and laughed as he let her pull him through the crowd to the dance floor. The musicians had just started up a rousing waltz.

“I’ve seen your prowess on the dance floor, sir; I am ready to be impressed.”

Jason smiled down at her, clasped her firmly, and whirled her around in wide circles for nearly five minutes. Hallie was panting when he finally slowed. “That was quite wonderful, Jason.”

“My father taught James and me that a lady always forgave a gentleman for even the most stupid remark if he danced well.”

He whirled her about, deftly avoiding other dancers until she was laughing.

CHAPTER 25

When Hallie caught her breath, she said, “Your father must be right. I haven’t wanted to call you a moron once since our feet started moving. Oh dear, I do believe the ladies are surrounding James as well. Will the two of you never be safe?”

“James said he truly appreciated being married to Corrie. He said she protected him, like grandmother told you.”

“I wonder if Corrie ever fears being shot? Oh dear, I don’t believe Lord Renfrew is glad you’re here, Jason. He wanted to dance with me, you know. He’s giving you a remarkably nasty look. Ah, good, he’s asked that black-haired girl to waltz. That’s a relief.”

“She’s fluttering her eyelashes at him,” Jason said. “She’s not doing it well, but she’s young yet. She’ll learn.”

“I think she’s doing very nicely. Ah, you’re very graceful. That would make sense if a gentleman wanted to be successful with the ladies. However, you could dance like a clod and it wouldn’t make any difference.”

“I was thinking the same about you, Miss Carrick.” He gave her a white-toothed smile and whirled her about until she would swear under oath that she was flying two inches off the floor.

When they slowed a bit again, he said, “I can’t imagine why Lord Grimsby—he’s the elderly gentleman standing next to the lady with the huge ostrich feather—would give a ball especially for Lord Renfrew.”

“It makes no sense to me. I did meet Lord and Lady Grimsby; you simply weren’t aware of it. They told me how Lord Renfrew could speak only of my grace and loveliness. Nausea nearly flooded me. You, unfortunately, weren’t available to deter them. You were surrounded by too many well-wishers. It appears everyone missed you, Jason.”

“It’s good to see old friends.”

“You know, Lord Grimsby was giving me the eye—not a flirtatious eye, mind you, but an assessing eye—perhaps to evaluate if I’d do or not.”

Jason said slowly, “I wonder if your Lord Renfrew has some sort of hold on Lord Grimsby. I shall have to ask my father. He knows everything, which is odd, since he refuses to listen to gossip, but still, information finds its way into his ear.”

Hallie could only marvel at him. “I will tell you, Jason, I am used to being drowned in compliments, but not to the extent the ladies try to corner you. It is, naturally, the same with my father. Perhaps more so.”

“You haven’t noticed all the gentlemen salivating, Hallie. That’s why I tried to keep you close, to protect you.”

She laughed, couldn’t help herself. He whirled her around and around. When the waltz finally came to an end, once she could suck in enough air, she said, “Another dance, please, sir. You do it very well.”

“All right, but not a third waltz until much later, Hallie. I don’t want your reputation to suffer.”

She didn’t care, but acquiesced. After the second waltz, Jason left her at Angela’s side. He turned to his grandmother, bowed formally. “My lady, would you condescend to waltz with a grandson who, upon three different occasions, stole your nutty buns?”

The old lady rapped his arm with her fan, gave him a huge grin. “Ah, I knew, I always knew. Take me to the floor, my boy.”

Alex Sherbrooke couldn’t believe her eyes. She clutched at her husband’s sleeve. “Douglas, goodness, I didn’t think the old bat could move so spryly.”

“A potted palm would move spryly if dancing with one of my sons,” Douglas said. Actually, Lady Lydia was swaying in place, Jason smiling down at her, holding her as gently as he would one of his nephews, telling her that particular shade of pale yellow was perfect with her complexion. The old lady preened.

“She always loved Jason best.” Alex sighed. “As many times as I still want to kick her, she looks lovely, and so very happy. Why can’t she be happy all the time? Why can’t she ever smile at me like that?”

“Give it up, my dear,” Douglas said, and drew her to the dance floor. “I doubt not that when she finally croaks in the next century, she will still insult you to your toes, be it Heaven or Hell. All six remaining teeth on full view. Do you think we’ll still have some teeth when we’re her age?”

“Oh dear, Douglas, I don’t wish to visit that thought at this moment. My lord, you dance as gracefully as ever.”

“More than three decades of inspiration keep the spring in my step,” Douglas said.

An hour later, the entire Sherbrooke family sat at three tables in the lovely dining room off the ballroom, eating shrimp patties, drinking champagne, and delighting in the Grimsby’s cook’s incredible olive bread, a recipe she claimed had come from Sicily itself, from her grandmother the ancient Maria Teresa. Lady Grimsby was heard to say that every olive in a twenty-mile radius would be residing in her guests’ bellies before the night was over.

“Father,” Jason said, “tell me why Lord Grimsby is giving a ball in Lord Renfrew’s honor.”

“Hmm. Lord Renfrew seems a pleasant enough man, despite his need to be shot,” Douglas said, nearly sighing over another bite of the olive bread. “Fact is though, Lord Grimsby and Elgin’s uncle—Bartholomew Sloane—were first cousins on the mother’s side. Grew up together. One of Barty’s sons died in Greece some ten years ago. Grim told me the boy traveled with Lord Byron.”

Hallie said, “My lord, perhaps a large dinner party with whist afterward would be more appropriate than a ball. Why would Lord Grimsby go to this sort of expense for his cousin’s son?”

“Ah, that’s an excellent question,” Douglas said. “Didn’t I hear that after you gave Lord Renfrew the boot, Hallie, he married a girl up north? Her father was a wealthy merchant or such? And she died?”

“How did you know that, sir? I swear I never told a soul.”

Douglas shrugged as he snaffled the last slice of olive bread off his wife’s plate. “And now he has no money. It all makes very clear sense, don’t you think?”

“But I’m living with Jason!”

There was only a bare moment of appalled silence.

“You’re his partner, Hallie,” Corrie said. “You’re not his mistress.”

“Of course I’m not his mistress,” Hallie said. “I am too rich to be any man’s mistress.”

“Be that as it may,” Douglas said, “it would appear that Elgin Sloane wishes to see if he can’t reattach you, my dear.”

“But I found out he was marrying me for my money, my lord. Do you know what else he was doing? He was sleeping with another woman.”

“Not quite so loud, Hallie,” Alex said, patting her hand.

Corrie said, “That doesn’t make much sense, does it? He was doing both? Doesn’t he have a functioning brain?”

Hallie said, “He must have believed he could get away with it.”

“All girls except Corrie are stupid at eighteen,” Corrie’s mother-in-law said. “Did you know that she saved James’s life?”

“She’s got more guts than brains,” James said.

Hallie said, “Well, no, and I should like to hear all about it. Didn’t Lord Renfrew get a good look at Jason, sir? Is the man blind?”

Jason waved away her words. “He thinks I’m poor, jealous of my brother, and something of a buffoon.” Jason grinned. “It was quite an enjoyable visit with him, as a matter of fact.”

“You’re wicked, my boy,” Lady Lydia said, staring at the shrimp patty that lay in the center of her daughter-in-law’s plate. She wanted that shrimp patty. Alex knew it. She speared the entire patty on her fork and raised it to her mouth. Then, cursing herself, she cut it in half and set one half on her mother-in-law’s plate.

Lady Lydia eyed the half shrimp patty. “I’ll wager you licked it, didn’t you? You did it very fast so I could see only the shadow of movement of it, so I’d know what you did, but not be able to prove it. And that’s why you gave it to me. You want Douglas to believe you are selfless, but you licked it.”

“Yes,” Alex said. “I licked it.” She stared the old woman down until she ate the shrimp patty. “It tasted strange,” Lady Lydia said as she set down her fork. “I don’t know your particular taste as my poor son does, but—”

“Mother,” Douglas said, his voice icy enough to freeze the champagne, “If Alex licked the shrimp patty, it will bring you luck.”

“All this dancing, I must keep up my strength,” the dowager said.

Her fond son said, “You’ve more strength than two prize bulls, Mother. You’re quite remarkable.”

Angela rolled her eyes. “Lydia, do visit Lyon’s Gate tomorrow. You and I can oversee Cook making nutty buns. You said she still doesn’t do it right.”

“They are barely edible,” Lady Lydia said.

“We will keep Jason out of the kitchen so she won’t be distracted.”

“One cannot expect everything,” Hallie said, “Her braised buttock of beef is outstanding, at least when Jason is at the dinner table. That makes me think you need to have Jason simply stand in the middle of the kitchen while she makes the nutty buns. They will be heavenly.”

“Hmm,” Angela said. “Hallie has a point. The only problem is that she will probably swoon.”

Jason choked on his champagne.

“You’re right,” Hallie said. “You must simply tell her that the nutty buns are Master Jason’s most favorite treat. They will be ambrosia. I’m willing to lay a wager on it.”

Lady Lydia said, “Your cook swoons? How very odd of her.”

“Why the devil does the woman swoon?” Douglas asked.

“It’s your dratted son, sir,” Hallie said.

Corrie said, “How much would you like to wager, Hallie?”

“Use your head, Corrie. Jason is the image of James.”

“Oh. I’m a dolt. Forget the wager. We have a male cook and let me tell you, he’s never once swooned when he’s seen either me or Mama-in-law.”

There was laughter then. “How very delightful to find all of you together,” Lord Grimsby said from beside Douglas’s elbow. “I have brought another loaf of olive bread so that I would be welcome to join you, and my dear Elgin as well.”

CHAPTER 26

“Delighted,” Douglas said, and watched servants tenderly ease two chairs to the table. He wondered as he watched them why a man couldn’t pull his own chair to the table. He knew well enough it was the way things were, but he didn’t like it very much. Never again, he decided, would he allow someone else to get him a damned chair.

“My wife said it was the last loaf. She said to use it wisely.” Lord Grimsby bowed and presented the loaf to Douglas.

Hallie wanted to spit. Lord Renfrew smiled down at her as he said, “Here, bring the chair closer,” and squeezed in next to hers, on the other side of Jason. Smart man, Douglas thought, knowing well the look on his son’s face—Jason would smile while he pounded the man into the ground. “Hand me the bread, Grim,” Douglas said to Lord Grimsby, who sat next to Alex—too close, Douglas was thinking. As Douglas reached for the loaf, he looked around the table hopefully. “I don’t suppose everyone is full?”

Every relative held out his plate.

Douglas asked a servant for a cutting knife. The next three minutes were spent with every eye focused on the width of each slice Douglas cut.

When everyone, including Lord Renfrew, had a slice, Douglas said, “A lovely ball, Grim.”

Lord Grimsby laughed, waved his half-eaten slice of olive bread at James and Jason. “My wife told me that every lady in the district would be smitten, and she is right. You invite these two, and every other man in the room feels like donkey dung.”

“A father’s cross to bear,” Douglas said.

“My father also had a cross to bear,” Lord Renfrew said in a very loud voice.

Hallie arched an eyebrow. “I should think so.”

“Yes, of course you are a fine-looking boy, Elgin,” Lord Grimsby said. “Now, Miss Carrick, it is a pleasure to meet you. I have heard all sorts of tales about your partnership with Jason.”

“What sorts of tales?” Lady Lydia asked, her old eyes sharper than a vampire’s teeth.

Lord Grimsby waved a negligent hand. “Oh, nothing really, just one story that struck Lady Grimsby very forcibly. She heard that a visiting servant who saw Miss Carrick kick over a bucket said there was a seam down the middle of her skirt and so she wasn’t really wearing a skirt. Never heard of such a thing myself. I told my wife the man must have been mistaken.”

“It boggles the mind what a man will see when confronted with a lady kicking a bucket,” Jason said. “A seam? As in her skirts were divided into two parts, two different parts? I can’t imagine such a thing. Can you, Angela?”

“No, my boy, never.”

“Laughter,” Lord Renfrew said. “I heard too much laughter, not coming from the stables, but from inside the house.”

Lady Lydia said, “Angela has told me all the laughter comes from Petrie—the butler, Lord Renfrew, not from anyone else. Hallie’s lady’s maid is always telling Petrie jokes.”

As a distraction, Jason thought, it was well done.

Corrie, her head cocked to one side, said, “Petrie laughing at something a woman says? That doesn’t sound like the Petrie I know. Petrie is a misogynist. Grandmama-in-law, why are you rolling your eyes at me? Why, Petrie even claimed I didn’t really save you, James, that as a female I am only capable of cowering behind a hay bale. He said it was you, James, who saved the day, that because of your extraordinary bravery, you disremembered what miraculous deeds you performed.”

“None of this is to the point,” Lord Renfrew said. “Of course you did not execute any sort of rescue, my lady, such a thing would be in very bad taste. Now, this Petrie fellow, he did serve me tea, but his face was stove-black and he stole my hat and cane.”

“No, that’s impossible,” Jason said. “Petrie told me himself that he disliked the new style in men’s hats, although the cane was all right, save for the ridiculous eagle’s head.”

“My father selected that eagle’s head!”

“Perhaps Petrie sold the hat and cane,” Alex said.

“Hollis always said that Petrie had an excellent eye for goods, that were he a criminal, we would be in trouble.”

Lord Renfrew threw his napkin on his plate. “You are all jesting. I do not like it. My lord, I wished to visit with Miss Carrick, but all these people are interfering.”

Lord Grimsby leaned over to pat Lord Renfrew’s hand. “Simply smile and nod and you will get through it.”

Lord Renfrew said, “I also saw my former head stable lad, Quincy. I can’t imagine how he came to be working for you. He was a shiftless fellow—”

Hallie said, sarcasm dripping out with her words, “Perhaps one should pay one’s servants, Lord Renfrew. That is probably the best solution to any problem.”

“How is Quincy with you?”

“I informed Willicombe, the Sherbrooke butler in London, that we had need of an assistant head stable lad. Quincy was at our door within a day, grinning from ear to ear. He is quite good, you know.”

“Yes, I know. The fellow was good, but he had no loyalty—”

The earl said, “If a man doesn’t pay his dependents, he should be deported to France.”

“Then she should be deported, not I,” said Lord Renfrew, nodding at Hallie. “It is her fault that poor Quincy wasn’t paid. His pay could have been her wedding present to me.”

Hallie was ready to leap over the table and gullet Lord Renfrew with his own fork, when Douglas lightly laid his hand on her sleeve. “I think it’s time I told everyone about my grandsons. Their names are Douglas and Everett. You should see Jason waltz with them—”

Lord Renfrew smiled. “Oh, I see. Well done, my lord. You are endeavoring to show Hallie the glories of having children in the house. Listen, Hallie. I would be a spectacular father. Only imagine this delightful domestic picture: a handful of children waltzing with their proud papa. Ah, yes, it warms my heart.”

There was a cloud of appalled silence over the table until Lord Grimsby said, “Tell me, Douglas, how much longer do you think King William will last?”

“It’s what follows William that gives me pause, Grim. Oh, who is this now at our table? Another friend of yours, Jason?”

Jason looked up at the distinguished gentleman who bowed, snagged Hallie’s hand, and kissed her fingers. He grinned like a bandit and licked his lips. “Olive bread. It is quite good, isn’t it?”

Hallie raised the fingers of her other hand to her mouth and licked them. “Yes, quite good.”

“I am Grandison, you know.”

James said, “Charles, what on earth are you doing here in the wilds of Sussex? Last I heard you were sailing off the coast of Portugal.”

“No, not Portugal. Ah, James, what a picture you present. Why don’t you gain flesh? Perhaps lose your teeth, shed a bit of hair? And Jason? It has been far too long.”

The twins rose, shook the gentleman’s hand.

Charles Grandison looked closely at Jason. “You look content.”

Jason laughed. “I will be content after Dodger leaves your tired old nag, Ganymede, snorting and sweating in the dirt.”

“Stuff dreams are made of, my boy. Elgin tells me you and Miss Carrick own Lyon’s Gate. Together. I should like to hear how that came about.”

“A simple enough tale, sir,” Hallie said. “Both of us wanted the same property.”

“It shouldn’t have happened,” Lord Renfrew said. “Hallie should be married to me, all settled in a lovely house in London, planning our next soiree.”

“That could be possible, I suppose, were you another man altogether,” Hallie said.

Charles Grandison laughed. “Ah, that’s a grand wit you’ve got, Miss Carrick.” He turned to the earl of Northcliffe, bowed. “My lord, forgive my interruption. I am Charles Grandison. My father vastly admired you.”

“I remember your father and his antics,” Douglas said. He didn’t add that he’d believed Conyon Grandison had been more incompetent than evil, which was the only reason he hadn’t been hung.

Charles said, “Just so, sir. To my dying day I will rejoice that my father didn’t manage to shoot that bullet into Miles Sinifer’s head.” He turned, bowed to Alex. “I spent many hours convincing my sister she didn’t want to fling herself from her mare’s back on the off-chance that James here would catch her before she landed on a yew bush. She’s expecting her third child now. Screamers, the first two are.”

He was too charming, Hallie thought, watching him joke with Angela and the countess. She sipped at Lady Grimsby’s champagne punch, potent enough to knock a girl on her bottom and not care. She watched Charles Grandison, Lord Carlisle, bend over Lady Lydia’s ancient veiny wrist and treat her to an intimate smile to make her remaining teeth tingle.

“Who is Miles Sinifer?” Hallie asked.

“Ah, a gentleman who tried to seduce my mother. My father picked up his gun and shot it from no more than three feet from Miles’s head. As I said, thank God he missed.”

Where the devil had Charles been, James wondered, watching the man he and Jason had always admired make his way charmingly from lady to lady at their table. Until he got to Corrie. He stilled. James knew when a man was looking at a woman with lust in his eyes. James stiffened in his chair, but said pleasantly enough, “Keep away from her, Charles. I’m younger, stronger, and meaner than you. Unlike your father, I wouldn’t miss.”

“This is your Viscountess, James? The innocent young girl who saved you from kidnappers and herself from Devlin Monroe?”

“Oh goodness,” Corrie said. “I haven’t seen Devlin in far too long. He is well? He is married? Does he still avoid the sun?”

Charles Grandison laughed and took Corrie’s chair when she slid over onto her husband’s lap to make room for him.

“Devlin quite likes all those whispers about his being a vampire, all naturally behind polite hands. I believe you were the one who started it—”

“Perhaps I was the first to say vampire out loud,” Corrie said, “but Devlin always admired his pallor. Now, you, sir, and my husband have known each other for a very long time, have you not?”

“Since he tried to beat my gelding, Horatio, in an impromptu race. James was riding his pony, Jason cheering him on. They were five years old as I recall, and I was an ancient eleven or twelve.”

“In that case, please call me Corrie. I miss Devlin and his pale face. He was quite amusing.” She sighed and James wanted to smack her. Instead, he eased beneath her gown and slid his hand up her leg.

Always the charmer, Jason thought, content to sit back and watch Charles charm his family, but what was he doing here? He appeared to know Lord Renfrew, and surely that wasn’t in his favor. Charles had been racing mad as a boy, and now owned one of the largest racing stables in northern England. It was heard he would shut himself in his bedchamber for three days and nights if he lost a race, which wasn’t that often. No one tried to cheat Charles or poison his horses, or cripple his jockeys—the price Charles made the miscreant pay was too high. And that, Jason decided in that moment, was the reputation he was going to nurture as well. Maybe his would even be more fearful.

Jason, Hallie, and Angela didn’t arrive home until nearly three o’clock in the morning. Both Martha and Petrie were in the drawing room, Petrie, head thrown back on the back of the sofa, snoring, Martha huddled in a chair, one stockinged toe sticking out from beneath her gown.

When they walked into the drawing room, Martha jerked up and yelled, “Tell us everything!”

Petrie’s nostrils pinched as he jerked awake, and he nearly stumbled off his feet he jumped up so quickly. He was quick to wave his nanny’s finger at her. “Martha, a lady’s maid doesn’t demand gossip from her mistress. You will lower your head and inquire if Miss Hallie wishes to have you remove her stockings.”

Angela said, “Goodness, Petrie, isn’t that rather indelicate of you? Martha, after you have assisted Hallie, do come to my bedchamber. I appear to have more buttons than fingers to do the task.”

“I will, Miss Angela.” Martha whirled around on Petrie, hands on hips, “As for you, Mr. Stump-Chops, don’t you tell me what to do with Miss Hallie’s stockings. It pains Master Jason to hear such private matters spoken of in his drawing room.”

“Actually, I believe Jason is standing in my half of the drawing room,” Hallie said.

“But—”

Jason raised his hand. “Be quiet, Petrie, let it go. No, no more from either of you. No, Martha, heel.” Jason turned to Hallie and Angela. “You see? I put a stop to the hilarity just as you asked.”

“Hilarity?” Petrie said. “Hilarity is not at all the thing in a gentleman’s household.”

“All we need,” Angela said, “is Cook to complete the picture.”

“But, Master Jason,” Petrie began, knowing he had an important point if only he could find the ears to hear it.

“No, Petrie. We’ll tell both of you everything in the morning. Everyone to bed now. Petrie, you’re with me.”

“Martha,” Hallie said, “I will tell you all about Mr. Charles Grandison, who will probably be visiting us in not more than seven hours from now.”

“What a lovely name,” Martha said. “Is he a gentleman wot—what—looks like his name like Master Jason does?”

“Indeed. Master Jason said Charles Grandison was ruthless when it came to all the scoundrels and the corruption in the racing world. So much money involved, you see.”

“We are going to be more ruthless, more feared even than Charles Grandison,” Jason said. “We will make anyone who tries to hurt our horses or cheat or threaten us, pay so great a price they’ll never try it again.”

“And our reputation will spread.” She rubbed her hands together. “My father taught me how to bring a man to the ground with very little effort.”

“Very little effort? Do I wish to know what you’re talking about?”

“Well, it involves my knee, Jason. My father said a man couldn’t bear that sort of pain, whatever that means.”

Jason and Petrie looked appalled.

Martha said, “Well, more power to a lady’s knee, I say. Now, Miss Hallie, it’s very late. Time for me to see to you and Miss Angela.”

Jason said, “I, as well, learned a lot with the Wyndhams in Baltimore. Americans can stand more pain, and they don’t whine as much, I found. Jessie asked me to exercise desperate measures on three occasions as I recall.”

Hallie said, “What kind of desperate measures?”

“A competitor bribed a stable lad to poison one of the Wyndham horses. I made him walk through downtown Baltimore—it wasn’t raining, as I recall—carrying the tub of the poisoned grain he would have fed Rialto. Every three steps he had to announce what he’d tried to do.”

Hallie nodded in approval. “I heard from my father that you once sliced a jockey’s face with your whip when he was going to stick a knife in your horse’s neck.”

“Nearly to the bone.”

“My father also said you nabbed another jockey as he was coming out of Mrs. O’Toole’s tavern and beat the stuffing out of him for trying to shoot you off your horse in a race the week before.”

Jason smiled at the memory, flexed his fingers without conscious thought. “I should have waited until he’d sobered up. It would have been more fun.”

“Just so,” Hallie said. “No one will go against us more than once.”

“Heavenly groats, Miss Hallie,” Martha was heard to whisper as she walked between her mistress and Miss Angela up the staircase, “this is so exciting. Do ye—you—think you’ll have to resort to some of these desperate measures Master Jason was talking about?”

“It’s possible,” Hallie said, as serious as a nun wielding a three-pronged whip.

“And yer—your—knee, Miss Hallie. I want to hear all about your knee.”

“That thought would make the blood move swiftly through a man’s heart, wouldn’t it?” Angela said, as she lightly patted the very feminine white lace over her bosom.

CHAPTER 27

Charles Grandison said, “I want to buy Piccola. She’s magnificent. I’ll pay you very well for her, Jason.”

“She’s not my mare to sell.”

“Ah, so Miss Carrick is her owner. A lady enjoys having lovely things—”

“I’ve noticed that gentlemen enjoy lovely things as well,” Hallie said, coming around the corner. She strode, Jason thought, like a boy with more arrogance than brains. What would Charles make of that? What would he say if he noticed her gown was really a pair of fat-legged trousers? Ah, and the shine on her boots.

Hallie patted Piccola’s forehead while she nuzzled a carrot off Hallie’s palm. “She will win me many more races before she retires, my lord. Unfortunately, we have no horses for sale at this time. We’ve not been in business all that long.”

Jason said, “James and Jessie Wyndham will be visiting in August. They’re bringing us stock they’ve selected themselves.”

“Yes,” Hallie said. “Come see us in September.”

“I will,” Charles said. “It will interest me to see what an American considers good breeding and racing stock. Ah, Miss Carrick, Lord Brinkley told me about the shine on your boots. Said his man Old Fudds still couldn’t get it just right.”

“Practice,” Hallie said.

“That is true of most things, I’ve found,” Charles said, and turned to Jason. “You’ve begun well, Jason.”

“Thank you,” Hallie said.

Charles Grandison laughed. “I would like to meet this misogynist butler who stole Elgin’s hat and cane.”

It was later, over Cook’s lovely tea and gingerbread that Hallie asked, “Lord Carlisle—”

“Call me, Charles, please.”

She smiled, inclined her head. “Have you and Lord Renfrew known each other long?”

“Elgin is horse mad,” Charles said. “He has asked me to assist him in buying quality horseflesh.”

“It is an expensive undertaking,” Jason said, and chewed a raisin Cook had put in the gingerbread.

“Oh, you don’t think Elgin has enough pounds in his pockets?”

“I really don’t know,” Jason said. “Nor do I really care.”

“I suppose you told Jason, Miss Carrick, that Lord Renfrew would very much like to marry you?”

“No, I did not tell him that. Why would I?”

“He is your partner, ma’am. Were you to wed Lord Renfrew, why then, it would be he who would deal with Jason here and your horses.”

“I hadn’t realized that marriage went hand in hand with incompetence. Marriage would make me stupid, then?”

“A lady as lovely as you are could be as stupid as a chamber pot and it wouldn’t matter.”

Jason, in mid-drink, spewed the tea out of his mouth and began coughing. Hallie walked to him and smacked him hard on the back. He finally caught his breath. He grinned up at her. “Ah, thank you for the brute assistance.”

“I have four young siblings. One is always prepared to do anything, including cauterizing a wound. Now, Lord Carlisle, about Lord Renfrew.”

“Charles, please.”

Hallie picked up her teacup and saluted him, and yet again she inclined her head. “I don’t suppose Lord Renfrew asked you to come to Lyon’s Gate to, er, soften me up a bit?”

“I scarcely know the gentleman.”

“You and he are of an age,” Hallie said.

“Surely he is older.”

“I don’t believe so, unless he lied to me. I believe Lord Renfrew is thirty-one years old.”

“Hmm. Yes, Elgin lied. It is a nasty thing, a lie, but some feel compelled to do it, particularly when the young lady is of tender years.”

“I’m no longer tender, sir.”

A very handsome dark brow arched up. Charles looked toward Jason, then back at her. “You must take care, Miss Carrick, this young gentleman here is known for his prowess with the fair sex. Tender or no, it has never mattered. Why, stories are legend about—”

“I’ve been gone five years, Charles. The legends are good and dead.”

“But new ones are well begun in Baltimore,” Hallie said. “So many females running toward him in the rain, bumping umbrellas.”

Charles burst out laughing. “Good God, I can picture that.”

Hallie said, “I, myself, sir, saved Jason from a bevy of eager ladies at the ball last evening. Their strategy—a lovely narrow wedge headed by a very determined young lady—was excellent, but I was faster.”

Jason rose. “All of this must be amusing to the two of you. I, however, have work to do, work that will make me sweaty and dirty and completely unappetizing to the fairer sex.”

“Not Cook.”

Lord Carlisle’s lovely eyebrow went up again. “Cook? What is this?”

Hallie said, “Cook swoons whenever she sees Jason. He’s caught her twice now, one time she took him to the floor. When he is at the table, we eat very well indeed. If not, why, both Mrs. Tewksbury and I lose flesh.”

Jason threw up his hands and walked out. Hallie, without pause, said, “It took me long enough to arouse him. Thank you for your assistance, sir. Now, you will tell me what is going on with Lord Renfrew. There is no reason for Jason to have to suffer through another recital of the man’s mental and moral failures. He told you our history, I presume?”

Charles nodded slowly. “He told me he was foolish, that he didn’t realize the value of the precious jewel in his very hand.”

“Surely you’re making that up. Elgin really said such an idiotic thing?”

“Well, perhaps not. It’s difficult to know, Miss Carrick, whether to flatter, to soften, or to spit things right out into the open.”

“Spit, please, sir.”

“Only if you will call me Charles.”

“No, I don’t know you well enough yet. Please don’t ask me until sometime next week, if, that is, you’re still in the neighborhood.”

“You wound me, Miss Carrick.”

“I doubt that. Like Jason, I have a lot of work to do.”

Charles finished off his tea, sighed, and sat back in his chair, legs stretched in front of him. “Elgin’s father drank, his mother took lovers—he had a very difficult family—”

“You will not make excuses for him. Elgin Sloane is a man, he must be held responsible for his actions. That he obviously believed me to have less mental aptitude than a cow—well, now, that’s a painful tonic to swallow. However, when I discovered the truth, I would have shot an arrow through his gullet if I’d had my bow with me.”

“As I said, Miss Carrick,” Charles said, “Elgin made some bad decisions, decisions he bitterly regrets. He has changed. He has grown into his years, although it has taken him longer to grow since he lied about his age.”

“How old is Lord Renfrew?”

“I know for a fact that he is thirty-three.”

She laughed, simply couldn’t help herself. “Twenty-four months, he lied about twenty-four months. He believed that to an eighteen-year-old-girl head over boots in love, twenty-four months would make a difference?”

“One never knows about females. My own wife was a mystery to me until the day she died. I see you are still feeling the pain of the blow he struck you.”

“What blow was that?”

“What he did isn’t all that dishonorable, Miss Carrick. Elgin desperately needed money to restore his uncle’s estates. The old man was a wastrel, unworthy of his lands and title. Elgin knew he would have to make the ultimate sacrifice.”

“The ultimate sacrifice,” Hallie repeated slowly, savoring the words. “I had no idea I had achieved such status. That’s the only blow he told you about?”

“Good grief, there’s another?”

“Indeed. The thing is, Lord Renfrew was bedding another woman at the same time of our betrothal.”

Charles winced. “I can see why he wouldn’t want to admit that to me. That does make him appear in a rather stupid light, doesn’t it?”

“Oh yes. Now, you can’t buy my mare and you can’t push Lord Renfrew’s suit. You’ve drunk your tea. Would you like to leave now, sir? Perhaps take Lord Renfrew’s hat and cane to him?”

Charles slowly rose. “I knew that messengers were always kicked, yet still I came. That second blow, he didn’t tell me about that one. Next time I will know better.”

“Lord Renfrew must have a hold on you, to actually convince you to come here. To be his emissary, that is certainly sinking oneself very low.”

“Oh yes, certainly he has a lovely hold over me. If he didn’t, can you possibly imagine I would be here to push the nitwit’s suit with you?”

She laughed, felt a tug of liking. “What is the hold he has on you?”

“I don’t believe I’ll tell you that, Miss Carrick. May I call you Hallie?”

“No. Perhaps next week. If there is a next week, which, given the company you keep, is highly unlikely. Jason and I are very busy. I do not like to have to spend time sipping tea when there are stalls to muck out.”

“A lovely thought, that,” he said. He walked to her, his stride strong and graceful, making Hallie wonder just who Charles Grandison was. He collected her hand, turned it over and kissed her wrist. “Such soft skin,” he said.

“If you lick me, I shall kick you out the front door.”

He laughed. “Oh, no, I don’t lick a lady’s flesh, at least not in the drawing room, Miss Carrick. It has no finesse, only the value of shock. I dislike such artifice.”

She wondered what he was thinking when he mounted the lovely gray Andalusian gelding held by Crispin, their youngest stable lad, all of thirteen, and watched him accept Lord Renfrew’s hat and cane from Petrie. She watched him ride the Andalusian through the open gates and down the drive. An excellent riding horse—proud, agile, calm. She wondered what his name was. She wondered what hold Lord Renfrew held over Charles Grandison.

Hallie wanted to work her horses, she wanted to sweat, to perhaps sing a ditty. She didn’t want a man to make a fool of her ever again.

Ten minutes later, she was walking quickly toward the stables. She could still hear Petrie and Martha arguing, hear Cook singing as she prepared Master Jason a Spanish frittata, and Angela humming as she sewed another divided skirt for Hallie.

She whistled until she wasn’t more than twenty feet from the paddocks, and heard a scream.

It was Delilah, and she was loose. So was Penelope, and both were in the paddock running after Dodger, who, with a tremendous jump, cleared the paddock fence to race off into the distance.

“What the devil happened, Henry?”

Jason came running around the corner, a hoof pick still in his right hand. He gathered what it was all about. “Bring me Charlemagne. He’s the only one fast enough to catch Dodger.”

But Hallie was faster. “He’s my horse,” she said, slid the bridle into place, grabbed his mane, and pulled herself up. “I’ll fetch Dodger home, sir. You calm the mares.”

Jason watched her ride that brute of hers bareback at a gallop. He watched Charlemagne take a fence in full stride. He shook his head and went to the paddock.

“The little missus sure can ride,” Henry said. “I ain’t niver seen a female ride like that ’un.”

“It’s a pity Charlemagne’s bloodlines aren’t worth spit, else we could make a lot of money off him.”

“Old feller’s an accident o’ blood, Master Jason, an’ that sometimes ’appens. He niver shoulda been so mean nor so fast.”

Not five minutes later, Corrie and James rode up to the stable. “We saw Hallie riding like the wind. What’s going on?”

“Dodger’s ladies were fighting over him. He escaped, and Hallie went after him.”

James handed his brother Bad Boy’s reins. “You’d best make sure she doesn’t break her neck.”

CHAPTER 28

It was the fault of Major Philly’s cow, who was wandering free in her pasture, chewing placidly on the fresh summer grass as she stared after Dodger, who was still running faster than the wind. The cow was unaware that Charlemagne was running right at her, all his focus on Dodger, who was still a good thirty yards ahead of him.

When the cow saw Charlemagne, eyes wild, head down, she mooed loudly in alarm.

Charlemagne heard the moo but didn’t see the cow, but Hallie did. In a last-ditch effort to avert disaster, she threw herself against his neck, grabbed the reins close to his mouth, and jerked as hard as she could to her right.

Charlemagne ripped the reins out of her hands, jumped straight into the air, slashed out at the cow with his hooves, missed, and sent Hallie hurtling over his head.

Jason saw the whole thing. He was so frightened he cursed until he’d run out of both human and animal body parts. He leapt off Bad Boy’s back, dodged the cow’s butting head, and fell to his knees beside Hallie.

She was pale except for two bloody scratches on her cheek. He felt for the pulse in her throat, couldn’t find it. “Don’t you dare be dead, damn you. I want Lyon’s Gate, but not over your dead body. Open your eyes, you bloody female, now. You don’t wish to be the first buried here in this cow pasture, do you? There, I found your pulse. You’re alive, so stop pretending you’re not. Wake up, woman.”

“I wonder where all past owners of Lyon’s Gate are buried?”

Her words were slurred, but he understood them. “Good, you’re here. Keep your eyes open. How many fingers am I waving in front of your nose?”

“A blurry fist. You’re shaking your fist at me. What nerve.”

“Hold still.” He started with her arms, then skimmed his hands lightly over her, ending with squeezing her toes in her riding boots. “Do you have pain anywhere else other than your head? Don’t lie there with a vacant look on your face, answer me. You didn’t groan, is it only your head?”

“Yes, it’s only my head. Get that fist out of my face.”

“My fist is two fingers. Keep your eyes open, Hallie. I saw what happened. Ah, here’s Dodger, come back to see what trouble he caused. I tried to shout after you that Dodger always came home by himself, but you were off to save the day rather than pause for just an instant to see if your assistance was even needed.”

“He comes home by himself?”

“Look at poor old Charlemagne. He’s blowing after that adventure you put him through. Charlemagne could have hurt that cow, and you have no idea how much Major Philly loves his cows.”

“Would Dodger really have come back since Delilah and Penelope were after him?”

“Hmm.”

“You don’t know either since this is the fist time two mares wanted him. He was frantic, Jason. He wanted only to escape. Charlemagne doesn’t come back. Can you teach him to come home?”

“Maybe. Right now, all three horses are standing no more than six feet from me, wondering why you’re lying here on the ground.”

Jason felt in his pocket and gave each horse a sugar cube. “You want one too?”

Hallie looked at him, then at the horses, all three of them still staring down at her, chewing on their sugar cubes. She was glad she didn’t know what they were thinking. The cow mooed. Jason gave the cow a sugar cube too.

“This is humiliating,” she said, and closed her eyes.

“Open your damned eyes!”

“No,” she whispered and turned her face into his hand. He felt her warm blood against his palm. “Can I have a sugar cube?”

He wanted to laugh, but he didn’t. He felt her warm breath, then he realized she was asleep, or unconscious, he didn’t know which. He felt the lump behind her left ear growing bigger. She wasn’t going to like the way she felt when she woke up. Jason sat back on his haunches, popped a sugar cube into his mouth. Dodger, seeing him do that, whinnied. “Well, my fine fellows, what the hell do I do now?”

He looked up when he heard Major Philly say from behind his right shoulder, “I say, Mr. Sherbrooke, what are you doing with my sweet Georgiana? Why is Miss Carrick—she is Miss Carrick, isn’t she?”

Jason nodded. “She was thrown.” He turned back to Hallie to see Major Philly’s Georgiana butting her head, licking her hair and face.

“Get that fist out of my face.”

“It’s Georgiana, not my fist,” the major said. “Is Miss Carrick all right, Jason? She doesn’t look at all the thing, you know. There’s blood running down her face.”

Hallie moaned and didn’t breathe in. She didn’t move.

“Here’s a sugar cube,” Jason said and stuck it in her mouth. “Suck on that and I’ll get you home.”

“I say, Mr. Sherbrooke, poor Georgiana is overset. Her eyes are rolling in her head.”

“Give her another sugar cube, sir, she’ll be fine.”

When Jason carried Hallie into the house, Martha yelled, “Heaven’s groats! There’s blood dripping off her face. She’s dead!”

Petrie, to Jason’s surprise, said as placid as a vicar who’s drunk the sacramental wine, “Calm yourself, Martha. Master Jason would have told us if she was dead. She looks bad, though. Shall I fetch a doctor, or is it too late?”

“I suppose it would be best to have her head checked. Send Crispin. He knows where Dr. Blood lives.”

“Yes,” Corrie said, coming into the drawing room, “he can ride Petunia, my mare. Dr. Blood is such a good physician, but such an unfortunate name.”

“Hello, Corrie,” Jason said. “You and James came for a visit? Everything’s all right at home, isn’t it?”

“Oh yes, but Hallie—”

Before Petrie took himself off, he said to Corrie, “I can see her chest moving, my lady. Well, since she’s a female, it’s not quite accurate to say chest, but you know what I mean—”

“Everyone knows exactly what you mean, Petrie. Go.” Jason sat beside her, held her hand, told her that even though Major Philly wasn’t pleased with her for scaring the bejesus out of his cow, Jason had talked him around. “Keep those eyes open and listen to me. Twenty years ago, James and I helped him herd his cows into another pasture when his dog, Oliver, was ill and couldn’t do it. He always called us Mr. Sherbrooke.”

“Because he couldn’t tell us apart,” James said.

“Probably not, but it was a nice touch, made us both feel very important. The thing is that Georgiana is a very sensitive bovine. It’s possible her milk has been adversely affected.”

“All right, if it isn’t her fault, then it’s Dodger’s fault.”

Jason tucked the lovely afghan his grandmother had knitted over her. “Do I recall preaching about taking responsibility?”

“You listened to what I said to Lord Carlisle about Elgin Sloane, did you?” asked Hallie.

“I had to remove a pebble from my boot. My ears didn’t stop working. When you’re upset, Hallie, you’re loud.”

When Dr. Blood, a Scotsman from John O’Groats, so far north that throwing people into the frigid sea was the preferred method of murder, arrived and looked down at Hallie, he stroked his chin. She still smelled like cow, sugar cubes, and carrots, and had a blinding headache, but Dr. Blood was pleased she was awake and alert. She looked up at him with narrowed eyes. “I don’t want any man named Blood near me.”

“Too late, young lady,” said Jonathan Blood. He finally had to shove Jason out of the way. “Do you want to vomit?”

Petrie said, “See here, she can’t vomit, not in the drawing room where there’s no chamber pot in sight.”

“No, Petrie, I’m not nauseous, thank God.”

Dr. Blood felt the lump behind her ear, looked at her eyes, kneaded her neck, felt her ankles after he’d removed her boots, frowned at her torn stockings, and ordered strong tea without sugar. “You’ll do,” he said. “Nothing like a woman to have a hard head. You remain lying there, Miss Carrick, all limp and female and let Jason here wait on you. Jason, you can give her some laudanum now. The headache should be gone when she wakes up.”

“The master doesn’t do that,” Martha said from the doorway. “I do that.”

“No, it is I who dole out the laudanum,” Petrie said. “I am the one ultimately responsible for curing Miss Carrick’s headache. I am the butler.”

Hallie groaned.

“Oh dear,” Petrie said.

“She’s not going to vomit,” Corrie said. “Are you, Hallie?”

“No.”

James said, peering down at her, “Now that we know you’re all right, Hallie, my wife and I will see ourselves out. You’ve enough to deal with without family hanging about, even though Bad Boy saved the day, and I’ve yet to hear a single thank-you.”

Jason threw a wet cloth at his twin, who caught it out of the air, and said, “It smells like cow. Not good.”

Corrie laughed, took her husband’s hand, and dragged him from the drawing room. “Rest, Hallie. I will come back in a couple of days to see how you are doing. Angela, don’t worry, your fallen chick will be just fine.”

By eight o’clock that evening, Hallie was so bored, she was ready to tear raw meat apart. Not a minute later, Jason obligingly came into her bedchamber, whistling and carrying a tray.

She eyed the teapot. “I hope Cook made the tea for you. If not, it will taste like hot water with oak bark in it.”

Jason set the tray down, poured a cup and tasted it. “No, not oak bark. Hmm. Elm bark, if I’m not mistaken.”

She laughed, drank some delicious tea, eyed the single scone he handed her. “You lied to her. Well done.”

“I told Cook I needed sustenance to see to your care. She commiserated; not verbally, of course. She didn’t swoon.”

“This is the first time I’ve seen your face since you carted me upstairs.”

“Someone has to work around here,” he said, and handed her the scone. “Don’t stuff it in your mouth. I don’t want you getting sick to your stomach.”

“Petrie came here three times, and each time he pointed out the chamber pot to me. Everyone else was nice enough not to mention it.”

“Angela told me you didn’t look too bad. The scratches on your cheek, I don’t think they’re deep enough to scar.”

“My father always told me I was like him. I could get knocked about, even stomped on, and never show a mark. I like Bad Boy. Do you think James would sell him to me?”

“Not in this lifetime. But he is talking about breeding him. I’ll come to an agreement with him. How do you feel?”

“You know that Normandy church in Easterly? I feel like the bells are clanging inside my head.”

“Good. They’re lovely, those bells. Would you like some more laudanum?”

She shook her head. “Are the horses all right?”

“Dodger seems quite content to whinny over his stall door at both Delilah and Penelope. As for Charlemagne, he got extra oats and a good brushing. Henry told him even though he had a rotten bloodline, he was a steadfast lad, one could count on him.”

“I want to race him next week at Hallum Heath.”

“I’m riding Dodger in that race.”

“You’re too big. You’ll lose.”

“I know, it simply sounds nice to say it. We’ve a jockey arriving early next week, in time for that race. He’s ridden for the Rothermere racing stables for seven years now, ever since he was fifteen. He’s marrying a local girl, moving here, and we are the ones to benefit from Rothermere’s loss. His name is Lorry Dale. Phillip Hawksbury, he’s the earl of Rothermere, said Lorry stuck to a horse’s back like a tick. He only weights eight and a half stone.”

“Hmm.”

“We can both attend, make certain nothing bad is taking place, shout ourselves hoarse, and have some fun. Dodger will win with Lorry on his back.”

“I weigh eight stone.”

“This isn’t Baltimore, and you aren’t Jessie Wyndham. You will not race here, Hallie. Living with me is difficult enough for people to accept, and they only do it because of my family. Your riding in a horse race wouldn’t be tolerated. You’d have to shoot yourself dead to be forgiven that transgression. The winner’s purse is one hundred pounds. Money we can well use.”

“But—”

He lightly placed his fingertips over her mouth. She froze. Jason did as well. Neither moved. Suddenly, Jason took three steps back from her bed, stuck his hands behind his back. He looked toward the door. “I’m going out.”

Hallie felt as if she’d been punched in the gut. She watched him walk backward, looking at her like he wanted to—what? She didn’t know. He was flushed, his eyes looked funny. He wanted to leave? He’d touched her mouth and he couldn’t wait to get away from her? “What do you mean you’re going out? You said nothing before. It’s nearly nine o’clock at night. Jason, wait, where are you going?”

“I’m going out now.” And he was gone in the next thirty seconds. It wasn’t the first time he’d absented himself abruptly in the evenings, for no particular reason that she knew of. Four times now, five? And when did he come home? That was a good question.

Hallie heard him walk by her bedchamber near dawn. She jumped out of bed, nearly fell over at the drumming pain in her head, but managed to stumble out into the corridor. She saw him with his hand out to grasp the door handle on his bedchamber door.

“You just got home. You’re whistling? It’s almost daylight!”

He jerked around like he’d been shot. He saw it was her, saw she was weaving in her open doorway, and started walking back to her. “Yes, I’m home. Let’s get you back to bed, Hallie. What were you doing awake?”

“I was nearly awake when you walked by. Oh dear, where’s the chamber pot?”

CHAPTER 29

He held her while she heaved and shuddered and felt her belly clench in on itself since there was nothing to come up.

His guilt was heavy; he never should have left her. It was all his fault. He’d been only concerned with himself. And so he pulled back her hair now and yelled at her bent head, “Why the hell didn’t you call for help if you felt ill? Why did you leap out of your bed when you heard me outside? Have you no brain at all?”

She finally stilled. He pulled her back against him. The weight of her breasts on his crossed arms felt very nice, but he could take it now. He’d worked himself nearly to death last night to be able to take it now.

Her breathing was calmer, she was relaxing more against him. Her hair was tousled and smelled of jasmine since Martha had washed out Georgiana’s scent. “How do you feel?”

It was the oddest thing. He could feel her thinking. Finally she said, her breath warm against his arm, “I don’t want to die at the moment and that’s good. But my belly feels like it’s raw.”

“You’re far too obstinate to die anytime in the next fifty years. All right now, I’m going to heave you back into bed.”

When he’d pulled the covers to her waist, he gave her some tea that had steeped since the previous night. She sipped it and nearly rose straight off the bed. “Oh goodness, that tea has vampire teeth.”

“Yes, I thought it might do the trick. Cleared your head right out, didn’t it?”

She breathed through her nose as the world tilted, then felt her belly calm. Jason eased her head down on the pillow. “I’m all right now. I don’t know what happened—”

He said, “I’m thinking now you weren’t feeling ill. You got out of bed to come and spy on me, didn’t you?”

“Well, yes, it doesn’t sound very noble, but that’s the way it was. I’ll tell you now, Jason, I wouldn’t have if I’d known what would happen.”

“Consider it the wages of sin.” He stood beside her, pulled the covers to her chin, and realized his arms were still warm from her breasts. He frowned. Everything, he’d learned, was temporary in life, and sometimes, like now, it was a damned nuisance.

He was backing away from her bed again.

“What is the matter with you, Jason? Are you going out again?”

“What? Oh, no, I’m going to bed. I added a bit of laudanum to the tea. You should be asleep in two minutes. Don’t worry about anything.” And he was gone from her bedchamber, closing the door quietly after him. She heard his boots in the corridor.

She was asleep, belly and head calm, within the next minute.

It was a hot morning in July. Jason could smell the freshly scythed grass from the open breakfast-room window. It filled him with contentment, that, and the fact that there were now six mares in the stables, hopefully all of them pregnant, all of them sent by friends or friends of friends or friends of relatives.

“Isn’t it nice having such lovely big families?” Angela said at the breakfast table. “This is a note from your aunt Arielle, Hallie. She writes that the duke of Portsmouth will be contacting you and Jason about two mares to be covered by Dodger. He also wants to breed his favorite stallion with Piccola next year.” Angela raised her head.

Jason appeared distracted. “Yes, Angela, lovely.”

Hallie licked some gooseberry jam off her toast, looked at him, and sneered. “What is this? You wish to run away in the morning?”

Jason tapped his fork on the plate, picked up a slice of bacon and ate it. He rose. “I have work to do,” he said, and was gone.

“The young master seems to have a lot on his mind,” Angela said. “Perhaps Petrie will know what’s going on.”

“Petrie is a clam when it comes to Jason. As wily and subtle as I am, even I couldn’t get a thing out of him.”

“Perhaps Petrie needs a more mature hand, one that makes a lovely fist.”

“Hmm. I never thought about threatening him,” Hallie said.

“I will begin with wearing a soft glove over the fist.” Angela left the breakfast room humming.

Hallie looked down the short expanse of breakfast table and saw that Jason had left most of the food on his plate. What the devil was wrong with him? He seemed jumpy lately, as if, somehow, he were in some kind of distress. This wasn’t good. She had to find out what was going on with him. After Angela was done with Petrie, Hallie would push her own gloved fist in his face.

But Petrie was nowhere to be found. As for Jason, Lorry, their new jockey, told her, he’d ridden off in the old gig.

An hour later, nearly high noon, Hallie dressed in one of her split skirts, grinned down at her reflection in her shiny boots, and took herself to the stables. There was always so much to be done.

There were only two mares in the paddocks, both asleep where they stood, their tails flicking gently. It was later than she’d thought. All the lads were out exercising the horses. She walked around the corner of the stable and stopped dead in her tracks. Jason was forking hay into the back of an open wagon, his movement rhythmic and graceful.

He wasn’t wearing his shirt. In point of fact, he was naked from the top of his head all the way to his waist, well, perhaps even a bit lower than that. There was a line of hair that trailed beneath the waist of his trousers. She saw a faint line of sweat. He paused a moment, and stretched.

She nearly expired on the spot.

Jason walked back into the stable. She walked quickly after him, not even realizing that her feet were moving. She came to a stop in the open doorway, heard the mares whinny, watched him stroke each nose as he gave each mare a sugar cube.

When he wiped his palms on his breeches, he turned, whistling, and froze. He hadn’t heard her, hadn’t known she was anywhere near. She was standing not six feet from him, her arms at her sides, staring at him like a halfwit. “How is your head?”

“My head? Oh, fine.” She gulped, trying to bring her eyes to his face, which was always a treat, but unable to this time. “Just fine. Lorry said you had left in the gig.”

“I had to deliver two saddles to the blacksmith in Hawley.”

“That’s nice. The gooseberry jam Cook made you for breakfast was wonderful.”

“Well, yes, it was. Hallie—” He scratched his chest—his bare chest. He hadn’t realized he’d taken his shirt off. Bright sunlight shone through the open stable doors, and he saw it on a tree stump twenty feet away. He looked toward the shirt, back at her face. “Hallie,” he said again. “My shirt—let me fetch it.”

“You don’t need to do that. I’ve seen men without their shirts before.”

“Why don’t you go back to the house? Or I can go back to the house and pick up my shirt on the way.”

“Actually, the only man I saw without his shirt on was my father. He grabbed his shirt really fast so I didn’t see all that much, which is a pity since he is so beautiful and a girl needs to know what’s what. I have younger brothers—I bathed them, went swimming with them—but to be honest here, that’s not really the same thing.”

“No, it’s not. If would be best if you turned around now.”

“That isn’t necessary, Jason. You are very lovely to look at.”

“Do you think you could look me in the face when you say that?”

She began walking toward him. The mares whinnied. Jason stood nailed to the spot. When she was no more than three feet from him, she hurled herself at him, threw her arms around his neck, and pressed close.

She nearly knocked him over backward. He grabbed her arms, tried to peel her off him, but it was no good, she was strong and determined. He couldn’t believe he was panting, but he was. “Hallie, for God’s sake, you’ve got to stop, you’ve got to get hold of yourself—” He felt the length of her hard against him. “No,” he said into her mouth. Oh God, her mouth was so very soft and her breath tasted sweet. It was the hardest thing he’d ever done in his life, but Jason kept his arms stiff against his sides. One of her hands stroked down his chest. His breath whooshed out when her finger slipped beneath the waist of his trousers. She didn’t know what she was doing, she couldn’t know. No, he wouldn’t seduce her, no, it wasn’t going to happen, he refused—

“What the hell is going on here?”

A man’s voice, sharp, appalled, a voice vaguely familiar, a voice he’d heard before, but not here, not in England. Oh God, that voice was from Baltimore. That was a father’s voice, a voice ripe for murder.

Hallie’s father’s voice. Baron Sherard. Bloody hell and back.

“Hallie, step away from the man.”

She turned to Lot’s wife. Her breathing was hard and fast, but she didn’t move, if anything, she pressed closer, warm, soft, all of her pressed so close, too close, and her father was spitting distance away. “Er, Father?” She sounded out of breath, like she was walking on a tightrope and was going to fall at any moment, like she wanted to fall, and—

“Yes. Hallie, I’m your father, and I’m here, not more than eight feet behind you. I want you to listen to me now. Take your arms from around Jason’s neck. Do it now. Step back.”

“It’s hard,” she whispered, breathing in the scent of his flesh. “Very hard, Papa. He doesn’t have a shirt on.”

“I can see that. Step back, Hallie. You can do it, I know you can.”

She felt her father’s hand on her arm, tugging her, but still, it was so difficult. Slowly, she managed to put an inch between herself and Jason, then two. She wanted to weep at the distance.

Her father was here, not three inches behind her, his hand on her arm. Sanity returned with a solid thunk. She turned. “Papa? You’re here at Lyon’s Gate? I mean, you’re here at this specific time, which is really very unfortunate for me. Should you like to come to the house for a cup of tea?”

His little girl, he could see her all of five years old, sitting cross-legged and barefoot on the quarterdeck of his brigantine, practicing her knots, clad in denim dungarees, a straw tarpaulin hat covering her head. Dear God, here she was nearly twenty-one years old and her eyes were glazed with lust. It was hard for a father to accept, but no matter, it was up to him to remain cool and calm, to remain in control, to save his daughter from herself. He cleared his throat. At least she wasn’t pressed against Jason Sherbrooke like a second shirt any longer. He cleared his throat again, this time for himself. “First, you will tell me why you’re plastered against Jason Sherbrooke.”

Hallie licked her bottom lip. Her father saw that tongue of hers and knew to his toes that if he’d been five minutes later, Jason would have had her naked under him on the stable floor. Or she would have had Jason naked and on his back on the stable floor. His little girl had tied the best rolling hitch on board his ship, but that little girl was no more.

“Jason,” he said, never taking his eyes off his daughter’s face, “go get your shirt and jacket on.”

Jason nodded.

Alec Carrick took his daughter’s arms and pulled her slowly against him. “Hello, sweetheart. May I say you’re always surprising me?”

“I’m sorry. I couldn’t help it.”

“No, I could see that you were completely involved in what you were doing. Could you tell me exactly what you were doing, Hallie? What you were planning to do?”

She blinked up at him. “I’m not really sure. It’s just that I saw Jason without his shirt on, and I fell off the cliff.”

Alec Carrick didn’t need to ask which cliff.

“Oh dear. I’ve never even thought to do anything like that before. I was getting used to his face, and that’s taken some doing, I can tell you that, but then to see him from his head to his waist—it was like a blow to the belly.”

Alec Carrick closed his eyes a moment. He’d learned all about blows to the belly at age thirteen.

“Baron Sherard,” Jason said, his shirt buttoned to his throat, his jacket buttoned as well, looking ridiculous in the heat. “Welcome to Lyon’s Gate. We weren’t expecting you.”

“No, I planned a surprise,” Alec said slowly, eyeing the young man who’d left scores of female hearts cracked when he’d steamed away from Baltimore to return home.

“I apologize, sir, for this particular surprise. I swear to you this hasn’t happened before, and it won’t happen again.”

A gentleman, Alec thought, he was a gentleman, taking the blame off his daughter’s head. As for Hallie, she was staring at Jason like the village idiot, lust still blooming bright on her cheeks, still glazing her eyes.

“Hallie,” her father said, “I would like some tea. Go into the house, fetch Angela, and Jason and I will be coming along soon.”

Both men watched Hallie walk slowly back toward the house, head down. It soon became obvious she was talking to herself. She waved her right hand, which meant she’d made a good point and the other part of her brain had to accept it.

“She’ll lose this argument.”

That brought Alec up short. “You know what she’s doing?”

Jason shrugged. “She was arguing with herself about me once. I was relieved that the side of her who’d taken my part that day, won. She didn’t bash me on the head. Sir, about what you saw—”

“Yes?”

“As I said, this has never happened before. It happened this time because I was forking that damned hay, and it’s really warm this morning. I just didn’t think. I took my shirt off. I’m sorry.”

Alec Carrick stood not three feet from Jason, his arms crossed over his chest, legs spread. He looked perfectly capable of drawing a pistol and shooting Jason between the eyes.

“Would you like to tell me why one of my daughter’s hands was straying down to your belly?”

Jason nearly shuddered, felt again quite clearly those long fingers of hers on his flesh, tangling in his hair. He’d wanted to jerk and quake. “No, sir, both hands were around my neck except for the very shortest of moments. I swear to you I hardly noticed her hand. Or her fingers.”

That was a lie of the first order, but Alec didn’t nail him. “Thank God you didn’t or I imagine my daughter—what’s this? Oh yes, the stable lads have returned from exercising the horses. No one was about. That’s fortunate. I hate to ask myself what my daughter would have done if the stable lads were in the stables. Would she have controlled herself? As a father, I pray so. Shall we continue this at the house?”

“Certainly.” Suddenly, Jason grinned. “I wonder what Cook will do when she sees you.”

An eyebrow went up as the baron strode next to him. “Why the devil should your cook do anything?”

“If she swoons at the sight of you, my lord, do catch her, else we won’t eat well for dinner.”

Cook looked at both gentlemen, standing side by side, and burst into a vaguely Italian aria, both hands clasped over her breast. She never stopped singing as she skipped back to the kitchen, an amazing sight, given her bulk.

“Heavenly groats, Miss Hallie, and me poor whirling eyes, this is too much bounty for a simple female. Two perfect gentlemen, both of them standing right here in our house, right next to each other. Are you perhaps Master Jason’s older brother, sir? Oh my, did Cook swoon?”

“Cook sang,” Hallie said. “Actually, she is still singing. This is my father, Martha, Baron Sherard.”

“Lawks, sir, ye—you—can’t be a father. You’re a god.”

CHAPTER 30

That evening, after a delicious dinner of turbot of lobster with peas and asparagus and a savory roast saddle of mutton, Cook delivered up a chocolate cream for dessert to make the angels sing.

It was still light outside, so the draperies in the drawing room weren’t pulled, and several windows were open to the sweet night air.

Hallie poured her father tea, added a dollop of cream, just as he liked it, and handed it to him. She could still smell Jason on her skin. How was that possible, since she’d bathed before dinner? Her hand trembled. She couldn’t think about Jason, at least not now. Her father was telling an amusing story, she had to pay attention. She said, “So what did Genny do to this Mr. Pauley?”

Alec laughed. “I believe she asked him if he played the piano, which he did, of course—she’d found that out before she asked the question. She then patted his hand and told him despite the fact that playing the piano, just like painting watercolors or sewing samplers, was a distinctly female pursuit, she still believed he looked manly enough, well, perhaps not quite as manly as he could if he eschewed the piano keys, for say, billiards and cheroots. He looked at me, studied himself for a moment in the mirror, coughed, then asked her very politely to design his yacht.”

Jason, who knew Genny Carrick, Lady Sherard, nodded when Hallie said, “I never saw her back down from a fight. And she’s so smooth. I still get so mad I want to spit nails in a man’s face when he tells me I’m too pretty to be out in the mud.”

Alec said, “Genny was the same as you at one time. However, since she married me, she’s learned to deal with businessmen with far more finesse.”

“That’s because if she could deal with you she could deal with the devil himself.”

Alec laughed and toasted her with his teacup.

Angela said to Jason, “Baroness Sherard taught Hallie to stand firm when the ground was firm enough to stand upon, otherwise, she was to step back quickly.”

Alec Carrick looked at his watch, looked at his daughter, and rose. “I believe Jason and I will have a short conversation. If you ladies will excuse us.”

Hallie jumped to her feet. “Oh no, Papa, don’t you dare take him outside and shoot him or break his head. He didn’t do anything. It was all me. I attacked him. I nearly knocked him over I wanted to get to him so quickly. You cannot blame him, it isn’t fair.”

“I cannot very well call my daughter a blockhead and knock her in the jaw, now can I?”

“You’ve called me a blockhead many times.”

Alec Carrick sighed. “I forgot.”

“Listen, Papa, he was helpless, he was polite, there was nothing he could do except maybe kick me away. Besides, all the stable lads were out with the horses. Angela won’t tell anyone, will you?”

“Certainly not, my dear, but you know these things have a way of oozing out of cracks in the walls.”

“No,” Hallie said. “No, it’s not possible.”

“Hallie, go to bed,” Jason said. “Sir, it’s quite a lovely night. Would you like to see Piccola prance around the paddock? It is one of her favorite pastimes.”

“Prancing on a moonlit night?”

Hallie said, “She refuses to prance if the sky isn’t clear. I don’t want to go to bed. I want to speak to my father, set his mind on the right road, assure him that if anyone did happen to see anything at all, I would bury him under the willow tree.”

Alec Carrick walked to his daughter, clamped his hand over her mouth, and said quietly into her ear, “There will be no bodies buried anywhere. You will not open your mouth again. You will go upstairs and you will stay there.”

Angela took Hallie’s arm. “It’s one of those times when the ground isn’t firm enough to stand on, my dear. Come along.”

Five minutes later, Alec Carrick was smoking a cheroot and thinking about this very odd day. He said as he watched the smoke curl up into the clear night sky, “My daughter is one of the most self-contained individuals I have ever known. Even when she was small, she looked at those around her with a dispassionate eye. However, she was not at all dispassionate today in the stables.”

Jason had never seen her dispassionate, indeed, did not recognize this woman her father spoke of. Hallie, dispassionate? Never. He said, “It is true, sir, what I told you. Nothing like that has ever happened before. I would not dishonor your daughter.”

“No, the shock on your face, the desperation, was as stark as the white moon. The initial letters my daughter wrote to her mother and me after the both of you wanted Lyon’s Gate—she was quite ready to tear your head from your body. When she wrote of your male beauty, I could picture the sneer on her face. What do you think of my daughter, Jason?”

“She has more guts than brains.”

Baron Sherard nodded, remained silent.

“This is something that shouldn’t have happened, my lord. I never wish to wed, you see.”

Alec said slowly, “I heard rumors to that effect, rumors that you’d exiled yourself from England, spent nearly five years of your life living with the Wyndhams. You did this because of a woman?”

Jason shook his head.

“I had heard you were shot, nearly died. I will admit, I wondered what happened.”

“I didn’t die.”

Alec Carrick waited.

Jason said, “It’s been over a long time, yet when I close my eyes it seems just a moment ago. I was responsible for the near-murder of my father and brother.”

“How can that be?”

Jason shrugged. “It was a bad time. Know that I was the one responsible for it.”

Alec let it go. “I repeat, Jason, what do you think of my daughter?”

Jason looked out of the paddock, listened to Henry’s low, soft voice as he spoke to Piccola, who was lightly tapping one hoof against the ground. Moonlight washed over the two of them, made the white paddock fence look like a painting. “This is my home. When I first saw Lyon’s Gate, I knew it would be mine, that I would live my life here and race and breed horses.”

“My daughter felt the same way.”

“Yes, I came to realize that. I will tell you that my family, because they love me, tried to get rid of her, but she never faltered. Thus we have this partnership of sorts. It has been difficult, I won’t lie to you, my lord. Your daughter is lovely, she is bright, she works until she’s cross-eyed, and she can walk into a room of people and bring laughter or create chaos. We have yelled at each other, nearly come to blows, all in the past two months, including the day I first saw her. Both of us have learned to bend a bit. Did you know that Lord Renfrew was in the neighborhood?”

“That ass? Did she hurt him?”

“It was close, but she decided to laugh instead, at how stupid she’d been. Do you know what really angered her? Evidently, in addition to bedding another woman during their betrothal, the buffoon lied to her about his age.”

Alec Carrick threw back his head and laughed at the moon. Piccola raised her head and whinnied. She broke away from Henry and began to dance around the paddock, coming nearer and nearer to where Jason and Hallie’s father stood, booted feet on the wooden railing. Her eyes never left the baron’s face.

Jason said, “I hadn’t realized Piccola liked laughter so much.”

Alec said slowly, smiling toward Piccola, “After she found out about Renfrew, my daughter told me she never intended to marry. She said she didn’t have good judgment in selecting gentlemen. I reminded her that she was only eighteen years old, and what could she expect in the way of seeing behind the masks people wear?”

“You’re never smarter in your life than when you’re eighteen,” Jason said.

“I assume you’re right. It’s been too long for me to remember. Now, so you’ll know how serious she was, Hallie wanted to make a blood oath with one of her brothers that she would never wed. Her brother was eleven years old and would do anything she said. I put a stop to it before she could cut her palm with a knife.

“After turning down a good half dozen gentlemen, four of the six quite satisfactory, I believed her.”

“Hallie and I suffer from the same bad judgment in potential mates.”

“I see. I think it’s time you told me a bit of what happened, Jason.”

Jason saw no hope for it. He said slowly, “Unlike Lord Renfrew, this very smart and beautiful young lady did nothing so paltry as lie about her age. She was a monster and I never saw it. As a result of my poor judgment, she nearly killed my father, and her brother nearly killed my twin.

“The fact is, I am not good husband material, my lord, because I can’t imagine ever trusting a female again in my life. I couldn’t give a wife what she’d deserve. I couldn’t make her happy.”

“Because of this lack you see in yourself.”

Jason nodded. “It’s there and it’s deep, part of me now, and a wife would come to resent me, even hate me.”

Baron Sherard said nothing more. He patted Piccola’s nose, remembering how she’d struggled to stand after her mother had finally birthed her six years before at Carrick Grange. He watched her prance about in the paddock beneath the moonlight. He smiled. Youth, he thought, was always such a serious business. There was a lot to think about. He wondered what the earl and countess of Northcliffe thought of his daughter. Had they known what would very probably happen if two young, healthy people were put together like this?

Jason was lying on his back, his head pillowed on his arms, staring up at the shadowy ceiling. Moonlight poured through the open window. The air was still and sweet. Sleep was a million miles away.

He watched the doorknob turn slowly. In an instant, his body was poised to fight. The door opened quietly.

A halo of candlelight appeared. “Jason? Are you asleep?”

“It’s after midnight. Of course I’m asleep, you twit. What do you want, Hallie? Don’t you take another step. You will not come in here, not with your father sleeping twenty feet down the corridor. Go away.”

She slipped through and quietly closed the door. “When I was little, I practiced walking on cat feet since I excelled at eavesdropping. The only person who would ever hear me was my stepmother. She told me it was a good skill to develop but I must promise not to use it on her. I never did.”

“I heard you. Go away.”

“Jason, I’m not going to jump you again,” she said, and she sounded both mortified and excited. She tossed her hair behind her, long thick hair, which he had no intention of thinking about, how it would feel rubbing against his cheek, a curtain over his belly.

“Stay there, Hallie. I have no nightshirt on.”

“Really? You don’t sleep in a nightshirt? Yes, I remember Corrie saying something about that. Do you know the moon is flooding through that window, Jason? If I come only five steps closer, I’ll be able—”

“If you come one step closer, I’ll personally throw you out that window. It’s a nice drop to the ground.”

“All right, all right, I’ll not move from this spot. Tell me, did my father try to break your arm?”

“No, he didn’t.”

“Do you know what my father is thinking? He wouldn’t tell me a thing, patted my cheek, bid me good night, and walked away. And here I’ve known him all my life.”

“I saw you slide your right foot forward. Step back, Hallie.”

She took a very small step back. He saw she was barefoot. “If my father didn’t hit you, then I know what he wants, Jason, but believe me, you don’t have to agree. What happened was my fault, I’ve told him so a good dozen times. He says nothing, only looks patient. I wish he would believe that no one could possibly know. It’s as if it simply never happened. Poof, it’s gone.”

Jason sighed. “Nothing’s gone. He’s your father. That makes all the difference in the world. I don’t think there’s going to be any choice here, Hallie.” He gave a short laugh. “At least our questionable partnership will be over.”

“No, don’t say it. I wanted to apologize to you for what I did, though I don’t remember thinking anything at all while I was doing it.”

“Usually it’s gentlemen who lose their wits and can think only of getting a woman flat on her back.”

“I hadn’t gotten that far,” she said. “I mean, your shirt was off and that gave me quite a lot to think about. When my hand made that very brief foray down your chest, well, perhaps I did think that getting you out of your trousers might be a very nice thing.” She paused, took a sideways step. “You’re out of your britches now.”

He sat up.

She stared at him.

He pulled the sheet around him, then a blanket up over his shoulders, pulling it together over his chest, like a shawl.

Alec Carrick said from the doorway, “Hallie, I cannot believe you are here. Have you no sense at all?”

“Is that you, Papa? Oh dear, I believe it is. I’m not touching him. See, I’m at least seven feet away from his bed.”

“Did you count the bloody feet?”

“Well, yes, perhaps I did, and how fast it would take me to cover those feet if I ran. Papa, I’m only here to make Jason tell me what you said to him. See, he’s all covered up. He’s safe.”

Alec Carrick laughed, couldn’t help himself. “You’re going to chase him out of his own house if you’re not careful, Hallie.”

“He’s been chasing himself away lately,” she said to her father. “We’d be speaking, then he’d up and leave and not come back until dawn. I know it was dawn the other night because I was nearly awake, and so I told him.”

“I see,” Alec Carrick said. “How often does Jason simply leave like that?”

“He’s left a good half dozen times. Never a warning, he ups and leaves.”

Jason wanted to dump her into the horse trough. “My lord, nothing would have happened here, nothing at all.”

“I believe you. So you left, did you? How long do you think you could have kept that up, Jason?”

Jason felt like a fool. He was lying naked in bed—his bed—minding his own business, and she tracked him down, and now her father was looking at him with a good deal of understanding and determination. He said slowly, “Perhaps we could speak in the morning, sir? Make decisions, settlements, that sort of thing.”

“Yes,” Alec said. “That would be fine.” He took his daughter’s hand and dragged her from Jason’s bedchamber.

“Wait! What is going on here? What do you mean, decisions? Listen, just because Jason leaves the house a lot, you want to talk about settlements? No, I won’t do it. I don’t wish to marry, I’ve told you that again and again, Papa. Look at Lord Renfrew. I shudder to think of him. Can you begin to imagine what his children would have been like? Papa, I won’t do this! Didn’t Jason tell you he didn’t want to wed either? He was really hurt, Papa, burned to his feet, not singed like I was. This can’t happen.”

Alec Carrick quietly closed the bedchamber door.

Jason, wide awake, knowing he was facing his doom and seeing no hope for it, jumped out of bed, dressed quickly, and within five minutes, was riding Dodger away from Lyon’s Gate. Hallie sat at her window and wondered again where he was going.

CHAPTER 31

Corrie was dreaming about the day she finally gave her grandmother-in-law her comeuppance, a loud, thoroughly satisfactory comeuppance it was. In her dream she was standing there, her hands on her hips, staring down the old besom, who, for the very first time in her life, had nothing to say. Something skittered along the back of her brain. The dream folded itself away in an instant. Something skittered again.

Corrie’s eyes flew open. She’d heard something that didn’t belong in her bedchamber. What was it? She saw a shadow in the window. Oh God, someone was trying to get in. James grunted in his sleep as she eased out of bed. She saw another movement. She grabbed the poker from the fireplace and yelled as she ran toward the window, “Bloody hell! A woman lets her guard down, even dreams a lovely dream, and look what happens—a bloody man is climbing into her bedchamber, uninvited. Come in and make it fast else I’ll clout your head!”

James jerked awake. “Corrie, what the devil is wrong?”

“Shush, Corrie, it’s just me, Jason. Don’t crack my head open with that damned thing.”

Corrie lowered the poker, her heart still pounding wildly. “Jason? It’s you? We have doors. What are you doing coming in through our window?”

“I want to speak to James. I didn’t want to wake the household.”

Corrie helped Jason into the bedchamber, and tossed her husband his dressing gown. She stood back, eyeing her brother-in-law. “What’s happened, Jason?”

He ran his fingers through his hair. “Listen, Corrie, I don’t mean to be rude, but I really need to speak with James.”

“But you haven’t told me anything—”

James studied his brother’s shadowed face, his look of desperation. He felt horrible alarm.

“Sweetheart, Jason and I will go down to the estate room. Get back into bed.”

With James carrying one lit candle, the twins made their way down the wide staircase, down the long corridor, to the eastern side of the house, and into the estate room. James poured them each a brandy.

Jason took a sip and set his glass down. “Hallie’s father is at Lyon’s Gate.”

James said, “Yes, he visited with us here first, said he wanted to surprise Hallie. He’s very charming, and a man I’ll wager has few go against him.”

“He certainly did surprise his daughter. And me. He came into the stable and saw his daughter all over me. I’d taken off my shirt to work.”

“Ah, well, that’s that, isn’t it? When is the wedding to be?”

“Probably as soon as the baron can manage it. We did nothing, James. I, in particular—”

“You’re saying Hallie attacked you? Just because you didn’t have your shirt on? I thought she barely liked you—”

“Dammit, James, she doesn’t have a clue about sex and she wants it. She wants me.”

“And you? Do you like her?”

“Most of the time. If I like her too much, I simply leave, and visit the three charming ladies I know in Eastbourne.”

“That could exhaust a man’s resources, all those nights spent away from home.”

“You know better than that. She’s so bright, James, and stubborn.”

James said, “Father thinks she’s got grit and backbone, said she’s the image of her father, who is very handsome indeed.”

“What does how you look have to say to anything? What’s important is what you’re made of inside. Well, yes, sometimes I look at her and I ache. I want to touch her hair, maybe wallow in it, there’s so much of it and it’s this marvelous mixture of shades, from the lightest blond to a rich wheat color.”

James marveled at his brother. He didn’t appear to realize what was coming out of his mouth. He sipped at his brandy, leaned his hip against the mahogany desk.

“She makes me laugh, James. She makes me feel important—no, it’s more than that. She makes me feel that what I do is important.” Jason paused, took a sip of brandy. “She makes me feel like I have value.”

“You do. You always have.”

Jason shook his head, began to pace the estate room. “A man who’s a blind idiot can’t have much value,” he said over his shoulder.

“She makes you feel important to her.”

“Yes. Then that fool Lord Renfrew comes back and I truly wanted to kill him for her, but then, James, it was all so funny, particularly the way she looks at him now, that it was all I could do not to laugh. Do you know the idiot lied to her about his age?”

“No, I didn’t know that. Hallie laughs at him too now?”

“For the most part. I’ve determined to keep her from all weapons when he’s anywhere near, though. Then Charles Grandison came over to plead Renfrew’s case. Kept asking her to call him Charles, and she kept saying no.”

“Ah, Jason, it sounds to me like you’re a happy man.”

“No, certainly not, at least not in the way you’re thinking. It’s just that I’m where I’m supposed to be and doing what I want to do. I don’t wish to wed, James, and neither does Hallie. Renfrew stomped her into the dirt.”

“Well, Judith burned you to your soul. It seems to me the two of you will do well together.”

“No, I’d be no good for a woman, no good at all. There’s nothing deep inside me. I’m empty there. Lust is something a man must bear. But the sort of sharing you and Corrie have, it’s impossible for me, James.”

“Well then, perhaps it’s impossible for Hallie as well.”

Jason paused in his pacing. He gave his twin a sharp look. “No, it’s not impossible for her. Lord Renfrew was a dolt, a greedy man, but there’s no evil in him, not like there was in Judith.”

“Judith’s been dead for five years, Jason. You can’t continue to let her control your life. Don’t give her that sort of power.”

“If she’d murdered Father, if her damned brother had murdered you, then what would you expect me to think?”

“It was you who saved Father’s life, you who nearly died, and I survived. It’s long in the past. It’s over.”

“I don’t want to marry her. She deserves a man who can give her more than I can. Damn, but she does say the funniest things, words just pop out of her mouth and you want to hold your belly you’re laughing so hard. You should have seen how she was arranging our furniture—the sofa facing the window. What the hell am I to do?”

Jason slammed out of the estate room through the French doors that gave onto the garden, leaving his brother to stare after him, tapping his fingertips thoughtfully on the desktop.

His father said quietly from the doorway, “We will see, James. You did well.”

“He is so very hurt, like there’s this deep wound that won’t heal.”

“He won’t let it heal,” Douglas said. “I think he’s so used to the pain, to the infernal guilt, that he would feel bereft without it.”

James handed his father a snifter of brandy.

The earl said thoughtfully as he swirled the brandy about, “I think the day you and Jason met Hallie Carrick at Lyon’s Gate was the day that might bring your brother back to you, and my son back to me.”

Late the following morning, Hallie paused outside the drawing room door when she heard a familiar female voice say, “I had it from my own maid, Angela, and a maid always knows exactly what’s true and what isn’t. She had it from her cousin who’s a stable lad here. It’s true, and I can tell from the look on your face that you know it’s true. Oh dear me, dear me.”

“Nonsense. Would you care for some tea?”

Lady Grimsby said, “No, I want to know what you’re going to do about this, Angela. You’re her chaperone. This has got to stop.”

Angela said, “Have a nice cup of oolong.”

Hallie stood nailed to the spot. Angela had been right, things like this oozed through cracks in the wall.

Hallie heard the rattle of teacups. Then silence, then Lady Grimsby said, her voice now louder, “I have a solution that should please everyone. It’s said that Jason Sherbrooke will never wed. And that leaves Hallie with a reputation in ruins.” She drew a deep breath. “My dear Elgin. He’s the answer.”

“Lord Renfrew? You don’t mean the dishonorable fellow who—”

“No, no, don’t say it, Angela. Elgin has changed, both Lord Grimsby and I agree on that. Charles also insists he’s changed. Elgin loves Hallie. He would make her a fine husband.”

“Lord Renfrew doesn’t assume that Hallie has been bedded by Jason Sherbrooke?”

“Surely Miss Carrick hasn’t gone that far! It was just that single embrace.”

“How can Lord Renfrew know that for sure?”

“As I said, my dear Elgin loves her. He’s willing to overlook certain matters. He’s willing to mend her reputation, give her the protection of his name.”

Dead silence, then Hallie heard the rustle of skirts. She quickly walked toward the back of the house. She heard Angela say, “I shall certainly speak to Hallie about this, Lady Grimsby. But she was very overset when she learned Lord Renfrew had lied about his age.”

“Lied about his age? Why would a gentleman do that? It’s absurd, only ladies lie about their age. A man is supposed to be a girl’s senior by a number of years and proud of it since he is the one who must provide his young wife with proper guidance, a firm hand, wise counsel—”

“So I may assure Hallie that Lord Renfrew plans to hunker down in front of his own hearth, not avail himself of her money and begin to celebrate birthdays again?”

“You are treating this as a joke, Angela. You know that a woman’s money becomes her husband’s upon her marriage. It is always the way things are done. You must know that as soon as this news gets out, Miss Carrick won’t be invited anywhere.

“Jason Sherbrooke won’t marry her. Lord Grimsby assures me that he won’t. If she has a brain, she’s to thank the good Lord for sending Elgin here to save the day. As for her ridiculous partnership here at Lyon’s Gate, everyone knows it’s Jason Sherbrooke who runs things, it’s—”

Hallie said, “Good morning, Lady Grimsby. How very lovely of you to visit. Ah, if you would be so kind to tell Lord Renfrew I will be by at precisely midnight with my ladder. I will climb up to his bedchamber and rap smartly on his window. I will take him to Gretna Green. What do you think of that?”

Lady Grimsby looked her up and down. “I don’t care if your boots are shiny, Miss Carrick, you cannot continue living in this house with a man who isn’t your husband.”

“So if I were to wed Lord Renfrew, he would move in here too?”

“Why, as to that, I don’t know. Perhaps he would simply have Jason Sherbrooke leave and take over the management of the stud.”

“Jason won’t sell out, Lady Grimsby. If I were Lord Renfrew, I would think seriously about sitting across from Jason Sherbrooke’s beautiful face every morning at the breakfast table.”

“Elgin will see that that doesn’t happen. He’s older than Jason Sherbrooke, he will take care of him, you’ll see.”

“Elgin and who else?”

“I do not find you amusing. Good day, Miss Carrick. Good day, Angela. I shall tell Elgin you’re ready to hear his suit now.”

“A moment, Lady Grimsby,” Hallie said. “Did you know my father, Baron Sherard, is staying here with us? If Elgin wishes, he can certainly speak to my father.”

“Your father is here? How long has your father been here, Miss Carrick?”

“Why don’t you ask your maid. She can ask her cousin. If he isn’t certain, why he can come to the house and I will give him the straight facts. Good day, Lady Grimsby. Oh goodness, which is Lord Renfrew’s bedchamber? I should hate to rap on your window by mistake.”

Lady Grimsby turned back as her footman prepared to hand her into her carriage. “You will come to a bad end, Miss Carrick. This levity, it doesn’t bode well for a lady’s future.” Lady Grimsby swept into her carriage. The driver gave Hallie a mournful look as he gently closed his mistress’s door.

Hallie heard Jason’s whistle coming from the stables, and heard her father’s voice. She called out, “Jason, do we have a nice tall ladder?”

CHAPTER 32

Jason caught Hallie eavesdropping, her ear pressed to the drawing room door. She didn’t act embarrassed at being caught, rather she smiled, motioned him to her and whispered, “I can’t believe he actually screwed his nerve to the sticking point and came here to face my father.” She gave Jason a sideways look. “Hmm. Perhaps I’ve misjudged poor Elgin.”

“He came again?” Jason said. “Lord Renfrew must need money very badly.”

“Ah, so you don’t believe his courage is because he’s lost himself in love for me?”

“No.”

She sighed. “At least in his case the truth doesn’t hurt.”

Seven minutes later, Hallie jumped back from the door. Three seconds later, Lord Renfrew, looking both pale and philosophical, preceded Baron Sherard out of the drawing room. He saw Hallie standing beside Jason Sherbrooke, the bastard with his angel’s face that he didn’t deserve, and a male form he didn’t deserve either. Elgin knew he ruthlessly used both to his advantage, because it would be the reasonable thing to do. As for Hallie, this girl he’d tried yet again to secure as his wife—He nearly shuddered. She was wearing those ridiculous boots that were so shiny he could see the sweat on his own brow. Her hair was windblown, and there was a dirt stain on the side of her nose. She looked frowzy. He said to her, “I don’t know why you’re standing there holding a bridle.”

“It’s broken. I’m going to fix it.”

“You’re a female despite those shiny boots of yours. You can fix a cup of tea but you can’t fix anything important, certainly not a bridle.”

“Tea isn’t important?” said Alec Carrick, a brow shooting upward. “I find nothing so inspiring as a bracing cup of tea. A dollop of milk, nothing else.”

“Oh no. One must add lemon so that the tea obtains the most select depth of flavor, not milk. Very well, tea is important, but for her to fix a bridle? No, girls don’t do that sort of thing.”

Hallie said, “You may be right. I certainly couldn’t fix you, could I?”

“You never tried. You never asked me to explain, never showed me a moment’s compassion, you just booted me out the door. And now I understand from your father that you will marry this man who doesn’t want you, this man who compromised you only because you are here and willing, and that makes him worse than me.”

Jason asked, “How could I be worse than you?”

“I never tried to seduce her so she would be compromised.”

Hallie wished she could whirl that bridle about in her hands and aim for Lord Renfrew’s head. “You didn’t have to compromise me. I swam right into your net.”

“Well, yes you did, but that’s not what’s important here. What’s important here is manhood and the use of it. I would have done all those things he probably did to you, but only after you became my wife, when it would be proper to do so. You could have had me, Hallie, and all my devotion and all my skills as a renowned lover.”

“Jason did not compromise me,” Hallie said.

“Ha. He’s a man, isn’t he? It’s obvious he wanted to enjoy your fair person without having to sit across the dinner table from you for the rest of his life.”

“Since we are partners, my presence at the dinner table is a regular occurrence. Nothing would change there.”

“I would have wanted to sit across the dinner table from you, Hallie, perhaps feed you bits of my dinner roll. He doesn’t want to. He is trapped only because your father is here and would kill him if he didn’t marry you.”

“Maiming might have been an alternative,” Alec said.

But Lord Renfrew ignored him. “I can’t imagine being your partner; it doesn’t bear thinking about. Having to put up with your impertinence without enjoying the benefits of your womanly self at night—perhaps, were I he, I’d flee back to Baltimore. As for his marrying you, it is to gain your money, all know that. You are not wise, Hallie. You could have had me with my heart in my hand.”

“That is a thought that stirs the hairs on my neck. Good-bye, Lord Renfrew. Whenever I think of what I could have had, I shall doubtless be saddened, for the rest of my life.”

“Your father is right. You would have not made me happy.”

“I didn’t say exactly that,” said Baron Sherard.

“No, Papa, probably not,” she said. “Consider yourself a lucky man, Lord Renfrew. Good day to you.”

He shook his head, said to himself as he clamped his hat down upon his head, “I cannot believe I let Charles talk me into wasting my time here,” and he was gone.

Jason frowned after Lord Renfrew: Charles Grandison wanted that dolt to marry Hallie? Charles never did anything without a reason. Jason wanted to know what that reason was.

Alec Carrick said, “There goes a man who will have a rich wife by the end of the year, maybe even by fall. He’s really quite believable when he sets his mind to it. I can see how you were taken in, my dear.”

“Not any longer. I do wonder why he came.” She watched Lord Renfrew mount his horse and ride away, not looking back. He rode well, tall and arrogant in the saddle. “Did he think I would forgive him what he’d done? Is this what Charles Grandison thought?”

“Yes,” Angela said. “What I don’t understand is why Charles Grandison wanted him to marry you so badly.”

Jason cleared his throat. “Hello, Angela. You move very quietly. Were you eavesdropping from outside the drawing room window? No, don’t tell me. Lord Renfrew is gone and that’s all that matters now. As for Charles and his part in this, I will pry the reason out of him the next time I see him. Hallie, I believe you and I should take a walk now.”

“Why? Is something wrong with one of the mares? Father, why are you shaking your head at me like that?”

“Sweetheart, do not be obtuse. Face up to the facts. Go with Jason. There will be a lot to do. Oh yes, your aunt and uncle will be staying at Northcliffe Hall.”

“Father, all that talk about Jason having to marry me, I thought you were joking, that you were torturing Lord Renfrew, and I will admit that I thought it was well done of you. You really believe I should marry Jason? That’s ridiculous.” She whirled around to face Jason. “Listen to me, I will not marry you. You don’t want a wife. You wouldn’t trust a wife.”

“Come along, Hallie.”

“No. You said you never wanted to marry. I don’t want to marry either. That makes two of us. We have the majority opinion here.”

Alec Carrick roared, “You had your hand down his damned britches, Hallie! You would have had him on the stable floor in a matter of moments if I hadn’t pried you off him.”

“Pried me?”

“No, sir,” Jason said, heart pounding, the specter of doom sitting on his shoulder. “I would have stopped her. Well, perhaps not.”

“Exactly,” Alec said. “This is called consequences, Hallie. Get a grip on yourself.” He said to Jason, “She once denied a downpour because she wanted a picnic. Denying the need for a husband would be nothing for her.”

“But—”

“Shut up, Hallie.” Jason grabbed her hand and jerked her toward the front door. “Let’s talk about a picnic in the rain.”

She said, “That particular picnic was pretty dreadful, truth be told—” Jason dragged her out of the house.

Angela said to Alec, “I am worried about this, my lord. She’s always been stubborn.”

“I have confidence in young Mr. Sherbrooke. I saw him surrounded by children several times in Baltimore. They adored him. They obeyed him. He will bring Hallie around. Did you know she found out who the stable lad is who told his cousin, who is Lady Grimsby’s maid, about Jason and Hallie in the stables?”

“Oh dear, is the fellow hanging from a stable beam? Will we have to hide the body?”

“Nothing so final. She told me she was going to lock him in the closet beneath the stairs, keep him on a diet of bread and water until he repented his loose tongue.”

Despite knowing better, Angela looked back over her shoulder toward the stairs.

Alec Carrick laughed, buffeted her shoulder. “Life is never what one expects, is it, Angela?”

“Their children will be beautiful,” Angela said.

Alec Carrick looked like she’d slapped him. He was still shaking his head as he walked to the stables. He saw Jason and his daughter walking toward the maple copse to the east, and stopped. No, he wasn’t needed. If Jason didn’t have the wherewithal to bring her to reason, it would take the Devil himself. How strange that she was so like her stepmother—bullheaded wasn’t far off the mark—and not at all like the woman who’d birthed her. He wondered what Jason would say to her.

Jason didn’t say a word. He pulled her to a halt beneath a lovely summer-leafed maple branch and dove his fingers into her hair. She closed her eyes. How could massaging her scalp make her want to rip off her stockings and boots? “Surely that is sinful. It feels too good not to be bad.”

“What comes after my rubbing your scalp is what’s bad.” She leaned toward him so he could rub her head better, not because she wanted to throw herself on him. She was firm with herself about this, she was in control of herself. She would see this through, she would not bow to parental pressure. When he released her, she pulled a maple leaf off and began twisting it around her fingers. She said, “I will not marry you, Jason. I will speak again to my father, tell him that—”

Jason growled low in his throat, grabbed her, and kissed her hard. He said into her mouth, “Be quiet. It’s done. You’ve got me. We’ve got each other. I will do my best to be a good husband to you, Hallie, I swear it to you. Now stop being a mule.”

He raised his head and she was forced to look into his incredible eyes, a woman’s downfall, those eyes of his, and his mouth—well, she wasn’t going to look at his mouth, or his eyes, she wasn’t that great a fool. She wanted to ram him against the tree. No, she was strong, in control of herself, she knew what was right. Forcing him to wed her wasn’t. Her heart, though, it was pounding so hard and fast it nearly hurt. She wanted him to press his fingers to her racing heart. She felt his fingers stroking through her hair again, this time pulling out the pins. She felt his mouth again on hers, and finally, thank the good Lord above, felt his fingers lightly cup her breast. Her wits fell out of her head. She saw things very clearly in that moment, looking up at him, seeing his determination, and yes, lust as well. Perhaps there was caring as well, mayhap a dollop of tenderness. It was enough. It was more than enough. Without another thought, she jumped off the cliff. “All right,” she said. “Yes, perhaps marrying you would be a very wonderful thing.”

Over dinner that evening, Jason invited all the staff into the dining room for a glass of champagne.

“What is this, Master Jason? Have we a new mare to be covered by our virile Dodger?”

“No, Petrie. Miss Carrick and I will be married. Very soon. Don’t tell me you haven’t heard the rumors. The rumors will cease once my uncle Tysen says the hallowed words over our heads.”

Martha accepted her glass of champagne, beaming. “Oh, Miss Hallie, how very exciting, to actually have Master Jason all to yourself! But you nearly had him in the stable, didn’t you? Well, perhaps it’s best not to speak of that.”

“To the joining of partners,” Baron Sherard said loudly, and everyone cheered and drank the rather decent champagne, all except Petrie, who looked like he would burst into tears.

“Give it up, Petrie,” Jason said. “Drink your champagne It will make you feel more resigned to the inevitable.”

“Is that what you have become, my poor master? A guzzler?”

“That is quite enough, Petrie,” Angela said. “Trust me on this.”

Petrie wasn’t stupid. He saw the warning in the master’s eyes, knew he was dead serious, and gulped down the champagne. “Don’t let her rearrange the furniture in your bedchamber, Master Jason.”

Hallie said, “Oh goodness, I hadn’t thought about that.”

“Please, don’t, miss,” Petrie said.

“Not the furniture, you dolt, I hadn’t thought about sharing his bedchamber. I like mine better. Why can’t he move into mine? Why can’t we each keep our own bedchambers?”

Jason patted her hand. “Don’t worry about it now. We will figure things out.”

Angela said comfortably as she accepted another glass of champagne from Lord Sherard, “Perhaps I can move to your bedchamber, Hallie, and we can tear down the wall between mine and Jason’s bedchambers. You’ll both have enough room and Jason can arrange the furniture. What do you think?”

Hallie looked like she might bolt. Jason himself wanted to bolt, but he said, “We will consider this. However, right at this moment, I believe we should stick to well-wishes and toasts.”

Petrie moaned again, and it wasn’t at all discreet. Martha rounded on him, waved her glass in his face. “You don’t amuse me, Mr. Petrie. Look at my mistress—a beautiful lady she is, nearly as beautiful a lady as Master Jason is a gentleman. It’s close. Maybe not really close—Yes, you’ve hurt her feelings with your sour little female slurs that smack of a female-having-blighted-your-heart, something that probably happened years ago.”

“Not that many years ago,” Angela said. “Petrie isn’t that old.”

Hallie said under her breath to her father, “I wonder if that can be true. Is Petrie’s dislike of women because his heart was broken?”

“No,” Jason said. “Petrie came into this world disliking the fair sex. His mother never chided him, never abused him. She adores him. She still does.”

“She doesn’t love me deep inside where it counts,” Petrie said and everyone looked at him.

“That’s the silliest thing I’ve ever heard, Mr. Petrie! Have you told your mama this?”

“Of course not. It would upset her and a female who’s upset does scurrilous things.”

Jason rolled his eyes. “I will tell your mother you feel this way, Petrie, so any curses she has are heaped on my head, not yours.”

Martha said right in his face, “You’re a petulant stick.”

Petrie opened his mouth to blast her. Angela said, “Goodness, all this excitement makes me hungry. Cook, why don’t you bring out your blancmange?”

Petrie said, “But I—”

Martha rounded on him again, this time her voice black with warning, “You say another word and I’ll stuff the blancmange up your nose.”

“Martha, you must show me proper respect, you—”

Angela said, “You don’t want to waste the blancmange on Petrie’s nose.”

As for Cook, she had seemed perfectly content to stand quietly and look from Jason to Alec Carrick, not a single aria bursting out of her mouth. “Petrie’s nose? My blancmange, Miss Angela? Oh goodness me, that’s a sort of food, isn’t it? How could I forget? Ah, two such lovely gentlemen. I must ease my parched gullet.” She drank down her glass of champagne, carefully set the glass on the sideboard, and went to the kitchen, saying over and over, “How can I make both lovely gentlemen stay right here so I can feed them until they swoon on my kitchen floor?”

“I’ll drink to that,” Hallie said. “Father, I’ve never seen you swoon.”

Alec’s eyes met his future son-in-law’s. “It happens,” he said. “Believe me, it happens.”

Petrie moaned.

CHAPTER 33

Jason and Hallie Sherbrooke spent their wedding night under the distinctive curved eaves of the master bedchamber of Dunsmore House, Georgian in mood if not in style, set gracefully on a broad tree-covered promontory just outside Ventnor on the southeastern coast of the Isle of Wight, the summer residence of the duke of Portsmouth. After a two-hour steamboat ride from the mainland, they’d arrived at Dunsmore House, windblown and sunburned, smiling from ear to ear at the housekeeper, Mrs. Spooner, and ready to tear each other’s clothes off.

Once upon a time, Mrs. Spooner had been intimate with lust, having five grown children to show for it, and not to mention being three months shy of a half dozen grandchildren. She certainly recognized it when it stood in front of her, though she wasn’t certain which of the two had greater lust for the other. The simple beauty of this couple would warm the coldest heart, which hers wasn’t. “Well, now, His Grace told me you were two special young people and so you appear to be. Come in, come in. You’ll have the large bedchamber that looks out at the harbor and all the fishing boats. It’s Her Grace’s favorite bedchamber and the sheets are all fresh for you. What a fine day to begin your married life.”

Because she wanted them to eat, Mrs. Spooner herded them into the breakfast room, smaller and more intimate than the grand dining room, and quickly served them cold chicken and warm bread for dinner, and fresh peas from her own garden in Ventnor. She said comfortably as she passed Mr. Sherbrooke the platter of chicken, “Only I will be here to see to you.” She passed Hallie another small loaf of hot bread, whispered close to her ear, “Eat up, my dear. One will need strength with that one.”

Hallie gave her a blinding smile. “Yes, I certainly hope so.”

Mrs. Spooner patted her arm. “The duke and his family always like their privacy, and so you’ll have it too. Maids will come during the day, but they won’t bother you.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Spooner. I’ve never had privacy before. I have three brothers and a sister and—” Hallie blinked and shrugged. She’d looked at Jason. “I forgot what I was going to say.”

“Well, this is your honeymoon, now isn’t it, Mrs. Sherbrooke? It’s not a time for brains.”

“Mrs. Sherbrooke,” Hallie repeated slowly, staring at Mrs. Spooner. “Isn’t this the oddest thing—from one day to the next I lost my name.”

“The new name—Sherbrooke—is charming, though I’m certain your father prefers Carrick, just as Mr. Spooner prefers his name over mine, which was equally unique.”

“What was your maiden name, Mrs. Spooner?”

“Why, I was Adelaide Bleak, certainly of a pessimistic bent, that name. Now. I’m thinking that the last thing you and Mr. Sherbrooke would want is tea served in the drawing room, so I’ll bid you good night.”

Hallie and Jason looked at each other. She said as she chewed on a buttered hunk of fresh bread, eyes nearly closed in bliss, “We’ve been married for seven hours now.”

“Yes.”

“Mrs. Spooner is very nice.”

“Yes. Are you through with your dinner, Hallie?”

She gulped down the bread. “Yes. Oh yes, Jason. Do you know my aunt Arielle told me to let you take the lead, to try to restrain myself? She advised me against taking you to the floor. She assured me that men enjoyed that, but not at first. She blushed while she said this—I’ll tell you, that took me aback. She said men liked to be in control during the first romantic encounter, which is a good thing since they know more about the business—and she blushed again. I told my father her advice, and he laughed and laughed, told me he doubted you’d mind being jumped at any time, on the boat or on dry land or on a dining room table. Hmm. This table is very nice and long and—”

He was nearly shuddering himself out of his boots, his hands clenching and unclenching. It hurt him to say it, but he finally managed it. “No table tonight. Your father is right. You have my permission to jump me whenever the mood strikes you. I won’t ever mind.” He drew in a deep breath and Hallie would have sworn he shook a bit. “It’s going to be close.”

She wasn’t a fool. She knew what that look meant. It was delicious, that look; it made her heart race, her skin tingle. She raced from the small breakfast room, up the wide front stairs, down the corridor, to the large corner bedchamber. It was light and airy, not that she cared a whit, and she knew the furnishings were perfectly arranged—well, perhaps those two big chairs would be better pushed together and placed at the foot of the bed in case one was so tired one couldn’t make it all the way. She started to ask Jason what he thought about the chairs, but stopped cold.

Jason came into the bedchamber at that moment, closed the door, locked it, and leaned against it. “I left the house all those times because I wanted you so badly.”

“You what?”

“I visited other ladies, they took care of me, sent me home exhausted and back in control of myself, for a few days at least.”

“That’s quite the oddest thing I’ve ever heard. I wouldn’t have minded you kissing me, Jason, with or without your shirt. You’re telling me you went to other women because you thought I wouldn’t like it?”

“No, that’s not it at all. You’re a young lady, Hallie, a virgin, and a gentleman doesn’t seduce a young lady who’s also a virgin. But that’s over now. Don’t ever think I’m another Lord Renfrew. I’m now your husband. I will be faithful.”

“Were those other ladies enthusiastic? Like I was in the stable?”

“Well, yes, why wouldn’t they be? I’ve known all of them for years.”

“You don’t have all that many adult years, Jason.”

“A man gets started as soon as he’s able, Hallie. All the ladies are older than I am, not that it matters at all.”

“I have yet to get started.”

“I know.” He pushed off the locked door, pulling off his vest and cravat as he walked to her, then tossed them on the arm of a chair. So that was the purpose of the chairs being on the way to the bed. He paused a moment and pulled off his boots and socks. He never took his eyes off her.

“I can see that you’re uncertain about this now that we’ve reached the sticking point. It’s quite all right. Trust me. I’ll take care of everything.” He unbuttoned his shirt, shrugged out of it, let it fall to the carpet.

He was naked to the waist, just as he’d been that morning when her father had paid a surprise visit to the stables.

“Oh my.” She cleared her throat, tried again. “Do you know, I rather liked you all sweaty.”

“It’s a warm night. Perhaps I’ll sweat for you before it’s over. Perhaps you’ll sweat too.” He held his arms wide. “Take me down, Hallie.”

It was the longest jump she’d ever made in her life, true, but he took a step forward to catch her, settled her legs around his waist. She cupped his face between her palms and kissed him all over his face, until, laughing, he pressed her against a wall, and lifted his hand to cup her jaw. “Hold still,” he said, and kissed her, really kissed her, not nipping little bites, piddling little licks, but a deep kiss, one that blurred the world and made her legs slip. He cupped her bottom before she fell off him and carried her to the bed.

He grinned down at her. “Don’t move. Let me get the rest of my clothes off and then I’ll start on yours.”

“No, let me do it.” She bounced to her feet and fell to her knees in front of him, her eyes on those buttons. Jason’s breath whooshed out of his lungs. His wife of now close to a third of a day was kneeling in front of him, her hands on his britches’ buttons, and she was kissing his belly.

“Hallie, the damned buttons. It’s important to unfasten the damned buttons.”

She said absolutely nothing, looked up at him through the veil of her hair, her eyes so filled with excitement, fear, and lust, he wanted to laugh, then he didn’t because she unbuttoned three buttons in a flash and was kissing his belly, and lower. Her fingertips touched him, stroked him, held him, and he felt her warm breath on his flesh. “Oh God,” he said, and knew it was going to be very close. “You’ve got to let me go, Hallie. No, don’t kiss me, not now, I can’t bear it. Take your hands away.” He didn’t want to, the good Lord knew he didn’t, but he grabbed her beneath her arms and hauled her up, grateful that she’d released him at the last moment. “That’s very nice, really, don’t get me wrong, a man loves for a woman to touch him with her hands and her mouth, rub her cheek over his belly, her hair all tangled, her breath hot, but I can’t take it at this particular moment, Hallie. There are other things now.” He shuddered, gulped down a deep breath. “It’s your turn.”

“You mean there’s a certain order to this business?”

“Not really, but a man doesn’t want to maul, well, never mind that. Trust me.”

“But I want to touch you again, and your taste, Jason, it makes me want—”

“Be quiet. Your words make me see things and start shaking. Close your mouth. I know what’s to be done.” Even as he got her out of her clothes, she touched him, tried to kiss him. “Stand up.” When finally, she was naked, he took a quick step back. He knew she’d be beautiful, hadn’t doubted it for an instant, but the reality of her, the fact that they were here together, married, for God’s sake, and she belonged to him now and forever, made him look at her differently.

“I will try to make you happy, Hallie,” he said, and then there were no more words. He got his breeches off, picked her up and laid her on her back, coming down over her, his mouth on hers, the length of him against her soft flesh.

“Don’t worry about any of this,” he said into her mouth. “Just do what I tell you.”

“What do you want me to do first?”

He shuddered like a palsied man. “Open your legs for me.” She parted her legs, just a bit.

“That’s right, that’s exactly what I wanted you to do. Mayhap a bit more. That’s it.” He wondered how a man could bear this. Pleasure, he thought, drugging pleasure, but she was a virgin, she didn’t understand what all this was going to feel like, even if she knew what happened between Dodger and the mares. He knew he couldn’t simply take her, he had to do things right. His twin had confided in him that he’d mucked up his own wedding night, and when he’d awakened, he was afraid Corrie had left him. “It was an awful feeling,” James had said, shaking with the memory. “If I’d had a sword I would have run myself through. Force yourself to back off. Don’t fall on her and yell like a wild man.”

Jason backed off, came down on his knees between her legs. He held her ankles, slowly pulled her legs farther apart. Her legs quivered. “You are so bloody beautiful.” He was looking at her, between her parted legs, and she was so embarrassed and so excited, both at the same time, that she lay there, staring at him. “Tell me what to do, Jason.”

He never looked up, merely shook his head slowly. “Nothing at all, just let me do what I want.”

“What do you want?”

“First I want to put my mouth on you. If you don’t know what I mean, don’t worry about it, only know that I’m going to make you scream. Yes, I can do it without trembling myself off the bed.” But he didn’t have a chance. Hallie lurched up, knocked him backward and came down on top of him, covering all of him she could manage. He was laughing so hard it gave him a measure of control, thank God.

“Oh my,” she said into his mouth, “tell me what to do, Jason, but be quick about it.”

He sat her upright to straddle his belly, told her not to move, to watch his hands stroke every beautiful inch of her. “Know these are my hands, Hallie. They’ll be on you for the rest of our lives. Ah, the feel of you, the smoothness of your skin. I am a very strong man.” He grinned, pulled her down again. When his tongue was in her mouth, he whispered, “This is how I’m going to be inside you, like my tongue, but first—”

She was frantic when at last he caressed her with his mouth. He’d told her he was going to do this, but she hadn’t been able to grasp the reality of it, what it made her feel, and he knew it, and didn’t stop. When he felt her stiffen, felt her back arch, felt her pulling out his hair, he was a king. Her scream and her shudders, her hands fisting on his arms, her hot breath against his neck, it turned his king’s brain to mush. He drove inside her in the next moment, felt her maidenhead give, felt her jerk of pain. He touched his forehead to hers when he was against her womb. “I know it hurts. I’m sorry. Lie still, let yourself get used to me.”

“It’s hard.”

That was certainly the truth. “I know, but try. It will get better.” She was still holding herself stiff, but when he didn’t move, her body began to ease around him. He felt himself deep inside her. Soon he was moving, slowly.

She lurched up, stared at him, her eyes blind. “Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod, it’s happening again, Jason. This is too much, simply too much, and surely we will both die of it. Please, don’t stop.”

When he himself yelled above her, feeling that delicious soft body of hers twisting and heaving beneath him, he was glad he hadn’t mucked things up. He’d given her pleasure twice, it was well done of him. And they were both sweating. It was very well done of him.

Hallie lay in the darkness that had finally swallowed up the midsummer day not more than ten minutes earlier, and listened to Jason’s deep, even breathing. He’d fallen over her, given her a silly smile and fallen asleep. She remembered as a child how she’d slept with her father, realized now how careful he’d been to wrap her in her own covers first.

To sleep with a man, to lie naked with a man, to feel him against her, his cooling flesh, the inner heat of him that didn’t lessen, it amazed her. She wondered if Jason was dreaming, and if so, what he was dreaming about right now. About her?

Probably not. She remembered Lady Lydia, now her grandmother-in-law, her veiny old hand lightly patting Hallie’s as she leaned close, smelling like ironed lace and the fresh lemon wax she rubbed into the eagle head of her cane, and whispered, “Jason is a fine young man. Give him what he needs, Hallie.”

“What do you think he needs, Grandmama-in-law?”

“He needs to have his heart rekindled.”

He needed to have his heart rekindled? What did that mean? He needed her to love him?

Was what she felt for him the same as what she’d felt initially for Lord Renfrew? She didn’t think so. This was deeper, richer, more urgent.

Did she love Jason? Well, if it was love she was feeling leaping out of her, she wasn’t about to blurt it out to him. No, she realized, lightly laying her hand on his belly, feeling the muscles tighten unconsciously, what he really needed was to trust again. To trust her. And maybe that would rekindle his heart.

Her new father-in-law approved of her, she knew that, and he’d said as he’d touched his fingertips to her cheek at their wedding breakfast, “Trust is a precious commodity, fragile yet binding once it’s accepted by both the heart and the intellect and has burrowed deep inside. Be yourself, Hallie. All will be well. My son isn’t a dolt.”

“No,” she’d agreed. “He isn’t.” What trust was, she thought now, was an elusive commodity.

It was a meaty goal, this trust and rekindling business, after what this Judith woman had done to him five years before. She snuggled next to him, wondering if it would be all right to wake him up. Why not? He’d told her she could jump him any time. She eased down his body, kissing every inch in her path. When she took him into her mouth, he nearly arched off the bed, fisted her hair in his hands, and groaned like he was in mortal pain.

When he came into her, still not entirely awake, she pulled him close, felt all of him deep inside her, closed her eyes, felt his whiskers against her cheek, and thanked God for sending her to Lyon’s Gate that particular day two months before.

Once again, early the next morning, Hallie lay on her back, panting for breath after the cataclysm, her eyes nearly crossed. She felt she could sink through the bed, perhaps sink through the floor as well. What room was beneath the bedchamber? She didn’t want to move. Her eyes jerked open at Jason’s appalled voice. “My God, it looks like I killed you!”

“Wha—what?”

“Oh God, how many times did I take you?”

“What a strange way to say it. Take me—like I didn’t have any say in it.”

“Hallie, it doesn’t mean anything. Wake up.”

“I don’t want to wake up right now, Jason. My brain isn’t working well, only my mouth. I certainly remember the last time you, ah, took me—just five minutes ago. How can you even talk?”

“Hallie, are you all right?” He sat down beside her, grabbed her shoulders and shook her.

Her head fell back against the pillow, and she moaned. “I feel like my bones have faded out of me. Let me lie here in endless bliss, Jason. I’m all right, I must be since I did speak to you.”

“Yes, but you looked ridiculous while you spoke, grinning like a loon with no sense.”

She giggled. He looked harassed. She watched him rake his fingers through his hair, stroke his whiskered chin. She realized he was now looking down at her belly, perhaps even lower, and somehow the covers were gone. She yelped, trying to pull the covers over herself. He stayed her hand. “Ah, damn me and damn my randy self. Forgive me, sweetheart, I had no idea, I mean, I know that virgins bleed the first time, but—oh God, blink your eyes at least three times at me if you’re really awake and not just grinning like that because you’ve fallen back asleep and are dreaming.”

“I’m awake now, Jason. What are you doing? Don’t look at me. Please, it’s very embarrassing. What do you mean, bleed?”

“Nonsense, I’m your husband. Don’t move. I’m going to clean you up. It’s just a bit of blood, nothing to worry about. I’m sorry about waking you up that third time, Hallie.”

“It was the fourth.”

“That’s right, you woke me up the third time. I’m innocent of that one. Hmm. The second time as well if I remember rightly. Four times? Well, that’s nice now, isn’t it?” He looked immensely pleased with himself, looked at the blood smeared on her thighs again and paled.

“Oh yes,” she said. “I did. Don’t worry, I’m all right. I am, aren’t I?”

“Yes,” he said and prayed he was right. He’d never heard of a bride bleeding to death from her wedding night.

When he went to fetch a cloth and the basin of water on the commode, she jerked up, pulled up the sheet, and said, “You really don’t need to do this. I’m fine, at least I think I am.” She tented the white sheet over her head and looked down at herself. “Oh dear, perhaps I am a bit of a mess. But I don’t think I’m dying. I feel wonderful. You said I was supposed to bleed?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then, all right. Hand me that cloth.”

He watched her hand slide out from beneath the sheet and placed the damp cloth on her palm. He heard her talking to herself, probably discussing both sides of this problem, although he couldn’t imagine how there could be a second side. He wished he could make out her words. He had a feeling that if he could, he’d be howling with laughter.

“You won’t leave the house ever again, will you, Jason?”

“Oh no,” he said. “Oh no.” And because he was worried, he pulled the sheet off her and made certain she was all right himself.

CHAPTER 34

Northcliffe Hall

August 10th

Hallie sent a blinding smile out to the table at large as she said to her father-in-law, “You wish to know about the Isle of Wight, sir? Hmm. Well, yes, I have it—Ventnor is quite picturesque. It lies on the southeastern coast, I believe. I have sent the duke and duchess of Portsmouth a watercolor of Dunsmore House to thank them.”

Corrie said, “I didn’t know you did watercolors, Hallie.”

“Well, I do, actually, but I didn’t do this one. There simply wasn’t enough time. I commissioned it from a young man we found painting on the beach.”

“What do you mean, you didn’t have time?” Hallie’s father asked, his fork still over his plate, an eyebrow up. “I found two weeks more than ample time for me to do everything I wished in London.”

“You forget, Alec,” Douglas said. He snapped his fingers. “At certain times in life, time goes by that fast.”

Baron Sherard said, grimmer than any reaper, “Not when we’re speaking of my daughter, it doesn’t. Whenever I thought about her with your damned son, knowing what damned sons are like, since I was one once, my belly cramped.” Alec sent a look of acute dislike to his new son-in-law.

Lady Lydia announced, “I never had a honeymoon worth speaking of.”

“I don’t speak of mine either,” Angela said.

“When we finally had a honeymoon,” Alex said, beaming at her husband, “I believe we spoke French the whole time.”

The earl rolled his eyes.

Lady Lydia snorted. “Always after my boy, you were—still are—don’t think I didn’t know what you were doing when I was visiting on Wednesday, laughing behind the estate room door. It’s a disgrace.”

Hallie sat forward, all earnest, her eyes on her father’s face. “Two weeks on the Isle of Wight is nothing like two weeks in London, Papa. There was so much to do—”

“Like what?” her father asked.

“Well, like eating and sleeping now and again, and watching the sun rise, not to mention the sunsets.”

Douglas caught his wife’s eye, then smiled at his new daughter-in-law. She looked glorious, she glowed, her eyes were bright, she sparkled, she was complacent. And she couldn’t seem to stop laughing. What she was, Douglas thought, was a pleased woman. As for his son, Douglas realized Jason looked content, perhaps he even looked at peace. He wondered if Hallie was pregnant yet. He wouldn’t be surprised.

Corrie, far more innocent than she’d ever believe, said, “I visited the Isle of Wight only once, as a child. Uncle Simon got vilely seasick, so he swore he wouldn’t ever leave his dinner in The Solent again. You remember, Hallie, The Solent is what they call the strait in the English Channel between Southampton and the Isle of Wight.”

“Of course I remember. Hmm. We didn’t leave from Southampton, did we, Jason?”

“No, we left from Worthing.”

Corrie said, “Is the bright red house still on the hill overlooking the harbor?”

“Red house, you say? Jason, do you remember a red house? On a hill overlooking the harbor?”

Jason looked perfectly blank.

His twin said, “That’s all right, Jase. What’s a red house in the big scheme of things? What did you do besides visit Ventnor?”

Jason continued to look perfectly blank.

“We went down on the beach,” Hallie said, and raked her fork along the tablecloth just like she was raking sand. She paused and her hand trembled. Jason knew exactly what she was thinking.

He cleared his throat, couldn’t think of a single word to say. His mother obligingly said, “Oh, you mean the beach off the right side of the promontory, not fifty yards from Dunsmore House? Did you swim?”

“Yes,” Hallie said. “we were there most nights, except when it was raining.”

“Nights?” Lady Lydia asked. “My dear child, you and your precious new husband went swimming in the evenings?”

“Oh yes,” Hallie said, beaming. “There was no one about after the sun went down so we—oh dear, never mind that. Fact is, we did plan to swim one day after we’d eaten a lovely picnic lunch on the beach beneath a lovely tree, but then—” In a flash of inspiration, Hallie said, beaming at her mother-in-law, “We were invited to Lord and Lady Lindley’s house twice. Very charming people. Weren’t they, Jason?”

“I believe they were. Yes, of course they were. Lord Lindley admired you, perhaps overmuch as I recall.”

“What about Lady Lindley? I believed she would try to bite your neck she got so close to you. Not to mention those three girls who attempted a very old tried and true stratagem—”

“The wedge,” Corrie said.

“Yes, they tried a very nice wedge to get a clear path to you.”

“What did you do?” Corrie asked.

“I executed what I now call my counteroffensive. Jason, do you remember when I asked you to look at that particular painting on the drawing room wall?”

“Yes, you nearly had me walking backward a good six feet as I recall.”

Hallie nodded. “That’s it. It quite flummoxed them. Their wedge vanished, they fell into disarray.” She frowned. “However, this one young lady was determined but I whisked him off to a waltz.”

“I like that counteroffensive,” Corrie said. “I’ll try it when James and I attend our next party.”

Alex said, “Hallie, other than Lucille admiring my son’s neck, didn’t you find she has exquisite taste?”

“Well, the inside of her armoire—it smelled quite fragrant, but that’s not important, now is it?”

Alec Carrick choked.

Hallie’s mother-in-law leaned over and smacked him between his shoulder blades.

James said, “Mother, why should Hallie have remarked on Lady Lindley’s taste in particular?”

“She sings beautifully, her voice has much the same rich tone of Hallie’s. But it’s louder, much more volume.”

“But what does her voice have to do with her taste?” Angela asked.

Douglas said, a dark brow raised, “She manages to shatter a crystal glass at each of her concerts, so I’ve been told.”

Alex said, “The goblet she broke when we were last there was made specifically for her by the Waterford artisans.”

Jason said, “Lady Lindley did sing for the group, so I heard later. Hallie and I didn’t happen to be in the drawing room at that particular moment to witness the goblet shattering. Grandmother, what are you and Angela fighting about this evening?”

Angela said, “She is more selfish than my one and only husband who would stick out his hand for a plate of food, never looking away from his bloody Greek textbooks.”

“He was a very learned man,” Alec Carrick said. “He was also a demanding tyrant.”

“Hear, hear,” said Angela. “I do wonder sometimes where he resides now.” As she spoke she lightly tapped her slipper against the floor. “I will not speak more about my husband, his spirit is still too near. You will not believe this, my dear,” she continued to Hallie, “but this withered old bat”—she waved a hand toward Lady Lydia—“allows that in certain lights, she just might look younger than I do, and here I am young enough to be her daughter, almost.”

“Ha!” said Lady Lydia. “Unlike her, I still have beautiful hands, elegant hands, look at my hands, lovely blue veins, so close to the surface. They’re of remarkable beauty, don’t you agree, dear boy? My sweetest Hallie?”

“I was remarking to my wife that you had extraordinary veins, Grandmother.”

Alex marveled at the meaty insults, all given and accepted in high good humor. She wondered what her mother-in-law would say if she called her a shrunken old bat.

“You’re both amazing,” Hallie said, looking from one to the other.

“My dearest girl,” Lady Lydia said, “tell this woman you don’t want her at Lyon’s Gate now that you’re married and sharing so many lovely activities about which I have little or no memory at all. Tell her that she’s to come and live with me. I’ll give her a bed in the attic.”

“You don’t have an attic in the Dower House, Lydia. Your memory is like this lamb chop, nearly all chewed up. Were I to consider moving in with you, I would want that lovely yellow room that faces the back of the house, overlooking the garden Hollis oversees. Then I should want to take over the gardens, plant dill and thyme.”

“I don’t like dill,” Lady Lydia said, then leaned close to Angela. No one could make out what she whispered.

Corrie said to her mother-in-law, “Such wonderful insults and they’re all for show. Were she to say them to me or you, she’d mean each and every one. Whereas this one”—Corrie turned to Hallie, an eyebrow arched—“walks in the house, says something absolutely ridiculous to her, and she’s charmed. You can do no wrong, Hallie, and it galls me. Mama-in-law and I are forced to listen to her sing endless praises about you, how Jason is so very lucky to have you for his wife. It’s quite provoking.”

“I’m lucky to have you, Hallie?” Jason said. “Hmm, do you really think so, Grandmama?”

Lady Lydia looked up and blinked. “Oh, my dearest little Hallie. She is doubtless an angel, unlike Corrie here who behaves like a hoyden—imagine, I watched her slide down the banister to fall into poor James’s arms. They both went to the floor, playing and laughing, certainly not something to happen in the entrance hall of a nobleman’s estate. But the truth is, Hallie and Corrie are the lucky ones.”

Hallie said, “Thank you, Grandmama-in-law. I have wit. I like that. And since I’m new and fresh, don’t you think I’m worthy of Jason, ma’am?”

Lady Lydia eyed Hallie from her lovely braided hair atop her head to her lovely thin nose to her low-cut evening gown that framed breasts Lady Lydia couldn’t remember ever having that high up on her chest. “Yes,” she said, “you are worthy. For the moment. My birthday is next month.”

Corrie said, “I gave you a lovely marquetry table for your last birthday, but you never said a single word about my being worthy of James.”

“I am still thinking about it,” Lady Lydia said.

Corrie wanted to tell her not to think about it too long or she just might finally croak. She said, “By the way, Hallie, did you and Jason see anything at all of interest on the Isle of Wight during that long two weeks you were there?”

There was silence the length of the dinner table, then perhaps a giggle from one of the women. Was that Lady Lydia?

James said, “You are one to talk, Corrie. We spent nearly a month in Edinburgh and yet you don’t even remember much about the castle. You hemmed and hawed when the twins asked you about it.”

“That,” Corrie said, “was different. It rained all the time. We couldn’t go out very much. Don’t you remember? I sprained my ankle—”

Jason asked, “However did you sprain your ankle, Corrie?”

James said quickly, “Neither of us remember. It’s not important. I told her not to hurl herself—well, never mind.”

“Listen, James, I do remember the castle. I remember very clearly how you carried me into that tunnel that led to the dungeons—”

James’s eyes dilated.

“Oh goodness, James, let me fan myself.”

James waved his napkin in her face. “Well, the tunnel was nice and private, not a soul around.”

“Oh yes,” Corrie said and gave him a smile to curl his toes. She turned to her sister-in-law. “You haven’t yet answered my question. Did you see anything at all of interest during your very long fourteen days on the Isle of Wight?”

Hallie never looked up from the lovely asparagus spears in the middle of her plate. “Well, now that I truly think about it, Corrie, I must say no. Jason, can you remember anything we saw that was of any interest, for longer than say, eight minutes?”

“Longer than eight minutes? No, I don’t believe so. For the most part, we admired the architecture at Dunsmore House.”

CHAPTER 35

The Beckshire Race

One Week Later

Dodger will win; Dodger will win; yes, Dodger will win. It was his litany, Jason thought, as he looked out over the Beckshire race course.

The prestigious Beckshire race, one half of a mile, four laps around the roughly shaped oval track, open to the first dozen owners who ponied up the fifty-pound entry fee and discreetly handed over a hefty bribe, was run on August the seventeenth beneath a cloudy sky on a cool day that required the ladies to wear light wraps.

The maximum of twelve horses were entered in the race today, not surprising since the Jockey Club members not only offered a healthy prize purse of five hundred pounds, but also the opportunity for owners to compete again against many of the great racing studs that had run their prize horses at the Ascot races in June and the Hallum Heath winners at the end of July. Unfortunately, Dodger hadn’t run at Hallum Heath since his owner had been on his honeymoon.

They had not bothered to widen the width of the stretch, so it could be a dangerous race. But that didn’t matter. Everyone who was anyone fought to get entry into this race. Dodger was running in the race not because of bribery but because Jason was very good friends with one of the Jockey Club member’s sons.

Lorry Dale, head jockey of Lyon’s Gate Stud Farm—indeed the only jockey of Lyon’s Gate Stud Farm—proudly wore a shiny new livery of gold and white, sewn by Angela, his black boots shined by Mrs. Sherbrooke herself using her own special recipe. He stood, speaking low to Dodger, who stomped and waved his head, doubtless agreeing with what Lorry said, obviously ready to run his heart out. Dodger, Jason said, was at his very best when he was racing or mating. Or one followed by the other. An uncommon combination, Jason admitted, but then again, Dodger wasn’t a common horse. Jason nodded toward Charles Grandison, who was running his Arabian bay gelding, Ganymede, then frowned at Elgin Sloane, who stood beside him, a young lady on his arm, the young lady’s father standing next to her, obviously pleased with Elgin.

“His heiress?” Hallie said behind her hand to Jason.

“So it would appear. Her father, Mr. Blaystock, owns a large stud near Maidenstone. See that brute of a horse trying to kill his jockey? It’s fitting that his name is Brutus. Brutus belongs to Mr. Blaystock. It looks like your father is right. He said Elgin was a man who learned from his mistakes, said you would probably be his first and last big one. It’s true that his coming to Lyon’s Gate to try to regain your affections was indeed a miscalculation, but it didn’t cost him anything but his time.”

“I wonder if the poor girl knows his first wife died not a year after he married her,” Hallie said. “You don’t think he killed his first wife, do you, Jason?”

“No, I don’t.”

“That Brutus does look vicious. It’s the shape and size of his head, the way his eyes roll around. I wouldn’t want to be around him.”

“He’d be a handful. He’s a beauty, though, isn’t he? That white star is perfectly formed. Elgin is eyeing that stallion with a good deal of possessiveness if I don’t miss my guess.”

Hallie said something rude beneath her breath, then pointed to Lord and Lady Grimsby, who had just moved to stand next to Lord Renfrew. “They all appear to be here together.”

Charles Grandison waved at Jason, but made no move to come over. Lord Renfrew looked over and laughed too loudly. As for Lord and Lady Grimsby, they smiled at Jason and Hallie because they lived in the neighborhood, mingled socially, and Jason’s father was the earl of Northcliffe.

Included in the hundred-some people at the Beckshire race were a dozen Sherbrookes, all there to yell their heads off for Dodger. “We must be very careful of Dodger,” Jason had said to Henry.

“Like you, Master Jason,” Henry said, “I’ve put the word out that any attempt to harm Dodger or our jockey will lead to unpleasant consequences.”

“At the very least.”

Henry grinned. “I heard ye were more specific than that when you put out the warning, Master Jason.”

“Yes, a bit more. We will see if anyone is foolish enough to test me. Keep your eyes sharp, Henry.” Jason looked out now over the dozen horses coming up to the starting line, most of them bucking and rearing.

Charles Grandison’s Ganymede stamped his right front hoof over and over again. Ganymede was favored to win the race, which pleased both Hallie and Jason, as they stood to make a good deal of money with a victory, what with the four-to-one odds the bookies had set. And all because Dodger was an unknown. He’d had made his name in Baltimore, not here in England.

Ganymede, two horses down the line from Dodger, continued his stamping. Jason watched Dodger’s ears flick back and forth. It didn’t appear to make him uneasy, unlike the big gelding between Dodger and Ganymede who was rolling his eyes, his jockey trying to calm him and failing. That was it, Jason thought, the hoof-stamping was to intimidate.

Lamplighter, Lord Grimsby’s huge bay Thoroughbred, was snorting so loudly the horse beside him tried to back away.

At last, the moment of truth. Lorry sent Hallie and Jason a salute with his whip, hugged himself to Dodger’s neck, held him steady and calm, stroking his neck, speaking quietly to him, until Mr. Wesley shouted, “Go!”

Then he stretched himself out, kicked Dodger lightly in the ribs, touched his whip to Dodger’s ears. The dozen horses kicked and bucked and heaved forward. Whips slashed down, horses slammed into each other, trying to take over space, jockeys shoved and kicked out at other jockeys. The ground was dry, and dust flew thick in the air. Lorry, prepared, pulled his handkerchief up over his nose.

Dodger, as was his wont, kept his head down, all his attention on covering that track. Lorry, coached by Jason for hours, continued to hold himself low over Dodger’s neck—“eating his sweat”—and ignored the other horses.

“Keep his head down, Lorry,” Jason said over and over again. “Yes, that’s it.” He was squeezing Hallie’s hand hard. Suddenly Jason saw a flash of silver from the corner of his eye, not twenty feet away, off to his left, from the copse of oak trees beside the track. He’d seen it before at the Hinckley racetrack outside Baltimore—it was the silver of a gun stock glinting off the sun when the man brought it up to fire. Jason yelled to Henry, but he didn’t hear him, his eyes on Dodger. Jason picked up a good-sized rock, prayed, and hurled it. He didn’t hear anything over the crowd noise, in fact, none of the people standing near him even noticed what he’d done, but the gun stock suddenly disappeared.

“That was an excellent throw,” Hallie said, holding his arm tightly. “I wonder which jockey the poltroon was going to shoot?”

Horace, one of the stable lads, sixty years old, hoary and seamed and agile as a mountain goat, yelled, “Ye got ’im! I’ll see to the blighter, Master Jason!”

“Dodger’s gaining on Lamplighter,” Hallie yelled. “He’s going to get him, I know it. Lamplighter is fast, damn his eyes. Run, Dodger, run!”

Lamplighter, the big muscled bay Thoroughbred from Lord Grimsby’s stable, had taken the lead from the start.

Hallie grabbed Jason’s hand, yelling, “Dodger, come on, Dodger,” over and over again.

“It’s the fourth lap. Dodger will make his break, any second now,” Jason said, and held his breath. The field was close, the horses nearly on top of one another the track was so narrow at this point. Nothing but yelling, louder and louder, but Jason didn’t hear them. He was concentrating on Dodger and on Lorry Dale riding so low on his neck they almost looked like one. It was time. Break, Dodger, break now. It was as if Lorry snapped a spring. Dodger leapt forward—exactly like a racing cat, Tysen Sherbrooke was to tell everyone later—and in the space of three seconds there wasn’t more than three inches between him and Lamplighter. He was gaining, gaining, nearly there. Soon Dodger and Lamplighter were nose-to-nose.

Charles Grandison’s Ganymede was moving up on Dodger’s left side. Unless Dodger could get past Lamplighter, he’d be trapped between the two horses, a favorite ploy.

“You’ve got to move up, Dodger. Run.”

“He’s head to head with Lamplighter,” Jason said, “Dodger’s got to get ahead of him.” But Dodger wasn’t past Lamplighter when Ganymede’s jockey managed to pull alongside Dodger and began to press inward. Jason thought he’d never breathe again. Suddenly Mr. Blaystock’s Brutus was directly behind Dodger, sweat spuming off his neck. He looked mean and vicious and as strong as the Devil. Lord Renfrew and the young lady were yelling their heads off, her father as well, looking nearly apoplectic. Charles Grandison stood quietly, his hands fisted at his sides, his eyes on Ganymede. His lips were moving.

Jason clearly heard the girl’s father yell, “Bite him, Brutus, bite him now!”

Elgin yelled, “No, use your whip! The whip!”

Bite? What was this? The horse couldn’t get past the wedge of three, all of them so close together, keeping the rest of the pack behind them, until one of them broke to the lead, or the middle horse was squeezed out. Brutus’s jockey leaned forward, and slashed his whip on the flanks of all three horses. He nearly overbalanced when he struck Lamplighter, but held on, and kept slashing.

Lorry Dale, unlike the other two jockeys, didn’t look back, kept his head down, kept talking to Dodger. In the next moment, Lamplighter moved to his right to escape the jockey’s whip. It gave Dodger a precious second and he pulled quickly ahead of both Lamplighter and Ganymede, a half length now. Brutus came between Lamplighter and Ganymede, running hard, harder, moving ahead of them, only Dodger in his path now.

“BITE HIM, BRUTUS!”

Brutus stretched out his neck and bit Dodger on his flank.

Dodger’s ears flattened, his tail slashed in Brutus’s face, and he put his head down and ran hard.

Ganymede’s jockey kicked out at Lamplighter’s jockey, his boot connecting with his leg. If a jockey didn’t practice this, he’d go flying off his horse’s back with one good hard kick, but Lord Grimsby’s jockey held on tight. Then Ganymede’s jockey raised his whip and brought it down hard on Brutus’s rump. Brutus, enraged, ignored his jockey, kicked out his hind legs, slowing him down, but he missed Ganymede, who was now beside him, pushing forward.

Dodger, run, run, run.

Once again Lamplighter and Ganymede came up on either side of Dodger and tried to press inward again, crowding him. Lamplighter’s jockey struck his whip out at Lorry then again at Dodger. Dodger screamed and reared, and Jason watched Ganymede pull ahead. Lorry appeared rattled. Jason knew the blow from the whip must hurt. He’d taught Lorry what to do and stood there, helplessly, praying that Lorry would remember, that he’d act before Ganymede. Lorry Dale stood straight up in the saddle, kicked out his left leg and connected with Ganymede’s jockey. The jockey went flying. Ganymede veered in front of two horses and the three of them tangled to the shouts of their jockeys toward the side of the race course.

Lord Grimsby’s Lamplighter was closing again on Dodger, but the finish line was close now. Almost there, almost.

There was a popping sound.

It was a gun firing, Jason thought blankly, and watched in disbelief as Lorry grabbed his right arm. But he didn’t fall. He tucked himself closer to Dodger’s neck. To Jason’s surprise, very few of the spectators appeared to know one of the jockeys had been shot.

Jason’s hands were fisted at his sides as he watched Dodger run nose-to-nose with Lamplighter. Time slowed, seemed to stop altogether. Then Jason smiled as Dodger stretched out his powerful neck and shot forward. He sped over the finish line a full half-length in front of Lamplighter. Brutus came in third, for which there was no prize money at all.

He heard a loud curse from Lord Grimsby, a yell of fury from Mr. Blaystock, and nothing at all from Charles Grandison. Was that weeping he heard from Lord Renfrew?

CHAPTER 36

There was a moment of stunned silence. It wasn’t every day an unknown thoroughbred won the Beckshire race, or any other big race for that matter. Many of the spectators had lost a goodly number of groats. Then, with all the Sherbrookes leading the way, the air began to thicken with cheers, louder and louder still. Those who had taken the chance on the long odds and the unknown Dodger soon out-shouted the Sherbrookes. Jason heard his twin, could see his father’s grin splitting his face. Hallie was in his arms, hugging him, squeezing his arm, laughing, then rose to her tiptoes and kissed him hard right in front of everyone. She laughed into his mouth, kissed once, twice more.

Jason stood there watching Lorry slow Dodger. He watched him pat his neck continuously, just as Jason had taught him, holding him firm with his knees, holding his right arm, the blood oozing out between his fingers.

“Oh God, he’s been shot,” Hallie said blankly. “I didn’t see. Oh, blessed hell. Jason, who would have shot at Dodger?”

It was then that the rest of the spectators realized that Dodger’s jockey had a bullet through his arm. There was a chorus of outrage, and of curses.

Jason said, “Someone who wanted to win badly. Everyone is upset about this now, but truth be told, it won’t change anything. You know what, Hallie, I’m thinking the owner who hired the first man to shoot also hired the second. And we’ve got him. We’ll see if Henry and Quincy and our other men can find the man who shot Lorry.” Excitement pounded through him. Dodger had won and Lorry appeared to be all right.

As it turned out, the bullet had barely nicked him, but Jason knew it must hurt badly. He and Hallie stood over Lorry as the physician bound him up. After thanking the doctor, Jason and Hallie turned to find themselves surrounded by a dozen excited Sherbrookes, laughing all of them and slapping both Hallie and Jason on the back. Jason realized, as he looked into all those beloved faces, that they were all so very happy he’d won because they still saw him as the wounded man who might bolt again. Fact was, Jason thought, hugging his aunt Mary Rose close, he hadn’t thought about that horrible day for a while now, perhaps nearly a month. He looked over at Hallie, laughing with his uncle Tysen. She was enjoying herself immensely, but he saw her looking around whenever she thought she could get away with it.

She was looking for him. He was suddenly filled with warmth and a soft sort of pleasure that made his chest two inches wider. Jason turned, grinning, at a tug on his sleeve. It was Henry. “Master Jason, we’ve got the blighter over there by Dodger’s wagon. The second blighter, the one wot shot Lorry, I’m sorry to say he got away.”

“We’ll find out all we need to know from the first one, Henry.” He went over and grabbed his wife. “We have some business to attend to, Uncle Tysen. Excuse us for a moment.”

“Well, at least Henry got the first villain,” Hallie said. “I want to question this fellow myself, I want to grind him into the dirt. How could he do that? As for that other fellow—to shoot a jockey, it’s disgraceful. Jason?”

“Yes?”

“You told me that no one tried with Charles Grandison because of the consequences. Lorry kicked Ganymede’s jockey off his back.”

“I don’t think Charles is going to say anything since his jockey tried to take Lorry down first. Charles should have realized I’d teach Lorry to fight as dirty as needed.”

“If Charles does try anything, I’ll have something to say to him. Now, Jason, I want to beat Charles’s consequences.”

Jason hugged her, felt her heart against his chest. “Yes, we will. Ah good, James is bragging on Dodger like the proud papa. He’ll keep everything under control whilst we deal with this idiot.”

The idiot was young, that was Hallie’s first thought, his clothes filthy, as if he’d slept in this field for a good two days before the race. Probably searching for the best spot from which to shoot, she thought, her hand clenching at her side. He was sitting on the ground, his back against the right rear wheel of Dodger’s traveling coach. Henry stood on one side of him, Quincy and Horace on the other.

Hallie stood over him, hands on hips. “Your boots are a disgrace,” she said, and kicked his right foot.

He looked up at her, eyes widened. “Aren’t ye a purty little thing, missus, all that lovely hair on yer head, sweet breath flowing over me, each word ye speak like bells chiming beautiful music. I appreciates beauty, so the beauty should appreciate me, don’t ye think?”

“No.”

“Now yer’re saying ye don’t like me boots?” He gave her a young man’s cocky grin. “Ye want to polish ’em all up fer me?”

“No, I’m going to have your boots pulled off and you’re going to walk over a bed of nails. Hot nails. What do you think of that?”

“Ye’re a young lady, I seen ye wi’ that fella over there. Now me, missus, I could show ye some real fun iffen ye’d—”

“Are you mad, you moron? Look at that fella over there.”

He looked. “Well, meybe not,” he allowed. “I don’t knows why I’m here. These bully boys grabbed me where I was taking me nap and—”

Jason said, “What’s your name?”

“I done forgit,” he said and spat. “I demands ye lets me go. I didn’t do nuthin’, I’m just ’ere to see all the swells.”

“Nice gun you’ve got here,” Hallie said. “Are you utterly stupid? Look at how dirty you’ve let it become. I’ll bet you Mr. Blaystock gave it to you all clean and primed, and yet—”

“No, tweren’t like that a’tal. I—”

“Mr. Blaystock gave you a dirty gun? He expected you to shoot a horse or a jockey with a dirty gun?”

“No, ’e—well, stick me thumb in me nose. I don’t know wot ye’re jawin’ about. Smart mouth on yer, missus, enough to make a man scurry to ’ide ’is privates. Listen to me, little girl, I don’t know no Mr. Blaystock. Who is this fancy cove?”

“You were going to shoot at one of the horses,” Jason said. “Were you aiming at any one in particular?”

“Dunno nuthin’ about it.”

Hallie went down on her knees beside the young man and grabbed his dirty shirt collar in her hand. “You listen to me, you miserable varmint, my husband is going to send you to Botany Bay. Do you know what that is? It’s a place halfway around the world that’s filled with strange bugs who burrow inside your ear while you’re sleeping and suck the blood out of your head—if you survive your voyage there. Did you know the sun is so hot over there that you’ll explode after a while? That is, if the bugs don’t drain you first.”

The young man had clearly heard of Botany Bay, and chewed his lips frantically. “I ain’t got that much blood in me ’ead to start with. No, no, missus, ye can’t send me there, ye can’t.”

Jason snapped his fingers. “You’ll be gone by Friday.”

“Think of that sun burning through the top of your bloodless head. It will shrivel right up.”

“I thought ye said I’d explode.”

“One or the other. It depends on the bugs. Now, which horse did Mr. Blaylock want you to shoot?”

“Jest the jockey, not the racer. Ye only has the one jockey, it’d put ye right out o’ business.”

“What is your name?”

He gave Hallie a sour look, shook his head.

She said, “Botany Bay. Friday.”

“I’m William Donald Kindred, the proud fruit of me pa’s loins, now filled with gin, not seed. I ain’t niver done nuthin’ like this, but ye see, me ma is real sick, me little brother too, an’—”

“You will remain with us until I have verified that you are who you say you are, Mr. Kindred,” Jason said.

“I don’t want to go to Botany Bay! Don’t put me name on no bill of ladin’. Don’t ye send me to the bugs!”

Hallie said, “Then you’d best be a very cooperative prisoner from this moment on, don’t you think? For goodness’ sake, polish those filthy boots.”

Jason took her hand, kissed her fingers, saw she was looking at his mouth, and smiled at her. “That was well done, Hallie. An excellent questioning technique. Mr. Blaystock, huh?”

“I saw my father do that once, worked like a charm. Hmm.” She frowned, tapped a lovely shod foot.

Jason said, “What is it? You guessed right.”

“I know him,” Hallie said finally, looking back at the man who was now standing, his hands tied behind him, Horace’s big hand around his arm. “Yes, I’m sure of it now.”

Jason waited, didn’t say a thing.

“I saw him hold Lord Grimsby’s horse once when I was in Eastbourne, in front of Mountbank’s Stable off High Street.”

“Lord Grimsby,” Jason repeated. “You’re sure?”

“Yes, Lord Grimsby had just spoken a few words to his wife, and was off to a tavern, once she was out of sight. I heard him yell something to this man. I’m sure it was our Mr. Kindred.”

“So,” Jason said, looking at the man now walking between Henry, Quincy, and Horace. “He’s not stupid, our dirty young man with his seedy-looking boots. He realized very quickly he could shift the blame onto Mr. Blaystock. He was quite smooth. Interesting.”

“Yes, it is. What are we going to do, Jason?”

Jason smiled down at her, saw her tongue slide over her bottom lip, sighed deep in his throat, kissed her hard, and stepped away from her. “What I’m going to do is try to keep my hands off you until we’re home. Er, Hallie, I meant to ask you, do you really want that chair to be at the foot of the bed?”

“You’re right. My gowns never land on the chair. I know, I’ll move the chair in front of the armoire. It faces the window and such a lovely view it is, don’t you agree?”

Jason stared down at her, fascinated and appalled.

“I’m joking, Jason. I’m joking.”

CHAPTER 37

“This one is too close.” Hallie kissed the long thin scar high on the inside of his left thigh.

“Yes, much too close,” Jason said, and tried not to think of her mouth caressing that scar he always noticed when he was bathing because it had been too close, of her palm now lying flat on his belly, fingers splayed. He was trying his best not to shudder like a palsied man. He said only, “Hallie.” Odd how whispering her name in moments like this flowed so steadily through him now, warm and strong. He said her name again because it felt so good, because her breath was warm against his flesh.

She looked up the length of his body to his beautiful face, stretched up to kiss his belly, then looked at his face again. “Not long ago I would have been alarmed that I was causing you distress. But not now.” She lowered her head, kissed the scar again, her touch so light he wanted to cry. “How did it happen?”

“What? Oh, the cut on my leg. James managed to get under my guard, poked his wooden sword into my belly, and I toppled backward over a log. A small and unfortunately very sharp branch was sticking up, and it tore right through my britches and got me.”

“Were you old enough to be mortified when your mother wanted to take care of you?”

“Oh yes, but my father saved me, bless him for all time, cleaned me up himself.” And he said her name again. “Hallie.”

She traced the thin scar over his right hipbone, the result of being thrown off his pony when he was six years old, he told her. Jason believed it was all over for him when she licked that scar, her fingers curling around him now, and he, quite simply, wanted to drum his heels against the mattress, and die. Thank God he wasn’t eighteen and still had a modicum of control over himself. Hallie, however, was orderly. She wasn’t to be hurried. After an eternity, she reached his chest. She was on her knees leaning over him, her hair loose, veiling her face, her fingers moving to the scar high on his shoulder. She lightly traced it. “This is the bullet wound.”

“Yes.”

“From five years ago.”

“Yes.”

“Tell me, Jason. Tell me what happened. I think it’s time, don’t you?”

When he remained silent, she leaned down and kissed the puckered scar. “The pain you must have endured. I am so very sorry.”

He felt a catch in his throat, felt a shot of pain so black, so very real, for a moment he couldn’t breathe. So long ago that pain, but he still felt it, felt the utter helplessness, and he knew it was payment owed for his appalling judgment. She must have seen that pain in his eyes because she kissed him, kept touching him, nibbling here and there until the pain receded. He wondered how she could ease him so quickly, so absolutely. He said, “She was going to kill my father. I couldn’t allow her to do that.”

“No,” she said, kissing him again and again, his throat, his chin, his mouth, “of course you couldn’t, no more than I could allow someone to kill my father, not if I could stop it.”

“She aimed at his heart. My father is about an inch taller than I am. He would have died instantly. That blessed inch saved my life.”

Her eyes closed though she could still see him throwing himself in front of his father, the bullet tearing into his flesh. She felt such intense, vicious hatred for this long-dead woman, that for an instant she knew what it was like to wish death upon another. It was a pity this woman was already dead and beyond her.

“I don’t understand. Why did she want to kill your father?”

He reached up his hand and pulled her hair back. He saw fury in her eyes, making them nearly black, and wondered at it. How could she feel so deeply over something that had happened so long ago, long before she’d known him? It was right and just that he remember, that he burrow into the leaching pain as he would a familiar old shirt. Perhaps he shouldn’t remember it with such stark clarity, but he did. “Her name was Judith and I was her cat’s paw. She was beautiful, but it wasn’t her beauty that reeled me in, it was her wit, her ability to surprise me, to make me laugh and shake my head at the same time. I wanted to marry her. I never saw her treachery until it was too late. I was a bloody fool.”

“Tell me,” she said, and sat back on her haunches, white and naked, her hair long and loose, falling over her shoulders to veil her breasts, her hands open on her thighs. “Tell me,” she said again.

Jason didn’t want to call up the memory that was still so hot and stone-hard inside him. He didn’t want her to know the damnable details of what he’d done, he didn’t want her to realize what a fool he’d been, to see the pathetic young man who’d very nearly destroyed his own family, but words came out of his mouth even as he shook his head. “It was all about the greed of three evil people, three people with absolutely no conscience. My father was caught in this storm’s eye.” He told her about Annabelle Trelawny, a woman who had fooled them all, including Hollis, about how James had nearly died as well. “He managed to kill Judith’s brother, Louis, but it was so close, Hallie.” He rubbed his shoulder, feeling again the instant the bullet had struck him, hurling him back against his father. “Corrie killed both women,” he said. “Saying it now, it doesn’t seem possible, but she did it, she first shot Judith, then Annabelle Trelawny, to save Hollis. I can remember the sounds of the bullets, and I thought how very loud they were, and I knew one of them had struck me, and I thought it very odd since I felt numb. Apart from it, really. I remember my father pressing his palm against the wound in my shoulder, remember him yelling at me, and I was so relieved he was all right. Then I remember thinking that with my luck the bullet could so easily have torn through me and still killed him, but that didn’t happen. I wanted to tell him that I was sorry for all the devastation I’d caused, but I couldn’t, the words wouldn’t come, and then, well, then I couldn’t do anything.”

“You nearly died,” Hallie said. She was stroking her fingers over his shoulder, lightly touching the scar.

“But I didn’t. My family was there, they were always there, and when I finally opened my eyes, they were so happy and relieved, told me over and over that I would be all right, that I would live. I wasn’t sure I wanted to. All those forgiving, beloved faces, the worry and love for me etched deep, the fear that I would die.”

“You couldn’t bear it because the blame was yours.”

“Yes, it was mine, no one else’s.”

“Tell me again how it was all your fault.”

“If I hadn’t been such a fool, so blind and full of my own conceit and invincibility, Judith wouldn’t have been able to draw me in, to make me her dupe. She wouldn’t have won.”

“You say she won? How could she have won, Jason? She’s dead. You’re not dead, your father’s not dead, James isn’t dead.”

“No thanks to me. They wanted our deaths, Hallie. They wanted the actual doing of it. Worst of all, they wanted the benefit from it. They were monstrous evil. Judith’s brother had knocked James out and tied him up. Thank God James is so strong and so smart, but still, it was too close. He could have died so easily.”

“He didn’t. He saved himself just as you saved your father.”

Before he could speak again, she leaned down and kissed his mouth lightly, her palm over his heart. The beat was solid, steady, not fast now with need. “Your father,” she said thoughtfully, her brow furrowed, “he must have hated that you, his son, saved him.”

“Yes, he did. He told me he was the father, it was he who should protect his son. He was angry that I leaped in front of him.”

“That surprises you?”

“No. He’s my father. He tried to excuse what I’d allowed Judith to do to me, said if I wanted to apportion blame so badly, then give them all their share.” Jason fell silent, aware of her palm now covering the bullet scar, but beneath her palm the damnable pain was still there, pulsing strong and hot. “He said what I would say had I been the father.”

“Of course. He was also right.”

“You weren’t there, Hallie. You don’t know what really went on.”

“Has your father ever lied to you?”

“Of course not, but this is much different. He wouldn’t see this as a lie, he’d see it—”

“As what?”

“As something he’d fight to believe since I was his son and he loved me.”

“Do you love your father, Jason?”

He grabbed her wrist and pulled her down to an inch from his face. “Why would you ask something so stupid as that?”

She kissed his mouth lightly, then pulled back a little. “Because you obviously didn’t believe him when he told you that you weren’t to blame. How can you love someone when you believe they’re lying to you?”

“It wasn’t like that. He tried to justify it, tried to excuse what I did—”

“This is quite remarkable.”

“What is, damn you?”

“You’ve wallowed in guilt for nearly five long years. You’ve managed to keep that wound raw and bleeding, always there at the edge of your mind so you won’t forget to hate yourself. You’ve nourished this constant companion of yours, kept it strong and in control for so very long. That is great dedication on your part, Jason. I imagine you would probably feel incomplete without it there, poking you, reminding you what an abominable excuse of a man you are.

“Your father must feel that he’s failed you. Actually, I suppose he did fail you. Like I said, it’s obvious you didn’t believe him, did you? Didn’t believe his word that you weren’t to blame? Hmm, all this flailing about over long-ago evil and endless bloody guilt, it’s made me quite thirsty. Would you like some warm milk? I understand it’s Mother’s antidote for depressed spirits. My father always rolls his eyes and says brandy is the only drink to realign the humors. Or would you prefer your spirits to remain depressed?”

“It was you who brought all this up, Hallie, you who demanded to know what happened. My spirits aren’t depressed, dammit.”

“Well, you’ve certainly depressed mine.” She pulled away from him, rose, beautifully naked, only he didn’t notice, since his eyes were focused on her neck, how his hands would fit nicely around her neck, and squeeze. He felt the heavy burn of anger in his throat. “I told you part of me was dead, that I wasn’t whole, that trust had been burned out of me and that’s why I didn’t want to marry, that—”

“Oh yes, you did,” she said, as she pulled on her dressing gown. “It is all very sad. Just imagine—being part dead. Yes, that is indeed sad.” She sighed. “Look at the guilt I shall have to carry around now.”

“Guilt? You? You don’t have any guilt, you were a girl at the time this happened.”

“Oh yes, I do. Don’t you remember? I jumped on your poor dead innocent self. I was very ready to plunge my fingers down the front of your britches—my father was right about that. Attacking you like I did, I sealed your doom. Poor Jason. In addition to all that soul-shattering pain that haunts you, you were forced to take a wife, namely me, the very last thing you wanted. Having a wife must seem to you like the final instrument of torture—the iron maiden—sorry, just a little joke. Poor Jason, trapped now with both the memory of failure and blame—and a wife. Do you think that long-dead evil Judith is hanging about as a spirit, rubbing her hands together because she knows she still controls your life? That would please the damnable bitch, don’t you think? Hmm. I wonder if her spirit ever believes she won. Would you like some warm milk?”

He jumped out of bed, so angry he was nearly rabid with it, so angry he wanted that neck of hers between his big hands, now. He shook his fist at her, yelled at the top of his lungs, “Don’t you try to act all superior and smart with me, Hallie. Don’t you bring up Judith’s smarmy spirit to make me feel ridiculous. Damn you, don’t you dare try to jolly me out of this!”

She saw the pounding pulse in his throat, then stared at his groin. “No, of course not. Sometimes words pop out of my mouth, you know that. I know there’s no way I can make you face up to what happened five years ago. It would be like prying the shingles off a roof with your fingernails. Aren’t you chilly, Jason? Should you like me to give you your dressing gown? I believe it’s over here on the floor, where you threw it about fifteen minutes ago. Ah, but I enjoy looking at you so very much, perhaps—”

He picked up his own dressing gown and shrugged it on. “Damn you, stop staring at me.”

CHAPTER 38

“Why? You have incredible stretches of self that quite delight me. Whenever you have me out of my clothes, you’re either looking at my breasts or at my belly or my legs, or talking about kissing me behind my knees. It’s like you can’t make up your mind.

“Not that it’s any easier with you. Well, I always know where to begin, but then there’s your chest, I can’t forget about your chest, but then, your legs—goodness, I love your legs too. I guess the truth of the matter is every time I look at any part of you—even the dead parts—I feel all sorts of delicious little tingles. Would you like some warm milk now?”

“I don’t want any damned milk. I want a brandy.”

“Hmm. My father would be pleased. Perhaps I’d like a brandy too. Jason?”

“What, dammit?”

“You really don’t like the chair at the end of the bed? Perhaps with enough practice, our clothing would end up on the chair rather than on the floor.”

She was callous and not at all solicitous of him, despite all her bleating to the contrary. He kicked the chair, cursed because it felt like he’d broken one of his toes, and slammed out of the bedchamber. He wished at that moment that Angela was still here. He’d take her a snifter of brandy, pull up a chair beside her bed, and tell her about how he was going to strangle his wife. Then he’d go take care of Lord Grimsby, but Lord Grimsby was a distant second to his crass, unfeeling wife. But Angela had moved to the Dower House three days before, Hollis supervising the four foot-men. He and Hallie were alone in this big house. He’d never believed it was too big before, but he did now. If he strangled her, it would seem even bigger. The entire house would be his. He could do just as he pleased whenever he pleased. Damnation.

Perhaps he’d wake up Petrie, tell him about this bloody uncaring wife of his, listen to him add his own list of female failings to Jason’s list. How long would that last? Knowing Petrie, possibly a week. Besides, with his luck, Martha would overhear, rush in, and smack them both in the head.

“Yoo hoo, Jason! The house is very cold, don’t you think? Can one heat brandy?”

He turned to face his wife, all smiles, trotting toward him down the corridor. She grinned up at him, took his arm. “The house seems too empty without Angela. What do you think is happening at the Dower House?”

“Hopefully they’re sleeping,” he said in a prissy voice.

“Oh dear, this is all my own fault. If only I’d not asked you all those soul-wrenching questions that ended up with you walking out on me, why, right now I’d be lying in the middle of the bed, a silly grin on my face, with you sweating beside me, maybe singing a duet.”

“Be quiet, Hallie.”

She began whistling.

He wished he could whistle as well as she. “Whistle that ditty about the drunken sailors.”

She did. She grabbed his hand and began swinging her arm in march time. When she came to the end of the ditty, she said, “I don’t suppose you’ll want to make love to me on the kitchen table, will you? I could arrange myself, perhaps even lift the corner of my gown so as to focus your lovely eyes—”

“Shut your mouth. You have the feelings of a damned gnat.”

It was meaty, that insult. She went on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. He felt her hand low on his belly through the velvet of his dressing gown, pressing in, touching him. His breath hitched at the quick punch of lust. “Truly? A damned gnat?”

“Get your hand off me, Hallie. I am not in the mood.”

Her fingers stilled, but she didn’t move her hand. “It came to my attention during our ever-so-pleasant stay on the Isle of Wight that men were always in the mood. Ah, Jason?”

“What?”

“Why are you so angry with me?”

He realized they’d been standing at the top of the stairs for the last three minutes. It was dark, but there was a swatch of moonlight coming through the front windows. He opened his mouth, shut it, said, “You refuse to acknowledge the god-awful mess I made, you refuse to understand the devastating shadow I cast on so many lives.”

“It certainly appears to be a very long-lasting shadow.”

“Dammit, Hallie, because of me, my family nearly died! Stop mocking me, you’re not treating what happened with the seriousness it deserves.”

“No, I suppose not. Had I been there, been your wife, it’s possible I would have coddled you and reassured you for a full six months. Then I would have gotten tired of your ridiculous guilty drivel. And I would wonder why you couldn’t see that you survived and those evil people didn’t. Yes, I would have reached the end of my tether of your attachment to a past that would be forgotten if not for your dreary vow to suffer for the rest of your life.

“Hmm. I’ve heard of sack cloth, it’s spoken of in the Bible. I wonder if one can still purchase sack cloth. Ashes, now, that would be no problem. Wouldn’t you look a treat in sack cloth, all dirtied up?”

He growled at her, actually growled he was so angry. He left her at the top of the stairs and headed down. He nearly tripped at the shock of the gloomy voice that came from the thick shadows near the drawing room. “Master Jason? Is that you, sir? Oh dear, what is wrong? I heard voices, arguing voices, mainly that of your new wife.

“Ah, I knew it was a mistake, you’re such a fair man and she took full advantage of you. You had to marry her and now she’s forcing you to argue.”

Another voice, this one much higher and louder, trumpeted from the shadows back near the kitchen. “You miserable fat-tongued dead-witted slug! Don’t you dare speak of my precious mistress like that. My mistress is the best thing that has ever happened to Master Jason. She makes him laugh and smile and, well—all have heard him groan.”

Petrie, in a dressing gown as black as a priest’s robes, puffed himself right up. “And what about her, Martha? I’ve heard her groan so loud I feared for the newly hung chandelier. It’s disgraceful that a supposed lady would enjoy, well—”

Martha flew at him, her white nightgown whirling around her ankles. She jumped on him, took him to the floor, a tangle of black and white. She grabbed fistfuls of his hair and began banging his head against the tiles. “You wretched water-piddled trout-brain! Like every other man in the universe, all you can think about is this yelling business. Of course she yells, you cracked pot, she should yell. Do you think the master has no skill at all? You think he’s a clod of a lover? You think he shouldn’t yell as well? You think my mistress is a clod? Never mind that, men don’t need to have skill applied to them to make them yell. Have you no working mental parts at all? No feelings in your heart?” Bang, bang, bang. Petrie groaned.

Jason said as he lifted her off Petrie, “No, Martha, don’t kill poor Petrie. This thing about men’s hearts, I fear in many it’s lower, much lower.” He realized in that instant that Petrie was staring up at Martha, a very strange look on his face, almost as if he were in very bad pain, which he should be.

“Master Jason, you may drop her back down on me, if you wish, sir. I don’t mind, the pain in my cracked head is nothing. Her breath is very sweet, it has quite left me wondering what has happened. I am adrift, waiting for enlightenment.”

Martha shrieked, tried to kick him.

Hallie said, “Martha, thank you for standing up for me. Now, both you and Petrie take yourselves back to bed.” She paused a moment, staring down at Petrie, who hadn’t moved and who looked both baffled and appalled, his dark hair standing in clumps on his head where Martha’s strong fingers had nearly pulled them out. “You will go back to your own bed, Petrie. You will think of no other bed except yours. You will not think of Martha’s sweet breath. All is well. We are no longer arguing. Master Jason simply wanted some brandy. Perhaps you know. Can one heat brandy?”

Petrie said, “Well, back in 1769, it’s said that old Lord Brandon was suffering from an ague. His valet, an ancestor of mine, heated him a snifter of brandy over a small hob in the fireplace. It was told me by my mother that the heated brandy made him well within a half hour.”

“I’m going to sleep with Henry in the stable,” Jason said, and marched toward the front door.

“You won’t be happy walking out there barefooted,” Hallie called after him. “Petrie, why don’t you fetch your master’s boots, put on your own as well, and the two of you can snuggle down together in the warm straw on either side of poor Henry.” Hallie smiled at both of them impartially, and walked toward the kitchen. “Jason? In case your mood changes, I will take a very close look at the kitchen table.”

Jason was dressed and on Dodger’s bare back within ten minutes.

CHAPTER 39

Corrie rubbed the cramp in her leg. She never should have let James arrange her in such a position, ah, but it had been such fun. She rubbed some more. She’d swear she had never used that particular muscle in her life. Perhaps she should rub in some of her mother-in-law’s special warming cream that seeped to your bones.

She heard something. She froze, cramp forgotten, instantly as still as James, who was lying on his back, breathing deeply in sleep, nearly dead, he’d told her before falling on his back, an angel’s smile on his face.

She heard it again. A noise coming from the window. Good heavens, this was the second time. When Corrie crept toward the window, a poker in her hand, she saw it start to slowly inch upward.

She watched her brother-in-law ease the window up far enough so he could swing his leg over the sill and climb in.

“I was hoping for a villain this time,” she said, and gave him a hand. “I was armed and ready.”

“Thank you for putting down the poker, Corrie. I’m sorry to come in through your window again, I know it’s late.”

“Not that late. I felled poor James. That’s him, snoring from the bed.”

She sounded quite proud of herself. Jason touched his fingertips to her cheek. “I’ll wake up the sluggard. He doesn’t deserve to sleep.”

Jason shook his brother’s shoulder. “Wake up, you pathetic excuse for a man.”

James, as was his wont, opened his eyes without hesitation, and focused instantly and clearly on his brother’s annoyed face above him. “I feel very fine,” he said, and smiled.

“You don’t deserve to, damn you. Get up, my world has ended and you’re lying here, thinking about how wonderful life is. You don’t bloody deserve it.”

James, still light in the head and heart, said, “All that?”

“What’s wrong, Jason? What’s happened?”

Jason looked with a good deal of affection at his sister-in-law, whose white hand clutched his sleeve, her worry for him shining in her eyes, though in the dim light it was hard to know for sure. “You look ever so nice with your hair all wild around your face, Corrie.”

James bolted upright. “Don’t you admire her, you dog. Damn you, you’ve got a wife of your own. Step away from her before I flatten you.”

“What’s wrong, Jason?”

“I’ve left Lyon’s Gate,” Jason said, and stepped back from his sister-in-law because he knew when his brother was serious. He slid down to the floor, leaned his head back against the wall, closed his eyes and wrapped his arms around his bent knees.

James pulled on his dressing gown, eyed his wife’s revealing nightgown, and said, “Get back into bed, Corrie. I don’t want Jason to get any ideas.”

“Ideas? How could he possibly be thinking about me and this lovely peach nightgown when he’s left his home?” Corrie lit some candles, then slipped back into bed, drew a deep breath. “You’ve left Hallie?”

Jason said, not looking up, “The nightgown is lovely, Corrie, but I’m not thinking about you under it. My life is ripped apart. I meant to go sleep in the stables, but I came here instead. I don’t know what to do.”

James patted his wife’s cheek, tucked more covers over her, then pulled his twin to his feet. “Let’s go downstairs and have a brandy. You can tell me what’s happened.”

“Do you know if heated brandy is good, James?”

When the brothers stepped into James’s estate room, it was to see their father pouring each of them a snifter of brandy. He was wearing a dark blue dressing gown whose elbows were worn nearly through. “So,” Douglas said, trying to sound calm, when in fact, his heart was racing, and he was terrified, “why, Jason, did you leave your home in the middle of the night, and your wife of not yet a month?”

James said, “Actually, it’s not all that late, not even midnight yet.”

“Don’t make me shoot you, James,” his father said.

Jason gulped down the brandy and fell to coughing. When he finally caught his breath, his father poured him more. “Slowly this time. Get ahold of yourself. Tell us what’s happened.”

“I don’t think brandy needs to be heated. My belly is on fire. It’s Hallie.”

Both Douglas and James remained silent.

Jason sipped at his brandy. “I’m very sorry to break in on you like this, but I just didn’t know where else to go. Well, like I said, I was going to sleep in the stable, but I was afraid Petrie would come with me.”

Douglas said, “What did Hallie do?”

Jason sipped brandy.

“What did she do?”

“She laughed at me.”

“I don’t understand,” James said slowly. “What did she laugh at you about?”

“She wanted me to tell her what happened five years ago, and so I did. She made light of it! Dammit, all three of us still live with that awful time.”

James said, “The gall. Here I was growing fond of her. I thought she was nice, filled with kindness.”

“She is, usually.”

“No, she’s obviously cruel,” James said, and shook his head. “Hard, that’s what she is, and unfeeling.”

Douglas nodded. “Indeed. I trust you set her straight, Jason. I am very disappointed in her. I believe I will ride to Lyon’s Gate right now, and give her a piece of my mind.”

“I’ll go with you, Papa,” James said. “I’d like to shake her, tell her she doesn’t understand what really happened, how it smote you to your toes, Jason, how deeply you feel about it, and your part in it.”

“She had the nerve to say that any part I had in it I should have gotten over by now.”

“What a coldhearted creature,” Douglas said. “I’m very sorry you had to marry her, Jason. I’ve wondered if perhaps she took advantage of you because she knew her father was there, knew perhaps he was even on his way into the stable.”

Jason drank more brandy. “No, she didn’t know her father was there. She simply couldn’t help herself.”

“Well, no matter. Yes, I’ll go over right now and set her straight about things. I won’t have her hurting you when you’re so very hurt already.”

“I told her how I was such a fool, how Judith pulled me in so effortlessly, that she’d won. You know what Hallie said? She said Judith didn’t win, how could she when she was dead?”

James said, sipping his brandy, “I’ve never looked at it in exactly that light. Fact is, Jase, she did fool you—fooled the rest of us for that matter, and surely that makes all of us dupes—but I certainly understand how you would feel more like a fool, more like a failure and a loser, than the rest of us. I want to go with you, Father. Hallie needs to be thrashed.”

“More brandy, Jason?”

Jason frowned as he stuck out his snifter to his father. “She didn’t call me a failure or a loser. I tried to explain it to her, but you know Hallie, she’s able to weave in and out of a conversation. She was talking about Judith’s spirit hanging about, about how her spirit must be so pleased that she was still controlling my life. That isn’t true, dammit!”

“Of course it’s not,” Douglas said. “Imagine, a woman dead for five years still controlling someone’s thoughts and actions. It’s absurd.”

“Well, yes, it is. It’s just that I—Oh hell, Father, you could have died. Do you hear me? You could have died! How can I ever forget my role in that?”

“But I didn’t, Jason, you’re the one who could have died.”

“Well I didn’t either, but that’s neither here nor there. Do you know she asked if you’d ever lied to me?”

“I don’t believe I have,” Douglas said. “Hmm. Well, perhaps I did when you were a lad and you wondered why your mother had yelled in the gazebo—”

James would cut his brain out before he’d think about that. He nodded. “Yes, I would lie to Douglas and Everett as well.”

“The point is, you haven’t ever lied to me about anything important, and so I told her. Then she had the cheek to tell me I believed you had lied to me—my own father.”

“Why is that?”

“She said it was obvious I hadn’t believed you when you told me I wasn’t to take the blame, and thus I did believe you’d lied to me.”

“Hmm,” said Douglas. “Fact is, Jason, she’s right. You didn’t believe me. I hate to say it, but Hallie did nail that one.”

“It’s not that I didn’t believe you, Papa, it’s just that you could have so easily died and so could you, James, and it was all my fault, no one else’s. It hit me between the eyes it was so clear. How could I deny something so obvious? You love me, damn you, and that’s why you—well all right, I didn’t accept your words, I couldn’t because I knew you said them because you loved me.”

Douglas said, “Even though I’d like to clout Hallie, let me be honest here. The fact is, Jason, you just admitted it yourself—you didn’t believe me. Perhaps you simply weren’t able to, but you wounded me, Jason, deeply, I’ll admit it.”

“Still,” James said, “she shouldn’t have said such a cruel thing about a son disbelieving his father, a father he admits never lied to him. I hope you set her straight, Jase.”

“Yes, certainly. About what exactly?”

Douglas said, “That’s all right. Don’t tease yourself any more about it. Truth is, I’ve lived every day for the past five years worrying about you. I can still feel the wet of your blood against my palm. There was so much blood, Jason, and it was you who were bleeding—my son, who was a damned hero. I remember exactly how I felt, how all of us felt, when you were so ill, when we listened to your every breath, praying it wouldn’t be your last. That sort of fear is corrosive, it burns into your gut and your heart.” Douglas paused a moment, then said quietly, “You weren’t the only one to suffer, Jason. Corrie killed two people. It’s a tremendous burden she must carry the rest of her life, even though she would never regret what she did. She still has occasional nightmares. We, all of us, live with the past, Jason, you more than any of us. Perhaps it’s time all of us consigned that wretched time to the ether. It’s time we all let it go.”

“I can’t,” Jason said, then paused. “Hallie said once that the only good she ever saw in remembering a painful event was that it might keep you from doing the same stupid thing again. But it’s so much more than that. Damnation—nightmares? I’m very sorry about that. Poor Corrie, in addition to being a fool, I’m selfish. I didn’t consider anyone except myself. Oh hell.”

James said, “I say thank God for the passage of time. It blurs things, and you begin to realize how very lucky we all are, how very blessed. We all survived. We’re here drinking brandy now, aren’t we?”

“But I was to blame, I—”

Douglas said, “Tomorrow I will ride to Lyon’s Gate and inform Hallie she isn’t to treat you so badly again, that she is to comfort you, help you endure your lifelong misery. She is to stop being coldhearted.”

Jason said, “It’s not that she’s coldhearted. It’s that what happened—it’s so damned deep inside me that I’ll never be free of it. I accept that. She must accept it too, she must.”

“I will set her straight,” Douglas said. “Trust me, Jason.”

“No, please, Father, don’t say anything to her. I must go now, I’ve kept you too long as it is.”

“One more thing, Jason,” his father said. Jason slowly turned. “Never forget that I love you, that I’ve loved you since you were in your mother’s womb and I splayed my palm over her belly and felt the two of you trying to kick off my hand. When you came yelling your head off into the world, I believed there could be nothing sweeter in life. However, truth be told, at this moment, Jason, I’d like to kick you across the room.”

Jason nearly fell over. “I don’t understand.”

“You don’t?” James shook his head at his brother. “You said you left Lyon’s Gate because Hallie was making fun of you. Do you mean she can’t understand why, after five years, you’re still wanting to drown yourself in guilt?”

“The way you’re saying it doesn’t sound reasonable, James. Surely you must understand that—” He fell silent because he couldn’t find the words to say.

“Yes, we do understand,” his father said. “I think that after what happened five years ago, you desperately wanted to free all of us from your pain. You saw leaving England to be the answer. You thought we’d forget you, perhaps? That when we spoke of your triumphs in Baltimore, we’d not also remember you lying in bed with the physician digging that bloody bullet out of your shoulder, not remember that you nearly died? You are a blockhead, Jason.”

“But I was the one who—”

Douglas said, “It has always amazed me how you so eagerly gave yourself all the credit for bringing about that particular tragedy. You were nothing more than a young man who held honor dear, who loved his family, who faced evil and didn’t recognize it. And why should you? None of us had ever before been thrown into evil such as those three offered up. You ran away, Jason. I wish you had not, it nearly broke your brother, leaving him to deal with a new wife who’d had to kill two people, and every day face a mother and a father who would gladly have given their own lives for yours.

“And you survived, Jason. I believe you’ve survived fairly well. And now you have a wife who, if I’m not mistaken, would also give her life for you. Go home, Jason. Go face yourself, and the past, and think about your present and future. Both look remarkably fine to me. Oh yes, I got a letter from James Wyndham. He and his family will be here in three weeks and they’re bringing you a thoroughbred you trained yourself for a wedding present.”

“Which one?”

“I believe James Wyndham said his name is Eclipse, after our own very famous Eclipse.”

Jason said absently, “Eclipse never lost a race. He was amazing. Stubbs painted him.”

“Yes,” Douglas said. “All right. James Wyndham said his little girl Alice named him.”

“Yes,” Jason said, “yes, she did.” He walked to his brother and hugged him tightly. Then he stood a moment, looking at his father from a distance of six feet. He felt tears rise in his throat. “Papa, I—”

“Uncle Jason!”

“Uncle Jason!”

Two small boys, their white nightshirts flapping around their ankles, burst into the room, arms raised.

Jason stared down at the two beloved little boys. Life always moved on. Even as he gathered up both of them tightly against him, the tears dried in his eyes and in his heart. “What are you two devils doing awake this late?”

Everett gave him a wet kiss on the neck. Douglas was squeezing his neck so hard he nearly broke it. “We heard Mama arguing with herself.”

Jason nodded. “That would arouse my curiosity as well. Ah, Mother, you’re awake too?”

Alex came over to peel one of the boys off Jason’s shoulder. “I’m here to rescue you. No, Everett, no waltzing tonight. It’s time for the two of you to get back into bed.”

After no more than two minutes of whining, at which point James said, “That is enough. You will both be silent. Kiss your uncle good night. You will see him again soon. I will come up in a moment and tuck you in.”

Douglas shook his head at his wife. “I believe I said the same thing to him and Jason.”

“Very probably. Innumerable times. Are you all right, Jason?”

Jason hugged his mother, stepped back. “Don’t worry about me, Mama. I’m off.” He paused a moment, then said, “I missed all you so very much when I was in Baltimore, please never doubt that.”

James said as they listened to Jason’s boot steps receding on the tile floor, “I am going to give Hallie anything she wants.”

His father smiled.

CHAPTER 40

At the breakfast table the following morning, Hallie said brightly, “It’s been nearly a week since the Beckshire race. What are we going to do about Lord Grimsby?”

Jason said as he smeared honey on his toast, “Those are the first words out of your mouth since I slammed out of the house last night and left you alone with Petrie and Martha.”

“I saw you ride back and knew you were all right.”

Of course she would wait up for him. “I slept in Angela’s room.”

“Yes, I know. I hope you slept well?”

“Not very, but it doesn’t matter.” He became suddenly very stiff and formal. “I wish to apologize for my melodrama last night, Hallie.”

“Yours wasn’t the melodrama.” Even when he raised his eyebrow in question, she simply shook her head, said nothing more.

“I see, you’re going to be mysterious about this. I was hopeful that yesterday would be the day I’d be off to see Lord Grimsby, but it wasn’t. I am hopeful, however, about today.” He pulled out the watch from his vest pocket and consulted it.

“Now you’re being mysterious.”

“Yes, I am, aren’t I? Well, we’ll see. I would imagine he’s wondering why the devil I’m waiting this long, particularly since he knows we have Kindred.”

Hallie said, “Perhaps he thinks you’ve forgotten about it since it seems to be the done thing. When will you be ready? What does your seeing him depend upon?”

He only smiled at her.

“Very well, be a closemouthed trout-brain, as Martha would say.”

“As mysterious as my wife.”

“That’s different, but no matter. Now, I have a wonderful surprise for you, Jason,” and she beamed at him.

An eyebrow went straight up. “You’re pregnant?”

She dropped her slice of toast. “Oh dear, I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

“You haven’t had your woman’s monthly flow since we’ve been married.”

“Oh blessed hell, is that true? But I’m not always—Jason, that is very private. I don’t wish to speak of it.”

“I’m your husband. You’re to speak to me about everything.”

“No, surely not.”

“My father always said it’s very important for a wife to tell her husband everything. Tell me your surprise.”

Pregnant? Her flow was erratic but she wasn’t about to discuss that with him. She couldn’t imagine such a thing. It floored her that he would bring it up so easily. She took a bite of her toast, cleared her throat, and said, “At the race, you remember the other man, the one who actually shot Lorry, the one we didn’t catch—”

“Yes, of course, I can’t find out who he is, dammit. Kindred won’t tell me a bloody thing. He won’t even admit to a bloody thing.”

She looked at the clock beside the sideboard, gave him a fat smile. “Because I’m an excellent wife and partner, I am serving him up to you on a platter. Henry and Quincy should walk up to the front door with him very soon now.”

“The man who shot Lorry? What is this, Hallie? What are you talking about?”

“Early this morning, I had an informative encounter with Kindred. He told me the other man’s name. It’s Potter He’s also a stable lad for Lord Grimsby. He blamed Potter for everything, of course.”

Jason stared at his wife. “You’re telling me that Kindred spilled his guts simply because you asked him? I can’t believe that, Hallie. I threatened Kindred several times with a long voyage to Botany Bay, but still he wouldn’t tell me a single thing, claimed over and over, he was smoking his silver pipe when a rock comes flashing through the air to strike him in the head. I can’t believe he told you.”

“Big threats weren’t working on him, so I made a believable threat. Kindred said the ‘little bugger must believe he’s all safe’—and Kindred spit then—so I don’t think he was sorry to give up Potter’s name to me.”

He could but stare at her, this young woman who’d broken a man’s nearly weeklong silence early this very morning. He didn’t know whether to be happy or howl because she’d done it and he hadn’t. “Hallie, what did you threaten? Not to cut off his manhood, I hope.”

“Oh no, that’s not believable.”

“Tell me.”

Hallie sat forward, rested her chin on her steepled fingers.

“I told Kindred that I would strip him naked and have him walk behind my horse, hands bound in front of him, tethered to a rope. I told him we would ride all hereabouts—visit with every soul in the village, see all his relatives, his friends, his enemies, visit Lord Grimsby and the stables, and I would tell everyone what he’d done, and this would be the punishment for anyone who ever tried to harm either our horses or jockeys. He didn’t choose to believe me. He laughed, called me a cute little girlie, and surely I couldn’t be such a bold chit.”

Jason hadn’t realized what an excellent storyteller she was. He paused a beat, then, “And?”

“I had him stripped to his dirty hide, his hands tied together and looped to the end of a rope. I rode Charlemagne, holding the other end. He cursed, yelled I wasn’t a cute little girlie at all, and called me unnatural, among other charming names. When we were no farther than one hundred feet beyond Lyon’s Gate, just getting a good start toward the village, he gave it up. He screamed out Potter’s name, swore that Lord Grimsby had told Potter to visit his brother in Cranston until everyone forgot about the race. He cursed again and said it wasn’t fair that Dodger still won, that he bet Lord Grimsby wasn’t happy about that.”

Jason didn’t want to picture Kindred naked in his mind, but he did. Not an appetizing vision. Kindred was tall, but he had thin legs and a chest that sank inward. He had hair everywhere. Even on his back? He wasn’t about to ask his wife. “So Henry and Quincy went after this Potter fellow.”

“Yes. The key is to follow through on the threat. One must even be prepared to up the ante for repeat bad behavior. While I had him naked in the middle of the road, I told him if he personally ever tried to harm any of our horses or jockeys again, I would have his mother-in-law lead him about. The idiot said she didn’t like horses, to which I replied that she could ride in my lovely gig on a delightful sunny day, with him trotting behind her. He believed me. I told him to spread this around since it would be the official Lyon’s Gate punishment for any trouble at the racetrack.”

“Did Kindred tell you Lord Grimsby threatened him if he ever opened his mouth?”

“Oh yes. I simply said that a threat in the hand was worth any number of unseen threats in a bush, didn’t he think so? Then I looked him up and down, told him that the bunions on his toes were very unappealing.” She threw back her head and laughed and laughed, so pleased she was with herself.

Jason joined her, couldn’t help himself. What she’d done was worthy of Jessie Wyndham. When she was hiccupping and sipping water, he said, “Of course he believed you, since he was bare to the hide. Well, that’s that. You’ve taken care of everything.” Was that sour grapes in his voice? Jason was appalled at himself.

His wife was grinning at him, shaking her head. “Oh no, I merely scooped up the pawns. You’re going to flatten the black king.”

“Calling him a black king is giving him too much gravitas.”

“He’s only the first in a series of black kings who will know your anger.” He realized she was perfectly serious. He felt something expand deep inside him, something that made him feel grand, filled with energy and contentment. He realized it was conceit. “I haven’t yet been to confront Lord Grimsby because I wanted to know exactly why Elgin Sloane and Charles Grandison and he were so bloody close. I set inquiries in motion six days ago.”

“But you didn’t tell me.”

“You didn’t tell me what you were going to do with Kindred either. Don’t whine. The fact is that I would prefer to strip Lord Grimsby naked like you did Kindred. Unfortunately I don’t think I could get away with it.”

“Talk about an appalling sight—Oh well, I think that was very smart of you, Jason.” He heard admiration in her voice and it sent warmth flooding through him.

Petrie appeared in the doorway. “Master Jason, there is a small man here to see you. Very small in stature, not, I hope, in character. He says it is urgent.”

Jason tossed his napkin on his plate and rose. “That sounds like Mr. Clooney. Maybe I’ll be visiting Lord Grimsby this morning after all.”

She wanted desperately to go with him; she was his partner after all, but she knew deep in that well of knowledge she was convinced women were born with, that this was something he had to handle himself. She knew it was, simply, men dealing with men, drawing boundaries, meting out retribution for breaking rules.

“What about Elgin and Charles Grandison?”

“I’ll be sending a message over to Lord Grimsby, asking him to have them there when I arrive, if, that is, Mr. Clooney has answers for me.”

Hallie said, “I wonder if all three of them paid to have Kindred and Potter shoot Lorry.”

He smiled. “Elgin doesn’t have any money. Would Charles do that? I wouldn’t have thought so.” She never looked away from his stern face, so beautiful in the morning sunlight streaking through the window that she wanted to weep. Or swoon, like Cook, and sing arias.

She said, “Will you take Potter and Kindred with you to confront Lord Grimsby?”

“No,” Jason said, “it’s not necessary.” He strode to her, leaned down to kiss her mouth, and gave her a blinding smile. “I’m going to nail his butt to the stable door.”

“Whose?”

Jason laughed, patted her cheek.

“Master Jason.”

“Yes, Petrie? You’re still here, watching everything?”

“Certainly, it is my duty. I wished to say that your boots shine much brighter this morning than the mistress’s.”

Jason looked at his face in his shiny boots presented to him that morning by Petrie.

“It is my opinion, sir, that her use of anise seed is overrated.”

Jason said to Hallie, “I told Petrie to write to Old Fudds and find out the exact measurement since I doubted you would tell him.”

“That’s true,” Hallie said. “Still, you did well, Petrie.”

Petrie preened.

“Ah, listen. I hear Cook singing, and that means she’s scrambling your eggs as we speak, with just a pinch of thyme, the way you like them. Are you coming back to eat them?”

“Hallie,” he said. “Do you know that last night I realized how simply saying your name—Oh, Petrie, are you still lurking? Go see to Mr. Clooney’s comfort. I will be along in a moment. Go. As I said—merely mentioning your name, even in passing, makes me feel warm all the way to my heels.”

“I’m very glad about that. Oh, the devil. I’ll tell you, why not? I love you, Jason Sherbrooke, even though Cook will never scramble eggs specially for me like she does for you.”

She loved him? It amazed him, nearly brought him to his knees, nearly pulled a shout of pleasure right out of his mouth. He said, “I don’t deserve it.”

“Possibly not, but what am I to do? It’s there, deep inside me, this love for you, and I know it will never go away. You don’t have to say anything, Jason. Tell Cook that you’re bequeathing your lovely scrambled eggs to me this morning.”

“It’s done.” He gave her another quick hard kiss on her mouth, and was gone.

When Cook came into the dining room a few minutes later, Hallie said, “Master Jason said I could eat his eggs.”

Mrs. Millsom nodded sadly. “Yes, the beautiful young master apologized to me, told me it was not to be.”

She looked ready to burst into tears.

“He is meeting with a man right this minute, Mrs. Millsom or I know he would be here.”

But Cook wasn’t listening. She carried the plate of scrambled eggs in her arms like a baby, walked to the windows and looked out. When she saw the master striding toward the stables, she shouted at the top of her lungs, “Master Jason, come back before your eggs disappear down the mistress’s gullet! Bring the scrawny little man with you!”

Hallie heard him shout back, “Mrs. Millsom, please let the mistress eat my eggs this morning. She’s very possibly with child and I want my heir to grow big and strong.”

Mrs. Millsom whipped about to stare at her.

Hallie shrugged. “One never knows. Give me the eggs, Mrs. Millsom. The last thing we want is a paltry heir.”

“Eat them all mistress. Soon now you’ll be puking up your innards in the mornings.”

“That is not a happy thought, Mrs. Millsom.”

CHAPTER 41

Two hours later, Jason rode Dodger up the curving, oak-canopied drive to Lord Grimsby’s manor house, Abbott Grange. He imagined lengthening the drive to Lyon’s Gate, perhaps adding a couple of curves for interest, and planting oaks like these. In twenty years or so there would be a canopy of thick green leaves over their heads as well. His father was right. The future looked remarkably fine to him too. He wondered if Hallie was indeed carrying his child. Very possibly, he thought, very possibly indeed. He grinned like a fool and whistled one of the duchess’s ditties.

It was a warm day, the sun bright and strong overhead, wild roses bloomed over stone fences, and sweat made his shirt stick to his back. He saw a single peacock sweeping about on the front lawn, tail feathers spread, and wondered where the recipient of all this glory was hiding. Peahens, he knew, were notoriously fickle.

He left Dodger in the care of a stable lad he’d seen at the Beckshire race. The lad looked nervous, understandably so, given he had to know Jason held Kindred. Jason leaned close. “You must be quite shorthanded since I have both Kindred and Potter. You’ll take good care of Dodger, won’t you, lad?”

“Oh yes, sir, yes I will. He’s a lovely boy, strong teeth he’s got, and the Devil’s eyes.”

“You mean he’s got mean eyes?”

“Oh no, sir, he’s got eyes that see every sin a man’s ever committed.”

“I trust he won’t see you commit any sins.” Jason patted Dodger’s neck. He watched the lad give Dodger a carrot while he hummed at him in a lovely deep voice.

Lord Grimsby’s butler, a droopy-eyed old man who looked ready to sink to the floor in a stupor, looked Jason up and down and said in the booming young voice, “I don’t see why my master is so afraid of you, young man. I imagine you smile and the angels sing, but who cares? Ever since the Beckshire races, you’ve fair to made him gibber like that idiot peacock.”

“Perhaps you will soon gibber as well,” Jason said, and gave him a smile meant to intimidate, which only made the old man say, “You’re right handsome, sir, too handsome, my master says. Lady Grimsby says his jealousy is pathetic.” He paused, cocked his head a moment. “Yes, I hear angels singing right this moment. Follow me, young sir, and let’s see if his lordship will see you.”

Jason grinned at the back of the butler’s bald head as he followed him to the drawing room. He lightly touched his hand to the old man’s arm. “You needn’t announce me. Allow me the pleasure.” Jason tapped once on the closed door and walked in.

He hummed with pleasure at the sight of Charles Grandison and Elgin Sloane, both sprawled in chairs, listening to Lord Grimsby. All three here and accounted for. Since they’d gotten here quickly, it meant they were worried. When they turned toward him, their expressions were identical—boys caught stealing the vicar’s sacramental wine.

“Good morning, gentlemen. I am pleased Lord Grimsby got you here so very quickly.”

“Yes,” Lord Grimsby said, not rising from his chair. He looked wary and ill-tempered. Well, in all fairness, he had been two stable hands short for nearly a week.

“Let me say first of all, my lord, that Kindred is fine, at least for the moment.”

“Kindred did you say? I fired Kindred a number of months ago. I don’t know who he’s working for now. But not me. Now see here, Jason—”

Jason smiled. “Hello, Charles. Elgin. I can see that the three of you are very intent on some project.”

Charles said, “May I ask what your wife is doing to poor Kindred?”

“Preparing him for a long voyage to Botany Bay?”

“Botany Bay! That’s bloody absurd.”

“Who cares,” Elgin said. “The silly blighter got himself caught.”

Charles Grandison said, “Don’t you think Botany Bay is a bit extreme, Jason?”

Jason merely smiled.

“You come here to threaten my former stable lad with deportation to Botany Bay? Good riddance to him. Kindred always was a troublemaker, that’s why I dismissed him. There’s nothing more to be said. You may leave us now.”

“Oh no.”

Lord Grimsby eyed him for a moment, then got control of himself. “What do you want, Jason? Why did you want to see all of us? It’s a damned impertinence, boy. Oliphant shouldn’t have let you in, damned mince-head.”

“I intimidated him, my lord.”

“That’s not possible. The old relic doesn’t see well enough anymore to be intimidated.”

Charles said, as he lazily flicked a bit of lint off his sleeve, “Surely, Jason, one doesn’t ship a man to Botany Bay because one believes he might have planned to shoot a gun at the racetrack. Everyone has discussed it, and all agree that the fellow who shot your jockey is the one you need to find, not this poor Kindred fellow.”

“Actually, I’m pleased to tell you that I have the man who actually shot my jockey.” He smiled at Lord Grimsby. “Potter sends his regards, my lord. He isn’t very happy at this point because Kindred told him what his punishment will be. According to my wife, it will take a good four hours to complete.”

“Potter? That nitwit? He knows nothing, Jason, nothing at all.”

“My men found him where Kindred said he’d be—at his brother’s cottage in Cranston, scared to his toes. He and Kindred both have told me of your instructions, my lord. At least you didn’t order them to kill any horse or jockey, merely disable the horse that looked like it would win, if, that is, any horse was ahead of Lamplighter.”

Charles roared to his feet and advanced on Lord Grimsby. “You would have had one of your villains shoot my Ganymede?”

“Don’t be absurd, Charles. Sit down. Jason is trying to set us against each other.”

Jason said, “Yes, Charles, if Ganymede had been the clear leader, why then, I fancy he or your jockey would have gotten a ball of lead in him.”

“No, that’s a lie. Elgin, tell him that’s a lie.”

“It’s a lie, Charles. If I were to believe the lie, why then, that would mean Brutus was also at risk. My uncle would never seek to harm a horse that belonged to my heiress.”

Jason said, “I fancy Lord Grimsby would shoot whatever needed shooting for Lamplighter to win. But, Charles, feel free to believe what you wish to believe.”

Lord Grimsby exploded, “Now, listen here, Jason. This is racing! All sorts of things are done in racing, a bit of mischief, a bit of pain, it’s simply part of the sport, it doesn’t alarm anyone, it adds excitement and suspense.”

Charles said, “Actually, it makes me rather rabid. You know my reputation, my lord. You surely wouldn’t be such a fool as to disregard the punishments I mete out if anyone, let me repeat, anyone tries to harm my horses.”

“Of course I do. I’m not a fool. That’s why this is all nonsense. Besides, you’re different, Charles, you take it all too seriously.”

Elgin said, “Will you punish Jason, Charles? After all, his jockey kicked yours off Ganymede.”

“That’s true enough, Charles, can I expect a visit from you?”

“No,” Charles said.

“Good, since your jockey started the whole business in the first place,” Jason said. He turned back to Lord Grimsby. “My lord, what if one of the other owners had shot Lamplighter?”

“I’d kill the blighter.”

“Just so,” Charles said and took a sip of his tea.

“Dammit, boy, none of this makes any difference. Listen to me now. It was just a flesh wound, nothing of any importance at all. Dodger still managed to win the race, so what’s there to say?”

“You wish me to tell my jockey that the bullet wound in his arm added nothing more than some lovely color to his racing livery?”

“A tear through the flesh, nothing more,” Elgin Sloane said.

“Ah, Elgin, how did you know it was only a flesh wound?”

“Everyone from here to London knows about it. Mr. Blaystock was quite upset. He wished the bullet had been more true, that it had at least knocked your jockey off that damned Dodger, so that his Brutus would have then won.”

Charles tsked. “Ganymede would have won if Jason’s jockey hadn’t kicked my jockey off his back. No, Elgin, Brutus wouldn’t have won no matter how many horses’ rumps he’d managed to bite, an interesting ploy, I admit, but doesn’t Mr. Blaystock find it somewhat unpredictable?” He turned to Lord Grimsby. “I find myself wondering, sir, if your Lamplighter were to run a straight race if he would beat Ganymede. I tend to doubt it, though Lamplighter is a fine animal. Had there been a straight race between Ganymede and Dodger, I am sure in my own mind that Ganymede would have taken the prize.”

Jason said, “Dodger ran as straight a race as he could. It took Lorry time to kick back at your jockey, Charles. I wish it hadn’t been necessary, but you know it was. Listen to me, all of you. At the very least all these shenanigans distract the horses and the jockeys. I’ve always believed it would be better to let the horses run without interference.”

“That will never happen,” Lord Grimsby said. “Never in a thousand years. Jockeys like to use their whips, like to kick their opponents, like to squeeze in on a horse until he falls back. As for the horses, they’re devious, it’s bred into them. Mr. Blaystock told me Brutus was born to bite. Horses would be so bored if they didn’t fight that they wouldn’t run their best. They need distractions to keep them going.”

Jason said, “Dodger doesn’t need distractions, he doesn’t like them, nor do I.” He didn’t say that Eclipse, however, kicked up his back legs when he felt a horse getting too close, something he’d done naturally the first time he raced. “However, don’t you believe there must be a line drawn?”

Lord Grimsby shrugged. “It happens. It will always happen. If you’re serious about racing, Jason, you’ll accustom yourself to the way it’s done.”

Charles said, shaking his head, “Five hundred pounds, that is quite a purse Dodger took, Jason. I imagine you also bet a good amount for Dodger to win. I myself wagered a couple of pounds on him, the odds were so long. Do you mind if I ask what you won?”

“Ten thousand pounds or thereabouts. All my relatives did well too. I’ve also gotten notes of thanks from others who wagered on Dodger to win.”

“That’s not fair,” Elgin Sloane said bitterly. “No one told me how very fast Dodger was, how well trained. Damnation, you have a female for a partner. Who would believe you would know what you’re doing? It’s simply not fair. At least there won’t be long odds again. Why didn’t you tell me, Charles?”

“I myself didn’t realize how very fast he was, Elgin. I only won a couple hundred pounds, nothing really.”

Jason said, “Do I wish you well, Elgin? Will you be marrying Brutus’s mistress?”

“Yes. Thank God she isn’t like Hallie. She knows nothing about horses and would be disgusted were she to have to witness a mating. She knows when to yell her head off at the races and that’s enough for any woman. Her father doesn’t know much more, except biting. He enjoys seeing his horses bite the competition.”

“Then you’ll have a free hand,” Jason said. He walked to the fireplace to lean against the mantel, arms folded over his chest. “Charles, do you recall telling me that no one tried to shoot either your jockeys or horses because the consequences were so painful?”

Charles Grandison nodded.

“Hallie and I agreed that we would outdo you if anyone had the nerve to try to cause us harm. I am here to tell Lord Grimsby of his punishment.”

“Now, see here—”

“My lord,” Charles said in a sigh, stretching his long legs out in front of him, “did I not tell you not to try your skullduggery on Jason? Did I not tell you that he was a serious man? Look at what he did to my jockey for a small jostle during the race.”

“Yes, but he knows nothing about racing, nothing at all! He raced in America, the former Colonies, for God’s sake. There is nothing there, nothing remarkable, including horses or jockeys.”

“Actually, the Americans have skullduggery down to a fine art. I hated it there as well.”

“You won the damned race, Jason. You said you were going to announce my punishment? You young pup, your father won’t allow you to do anything to me, why I’ve known him and your mother since before you and your twin were born.”

“That’s a very long time, my lord,” Jason said, and shook his head. “That’s why I am surprised you would be so stupid. Can you imagine my father ever allowing anyone to harm someone close to him?”

“Your father understands racing, understands the risks, the challenges, the little eccentricities. Another thing, you are not your father. All know never to cross him, or there’s hell to pay.”

“You’re right, I am not my father. Actually, both James and I are much meaner. Now, I have weighed both Kindred’s and Potter’s guilt in this matter. I’m not sending them to Botany Bay. My wife has devised a much more effective punishment. You will see two very chastened men when they return here. I imagine news of their punishment will spread. Everyone will hear about it. It will be more and more difficult for owners to find minions to do their mischief. As for you, sir, as I’ve said, I’ve decided upon your punishment.”

“Impudent puppy!”

“You won’t race for a full year, indeed, not until the Beckshire race next August.”

Lord Grimsby jumped to his feet, his face crimson, shaking his fist in Jason’s face. “You can’t give me orders like that, you young bastard! I won’t stand for it. Get out of my house!”

CHAPTER 42

Charles said, “Jason, don’t misunderstand me, I think it’s excellent retribution. But tell me how you will prevent Lord Grimsby from racing for a year.”

“You’ve used beatings against the actual miscreants, Charles, and you wounded two owners in duels when they shot one of your jockeys and one of your horses. I don’t like duels, they’re too dangerous, the outcome too unpredictable. And they are against the law. I don’t fancy having to haul my wife off to the Continent or back to Baltimore because I got caught after shooting some fool racehorse owner. No, I prefer something more bloodless, but infinitely more painful.”

Lord Grimsby looked faintly alarmed now. “I will race, damn you! What is bloodless?”

Jason said in a very low voice to Lord Grimsby, “You will not race for a year, sir, or else Elgin Sloane, this precious relative of yours, won’t be allowed near Elsie Blaystock. Indeed, her father might shoot him. I will also see to it that every heiress he wants, flies away. And what, I ask you, will happen to Elgin’s family if he is unable to provide for them?”

“You can’t do that,” Elgin said, alarmingly pale now, sitting forward in his chair. “I didn’t do anything to your damned jockey—he did. I’m not to blame.”

“Then you’d best convince Lord Grimsby to agree to my terms. Just as you convinced him to push your suit with Hallie Carrick.”

Lord Grimsby waved his fist in Elgin’s nose. “You try to convince me of anything, and I’ll break your bloody face, you paltry excuse for a man! Besides, there is no way Jason can prevent you from marrying Elsie Blaystock or any other heiress you choose. I have some power here. I can forestall anything he’d try to do. I know you must have money. I’ll see that you wed.” He whirled back to Jason. “Of course he must have money for his family.”

Jason said pleasantly, “That is the big concern, isn’t it, sir?”

“Of course it is,” Lord Grimsby said as he began pacing. He paused to shake his fist in Jason’s direction, then gave Elgin a look of pure hate.

Charles said, “I fancy, dear Jason, that your father will assist you.”

Jason smiled. “He would, if I asked him, but I don’t see the need, at least in Lord Grimsby’s case. He will do as I ask, with only my boot lowered to his neck. As for Elgin here, I fancy my father would enjoy speaking to Mr. Blaystock about who his daughter marries.”

Elgin Sloane raised his head. “I beg you, sir, agree not to race for a year. I must wed, I must, or all will be lost. A word from Lord Northcliffe, and Elsie’s father would shut the door in my face. I need her, sir, very much. I need her now.”

“That’s true enough, Elgin,” Charles said, “but it’s the horses you really want. You can see yourself, the proud son-in-law, owning a big stud farm.”

“Perhaps that is a part to it, Charles, and why not?”

Jason said quietly to Elgin, “Remind Lord Grimsby about Elaine.”

Elgin’s jaw dropped. “You know about Elaine? But how?”

“Actually,” Jason shrugged, “I know everything.”

Lord Grimsby said, staring at Jason, “You do?”

Elgin said, “He’s right, sir. You must do as he says, else I won’t marry Elsie and my sweet sister will starve in a ditch. Already she has no governess, I can’t afford one. She is alone, and will not have a roof over her head unless I wed very soon.”

Jason said, “Did you hear him, my lord? Elgin is concerned that Elaine will starve. What do you think, sir?”

Lord Grimsby rounded on Elgin, ignoring Jason. “You damned idiot, you foolish ass! You could have married Hallie Carrick, beautiful and rich she was, but no, you had to sleep with some bucktoothed matron during your betrothal! Naturally she found out and broke it off! Then you were married to Anne Cavendish. Just look at how you mucked that up. Her father tied up her dowry and she had the nerve to die. Now, enough of this. You will bring your sister here to me—rather your half-sister—and that’s an end to it.” Lord Grimsby waved his fist in Elgin’s face.

“Oh no, sir.”

“Damn you, she belongs with me. My wife wants her here. Bring her to me!”

Elgin said, “I will never give up my leverage. I’m Elaine’s guardian and I will remain her guardian. You will continue to do as I tell you, sir. You will not race for a year.”

“I’ll kill you!”

Jason said, “No, sir, he’s not worth it. I’ve found there are always reasons for a man’s behavior. One must find out what they are. It didn’t take me long to discover why you’ve suffered this idiot in your home, given a ball in his honor, tried to find him a rich wife. How long have you known Elaine was your daughter, Lord Grimsby? Like I told you, I know everything sir, no reason to lie anymore.”

He whirled around to Jason. “I would tell the world about her, if it weren’t for this bastard making his damned threats. I’ve known since before she was born, so did Elgin’s father. He threatened to make her a servant in his own house unless I paid him well. And now his son does the same thing. Rotters, both of them. My wife wants her with us. We have no children and Elaine is but ten years old. She’s ours, she shouldn’t be under this idiot’s thumb.”

Jason said, “And you, Charles? I’m not quite sure how you fit into this puzzle.”

“I’m not a big mystery, Jason. I was only trying to help Lord Grimsby. I’ve always known about poor little Elaine, how Elgin has used her for a bargaining chip, learned it from his father. Poor little girl, I feel for her. I must say I’m impressed with how quickly you’ve gained your information. You are talented, Jason.”

“Just don’t ever try to hurt my horses,” Jason said. He turned to Lord Grimsby. “You will agree not to race for a full year, my lord. All will know that you are being punished for your misdeeds, and all will know they run a huge risk if they try anything against my jockeys or horses in the future. Do you agree, sir? One year of not racing? I’m perfectly ready to help you gain what you wish.”

“What do you mean by that?”

Jason nodded to the open doorway. Lord Grimsby looked up to see his wife standing there. She’d heard everything, he knew it. The woman had ears like Elgin. Lord Grimsby said slowly, “I will agree not to race for a year if you make Elgin give me my daughter. I mean give her to me legally. My wife and I wish to adopt her. Then I won’t have to ever speak to this nincompoop again. Can you do it?”

“Of course, sir. Elgin?” Jason’s voice was very soft, the voice he always used to gain instant attention and compliance from every child he’d ever met. “You will have Elaine here within the next three days. Lord Grimsby’s solicitor will see to the adoption. Then you may marry your heiress.”

“No, I won’t give up my leverage. My father told me I could dine on this until Lord Grimsby croaked. Oh damn! It’s not fair.” He fell silent, his hands clasped between his knees. He looked ready to cry. He said finally, “I want that racing stud. Blaystock is a fool, knows nothing about anything. Did you hear the idiot shouting for Brutus to bite the horses in front of him? He has no finesse, no imagination.” He turned to Charles. “Do you assure me that Blaystock is very rich?”

“As rich as Croesus until the Persians planted their heels on his neck.”

Slowly, Elgin nodded. “I would certainly rather marry Elsie Blaystock than Hallie Carrick. She doesn’t show the proper respect for a man, doesn’t forgive him for small, really insignificant blunders. She doesn’t shut her mouth and she’s too smart by half. I am in her father’s debt for convincing me she wouldn’t make me a good wife.”

Jason smiled. “She forgives my blunders.”

“That’s just because you’re so damned pretty,” Elgin said, and waved a fist toward Jason.

“Pretty is as pretty does,” Charles Grandison said, and rose. “What a morning it’s been. I believe I am no longer needed here. My lord, my lady, I wish you the greatest happiness with Elaine. She’s charming. Elgin, I doubt I’ll be attending your nuptials. I would like to keep Jason as a friend in the future, you see. Jason, I’ll see you at the Grantham races next month.”

“I’ll be racing two horses,” Jason said as he shook Charles’s hand. “James Wyndham is bringing Eclipse over to me. He was born and bred in Baltimore.”

“Eclipse?” Elgin said. “He’s been dead for years and years. He wasn’t bred in America.”

“The same name and, I hope, a similar future. I believe my Eclipse may be as fast as Dodger.”

“An American horse named Eclipse, just what we need,” Charles said. “What do you say we try to make this one a straight race?”

“I know that Kindred and Potter will spread the word.”

“What is your punishment?”

“You’ll find out soon enough,” Jason said. When he took his leave a few moments later, Lady Grimsby stopped him at the front door. “Thank you, Jason. How I’ve hated all this deception, hated having to pander to this paltry young man. I have wanted Elaine since she was born, you see. How very grateful I am to my husband for making you his victim. Thank you for what you have accomplished. Give my regards to your lovely wife.”

Jason’s lovely wife was sitting on the ground, covered with dust, yelling at the top of her lungs at Charlemagne, who’d thrown her trying to get to the mare who’d been delivered to Dodger.

Jason pulled her up, dusted her off, kissed her nose. “I’ve been thinking. Why don’t we breed a mare to Charlemagne? He’s a bighearted fellow, arrogant as his namesake. Who knows, with the proper mare, we might produce a legend.”

“Charlemagne, a legend,” Hallie said, and laughed.

CHAPTER 43

Lyon’s Gate

Ten Months Later

Jason would later swear her scream shook the house. After all these interminable hours, he couldn’t imagine she’d have the breath, much less the strength to yell, but she did. He thought the bones in his hand would break she squeezed so tightly.

“She’s getting there,” Dr. Blood shouted over that scream. “Not long now. A bit over nine hours, not too long at all.”

Hallie slitted her eyes up at Theodore Blood, who was racing mad and liked nothing more than to be invited to Lyon’s Gate to watch Dodger and Eclipse train, and panted, “Nine hours isn’t long, you buffoon? Why don’t we trade places?”

He paled—Jason would swear that Theo paled. He didn’t blame him. He himself was exhausted, out of his mind with worry, but compared to the pain she was enduring, it was nothing. He leaned close, kissed her. “Theo would apologize for that stupid remark, but he’s too close to babbling with fear. Now, sweetheart, that was a really meaty yell. Do it again, that’s it. It won’t be long now.”

She screamed, gone from him for a long moment.

Jason cursed, wiped her sweaty forehead with a cool, wet cloth. “I’m so sorry, curse me some more, that will make it better. Your father said Genny encouraged you to learn new ones just last month.”

“I didn’t believe her,” Hallie said. “I’m as stupid as Theo. I didn’t believe her.” Her grip on his hand tightened. “Oh damn you, Jason. I hope you rot in the deepest pit in Hell, you and all men, you miserable, horse-breathed toad—” She broke off, panting, then she was gone again, whimpering. Then she screamed again, her back arching off the bed. Jason felt the contraction rip through her. Theo out-yelled her. “You’ve done it, Hallie! Nearly there. Push, Hallie. Push! Now, that’s it.”

“Damn you to the blackest pit with the rest of the idiot men—oh God, oh God—”

“Push!”

She gritted her teeth and pushed.

Jason said, “That’s it, sweetheart. That’s it, my beautiful brave girl.”

Hallie yelled at him between pants, “You pickle-eyed Satan, that’s what you said to Piccola when she was birthing her foal!” and she yelled again through her gritted teeth.

At a nod from Theo, Jason said, “Again, Hallie, again!”

“I am pushing, curse your black soul and your sinful smiles that landed me in this mess in the first place.”

“Ah, I’ve got him! Ah, yes, it’s a boy and he’s perfect. Oh my, you should listen to those lungs, loud as his mother’s—but wait, what’s this, oh my, another one—it’s another baby, oh goodness me, this is a surprise, but it shouldn’t be now, should it? Oh dear, I didn’t think, didn’t guess, and I should have. Yes, Hallie, push, but not much. I don’t have enough hands! Jason, come here now!”

Jason caught his daughter in his outstretched hands. She opened a tiny mouth and yelled as loud as her brother. He stared down at the tiny being in his hands, at the fingers that were no larger than the splinters Jason had pulled out of Henry’s thumb yesterday. Theo and the midwife, Mrs. Hanks, who were both laughing at this unexpected surprise, quickly got themselves together. Mrs. Hanks took the babe from Jason, saying over and over, “Isn’t this just grand? Two of them at once, another set of twins in the family. Oh, isn’t she beautiful? Just like her daddy.”

“And her brother.”

Jason looked over at Theo Blood, who held his son, singing to him even as he cleaned him up. Neither of them stopped yelling. He quickly washed and dried his hands, then leaned over Hallie, and wiped the sweat off her face. “They’re perfect,” he said, and kissed her. “They’re incredible, Hallie, you’re incredible. You’ve given me two babes, a boy and a girl. Oh God, this is too much for a man to take in.”

“If you faint, Jason,” Theo called out, “I will announce it in the London Gazette. Keep yourself together.”

Jason laughed. “I won’t let you down now, sweetheart, though I do feel a bit light-headed. How do you feel?”

Hallie was beyond words. The endless pain was gone, truly gone. It was over. She was alive, and she, like Jason, was staring over toward the fireplace, watching Theo and Mrs. Hanks bathe and wrap the babes in soft white wool.

Her babes. She’d birthed two babes. She wanted to hold them, to feel their small bodies, have them yell right in her face.

“They’re both perfect, Hallie,” Theo called out. “Small, but perfect. Give me another moment and I’ll make sure you’re perfect as well. Ah, what a remarkable exhibition of lung power. Did either of you hear what I said over the yells?”

Jason nodded. He couldn’t take it in. He leaped to his feet, ran out of the bedchamber, raced down the corridor to grab the banister at the top of the stairs to keep himself from hurtling down. “We’ve got twins! Corrie, James, help, we need your hands. Everyone else, don’t move! Everything is all right.”

Corrie and James came running. Theo handed the little boy to Corrie and Mrs. Hanks handed James the little girl. James had meant to tell her what to do with that tiny screaming creature, but could do nothing but stare. He whispered, “Douglas and Everett were this small, weren’t they? It’s amazing. Oh God, Jase, we’re both fathers.”

While Theo tended Hallie, Jason, to distract her, continued to wipe her face with cool, damp cloths and kiss her—her mouth, her nose, her ear. “You’ve done it, given me two perfect babes, a boy and a girl this time.” Jason laughed and wanted to weep. “I’ll bring them to you in a moment. James and Corrie are seeing to them. Don’t worry, I’ll make certain they don’t try to steal them, not after all the work you did. They’re so small, James could ease them in his jacket pockets. Now, what do you want me to do to this pathetic doctor of yours whom I believed so smart? This brainless fellow didn’t think it was two babes. He claimed you were just big. You were quite wrong, weren’t you, Theo?”

“I’m a dolt.”

“More loudly please,” Jason said.

“I’M A DOLT.”

“Good. Now, my sweet, sweaty girl, you need to rest. We’ll decide later what we should do with this gourd-brained doctor.”

Hallie was so very tired she wanted to sleep for at least a year. She felt battered and beaten-down and quite wonderful given that she had been cursing Jason only five minutes before. Her body felt surprisingly light. She moved her hand to her belly. “You said that to Piccola as well.”

He grinned down at her.

“My belly’s gone down again.”

“Yes.” He grabbed her hand, kissed her palm.

“Did I say anything to Theo I’ll have to apologize for?”

“You don’t have to apologize to the dolt.”

“True,” Theo said. “Besides, I’ve heard much worse.”

Mrs. Hanks said, “Amen to that.”

“One can but try,” Hallie said.

“You showed good range, Hallie, excellent feeling, and the volume was more than adequate.”

Hallie smiled at Theo Blood, their physician with the unfortunate name, who’d become an excellent friend to both her and Jason during the past six months. He took her hand, felt her pulse. After a moment, he nodded. “You’re going to be fine. I see no problems, the bleeding isn’t bad. I am a superb physician.”

Jason leaned close to his wife and shut out the world. He ran the tip of his finger over her eyebrows. “I love you, Hallie. I love you. I mean it now. I’ll mean it in fifty years. Sleep now.”

“That sounds so very nice. You truly expect me to docilely fall asleep when I want to sing, Jason? Not dance though, I—” In the next moment, she was asleep.

Jason kissed her chapped lips, smoothed her sweaty hair back from her forehead, and rose. “My babes?”

“Beautiful,” Corrie said. “And healthy, Jason, even though they’re so small. They’re all ready to meet their mother. Imagine, another set of twins. Goodness, she’s the first little girl in the family. Jason, you must go downstairs and tell everyone before they come storming into the bedchamber.”

Theo said as he tucked a soft blanket under Hallie’s chin, “I hope you have another name hanging about, Jason.”

“Hmm, other than Alec? Yes, I’m thinking—no, I must discuss it first with Hallie. If she ever wakes up.”

Theo looked at his watch. “She fell asleep before she saw her babes. She’ll be awake in not more than a minute from now.”

“No, impossible. She’s worked so hard, Theo, nine hours, she’s exhausted, you’re wrong about this just as you were about twins—”

“Jason, I want to see our babes.”

Jason shouted with laughter. He looked over at his own twin. James was holding one of the babies in his big hands, Corrie holding the other one. He didn’t deserve to be this happy or this lucky, but God had made it so. He prayed the twins would be all right, that they would grow up to have their own twins. He was blessed. Both he and James were blessed.

He cleared his throat. “Give me my babes. I want to show them to their mother.”

When Jason cradled both babes in his arms, he felt his brother’s hand on his shoulder. As had happened so many times in their lives, they shared the same thought: Life was sweet. They were the luckiest men in the world.

Theo said, rubbing his hands together, “I have done remarkably well. Everyone is healthy. So what if I was off by one babe?”

Douglas Sherbrooke’s hand was raised to rap on the bedchamber door when he heard his sons’ laughter.

He lowered his hand. His sons. He heard a tiny yell, and smiled. He prayed that life would continue doling out more laughter than tears. Then he heard a chorus of yells.

The yells continued, two distinct yells. Bedamned, another set of twins. The door opened. Jason whooped when he saw his father, and grabbed him close. “Hallie gave me a girl and a boy. I am surely the luckiest man alive.”

“I rather thought I was,” Douglas said, looking over to see James grinning at him. He nodded at his elder son and called out over his shoulder, “Alexandra, come listen to this lovely duet of yells from your new grandbabies.”

EPILOGUE

Three Months Later

No rain today, thank God, Jason thought, unlike the previous three days that had the twins yelling their heads off because they liked to lie on a nice thick blanket in the middle of the green lawn at Lyon’s Gate, kicking their legs, flailing their arms and breathing the freshly scythed grass.

It was a beautiful day. Jason watched his wife, a babe under each arm, walk to the blankets he’d spread on the side lawn at Northcliffe Hall. The noon sun was bright overhead, and James’s brindle racing cat was tearing across the lawn to run around Hallie three times before dashing back to James, who gave him a fresh slice of sea bass, told him what an elegant fast boy he was, and scratched the spot right in front of his tail. Alfred the Great purred like there was no tomorrow.

Douglas and Everett, now four years old, something Jason couldn’t quite get his brain around, were sitting as quietly as they ever sat, watching their father train the year-old golden-eyed Alfred the Great.

Jason watched Hallie arrange the twins amid piles of pillows, then lean back on her elbows and raise her face to the blue sky. He felt his throat close as he watched her, such love swamped him. He was a lucky bastard, as his twin had told him just that morning, and he agreed. He was thirty years old, he had Hallie as his wife, and he was a father of two healthy children. Amazing. Even more amazing, or perhaps not, both babies looked like him, which meant they also looked like their cousins and their uncle James, which led back to Aunt Melissande, who’d smiled her incredibly beautiful smile when she’d seen them, while her husband, Uncle Tony, was heard to say, “Yet another generation of nauseatingly beautiful children in my wife’s image. It fair to makes my teeth ache. Thank the good Lord that our three boys look like me. It adds balance to the world.”

“Thank God you still have all your teeth,” Aunt Melissande had said, and poked her husband in the ribs. He then kissed her hard on her mouth and the younger generation turned red to their eyebrows.

Jason heard a horse whinny, fancied it was his father’s huge bay thoroughbred stallion, Caliper, who was going to be bred with Miss Matilda out of Charles Grandison’s stud in two days. Lyon’s Gate flourished. They’d won races, their reputation as a stud was growing. As for Lord Grimsby, he’d asked Jason to take Lamplighter, to train him, run him, and breed him, and all the winnings would be his. Lamplighter had won the Beckshire race a month before.

Jason closed his eyes, content for the moment to breathe in the scent of fresh grass along with his twins and his wife when he looked up to see his father and mother, Uncle Ryder and Aunt Sophie come out of the Hall. Soon the grounds would be overrun with Sherbrookes, even Aunt Sinjun and Uncle Colin from Scotland and Meggie and Thomas from Ireland, Meggie bringing three racing cats for the big cat race next week at the McCaulty racetrack, and their three boys, who helped train the cats.

Hallie said, “Jason, I need you as a father. Alec is hungry, again,” she added quite unnecessarily.

Jason set up an umbrella to give his wife privacy, then picked up his daughter, grinned like a fool when she blew bubbles up at him, and watched Hallie feed Alec. She looked totally absorbed, crooning to the babe as he suckled frantically. Nesta rooted around Jason’s chest to find a breast, and he laughed. “You’ll have to wait, sweetheart, your mama’s busy with your brother now.”

Nesta wailed.

“Uncle Jason!”

“Uncle Jason!”

Douglas and Everett raced across the lawn toward him, dirty, rumpled, grins splitting their beloved little faces. No waltzing for them anymore; they were too old for that. Since Uncle Jason was holding Nesta, they didn’t leap on him, but he could tell they wanted to, badly.

“We went fishing in the pond,” Everett said.

“What did you catch?”

“Just a toad and a load of dirt,” Douglas said. “Don’t tell Mama, she’ll tan us.”

“She told us to stay clean for at least an hour. What time is it, Uncle Jason?”

“Nearly time for luncheon.”

“It’s nearly an hour, Everett. We’re safe. Mama won’t yell at us.”

“How about your papa?”

“He’ll throw us in the air and call us filthy grubs,” Everett said. “Do you want to play with us now, Uncle Jason? Douglas has a new cannon that we need to fire.”

“Be patient,” Jason said. “Your cousins need their luncheon first. Ah, I see your grandmother coming over. She’ll beg me to let her play with Nesta. Then we’ll go fire that cannon, maybe then I’ll take the two of you to the pond and toss you in.”

Alex came down on her knees, her arms out. Jason kissed his tiny daughter’s forehead and handed her to his mother. “Ah, my precious little sweetheart. You’re hungry, aren’t you, lovie, and here’s your stoat of a brother taking all the lunch. That’s right, you just suck on my knuckles.” She smiled over at her son, saw that Everett and Douglas were fidgeting. “I heard your uncle tell you to be patient, boys. You may have him in five minutes. Good. Now, Jason, I suppose I’m the one to tell you. Petrie has proposed to Martha. When she confided to Hollis, he told her she’d be far better off marrying him than Petrie, that even though he was approaching his golden years, he wouldn’t drive her as distracted as that codshead would.”

“What did Martha say?” Hallie asked, looking up.

“I believe after she tucked the blanket lovingly around Hollis’s legs, she told him that even though she preferred him to Petrie, she couldn’t marry him since she wanted children. She fancied that even though Hollis was surely superior to the codsbreath, she doubted even he would still be on this earth to greet his grandchildren, something she believed very important. She then assured Hollis that Petrie was no different from a racing horse or a racing cat. With a nibble of trout, a bucket of oats, or a smidgeon of a kiss, she could work miracles. Oh, dear, I see Mother-in-law. She’s still walking, can you believe that? She can even push Hollis’s chair, and believe me, it makes him furious. He even yelled at her once, and do you know what? She laughed, told him since he’d waited on her his whole life, she could at least push him about a bit now.” Alex smiled, kissed Nesta’s tiny mouth. “Hallie, your aunt Arielle is so pleased you named your daughter after your mother, even though you never knew her. She said that counts.”

“Papa got tears in his eyes when I told him her name,” Hallie said. “It’s odd. He didn’t have a single tear when we told him we’d named Alec after him. I saw Angela pushing Hollis’s chair too.”

Jason was stretched out on his back, Douglas and Everett on top of him, holding him down, jabbering the same twin talk he and James had spoken as boys. He didn’t understand them. He wondered what sort of torture they were thinking up for him once they’d fired the cannon and headed to the pond.

He smiled over at his wife, who was kissing the sleeping Alec’s forehead, a bit of milk dribbling down his chin.

Hallie looked over at him, grinned at Douglas and Everett, who were trying to pull his boots off.

“Next,” she called out.

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

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WIZARD’S DAUGHTER

A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author

PRINTING HISTORY

Jove mass-market edition / January 2008

Copyright © 2008 by Catherine Coulter.

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To Penelope Williamson

You’re a wonderful writer and rider,

and best of all,

you’re a wonderful friend.

—CC

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Dedication

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

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

EPILOGUE

1

A long time ago

I knew something wasn’t right. I was lying on my back and I couldn’t move. A single light shined directly onto my face, but it wasn’t strong enough to blind me. The light was strange, soft and vague, and seemed to throb ever so slightly.

“You are awake, I see.”

A dark voice, a voice one would hear in the deepest part of the night; surely a man’s voice, but unlike any I had ever heard before. Any normal man would be afraid of such a voice but, oddly, I found I was only mildly curious. I said, “Aye, I am awake. However, I cannot move.”

“No, not yet. If you agree to do what I want, you will move again, as you did before I saved you and brought you to me.”

“Who are you? Where are you?”

“I am behind the Cretan light. Lovely, is it not? Shimmery as a king’s silks, warm and soft as a woman’s fingers tracing over your face.

“I saved your life, Captain Jared Vail. In return I ask a favor. Will you agree?”

“How do you know my name?”

The Cretan light—whatever that was—seemed to brighten a moment, and harden into a column of trapped flame, then soften once more, the glow gentle, pulsing like a resting heart. Did it believe I had insulted the being behind it? Its master, perhaps? No, that was ridiculous; a light, no matter what it did, was without breath or feeling, without a soul—was it not?

“Why can’t I move?”

Where was the bloody man? I wanted to see his face, wanted to see the human who spoke all those words.

“Because I do not wish you to as yet. Will you grant me a favor for saving your life?”

“A favor? Do you wish me to kill someone? I have not dispatched a pirate or a thieving dock rat for three years.” Where had that pathetic attempt at humor come from? There was no laugh, more’s the pity, for that would have made the voice human, and perhaps that was why I had tried to jest. Still, I was not afraid, even though I knew in some part of my brain that I should be scared out of my few wits. But I was not.

“Who are you?” I asked again.

“I am your savior. You owe me your life. Are you willing to repay your debt?”

“I have gone from granting a favor to paying a debt.”

“What is your life worth, Captain Jared Vail?”

“My life is worth all that I am. Will you let me live if I do not agree?”

The Cretan light flashed bright blue for an instant, then flickered, as if brushed by a waving hand. Once again it settled. The shadows behind it remained impenetrable, like a black curtain covering an empty stage. My imagination was on fire. The voice brought me back. “Will I let you live? I do not know.” A heavy pause. “I do not know.”

“Then I have no choice, do I? I do not wish to die, although I would be well dead now had you not saved me. But I do not know how you managed it. The huge wave was on me, and the wound in my side—I would have died from that blow probably before the water crushed me.”

I realized in that instant that I felt no pain from the gaping tear in my side that had hurled me into a madness of agony. I felt nothing at all except the strong, solid beating of my own heart, no stuttering with pain or fear, no gasping to find a breath.

“Ah, the pain. That is another debt you owe me, would you not agree?”

Why was I not afraid? The absence of fear made me feel cold to my soul. I was thinking it made me less a man, less—alive. Had he somehow removed my human fear? “How did you heal me?”

“I have many abilities,” the black voice said, nothing more.

I retreated into my mind, trying to keep myself calm and focused, allowing no frightening stray thoughts to make me want to scream in terror, even though I knew any sane man would be babbling by now. He wanted me to pay him back for saving my life. I could certainly do that. But I asked, “I do not understand. You saved me in a way that no mortal could have saved me. If this is not an elaborate dream, if I am not dead, I would say you can do anything. What could I possibly do for you that you cannot do yourself?”

Cold silence stretched on and on. The Cretan light danced wildly, shooting off blue sparks that sprayed upward into the darkness, then suddenly there was calm. Was the light a mirror of my savior’s feelings? The voice said, “I have sworn not to meddle. It is a curse that I must obey my own word.”

“To whom have you sworn this?”

“You need not know that.”

“Are you a man as I am a man?”

“Do I not speak incessantly as does a man, to hear the sound of his own voice? Did I not laugh like a man?”

Yes. No. “Will you tell me where I am?”

“It is not important, my friend.”

His friend? If he was such a friend why could I not move? Suddenly I felt my fingers. I wiggled them a bit, but still I could not raise my arm and that was surely alarming. Yet I wasn’t alarmed, truth be told, merely interested and intrigued, as a man of science would be at the discovery of something unexpected. Had he seen the thoughts in my brain? Now, that gave me pause.

I said slowly, “What could a ship captain possibly do for you? You have demonstrated powers I cannot begin to imagine. I was aboard my brigantine in the middle of the Mediterranean, five miles from Santorini, my last port, and a huge wave appeared out of nowhere. I heard the screams of my sailors, heard my first mate yell to God to save him as that nightmare swell crashed over us. Then a splintered board speared into my side, tearing me open, and then the crushing mountain of water, and yet—”

“And yet you are here, warm, whole.”

“My men? My ship?”

“They are dead, your ship destroyed. But you are not.”

I thought of Doxey, my first mate, loud and crude, loyal to me and no one else, and Elkins, the cook, always singing filthy ditties, always making lumpy porridge everyone hated. I said, “Perhaps I am dead, perhaps you are the Devil and you are toying with me, amusing yourself, making me believe I am still alive, when I am really as dead as—”

A laugh. Yes, it was a laugh, low and strangely hollow, and something else—the laugh wasn’t quite a man’s laugh—it seemed to me it was more the imitation of a laugh. Was I in Hell? Would evil Uncle Ulson trip into my line of vision, ready to welcome me to his home? Why was I not afraid? Perhaps death removed a human’s fear.

“I am not the Devil. He is a creature that is something else entirely. Will you pay your debt to me?”

“Yes, if I am actually alive.”

I felt a bolt of pain so horrendous I would have welcomed death as a savior. My side gaped open; I could feel my flesh ripped away to my bones. I felt my guts oozing out of my belly. I screamed into the blackness. The Cretan light shot high, a wild mad blue. Then, as suddenly as it had started, the pain stopped. The Cretan light calmed.

“Did you feel your death blow from that falling beam?”

For a moment, I couldn’t speak I was breathing so hard, bound in the memory of that ghastly agony. “Yes. I felt my own death but an instant away, so I must be dead, or—”

I heard amusement in that black voice, again somehow hollow, not quite right. “Or what?”

“If I am truly alive then you are a magician, a sorcerer, a wizard, though I am not at all certain there are grand differences amongst those titles. Or you are a being from above or below that a man of reason cannot accept. I know not and you will not tell me.

“You need me because you have promised not to meddle. Meddle? That is a curiously bloodless word, a word empty of threat or passion, like a promise a maiden aunt would make, is it not?”

“Will you pay your debt to me?”

I saw no hope for it. He was through with me. “Yes, I will pay my debt.”

The Cretan light winked out. I was cast into darkness blacker than a sinner’s heart. I was alone. But I had heard no retreating footfalls, no sound of any movement. There was no breathing in the still, black air but my own.

But what was my debt?

I fell asleep. I dreamed I sat at a grand table and ate a meal worthy of good Queen Bess herself, served by hands I could not see—roasted pheasant and other exotic meats, and dates and figs, and sweet flatbread I had never before eaten. Everything was delicious, and the tart ale from a golden flagon warmed my mouth and coursed through me like healing mother’s milk. I was sated, I was content.

Suddenly the light in my dream shifted and a young girl appeared in front of me, hair red as the sunset off Gibraltar, loosely braided down her back. Her eyes were blue and freckles ran across her small nose. She seemed so real in that dazzling dream I felt I could reach out my hand and touch her. She threw her head back and she sang:

I dream of beauty and sightless night

I dream of strength and fevered might

I dream I’m not alone again

But I know of his death and her grievous sin.

A child’s voice, sweet and true, it called forth feelings I had not known were in me, feelings to break my heart. But those strange words—what did they mean? Whose death? What grievous sin?

She sang the song again, more softly this time, and again her voice settled deep inside me as I listened to the strange minor key and the haunting sad notes that made me want to weep.

What did this small girl know of haunting or sin?

She went quiet. Slowly she took a step closer to me. Even though I knew this was a dream, I would swear I could hear her breath, hear her light footfalls. She smiled and spoke to me even as she seemed to fade into the soft air, and this time her words rang clear in my brain: I am your debt.

2

Present April 22, 1835 London

Nicholas Vail stood at the edge of the large ballroom with its dozens of limp red and white silk banners hanging from the ceiling with military-precision distance between them—to give the feeling of a royal joust, don’t you know, my lord, Lady Pinchon had said proudly, all puffed up with a purple turban on her head.

He agreed smoothly, mentioned it was a pity no knight and horse could fit into her magnificent ballroom, at which she looked very thoughtful.

He was sweating from the heat of all the too-close bodies and the countless numbers of dripping candles in every corner of the room. Of the long line of French doors that gave onto a large stone balcony, at least two were open to the still evening.

He pitied the women. They wore five petticoats—he’d counted them with the past several women he’d been with. He estimated there were two hundred women present, so that meant one thousand petticoats. It boggled the mind. And their gowns—the women looked like rich desserts in yards of heavy brocade or satin in every color invented by man, looped with braid and flounces that dusted the floor, wilted flowers and jewels in their hair—all of it had to weigh a good stone. He pictured the froth of petticoats in a mountainous pile in the middle of the ballroom, all those gowns dumped on top like frosting atop a cake, the lot sprinkled with the buckets of jewels that adorned their earlobes, necks, wrists. And that meant the women would be naked. Now, that was a fine picture to tease a man’s brain. He saw one particularly heavy young matron, her chins quivering as she laughed, and quickly stifled that image.

As for the men, they looked dapper and prideful in their buttoned-up, nipped-in, long-tailed, proper black garb, starched and stiff, undoubtedly miserable in this heat. It made him shudder.

He knew exactly how they felt since he was dressed just as they were.

At least the women could bare half their chests, what with their gowns nearly falling off sloping white shoulders. He thought of walking around the ballroom, giving little tugs here and there to see what would happen. But those bare shoulders couldn’t make up for those ridiculous long sleeves that stuck out so stiffly from their bodies. If he had to endure those sleeves, he would surely hunt down the insane misogynist who had foisted them on women. Were they supposed to make them more desirable? What they did was render each female a force to be reckoned with in sheer breadth.

It was time to get down to business. He raised his head, a wolf scenting prey. His hunt was over finally—she was here just as he’d known she would be—he felt her. The hair rose on his arms as the scent of her thickened in his nostrils. He turned quickly, nearly knocked the tray out of a footman’s arms. He righted the footman, set his punch glass on the tray, and started toward her, pausing when he could finally see her face. She was young, obviously newly loosed on London, but he’d known she would be. She was laughing joyously, enjoying herself immensely. He could see her lovely white teeth flashing, her hair in thick braids stacked atop her head, making her look very tall indeed. As he drew nearer, he saw also that her pale blue satin gown didn’t hang off sloping shoulders. Her shoulders didn’t slope, but were strong, squared, her flesh as white as the beach sand on the leeward side of Coloane Island.

Her braids were dark red, a deep auburn it was written, perhaps Titian if one were a poet. It was she, no doubt in his mind at all. In odd moments over the years he’d wondered if he would die a doddering old man, not finding her, if it still wasn’t the right time. But it was the right time and he was here and so was she. It was an unspeakable relief.

He walked toward her, aware that people were watching him; they usually did because he was an earl and no one knew a thing about him. London society loved a mystery, particularly if the mystery in question was an unattached presentable male with a title. There was his size too, one of his grandfather’s gifts to him, and he knew he intimidated. With his black hair, pulled back and tied with a black velvet ribbon, he knew people looked at him and saw a man not quite civilized. They might have been right. He knew his eyes could turn cold as death, another gift from his grandfather—black eyes that made people think of wizards, perhaps, or executioners.

A couple danced into his path. He smoothly moved aside at the alarm on the man’s face, but he scarcely noticed them, he was so focused on her.

Each of his senses recognized and accepted she was indeed the one he sought. She was waltzing now, her partner whirling her in wide circles, and her blue satin skirts swirled and ballooned around her. She was light on her feet, smoothly following her partner, an older man—old enough to be her father, only he wasn’t paunchy and jowly like a father should be; he was tall and lean and graceful, his blue eyes bright as a summer sky, nearly the same light blue as hers, and that face of his was too handsome, his smile too charming. Her husband? Surely not, she was too young. He laughed at himself. Girls were married off at seventeen, some even sixteen, to men older than this one, who also looked fit and surely too spry for his age.

They danced by him. He saw her eyes were brighter than the gentleman’s, she was that excited.

He stood quietly, watching. Around and around they whirled, the man keeping her to the perimeter so no one would dance into their path.

He could do nothing but wait, which he did, leaning negligently, arms crossed over his chest, against a wall beside a large palm tree that had a red bow fastened to one of its fronds. He didn’t know her name, yet he already knew she wouldn’t be a Mary or a Jane. No, her name would be exotic, but he couldn’t ever think of a single English name exotic enough to fit his image of her.

He saw a pallid young gentleman and a lady who appeared to be his mother whispering as they looked toward him. He smiled at them, a black brow arching, not that he blamed them for their gossip. After all, he was the new Lord Mountjoy, and people were speculating on how he was adjusting to a title as empty as a gourd since the old earl had left all his wealth to Nicholas’s three younger half brothers. All that was left to him was the entailed moldering family estate in Sussex, Wyverly Chase, built by the first Earl of Mountjoy, who had fought the Spanish like a Viking berserker and managed to charm the eternal virgin Queen Elizabeth. She had duly elevated Viscount Ashborough to his earldom. Wyverly Chase was going on three hundred years old, and showed every decade. As for the entailed three thousand acres, his father had ensured it was as worthless as a lack of money and care could make it by the time he’d died. His son was left with nothing but fallow fields, desperate tenants, and mountains of debt.

Was the young man’s mama wondering where he’d come from? He’d heard one man whisper that the new earl was newly arrived from China. That made him smile.

Nicholas saw a man looking toward him, saw him say something to a portly man beside him. Was he speculating on whether Nicholas had yet met with his three half brothers, all young men now, two of them, he’d heard, as wild as any Channel storm? Ah, but most importantly, beggared as he was, had he come to London to find an heiress?

The music stopped, the waltz finally ended. Women smiled and laughed, waved themselves vigorously with dainty fans, gentlemen tried not to let anyone see how winded they were.

Nicholas watched the older man lead her to a knot of people standing on the opposite side of the ballroom.

It was time to do what he was supposed to do, time to do what he was meant to do.

3

He walked directly to the older man who’d danced with her, and bowed. “Sir, I am Nicholas Vail and I would like to dance with—” Nicholas stalled. Could she be his wife? Surely not. His daughter? “Ah, this young lady, sir.”

The man gave him a brief bow in return. “I know who you are. As for the young lady, she has already promised this waltz to my son.”

Nicholas flashed a quick look at a young man around his own age, smiling at something the girl said to him. He looked up, cocked his head to one side, and nodded to Nicholas. Then the girl turned to look at him, straight on, her eyes never leaving his face. So joyous she’d been, but now her expression was remote and unreadable. But he saw something in her eyes, something—knowledge, secrets, he didn’t know. Ah, but he would, and soon. Then the young man spoke to her and she placed her hand on his forearm and let him lead her to the dance floor. She did not look back at him.

It seemed to Nicholas that she’d recognized him. Well, he knew her, so it made sense she would recognize him—but he just wasn’t sure. She’d never met him, but her eyes—the light-filled blue, just as he’d known they would be—yes, he’d found her, even though he didn’t yet know her name.

The older man cleared his throat and Nicholas realized he’d continued to stare after her. He said to Nicholas with amusement, “I am Ryder Sherbrooke. This is my wife, Sophia Sherbrooke.”

Nicholas bowed to the woman, plump and pretty, her mouth full and soft, but she wasn’t smiling, she was looking at him with a good deal of suspicion.

He felt huge relief. She wasn’t his wife. He bowed to Sophia Sherbrooke again. “Ma’am, a pleasure. I am Nicholas Vail, Lord Mountjoy. Your husband is an excellent dancer.”

She squeezed her husband’s arm, laughed, and said, “My husband tells me he was born with accomplished feet. When we were younger he would let me dance on his accomplished feet. I was known as the most graceful female of the season.”

Nicholas was charmed.

Ryder said, “As I said, I have heard of you, Lord Mountjoy, and I am not at all certain I wish you to meet my ward, much less dance with her.”

His ward? Nicholas admitted to surprise. He hadn’t imagined anything like this.

“I have not been in England long enough to earn a reputation to alarm you, Mr. Sherbrooke. May I inquire why you feel concern about me?”

“Your father was a man I would have gladly challenged to a duel had he but once crossed the line rather than always toeing near it. I suppose I am foisting his deficiencies upon you, his son, grossly unfair of me, I know, but there it is.”

“To be honest, sir,” Nicholas said slowly, “I escaped him as soon as I could. I rarely saw him after he wedded his second wife, which was during my fifth year.”

An eyebrow went up. “I understand his three younger sons would gladly stick a knife in your throat.” Ryder paused a moment, looked at the young man searchingly. “You are aware, I assume, that Richard, your eldest half brother, feels the title should be his?”

Nicholas shrugged. “Any or all of them are free to try for my gullet, sir, but I am a difficult man to dispatch. Others have tried.”

Ryder believed him. He looked big and hard, a young man who’d had to make his own way, a man who knew who and what he was. He watched Nicholas Vail look yet again toward Rosalind, who was laughing, as she always did when she waltzed. Ryder said, “It grows late, sir. After this waltz, I am taking my family home.”

“May I call upon you tomorrow morning?”

Ryder looked at him appraisingly. Nicholas felt the weight of that look, wondered if he would be found acceptable. Of course he’d heard of the Sherbrookes. But to find this couple acting as her guardians, he simply didn’t understand, and he knew to his gut that complications would now billow up like a raging wind. How had it come about?

Ryder slowly nodded. “We are staying at the Sherbrooke town house, on Putnam Square.”

“Thank you, sir. Ma’am, a pleasure. Until tomorrow, then.” Nicholas strode from the ballroom, oblivious of the guests who moved out of his way.

Ryder Sherbrooke said to his wife, “I wonder what this young man is about.”

“Rosalind is beautiful. It is probably the simple interest of a man in a woman.”

“I doubt there is anything at all simple about Nicholas Vail. I wonder who and what he is.”

“If he is a fortune hunter, he will learn soon enough that Rosalind isn’t an heiress, and he will look elsewhere.”

“Do you think he is in need of an heiress?”

Sophie said, “I’ve heard it said his father gave him naught but a title and a dilapidated property, and he did it apurpose. I wonder why. Is this young man in debt? I don’t know. But I do know, Ryder, that pride and arrogance meld very nicely together in him, don’t you think?”

Ryder laughed. “Yes, they do. I wonder if he realizes he is all the talk of London.”

“Oh, yes, of course he does. I imagine it amuses him.”

Neither of them noticed Rosalind staring after Nicholas Vail, who looked neither to the right nor to the left as he strode from the ballroom.

Nicholas was accepting his cane and hat from a liveried footman, palming him a shilling for his service, when a voice said, “Well, well, if it isn’t the new Earl of Mountjoy, the sixth, I believe, in the flesh. Hello, brother.”

Nicholas fancied he remembered that voice from his boyhood, but it took a moment for him to recognize that the young man facing him was his eldest half brother, Richard Vail. It occurred to him in that moment, staring at the young man, that he minded very much sharing his name. He looked into Richard’s brilliant eyes, dark as his own, nearly black, and they glittered—with anger? No, it was more than simple anger, it was impotent rage. Richard Vail was not happy. Nicholas smiled at the young man. “It’s a pity your memory has failed you, and here you are so very young—I am the seventh Earl of Mountjoy, not the sixth, and the eighth Viscount Ashborough.”

“Damn you, you shouldn’t be either!”

“And you, Richard, should consider growing up.”

The rage smoldered as Richard’s hands clenched, unclenched. A knife to the gullet? Surely a possibility. Richard was a handsome young man, nearly Nicholas’s size, big enough to look down on many of his peers. Richard said, “I am a man, more of a man than you will ever be. I am welcome in London. You are not. You do not belong here. Go back to your savage life. I heard you came from China. That is where you have lived, isn’t it?”

Nicholas smiled and turned to look at another young man standing at Richard’s elbow. “I recognize you. You are Lancelot, are you not?”

They could not have looked less like brothers. Unlike either Richard or Nicholas, this young man was slight, fair, and pale, the image of a delicate poet. Nicholas looked at his artist’s hands, with their long fingers and beautiful shape. He wondered what his father had thought of this pretty son, who resembled his mother, Miranda, if Nicholas remembered aright.

Out of his pretty mouth came a petulant voice. “Everyone knows I am called Lance.”

Nicholas drawled, “No knight then?”

“Make no jest with me, sir. It was paltry.”

Nicholas raised a dark brow. “I? Certainly I wouldn’t consider a jest with you. You are my family, after all.”

“Only by bitter and unjust circumstance,” Richard said. “We don’t want you here. No one wants you here.”

“How very strange,” Nicholas said easily. “I am now the head of the Vail family, I am your eldest brother. You should welcome me, delight in my company, look to me for advice and counsel.”

Lancelot made a rude noise.

“You are nothing more than a ne’er-do-well adventurer, sir, who should probably be in Newgate.”

“An adventurer, hmmm. That has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?” Nicholas smiled at both young men impartially, strangers, both of them, and they hated him, doubtless made to hate him by his father and their mother. They’d been innocent children once; he remembered them from their last visit to Wyverly Chase, just before his grandfather had died. He’d been an ancient twelve. He said slowly, “I remember there are three of you. Where is—what is his name?”

“Aubrey,” Richard said, tight-lipped. “He studies at Oxford.”

Oxford, Nicholas thought; it sounded alien, it felt alien. “Do give Aubrey my best,” he said, nodding to Richard and Lancelot.

“I heard you were staying at Grillon’s,” Richard called after him. “A pity Father didn’t leave you the town house.”

Lancelot snickered.

Nicholas turned back. “To be honest with you, Wyverly Chase is more than enough. I am relieved that decrepit Georgian pile on Epson Square wasn’t entailed to me. The repairs alone must cost you at least three nights’ winnings at the gaming table, if you ever win, that is.”

Lancelot said, “Father wouldn’t have left you Wyverly Chase either if it hadn’t been entailed. A pity now that it will molder into the ground.”

“It moldered long before my arrival,” Nicholas said.

Lancelot said, “And you will not be able to do anything about it. Everyone knows you’re poor as a rooster catcher on the heath.”

“I don’t believe I am familiar with that term,” Nicholas said.

“That’s right, you are not a proper Englishman, are you?” Richard said, sneering. “It’s a boy who handles the birds for cockfights, worthless little beggars with scarred hands from the birds biting them. We heard you sailed in from faraway China. We heard you even have several Chinaman servants.”

Nicholas gave them both a schoolmaster’s approving nod. “It is good that you listen. Myself, I recommend listening, I have always found it useful.” As he turned to leave through the front door, held open by the same footman—all ears—he added, “Actually, I have always found listening more useful than talking. You might consider that.”

Nicholas heard Lancelot huff out an angry breath. Richard’s eyes were black with rage, his face flushed. Interesting how completely their father had bent their minds into hatred of him, Nicholas thought as he strode down the broad wide steps to the walkway. He remembered Richard had been a happy boy, and Lance a cherub, all pink and white and smiling, content to sit at his mother’s feet whilst she played the harp. As for Aubrey, he’d been so small when Nicholas had last seen him—a little boy who loved nothing more than to hurl a ball and run up and down the long corridor, yelling at the top of his lungs. Nicholas remembered how he’d nearly gone tumbling down the front stairs. Nicholas had scooped him up just in time. He also remembered Miranda screaming at him, accusing him of trying to murder her son, and Aubrey between them, crying and afraid. His father, Nicholas recalled, had believed it, and taken a whip to him, cursed him, and called him a murdering little bastard. Nicholas’s grandfather had been too ill to intervene, and he would have if he’d even been aware that his son and family had come to witness his death. Sweet hell, who knew why such memories burrowed into a man’s brain?

There were at least two dozen carriages lining both sides of the street, both the drivers and the horses appearing to be asleep. It was a good long walk back to Grillon’s Hotel. Not a single miscreant appeared in his path.

4

At the Sherbrooke breakfast table the following morning, a kipper poised on her fork, Rosalind asked Ryder, “Sir, who was that dark gentleman who wanted to dance with me last night? The young one with long hair black as All Hallows’ Eve?”

Ryder was a fool to believe Nicholas Vail hadn’t made an impression on her though she hadn’t said a thing about him on their way home the previous evening. He said easily, “The young man is the Earl of Mountjoy, newly arrived on our shores, some say from faraway China.”

“China,” Rosalind said, stretching it out, as if savoring the feel of it on her tongue. “How vastly romantic that sounds.”

Grayson Sherbrooke grunted with disgust. “You girls—you’d say that riding in a tumbrel to the guillotine, shoulders squared, sounded romantic.”

Rosalind gave Grayson a big grin and made a chopping motion with her hand. “You obviously have no soul, Grayson.”

Grayson waved that away. “Everyone is speculating about him. I heard he’s in town to find himself an heiress. At least that means you’re safe, Rosalind.”

“Of course I’m safe. I’m in the same hole with the church mouse.”

“Regardless,” Ryder said, “he asked me if he could pay us a visit this morning.”

Rosalind sat forward in her chair, the nutty bun in her hand forgotten, eyes sparkling. “What? He wants to visit me?”

“Or Aunt Sophie,” Ryder said. “Who knows? Perhaps he was taken with Grayson, and wants to hear a good ghost story.” Ryder frowned. “Perhaps it was a mistake to tell him you were my ward.”

“But why, sir? Oh, I see. As part of the Sherbrooke family, ward or not, he must assume I’m exceedingly plump in the pocket.” Rosalind wasn’t about to tell Uncle Ryder or Grayson that she was more disappointed than warranted at this nasty bit of news.

“You’re only discreetly plump,” Ryder said.

Grayson said, “On the other hand, from what I have heard of the mysterious earl, he never acts until he knows exactly what he wants.”

Rosalind said, “You mean he wants me even though I’m not an heiress? That’s ridiculous, Grayson. Nobody would want me. Besides, he can’t have me.”

Grayson tapped his knife on the tablecloth. “I will be with you when he pays his visit this morning. We must know what he wants from you. If he’s come to the mistaken conclusion you are an heiress, I will dispel that notion immediately.”

Rosalind said, “He is very imposing.”

“Yes,” Ryder said, “he is. I sent a note to Horace Bingley—the Sherbrooke solicitor here in London—to tell us what he knows of the earl. We will see what he has to say about the young man’s character.”

Grayson said, “Excellent idea, Father, since no one really knows much about him. However, it does seem to be the consensus that he is a pauper and desperately needs to attach an heiress.”

Ryder nodded. “I’ve also heard that the old earl left his heir nothing that wasn’t nailed down in the entailment. He beggared his own son out of spite—the reason for this strange behavior no one seems to know. I will ask Horace to find out, if, that is, Nicholas Vail appeals to Rosalind.”

He had indeed appealed to her, Rosalind thought, but didn’t say that aloud. She didn’t want to alarm Uncle Ryder before he’d ensured Nicholas Vail wasn’t a bad man.

But she knew he wasn’t; she knew it to her bones.

Grayson said, “We haven’t given out any information about your early years, Rosalind.”

“What is there to say? I am of no account, I am nothing at all.”

Anger rippled through Ryder’s voice. “You listen to me, Rosalind, you are not too old for me to wallop you.”

“But it is only the truth, Uncle Ryder. I know you always prize the truth.”

Ryder said to his wife as she came into the dining room, sniffing the air, “Rosalind has become impertinent, Sophie. What do you think we should do?”

“Wallop her, Father,” Grayson said.

Sophie laughed. “Don’t let her have one of Cook’s nutty buns. That way I will have more and she will learn a valuable lesson.”

“There are three left, Aunt Sophie,” Rosalind said. “I swear I took only one; it’s your son who is the glutton.”

Grayson toasted her with his teacup.

Sophie said as she selected a nutty bun, “The Earl of Mountjoy presents the face of a man of mystery, a man with dark secrets. I have always found that a man of mystery piques a woman’s curiosity, she cannot help herself. It is the nature of things.”

Rosalind nodded. “He is mysterious, yes, but he also looked apart from everyone at the ball, as if he knew he had to be there but did he want to be?”

“That is called arrogance,” Sophie said and took a blissful bite of one of the three remaining nutty buns. She chewed slowly, eyes closed. “Ah, Nirvana is close.”

“I don’t think women are allowed in Nirvana, Mother,” Grayson said.

Sophie waved the last bit of nutty bun at him before she popped it into her mouth, and closed her eyes again. “Ah, you are wrong, my dearest. I have ascended.”

Grayson said, “Nicholas Vail sounds like Uncle Douglas. He has a way of looking at a roomful of people as though their only purpose is to amuse him.”

“He even has the look of Douglas when he was young,” Ryder said thoughtfully.

Rosalind said, “He’s coming to visit and I never even spoke to him. I could perhaps understand his wishing to visit me had he waltzed with me, since I am such a superb dancer, but he didn’t. And he never enjoyed my wit, since I didn’t have the opportunity to speak to him. Hmm, perhaps others spoke to him of my lovely way with words, my exquisite grace, do you think?” Even as she laughed at herself, she saw him very clearly in her mind. She could easily see him wearing a black cloak billowing in a night wind. He oozed mystery, dark boundless secrets, hidden and obscure.

Sophie said, “Regardless of his motive for wishing to see you, Rosalind, I would say he’s a man who likes to be in control. One cannot be in control unless one knows about everything.”

“Perhaps, my dear,” Ryder said slowly, “just perhaps you are right. The earl does look like he knows what he’s about, and if that is indeed true, then he must know that you are not an heiress. So it’s a mystery we have.”

“It isn’t always about a girl’s dowry, is it, Uncle Ryder?”

“Yes,” said Ryder.

“Ha,” said Sophie. “You took me with naught but the chemise on my back.”

Ryder Sherbrooke’s blue eyes dilated, something neither his son nor his ward wanted to explore, something that made both of them vastly uncomfortable. Rosalind took another drink of her tea. Grayson played with his fork.

Sophie said, “He doesn’t look like an easy man. All those secrets. He looks like he’s seen many things, done many things, perhaps to survive.” She sighed. “He is so very young.”

“Not so young at all, Mother,” Grayson said. “He is about my age. Perhaps I look mysterious as well?”

His mother, no fool, said immediately, “Of course you do, dearest. And your novels—goodness, there are so many terrifying happenings, so much mystery, my poor heart nearly leaps out of my chest, and one wonders where these black mysteries shrouded in dread and cunning come from. One must accept that they emerge from a mind that cannot be understood, only admired and marveled at.”

Rosalind listened, feeling her own heart sound slow, hard strokes. She saw Nicholas Vail standing in front of Uncle Ryder, dark as a Barbary Coast pirate prince who would perhaps return to his opulent tent and lie at his ease on silk pillows, and watch veiled dancing girls. As for his size, well, he was larger than Uncle Douglas, she was certain of that. And he looked powerful, a hard disciplined man, both in mind and body. Nicholas Vail—she realized his name sounded through her mind with a strange sort of familiarity, and wasn’t that odd? But she knew she’d never heard of the family. And he was an earl—Lord Mountjoy. She’d never heard the title before either. She wondered what he wanted with her. She was eighteen and not at all stupid. How she wished that Ryder Sherbrooke, the man whose blood she wished she carried, would let her meet with Nicholas Vail alone, completely alone. Unfortunately, she thought sadly, that wouldn’t happen. It was not one of the benefits of being eighteen and unmarried.

5

At exactly eleven o’clock, Willicombe, his bald head shining brilliantly from the new recipe he’d used just that morning—aniseed, imagine that!—spoke in his lovely musical voice from the doorway of the first-floor drawing room, “The Earl of Mountjoy, madam.”

Sophie said, “Do show the earl in, Willicombe.”

Nicholas Vail paused a moment in the doorway. His eyes went to her immediately, as if no one else were in the room.

Ryder, who was standing by the fireplace, pushed off the mantel and walked to the young man, forcing his attention away from Rosalind. “My lord, do come in and meet my ward, and my son, Grayson.”

Nicholas was a hunter, but he wasn’t stupid. He bowed over Mrs. Sherbrooke’s hand, then Rosalind’s hand, but he didn’t linger. He realized Grayson Sherbrooke was studying him intently, and said to him, “You write mysterious novels, Mr. Sherbrooke.”

Grayson laughed. “Yes, I do, but there are primarily mysterious ghosts and otherworldly beings in my books, my lord, who enjoy meddling in the lives of men. And women.”

Nicholas said, “I read The Phantom of Drury Lane. I enjoyed it immensely. It fair to curdled my innards.”

Rosalind laughed, charmed to her toes, as, she knew, were Uncle Ryder and Aunt Sophie since they were Grayson’s proud parents. Grayson beamed. “Yes, it curdled a lot of readers’ innards, my lord, mine as well. I am pleased you liked it.”

Sophie thought, what was a mother to do in the face of such a lovely compliment toward her beloved son? A mother would obviously unbend, and so Sophie unbent. “You are obviously a gentleman of excellent literary taste, my lord. You are possibly even worthy of one of Cook’s excellent nutty buns. I begged her to bake more and she decided to please me. Willicombe, do bring in tea and any nutty buns that haven’t already been filched off the plate.”

Willicombe eyed the imposing young man who’d had the brain to compliment Master Grayson, and unbent himself. “Yes, madam,” he said, and bowed low so the earl could enjoy the shine.

When Willicombe was gone, Nicholas said to Sophie, “His head—it near to blinded me.”

Ryder said, “He was lucky to have that slash of sunlight hit it exactly right when he bowed. You see, my lord, Willicombe prides himself on a high shine. He is not bald, he shaves his head twice a week. He informed me this morning he applied a new recipe.”

Nicholas laughed, still paying no particular attention to Rosalind. But he was aware of her, oh, yes, particularly of her rich deep red hair piled so artlessly atop her head this morning, lazy curls reaching down to brush her shoulders. Rosalind was an exotic name, he was pleased with it, but yet, somehow, her name didn’t seem right. He would be patient; he would learn everything about her soon enough.

Because he was polite he took only one bite of a nutty bun. After he’d chewed that one bite he wished desperately he could stuff the entire bun into his mouth.

Ryder Sherbrooke said, “Where have you been for the past fourteen years, my lord?”

He said, without hesitation, “Many places, sir. For the past five years, though, I have lived in Macau.”

Grayson sat forward on his chair. “The Chinese own it but the Portuguese administer it, do they not?”

Nicholas nodded. “The Portuguese landed in the early sixteenth century, claimed the peninsula even though it borders China. It was a major hub of Portuguese naval, commercial, and religious activities in East Asia for several hundred years.” He shrugged. “But a country’s fortunes change as alliances and trade markets shift. Macau is merely an outpost now, of little importance in the big scheme of things.”

“What did you do there, my lord?”

At last, Nicholas thought, and turned to face her. “I am in trade, Miss—” He stalled, on purpose, hoping she would give him her last name.

She did. “I am Rosalind de La Fontaine.”

A dark brow shot straight up. “By any chance are you a fabulist?”

She beamed at him. “So you have read the fables by Jean de La Fontaine, sir?”

“My grandfather read many of them to me when I was a very young boy.”

“Do you have a favorite?”

“Yes, ‘The Hare and the Tortoise.’”

“Ah, a patient man.”

He smiled at her. “And your favorite is?”

“‘The Cicada and the Ant.’”

A black brow shot up. “Which one are you?”

“I am the ant, sir. Winter always comes. It’s best to be prepared because one never knows when a storm might strike when least expected.”

“That made no sense at all,” Grayson said.

“I fear that it did,” Ryder said, and Sophie nodded, and there were shadows in her eyes. “I had no idea, dearest, that you—”

They saw so much, Rosalind thought, too much, not, of course, that she hadn’t just dished her biggest fear up to them on a platter. She laughed. “It’s only a fable, Aunt Sophie. I truly would like to be more like the cicada, but there appears to be too much Puritan blood in my veins.”

Nicholas said matter-of-factly, “Rosalind’s virtue is prudence and mine is patience. What is yours, Grayson?”

“I hate flattery,” Grayson said, “thus I suppose that I like ‘The Crow and the Fox.’”

“Ah,” Rosalind said, and poked Grayson’s arm. “The fox flatters the crow, and the crow drops the food in his mouth to preen.”

“Exactly.”

Rosalind stuck out her small plate for a nutty bun.

Nicholas looked at that nutty bun, sighed, and slipped one of the remaining two off the plate onto hers.

“It is always so,” Sophie said, grinning at him with only a dollop of sympathy, since she wanted the other bun. “Nutty buns are at a great premium in this household. The recipe comes from Cook at Northcliffe Hall. Because my husband prostrated himself at her feet, swore he would sing her arias beneath her window, she deigned to pass the recipe along to our cook.”

“If you should show me to the kitchen, ma’am, I will prostrate myself as well. However, I don’t know any arias.”

“Neither does my husband. He is so charming, however, that it doesn’t seem to matter.”

Laughter. It felt good, Nicholas thought, surprised. He couldn’t remember very much laughter in his life.

“It is a lovely morning,” he said. “As I recall from my boyhood, this is a precious spectacle that shouldn’t be squandered. May I ask Miss La Fontaine to walk with me in the park?”

“Which park?” Ryder asked.

“Hyde Park, sir. I have a carriage outside. I hired it, since the ones remaining at Wyverly Chase are from the previous century.”

Grayson leaned forward. “Wyverly Chase? What a phenomenal name. I should like to hear the history behind it. It is your family seat?”

Nicholas nodded.

Rosalind knew Grayson’s brain was already spinning a tale about Wyverly Chase, so she said, “I understand there is a small artists’ fair this morning. Perhaps his lordship and I could see what is happening with that.”

Grayson nodded and rose. “I shall accompany you.”

Rosalind wanted to smack Grayson, but since he had to be a better choice for chaperone than either Aunt Sophie or Uncle Ryder, she nodded. She rose as well, and smiled. “I should enjoy that very much.”

Ryder Sherbrooke, seeing no hope for it, slowly nodded.

It was the rare sort of English spring day—a blue sky so bright, a breeze so light and scented sweet with the blooming spring flowers, that it brought a tear to the jaded English eye. They discovered that the small artists’ fair meant to take place in one corner of Hyde Park had turned into an event.

Hundreds of people milled through Hyde Park to stop at the food and drink vendors and the artists’ stalls, or sit on the trampled grass to watch the jugglers and mimes come to share in the fun and profit. There was a good deal of laughter, some good-natured fisticuffs, perhaps a bit too much ale, and pickpockets who smiled happily as they adroitly worked through the crowds.

“There is more food here today than artists,” Nicholas said. Both he and Grayson held Rosalind by an arm, not about to let her get pulled away in the boisterous crowd.

“And drink,” Grayson said. Suddenly Grayson stopped still, stared off into the distance.

“Oh, I see,” Rosalind said and poked him in the arm. “Bookstalls, a whole line of them.”

Grayson was eyeing those bookstalls like a starved mongrel. Rosalind, seeing freedom within her grasp, stood on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. “Off you go. I’ll be perfectly safe with Lord Mountjoy. Go, Grayson. We will be just fine.”

Nicholas’s grin turned into his most responsible nod. “I swear to keep her safe.” After but a moment of indecision, Grayson was off like a comet.

“He can move very quickly when properly motivated,” Rosalind said.

Nicholas looked down at her upturned face. “What makes you think you’ll be safe with me?”

She smiled up at his dark face, those black eyes of his. “Truth be told, I’d be perfectly safe by myself, as are you, I imagine.” She eyed him up and down. “Were you to dare take liberties with my capable self, I should make you very sorry. I’m very strong, you know. And wily.”

“And if you take liberties with me, then what am I to do?”

“Perhaps you could ask me to sing and that would distract me from those liberties.”

He couldn’t help it, he burst out laughing. Several people turned his way, smiling with him. One, Nicholas suspected, was a pickpocket, one a housemaid with lovely thick black hair, and the third a matron with the look of a baker’s wife, what with the streak of flour down the bodice of her gown, three children clinging to her skirts.

“It is his passion,” Rosalind said, watching Grayson gracefully weave his way through a group of military men singing ditties at the top of their lungs, their voices well oiled with ale. “Grayson is immensely talented. He began telling ghost stories when he was a little boy. He never stopped.”

Nicholas said. “Why did you kiss him?”

That brought her to a halt. She cocked her head to one side, looking up at him. “He is my cousin. He is like my brother. I love him. I have known him forever.”

“You are no blood relation to him,” Nicholas said, voice hard, dangerous.

An eyebrow shot up, but she said nothing, merely eyed him. Did she want to shoot him, or kiss him? She wasn’t sure what to make of him. Was this an example of a man’s possessiveness?

Rein in, rein in. Nicholas said, “I mean to say I heard Ryder Sherbrooke call you his ward.”

“That too. It’s all rather complicated and really none of your business, my lord.”

“No, I suppose not. At least not yet.”

Now, what do you mean by that? she wondered. You thrive on mysteries and secrets, don’t you?

She ducked past a small boy running full speed toward a pasty vendor. “I am very glad my aunt and uncle didn’t realize the beautiful weather would unleash the population of London into the park. This has turned into quite an affair. Oh, look, there are boys performing acrobatics. Let’s go watch.”

She grabbed his hand and pulled him to the edge of a circle to watch the three boys. “Oh, one of them is really a little girl. Would you look at how she leaps onto that boy’s shoulders—so smooth and graceful, and she stands so tall on his shoulders—it looks easy, doesn’t it?”

After he dutifully tossed several pennies into a large top hat, Nicholas bought her lemonade that tasted remarkably sour, and a hot beef pie. They walked away from the crowd to the far side of Hyde Park and sat on a small stone bench in front of a narrow, still pond.

“No ducks,” Rosalind said.

“They’re probably alarmed by all the bustle, hiding under those bushes over there.”

“You’re probably right. But I’ll tell you, these ducks are great performers. They quack and leap about, knowing they’ll get bread and biscuits. Hmm, I hope they’re not in any of the vendors’ pies.”

“I wager they’re also fast.”

Rosalind bit into her beef pie, chewed, took another quick bite. “Here, have a bite. A small bite.”

She fed him a bit of her pie. Nicholas looked at her while he chewed. Her hair was mussed, her color high; she was smiling and looked utterly pleased with herself and her world. Suddenly four young men, all dressed in red, came bursting through the trees to form a half circle around them. Nicholas was an instant away from having his derringer in his hand when they began to sing. Sing! And in lovely harmony. He settled back to listen. He realized soon enough they were singing to Rosalind. They knew her and she them. Now, this was interesting. He didn’t like it, but—when they finished a lilting Scottish ballad about a bonny girl who loved a one-armed highwayman called Rabbie McPherson, Rosalind clapped and said, “That was lovely, gentlemen, do give Lord Mountjoy another.”

Another song filled the sweet air, this one sounding like a tragic song from an Italian opera. So she knew them, did she? He didn’t know if that was odd or not. It probably was.

When they had finished, each of them bowed low, and a short, plump young man with lovely blue eyes said, “Rosalind, we have sung for you. We have sung for your companion. It is your turn now. Come, we will blend our voices with yours.”

Her turn?

She laughed, handed Nicholas the rest of her beef pie—telling him to hold it carefully and not eat it—then went to stand with them. She cleared her throat, looked straight at him, and began to sing. The men’s voices came in under hers, harmonizing beautifully, never overpowering.

See the flight of the moon

Through the dark stretch of night

Bathing the earth in its radiant light.

All those in love who look to the sky

Fear not the death of the night’s final sigh.

When she sang the final haunting word, she dropped her head a moment, then raised her eyes to his face. It was the voice that made you weep deep inside where you didn’t even know tears resided. It wasn’t the child’s voice, but it was still the same voice. The men applauded her even as he sat there stunned, mute, unable to move. Even though he’d known, still he trembled at the knowledge of what she was. And what he was to her.

She asked after a moment, “Ah, did you like it?”

He nodded, still without words.

He watched the young men move away and he still sat there on the bench, the rest of the beef pie clutched in his hand. He said slowly, looking up at her, “You spoke of Grayson’s talent. Your voice, it is something one can scarce imagine. It sinks deep.” He simply hadn’t realized how deep.

6

“What a lovely thing to say.” Rosalind laughed, suddenly uncertain. “But I am nothing compared to Grayson.”

“You are different from Grayson, more powerful.”

“Oh, well—” She laughed as she reached into her small reticule and scooped out some pennies. He watched her race after the young men. He heard laughter, then the first line of another familiar song, this one faintly Germanic.

When she came skipping back to him, he handed her the rest of her beef pie.

She ate it. “Gerard thanks you for the money.”

“They were your pennies.”

She shrugged. “Yes, but it is always the gentleman who must pay. It’s some sort of ritual, so I suppose you must pay me back.”

“You are temporarily short of funds?”

“Actually, those four pennies were the last of my fortune until my allowance next Wednesday. It is difficult, but I must give up a pound of my allowance for the collection plate.” She sighed. “It is the right thing, of course, but when one is in London and visits the Pantheon—” She sighed, looking at him beneath her lashes.

He said nothing, his eyes still brooding, resting on the bushes behind her.

“What is wrong, my lord? You look fair to gut-shot. Are you temporarily penniless as well?”

That brought him back. This smiling girl was not a haunting vision of another time with a siren’s voice to bring a man to his death—no, at least in this moment, she was a young lady who’d spent all her allowance. “Fair to gut-shot? I don’t believe I have ever before heard a young lady say that.”

“On the other hand you have been gone from England for many years. What do young ladies in Macau say?”

“The young ladies in Macau are mostly Portuguese, and there isn’t an equivalent in Portuguese for ‘gut-shot.’ But in Patuá—that is a local language developed by the Portuguese settlers who came in the sixteenth century—” He paused, leaned down, picked up a skinny branch, and tossed it. Who cared about a language spoken by very few people in a settlement on the other side of the world?

“Patuá—what a lovely name. Do you speak the language?”

“One must.”

“Say something in Patuá to me.”

“Well, there is a Patuá poem a friend of mine turned into a song I’ve always believed very pretty—”

Nhonha na jinela

Co fula mogarim

Sua mae tancarera

Seu pai canarim.

He shook his head at her. “No, I will not attempt to sing it. You would run away, your hands clapped over your ears.”

“Not I. I have great fortitude. Now, I don’t have the least idea what you said, but the sounds are nice, like soft music.”

“I’ll translate it for you:

Young lady in the window

with a jasmine flower

Her mother is a Chinese fisherwoman

Her father is a Portuguese Indian.

“Imagine, you left England when you were only a boy and you went to this place where there are Chinese fisher-women and Portugese Indians—a place so very different from England. Were you treated well there—a foreigner?”

No one had ever asked him that. Slowly, he nodded. “I was fortunate enough to do a good deed for a rich Portuguese merchant in Lisbon. He gave me a flattering introduction to the governor of Macau, who happened to be his brother-in-law. I was treated well because of him, even though I was English.”

“What was your good deed?”

He laughed. “I saved his only daughter from a rather oily young man who was plying her with champagne on a balcony under a vastly romantic Lisbon moon. She was foolish, but her father didn’t realize it then. She was very angry at me for that rescue, as I recall.”

“How did you communicate with everyone in Macau?”

He shrugged. “I suppose you could say that I have a gift for languages. I already spoke Portuguese and I learned Mandarin Chinese and Patuá very quickly.”

“I speak Italian,” she announced, and puffed up.

He smiled at her. “You’ve got me there,” he said, even though he was perfectly fluent in Italian.

“Have you missed England, my lord?”

“Perhaps. At odd times, like on a day like today, but, on the other hand, it’s hard to remember days like today.” He raised his head and sniffed the jasmine that grew not two feet away from them.

He said, “Tell me about your parents.”

She jumped to her feet, dusted her hands on her skirts. “I believe I wish to see that one juggler we passed earlier.”

Nicholas rose and offered her his arm. “As you like.”

Grayson found the two of them clapping their hands along with the crowd of people standing in a circle around a giant of a man who was juggling five ale bottles. Every few minutes he snagged one of the bottles out of the circle and drank it down even as he continued to juggle. By the time every bottle was empty, he was staggering. Still, he never dropped a single bottle.

It was Grayson who had to pull out the rest of his coins to place in the giant’s huge boot. Rosalind noticed Grayson’s eyes were shining with excitement as he pulled them aside. “Just look what I found in a stall leaning against an old oak tree, set completely apart from the other bookstalls. I don’t know why, but I went there like a homing pigeon.” He held out an ancient and tattered bloodred leather-bound book set gently on his palm, but didn’t let them touch it. “An old man was sitting on a rickety stool surrounded by piles of old books, whistling. But this one—the old man held it out to me and smiled.” He added, his voice more reverent than a vicar’s, “I couldn’t believe it. It’s an ancient copy of Sarimund’s Rules of the Pale. I didn’t believe any of them had survived.”

“Who is Sarimund? What is a pale?” Rosalind stuck out her hand, but Grayson simply pulled the book to his chest, cradling it.

“No, it is too fragile. The Pale, Rosalind, is a place that’s beyond us, on the other side, mayhap in a different time. An otherworld, I suppose you could call it—it’s where all sorts of strange beings exist and stranger things occur, frightening things, things we mortals cannot understand. At least that’s what an ancient don at Oxford told me about it. Mr. Oakby didn’t believe any more copies existed either, but here it is. I found it.” Grayson was trembling with excitement. He said, “It’s incredible, I cannot believe this old whistling man had a copy of it, that he actually handed it to me, as if he knew I would give most anything to have it. Do you know what? He refused to take any more than a single sovereign. My lord, you are looking strange. Do you happen to know of Sarimund? The Rules of the Pale?”

Nicholas nodded. “I know that the Rules of the Pale is about the exploits of a wizard who visited the Bulgar and somehow managed to penetrate into the Pale, and wrote down rules he discovered in order to survive there. He found his way back out and there the book stops. As for Magnus Sarimund, I understand his home was near York. He was a Viking descendant, claimed one of his ancestors had once ruled the Danelaw. A marvelous fiction.”

“Fiction? Oh, no,” Grayson said. “Surely not.”

Nicholas said nothing.

“I did not know Sarimund’s history,” Grayson said. “A Viking descendant—you must tell me everything you know, my lord. I must write to Mr. Oakby at Oxford. He will be very excited. What luck for me. Imagine finding the Rules of the Pale here in a bookstall in Hyde Park.”

Rosalind grabbed his arm. “Wait a moment, Grayson. I remember now. A pale isn’t some sort of otherworldly place, it’s nothing more than a commonplace stockade, a protective barrier of some sort. I remember reading of an English pale that encompassed some twenty miles around Dublin—a long time ago, built as a defense against marauding tribes. To be safe, you stayed within the pale, or the stockade. If you were outside the stockade, or beyond the pale, as the phrase goes, then it meant back then that you were in real danger.”

Nicholas nodded, saying, “I recall there was also a pale built by Catherine the Great to keep the Jews safe. But this place by Sarimund, it is another kind of pale entirely.”

Rosalind said, “Grayson, let’s go to that bookstall. Would you take us there?”

“Well, all right, but it was the only copy, you know. There’ll be no more there. I asked the old man. He shook his head at me, never stopped his whistling.”

Nicholas nodded, then stuck out his hand. Rosalind didn’t hesitate; she took his hand and stayed close to his side as they weaved through the crowds. When Grayson spotted the decrepit old stall leaning against an oak tree, set a goodly distance away from the other bookstalls, he broke into a trot, calling over his shoulder, “I don’t remember that it looked quite this bad when I was here just minutes ago. Something must be wrong.”

They stood in front of the dilapidated stall. There were no piles of old books on the rough plank counter, and no whistling old man. There was nothing at all except a collection of very old boards looking ready to collapse.

Grayson said, “Where could he have gone? And the books? There’s not a single one. Do you think he sold all his books and simply left?”

Nicholas was silent.

Rosalind said, “Are you certain this is the right stall, Grayson?”

“Oh, yes,” he said. “Let’s ask the other vendors. I would like you to meet this old man.”

Nicholas and Rosalind helped him make inquiries at all the nearest bookstalls. Two of the booksellers remembered, vaguely, seeing an old man—Yes, yes, he was whistling, wouldn’t stop, the old bugger—And he set up away from the rest of us, and why did he do that? The next thing there was this raddled old stall with all these dusty old books piled around. The other booksellers didn’t remember the old man or his dilapidated bookstall set against the oak tree. At Nicholas’s suggestion, they spoke once more to the first two booksellers, the two who had seen the old man—now all they remembered was seeing some ancient boards nailed together, but no books, nothing but those dilapidated boards.

Nicholas said, “I wager if we speak to them again in an hour, they will have no memory of anything.”

“But—”

Nicholas merely shook his head at Grayson. “I don’t understand it, but there you have it. You have the book, Grayson, and that is enough.”

“But this makes no sense,” Rosalind said. “Why did the booksellers remember him, then ten minutes later, forget him entirely?”

There was no reply from either Grayson or Nicholas.

“Why do you remember the old man and the stall if the others don’t, Grayson?”

“I don’t know, Rosalind, I don’t know.”

When they turned back to the decrepit old bookstall, it was to see several rough boards littering the ground.

Grayson felt a quiver of something scary deep inside. “This is passing strange.” He gave them a false smile. “Nicholas is right. I have the Rules of the Pale. And that’s what’s important. Perhaps the book broke through the Pale to come to me through the old man. Maybe the old man was the ancient wizard. I remember Mr. Oakby said he’d heard from his own mentor many years before that Sarimund wrote of his talks with ghosts. Perhaps that is why the old man wanted me to have it. He knows of all the ghosts that litter my mental landscape.” And he laughed, a laugh that hid questions and the fear of something not to be explained. He looked down at the book he held reverently in his hand. “I must think about all this. I will see you at home, Rosalind.” He nodded to Nicholas and quickly left them.

Nicholas wanted that book, wanted it badly, but there was nothing he could do. As he escorted Rosalind back to his carriage, Rosalind said, “How do you know of Magnus Sarimund, my lord?”

“We have watched a drunken juggler, listened to a group of young men sing to you, and I have even eaten part of your lunch. You should call me Nicholas, if you please. How do I know of Sarimund? Well, my grandfather visited the Bulgar. He told me he supped with the Titled Wizard of the East, as he is called, an ancient relic whose beard tip actually brushed over his sandals. The Titled Wizard of the East told him that Sarimund lived five years in the caves of the Charon Labyrinth with other holy men and wizards, the caves more dangerous than any other caverns in the Bulgar, what with their sheer abysses and knife-sharp stalagmites to stab the unwary, more dangerous than even a mad sirocco, he said. The Titled Wizard of the East told him that during the five years of Sarimund’s stay, travelers who happened to venture too close to the caves were met by strange frightening visions and plagued by demons in their dreams. My grandfather asked him if wizards still inhabited the caves and the wizard gave him a smile that bespoke many things he couldn’t begin to understand, he or any other human being, for that matter. The wizard said only, ‘Of course,’ and nothing more.”

“Did this Sarimund really speak to ghosts?”

“My grandfather believed he did.” Nicholas assisted her up into the carriage. He nodded to the man sitting in the driver’s seat, a leather hat pulled low over his forehead. “Back to Putnam Square, Lee.”

“Certainly, my lord.”

Rosalind said, “He sounds like a gentleman.”

“He is,” Nicholas said, and nothing more.

“Why is he wearing that lovely leather cap pulled nearly to his nose? Why is a gentleman your servant?”

He gave her a charming smile. “It is none of your affair, Rosalind.”

When Nicholas had settled himself across from her, Rosalind cocked her head at him. “All right, it is none of my business. Now, you swear to me this Magnus Sarimund was a real man?”

“Oh, yes, Sarimund was quite real, according to my grandfather. He lived in the sixteenth century, mostly in York, but also spent a lot of his time in the Mediterranean. On the islands, I suppose, though no one knows where exactly. It is said he had a hidden sanctuary there where he conducted his magical experiments. Then he journeyed to the Bulgar. When he came out, he went to Constantinople, to be welcomed by Suleiman the Magnificent. He wrote the Rules of the Pale there. I believe he had twenty or so copies made of his manuscript. It is indeed something of magic in itself to find one of the copies here. And that Grayson found it.”

“Evidently the old bookseller made certain Grayson had it. And now it would seem that the old bookseller simply disappeared—that was very strange, Nicholas.”

He said nothing.

“How odd that both you and Grayson know about the Rules of the Pale and this Sarimund.”

He merely nodded.

“Very well, keep your secrets. Did this Sarimund write other books?”

“Not that I know of, at least not that my grandfather said.”

“And now the bookseller is gone,” Rosalind shivered. “As if he never existed. You have read it, haven’t you, Nicholas? You have actually seen another copy of the Rules of the Pale.”

“Yes, I have. My grandfather said he found a copy in a dusty old bookshop in York where Sarimund had lived.”

“Did he read to you from the Rules of the Pale? Discuss it with you? Do you remember what it said?”

“No, he never exactly read to me from the book itself, simply told me stories about Sarimund before—well, never mind that.”

“Was your grandfather a wizard, Nicholas? You said he visited the Bulgar, he met with this old man called the Titled Wizard of the East.”

Nicholas said slowly as he stared out the carriage window, “I cannot really answer that. I remember he knew things that most men didn’t, he could tell me things about people’s thoughts and feelings, but did he simply make it all up? I don’t know.”

“Did you live with your grandfather?”

“After my mother died, yes, I did. My father remarried, you see, and his new wife didn’t like me, particularly after she gave birth to a son of her own. I was five years old when my grandfather welcomed me to Wyverly Chase, the country seat of the Vails since the sixteenth century. He was the Earl of Mountjoy, you see, and there was nothing my father could do about it, not that he wanted me to remain.”

“You were only five years old.”

“Yes. In the following years, my father and his new family rarely visited Wyverly Chase. I remember my father was angry he had to wait to come into the title and my grandfather’s wealth, though I knew he was very rich in his own right.”

“But you were your father’s heir. Surely that was more important than any dislike on the part of your stepmother. You were only a little boy, why—”

Nicholas merely shook his head at her and smiled. “Remember our giant drunk juggler? Before we left the park I saw him snoring beneath a bench by the Serpentine.”

“Very well, Nicholas, keep your secrets. But I will clout you if you are not more forthcoming in the future. The near future.”

He reached over and lightly clasped her hand in his. He smiled at her, an intimate smile, one that made something very deep inside her stir to life.

How very odd, she thought later, that she knew to her bones that there would be a future. He was now in her life, and he would remain in her life.

7

An old man walked toward her, his long white robe brushing his sandals. A thick, twisted rope belted the robe, its frayed ends nearly reaching his knees. His beard was so long the tip nearly touched the hem of his robe. She saw large white toes. He smiled at her, his teeth shining as white as his toes. It was odd, but she wasn’t the least bit afraid even though she was lying on her back on her bed and her bedchamber should be dark, but it wasn’t. His skin looked soft and pale, as if he hadn’t spent any time in the sun. He looked like a prophet, she thought, and he was here to see her. He bent down beside her bed, leaning close to her ear. She heard his voice, gentle as a soft whistle of a warm breeze. I am Rennat, the Titled Wizard of the East. All know you will come into your own. You— He turned to look toward her door, his head cocked to one side, as if listening to something she couldn’t hear, something coming here, to her bedchamber. He turned back to her, his beard brushing her shoulder as he leaned close once again. She heard his whisper in her ear, Obey the rules, obey the rules, obey—

Rosalind jerked awake, heart pounding, her nightgown damp with sweat. She jerked up in bed, her palms against her chest, trying to grab a breath, trying to bring herself out of that dream. The strange old man standing over her—no, he wasn’t here, standing by her bed, his beard brushing her shoulder, there was nothing here at all.

She looked over at the thick shadows on the other side of her bedchamber that could easily hide something frightening—she sucked in her breath—no, she was being absurd. It was a dream, only a dream about the Rules of the Pale, and that wizard Nicholas had told her about, and her mind had spun it into that strange dream. How odd that she’d seen the wizard in the greatest of detail. Rennat—that was his name, an odd name that tugged at something deep inside her. Had Nicholas said that name? Perhaps so, but she wasn’t sure. It didn’t matter; if he hadn’t, that simply meant her mind had supplied it.

Obey the rules, obey the rules. Her heart thrummed, gooseflesh rippled her skin. She was not about to fall asleep again, not with those dreams waiting to leap out of the corner of her mind when she closed her eyes.

All know you will come into your own. That’s what the old man had confided to her, so close he’d been she fancied she could still feel his warm breath on her ear, and his breath—she’d swear she could still smell that light scent of lemon. Come into her own what? Rosalind sat very still, calming herself, her breath slowing, her squirreling brain righting itself.

She wasn’t afraid, not really, since she knew ghosts—at least, that’s what she called the voices, for want of anything better. She’d lived with them for years. Sometimes she heard them murmuring from shadowed corners, but more often they came like thick mist in her dreams, whispering, always whispering, but unfortunately she could never understand them. And she wanted desperately to see them, but never could. Rosalind wished her ghosts would say actual words, as Rennat had.

Then she could ask them what her real name was.

Enough of mad hoary old men with skinny gray beards dangling to their big white toes, their breath smelling of lemons. She felt restless, twitchy, and strangely cold as well. Rosalind put on a robe and slippers, lit a lucifer and touched it to her bedside candle, and went down the great wide staircase, her hand cupping the candle flame. She was going to steal some of Uncle Ryder’s brandy. Her hand was reaching toward the doorknob when she saw a flickering light coming from beneath the library door. What was this?

She raised her hand to knock, lowered it, and quietly opened the door. She saw Grayson sitting at the great mahogany desk in the far corner, a single candle at his elbow illuminating what she knew was the Rules of the Pale.

The candle was nearly gutted.

She hadn’t seen him since he’d left her and Nicholas at Hyde Park. He hadn’t appeared at dinner nor had he come to the drawing room for tea. Since his writing hours were erratic, no one else had thought anything of his absence—but she had. His hair was disordered, his shirt open at the neck.

She lightly touched her hand to his shoulder. “Grayson?”

He nearly jumped out of his chair. “Oh, Rosalind, you gave me a royal scare. It’s the middle of the night. What are you doing out of bed at this hour?”

“I had a strange dream,” she said. “You’re still reading the Rules of the Pale?”

“I can’t read it, at least not yet. It’s in some sort of code I haven’t been able to figure out. Sarimund starts off in an old formal sort of English I can read. Then he tells the reader he has written the Rules in his own personal code and he doubts the reader will be able to decipher it. You can almost see him preening over his own cleverness, the bastard. I’d shoot him if he weren’t already dead.”

The book lay open on the desktop. She waved to it. “Why didn’t you tell your parents about it?”

“My parents are very comfortably set in the modern day, you know that, Rosalind.”

“They accept the Virgin Bride. Even though Uncle Ryder carps about it all being a bloody myth nurtured by the ladies of the family. You know as well as I do both of them believe in her.”

Grayson shrugged. “Oh, aye, I believe in her too, this unfortunate young lady who’s lived at Northcliffe Hall since Queen Bess was in full flower—but she’s different. She’s a ghost, long dead, yes, but she’s not a chain-dragging ghoul out to terrify. She’s part of the damned Sherbrooke family. Corrie tells me the Virgin Bride has visited the twins many times and they accept her just as they accept their nanny, Beth.”

Of all the ghosts that hovered around Rosalind, the Virgin Bride wasn’t among their number. On the other hand, she doubted the Sherbrooke ghost ever would visit her—she had no plans to marry a Sherbrooke and that seemed to be the prerequisite if you weren’t of their blood.

Grayson threw down his pen. “When I read Sarimund’s sniggering claim, I’ll tell you I laughed. I truly thought I would be able to break his code. It’s all written with what look like random letters, spaced apart like they’re words, only they’re not and I can’t figure out how to make them into real words. I’ve spent the past”—he stared over at the ormolu clock on the mantelpiece—“well, since this afternoon trying to figure it out, but I haven’t yet succeeded. My brain wants to explode.”

Rosalind frowned. “That surprises me since you’ve always been good at solving puzzles and deciphering codes and such.”

“Yes, until now. It’s fair to driving me to the edge.”

“Does Sarimund use any proper names, or are the names in code as well?”

“Well, he did write one name—Rennat.”

Her heart started up a hard drumbeat again. “Rennat?”

He nodded. “Yes, strange name, isn’t it?”

Rosalind thought she would expire. “Rennat,” she repeated, her voice a skinny thread of sound.

“It could be a dog, really, but it makes sense to me that if Sarimund went to the trouble of not encoding the name, it must be a man, an important man.”

“Grayson, my dream”—Rosalind swallowed—“that is the name of the old man who came to me in my dream. Rennat, the Titled Wizard of the East—that’s who he said he was.”

Grayson stared up at her, then threw his nib pen at her. She snagged it right out of the air with her right hand. She always did. It had been a game between them for many years. No spattering ink since the nib was dry. Grayson said, “I can usually count on you for a better jest, Rosalind. Rennat came to you in a dream?—that isn’t worthy of you. Come now, don’t try to make me any more befuddled than I already am.”

She opened her mouth to tell him it was no jest, but he’d already turned away, staring back down at the book.

“May I look at it?”

He shoved the book over to her. “I’m so bloody tired my mind’s decided you’re my mother.”

“In that case, I could smack you and you’d have to take it.”

Grayson rose and stretched, waved her to his chair. Rosalind sat down and slowly drew the book toward her. She looked down at the small, spidery handwriting, the faded black ink still quite legible. She lightly touched the pages. “Sarimund never had it printed. So twenty copies were hand-copied?”

“That’s what Nicholas said. I don’t know. Mr. Oakby at Oxford never said. I don’t think he knew either.”

Rosalind looked down at the page and her heart nearly stopped. Grayson was wrong. It wasn’t a difficult code at all. She reached out and touched her hand to his arm. “Grayson, it’s easy. I can read it.”

8

Grayson was so startled he spurted out the tea he’d just gulped down, and coughed. “No,” he said, staring at her, “that’s not possible. Stop it, Rosalind.”

“Listen to me, for whatever reason, I can indeed read it. And I did dream of this old man Rennat, it wasn’t a jest. I can tell you what he looks like. He spoke to me. Maybe that’s why I can read this. It’s not in old stilted English, either—it’s in modern English. I don’t know, maybe he’s allowing me to read it easily.”

Grayson carefully set down his teacup. He looked bewildered. “No, that’s not possible, Rosalind.”

“It’s easy, I tell you. All you have to do is switch the third letter of each word to the front, or, if the third letter happens to be a vowel, then it goes to the end or near the end of the word. All vowels represent the seventh, thirteenth, nineteenth, twentieth, or twenty-fifth letters of the alphabet, and those consonants represent the vowels. All the u’s are pointers to those words that are the subject—it’s perfectly clear, Grayson, in lovely, clear English, not stilted and no strange words from the sixteenth century.”

“Yes, yes, you move consonants about and the vowels fall into place and—” He stared at her, shook his head. “Damnation, what you said makes no sense at all, it’s all nonsense. Besides, if it did make sense, if that was the key, it would take hours to rearrange all those bloody letters.”

He took the book from her and saw his hands were shaking. Dear God, how he hated this. He looked down at the scrambled letters and heaved a huge sigh. What had she said about the consonants being vowels—and the u’s were what? Pointers? “No, you must be tired too, Rosalind. There’s no sense to be made of this.”

“Bloody hell, you stubborn jackass, it is easy! Be quiet now and listen.” She read slowly: “A river slices like a sharp blade through the Vale of Augur, narrow and deep and treacherous—”

Grayson jerked the book from her hands and scanned the page. “You made that up. I don’t like you teasing me like this. This dream about Rennat, what you’re pretending to read, no one could decipher that code so quickly. You should be writing the ghost novels, not I.”

She laid her hand on his forearm. “Grayson, for whatever reason, the code translates itself to me instantly. I cannot explain it, but it’s true.”

He looked down at the book again. “There is no way you can make sense of that except—” He shook his head, thrust the book at her again. “All right, I’ll transcribe what you say.” And he began to write as she read.

“Smooth black stepping stones span the river like burned loaves of bread, but the stones reject a man’s foot. That is because they are meant for the Tiber’s hoof. A man may only dare to walk on the stones to cross the river when the three blood moons are full and have risen in concert over Mount Olyvan. Heed this rule or you will die.”

She raised her head, and said, her voice thin as a thread, “Grayson, what is this place? Three full blood moons that rise together over this Mount Olyvan?” She shivered. “I’m afraid.” And she was—very afraid. She said slowly,

“Nicholas knows about this. He said his grandfather owned a copy.”

Grayson lifted her from the chair and pulled her against him, lightly stroking her back, something he’d done to soothe her since she was a terrified child newly arrived at Brandon House. “I don’t understand this either. But whatever it is, you’re right—Nicholas Vail is a part of it. But what I don’t understand is, why was I the one to find this particular book? Why did the old man at the bookstall call to me and not to you? After all, you’re the one who can read it, not I. I’m willing to wager you my new saddle that Nicholas can read it too. And what happened to that whistling old man and his bookstall? It’s as if he was waiting for me to come, then poof!—gone. All I see in my mind now are leaves blowing in the wind, a few rotted boards. Fact is, I’m afraid too.” He eased her back against his arms. “There is something very odd going on here, but we will find out the truth of it, Rosalind. Now, I want you to read the book to me so that I may transcribe it while you read, all right?”

Suddenly she was excited, filled with energy, not fear. “Yes, of course I will. You know, Grayson, I’m thinking the old man showed the book to the right person.” She turned to look a moment into the sluggish fire, nearly embers now. “Before I read more, let me tell you about my dream. I told you that Rennat the Titled Wizard of the East spoke to me.”

“Yes, but—”

“Well, the thing is, I can’t remember.” And try as she might, she simply couldn’t remember. “Grayson, I—” She stared up at him, helpless and mute. She was perfectly white now. “Why can’t I remember? It’s gone, the dream of Rennat, it’s all gone now. And he was so clear to me, what he said, all of it—now it’s just gone.”

Grayson was suddenly scared to his feet. “What the devil is happening here?”

“I don’t know.” She pulled away and slammed her palms against her head. “I have a great memory. Why, I can remember that girl’s name you took to the barn loft that July afternoon—Susie Abercrombie.”

He stared at her with a fascinated eye. “You shouldn’t know about that,” he said slowly. “I was very careful, since my mother always knew all.” They were both silent for a while. Grayson picked up the book. “Perhaps I should burn this damned thing.”

She grabbed his hand. “No, oh, no, you can’t. There is something here, Grayson, something that places you and me and Nicholas in the middle of something. We don’t know what that something is right now, but we’ll find out, you’ll see. We must speak to Nicholas.”

She didn’t know where it came from, but she felt a smile on her face. Then the wild energy left her. She felt empty and so tired she could sleep on the carpet in front of the fireplace.

She heard Grayson say as if from a great distance, “You’re right, we do need to speak to Nicholas Vail. I’m praying with all my might he’ll have some ideas about how to proceed. We can send him a message first thing in the morning. You look very tired, Rosalind. Enough of this.”

She said, “You don’t want to wait, I can see it, you want to run all the way to Nicholas’s house—no, he’s staying at Grillon’s Hotel. I’d like to run right along beside you, but I’m so tired, Grayson.”

Grayson touched his fingers to her white cheek. “We will figure this out, trust me. Until tomorrow. Come, I’ll walk you up.”

Rosalind paused on the step, looking back down at him. He was cradling the book in his arms. She said, “Yesterday I was only concerned about the ball at Pinchon House, wearing the new gown Uncle Douglas ordered for me, dancing with at least three dukes, but now—everything is backwards and upside down now. I feel like we’ve strayed into the pages of one of your novels, Grayson.”

Backwards and upside down, things you would say to children in the nursery, Grayson thought.

They parted at the top of the stairs, Grayson to his bedroom, the book now pressed tightly against his chest. Rosalind watched him until he paused at his bedroom door, looked back at her, and gave her a small salute.

Rosalind slipped into bed and fell immediately asleep. There were no more dreams. She slept soundly until Matilde, whose plentiful bosom was the envy of every female servant in Sherbrooke town house, shook her awake the following morning. “Miss Rosalind, come on now, it’s time to wake up.”

Rosalind’s eyes flew open, suddenly aware that light flooded in on her from the window, and she shot up in bed. “Oh, goodness, what time is it, Matilde?”

“Going toward ten o’clock, Miss Rosalind. Mrs. Sophie told me to see if you were ill. I told her you were never ill, you did not even understand what it was like to suffer colds like I do, endlessly. I told her—”

Rosalind threw back the covers. “Yes, yes, Matilde. I understand. Have you seen Master Grayson?”

Matilde crossed her arms and tapped her foot. “He went out early, just as soon as he’d fed the last bit of bacon to that racing kitten of his, didn’t tell anyone where he was going, at least that’s what I heard Mr. Willicombe tell Mrs. Fernley.”

Rosalind paused. “Did you notice if he was carrying anything, Matilde?”

Matilde, whose secret ambition was the stage, struck a pose, fingertips tapping her chin in rhythm with her tapping toe, eyes narrowed in deep thought. “Yes, there was a wrapped package beneath his right arm. Sly, Master Grayson was about it, and ever so protective.”

She’d just bet he was furtive. Curse him, he hadn’t waited for her, he’d gone by himself to see Nicholas. She would kill him.

Matilde said, “I heard Mrs. Fernley tell Mr. Willicombe that Master Grayson knocked at least three times on your door early this morning, but you were nestled in the wings of the angels.”

Well, that was something, but not enough. She was still going to hurt him.

9

Rosalind was pacing the drawing room an hour later, alternately grinding her teeth and looking at the clock on the mantel. Where the devil was Grayson?

The Rules of the Pale—she wanted to read it before Nicholas did. Small of her, she knew, but somehow she simply knew deep down that she had to be the one to read it, and very soon now or—or what? She didn’t know.

When Grayson came into the drawing room thirty minutes later, she grabbed his arms and shook him. “I know what you did, Grayson, you gave three paltry little knocks on my bedchamber door, probably just brushed your knuckles really, then off you went. You took the book to Nicholas, didn’t you? You let him read it, didn’t you? Oh, I’m going to bloody your nose and lay you flat. You treacherous blockhead, I’ll just bet Nicholas—another treacherous blockhead—was ever so delighted to see you, wasn’t he?” She shook him again, got right in his face, ready to lambaste him some more—blast him to the hereafter—when Grayson had the nerve to laugh at her.

She stuck her fist under his nose. “You dare to make light of this, Grayson Sherbrooke? You don’t think I can kick you in the dirt?”

“Hello, Rosalind.”

She whirled to see Nicholas Vail standing in the open drawing room doorway. He looked ever so fit, and dangerous, in truth, with his black hair wind-tossed, his boots so highly polished she knew she’d be able to see her face in the shine. A black brow was arched; he looked ready to laugh.

“You!”

“I believe so, yes. Do you really think Grayson and I are treacherous blockheads?”

“You are probably a good deal worse.”

Grayson said, “I did knock on your door, Rosalind. Rather vigorously, but you were dreaming of dancing with your three dukes, deciding which one of the poor dolts you were going to nab. What was I to do? Of course I went to see Nicholas. Of course I showed him the book. You would have done the same thing in my shoes, you know it. Don’t be a twit.”

Nicholas never looked away from Rosalind as he walked into the drawing room. He took her hand and lifted it to his lips. A graceful, old-fashioned gesture, to be sure, but it fit him, and it fit the moment. His mouth was warm on her flesh, the look of amusement still making his dark eyes gleam, and at the touch of him . . . Rosalind grew very still. Something akin to shock crashed through her. It was only a man’s mouth lightly touching her hand—the absolute frantic delight of what she felt astounded her. She opened her mouth, stared at him, mute, her confusion, her delight, clear on her face. She looked at his mouth—she thought it could be hard, perhaps cruel—but when his mouth had touched her hand, she’d wanted to plaster herself against him and kiss him until her lips fell off. As for Nicholas, that unconscious clod appeared unmoved, as if he hadn’t a clue that her world had just shifted, as if he were thinking about a nice cup of tea. She wanted to kick him, yell at him to wake up, but Nicholas said, amusement rich in his voice, “Grayson came to me. He showed me the book, told me you could read the Rules as fluently as one of Mrs. North’s gothic novels. I admit I disbelieved him because I couldn’t read it, so how could you, a mere female? Now do you feel better?”

Are you lying, Nicholas?

Before she could pin him, Grayson said, “So it’s only you, Rosalind, who has this ability, I suppose you could call it, this gift, this—”

“Yes, yes, I know, I’m different.”

“So, Nicholas is of no use to us at all. Why do you look like you want to kick him? He didn’t do anything at all. You’re still the only star performer here, not either of us.”

Nicholas said, “Fact is, even though my grandfather showed me the book, he never told me specifically what was written; he only told me about Sarimund. Had he broken the code as well? I remember him trying, endlessly, but I don’t think he ever did.”

She wondered again if he were lying and wanted to connect her fist to his perfect nose. Unfortunately she had to keep her fists at her sides because Uncle Ryder and Aunt Sophie came into the drawing room at that moment. Their faces froze, all conversation died.

Ryder said smoothly to Nicholas, “Willicombe told us you’d arrived with Grayson.”

“It is delightful to see you, sir, ma’am,” Nicholas said, bowing to Sophie. “Your gown is quite charming.”

Sophie grinned up at this dangerous young man. “No more charming than you, my lord.”

Rosalind snorted.

Sophie asked, “From the looks on all your faces, you wish us to the Devil, but alas, we’re staying right here. Now, what is all this about a book? This is the one you were reading yesterday, Grayson?”

Grayson nodded. “I, ah, had some questions about it, Mama. I wanted Nicholas to see it.”

“But why didn’t you show it to him yesterday? After all, the three of you were together at the park, weren’t you?”

Grayson turned mute. Nicholas stared hard at a lovely shepherdess atop the mantel, and so Rosalind, giving them both a disgusted look, said, “You know how Grayson is, Aunt Sophie, he gets an idea and he goes off to hide. He left us in the park.” Unchaperoned. “Er, that is, Grayson didn’t really leave us, exactly, he suggested we come home immediately and so we did. Well, almost immediately.”

Ryder Sherbrooke walked slowly to where his son stood. “You and Rosalind were always inept at dissimulation. I see that his lordship is no better. What is going on here?”

Nicholas said, “Grayson found a rare old book at the fair yesterday. It is in code. Are you good at deciphering code, sir?”

“Code? This old book is written in code? How very odd. Let me see it.” Ryder held out his hand. Nothing else to do—Grayson handed his father the Rules of the Pale, though for an instant, he’d wanted to tuck it into his shirt and run.

Ryder, aware that his son was hovering, handled the book very gently. “It indeed appears to be very old. You found this in a bookstall at the artists’ fair yesterday?”

Grayson said, “Yes, sir.”

The three of them watched Ryder open the book at random, watched his forehead furrow as he studied the page, watched him frown. Finally, he raised his head. They held their collective breath. “It is a code I have never seen before. Douglas is very good at this sort of thing. We can show it to him.” Grayson took the book from his father without a word.

“Douglas and Alexandra will be arriving on the morrow,” Sophie said to Nicholas. “He is the Earl of Northcliffe, but you know that, don’t you?”

“Someone mentioned it to me at the ball the other night. I look forward to making his lordship’s acquaintance.”

Sophie held out her hand to her son. “My turn.”

To her disappointment, she couldn’t make out the code either. “How very lowering. I thought my dear husband and I knew everything of importance. This depresses my spirits. As for Douglas, he is coming to lend more weight to Rosalind’s coming out. There will be a ball here for her next Friday,” Sophie said, her eyes never leaving Nicholas Vail’s dark face.

Guileless as a nun, Rosalind said, “Lord Mountjoy came back with Grayson because I agreed to go riding in the park with him; he is going to tell me all about Macau. I have a fascination for Portuguese colonies, you know.”

Both Ryder and Sophie strongly doubted Rosalind had even heard of Macau before this. Still, Sophie found herself nodding. “I suppose that will be all right. But don’t forget, dearest, you have a final fitting at Madame Fouquet’s this afternoon.”

“Macau can wait,” Grayson said. “The book, Rosalind, we must work together on the book. Nicholas as well.”

It was odd, but Rosalind no longer felt any urgency about the book. She felt urgency about Nicholas. She said, “I will get more information from Nicholas about it, Grayson. It will assist us. When we return, we will all work on it together.”

“But why—”

“I have a headache. I need fresh air.”

“That was very well done,” Nicholas said as he sat opposite Rosalind in his carriage. “Your Uncle Ryder is wrong. You lie quite fluently.” He thudded his cane against the roof. “Tell Grace and Leopold to go leisurely to the park, Lee.”

“Yes, my lord.” The carriage rolled forward.

“Grace and Leopold?”

“My grays. They’re proud and know their own worth. If they feel someone has slighted them, they bite. Now, can you really read the Rules of the Pale?”

“You needn’t play more games, my lord. You know I can read that wretched book. You knew all along. Or at least you very much hoped I could. My question to you is, why?”

There was a pause before he said, “Of course I am surprised. How could I possibly know? As for a plan, why, I have none except to provide whatever assistance I am able to you and Grayson when I return you home from the park. This ride I invited you for this morning, did I indicate any specific time?”

“A medium sort of time, if I remember aright. Don’t change the subject. And you think I lie fluently. I am not near to your equal, my lord. I know you will hang over my shoulder to hear each word from the Rules of the Pale. I wish you would tell both Grayson and me what you know about it, Nicholas.”

He gave her a lovely shrug with his powerful shoulders, but she had no intention of admiring him. “Certainly the book is of some interest to me, since even as a young boy, I knew it was a passion with my grandfather. Perhaps I’ll learn why it was his passion from the text itself.”

Her gloved fingers drummed on her reticule. “You are quite adroit, aren’t you, my lord?”

“My name is Nicholas. Adroit? I surely hope so or I doubt I would have survived to adult years.”

When she looked at his mouth again, she forgot about his secrets, forgot about the Rules of the Pale, forgot that she didn’t want to admire his shoulders. She didn’t understand any of this, only knew she wanted him to touch her again, to feel him kiss her hand again, perhaps kiss the inside of her elbow, even her ear. She shuddered when she thought of his kissing her on the mouth, kissing her until she was stupid with it. That would be wicked, surely, but she imagined that a life without wickedness couldn’t be much fun, could it?

She looked out the carriage window to see that they were passing by the entrance to the park. She didn’t care a whit. It was overcast today, cooler, but she felt comfortably warm. There weren’t that many people wandering about, not at this unfashionable hour, only a few children with their hoops, yelling to each other in sight of nannies and tutors. A flower girl and a pie vendor were walking about to find buyers. She said on a sigh, “So that I am not a complete liar, tell me about Macau.”

“The air smells different there.”

“Well, yes, of course it does. It is a foreign clime.”

He laughed, shook his head. “And just what do you know of foreign climes?”

“Actually, London was a foreign clime to me until two weeks ago. I’ll admit it, I’m a provincial. Do you despise me for it?”

“I don’t think so. Should I?”

“Probably. When you are angry with me you will doubtless think of several reasons.” Then she found herself once again staring at his mouth. She cleared her throat. What were they talking about? Oh, yes. “I’m sure the blue of the sky is different as well as the smell of the air in Macau. Tell me, how did you live?”

He stared at her, all of his dangerous suave self suddenly nonplussed. Until now, no one had shown the slightest interest in the life he had before London. “What do you mean?”

“Come now, Nicholas, I’m sure you were very prosperous. All these nonsensical rumors about your not having a sou because your father purposefully beggared you, I don’t believe it for an instant.”

“But it is true,” he said slowly. “My father’s intention was to beggar me. He left me only the entailed family estate in Sussex with its three thousand acres of dying land.”

“What he did doesn’t matter to you. You have the funds to fix everything. Indeed, I imagine you have already begun setting things to right. I am willing to wager my next allowance that you have no need at all of an heiress.”

“No, you’re quite right. I have no need of an heiress.”

“I knew it. I am equally sure you moved easily in Portuguese society in Macau. Tell me about your life there.”

He gave her a brooding look. “Your eyes are the most incredible shade of blue. I was thinking of a soft blue blanket a Portuguese woman wove for me.”

“A blanket? That sort of flattery could shatter a girl’s heart. As for your eyes, Nicholas, they are black as any tar pit I have ever seen.”

“Have you ever seen a tar pit?”

She shook her head, never looking away from his face. “Your eyes do not, thankfully, look like wet tar. They’re simply black and deep and there are answers inside that you hide very well. You’re a man brimming with secrets, Nicholas. I have secrets myself, only I don’t know what they are.”

A very strange thing to say, he thought, but said, “Shall I tell you about how beautiful I think your hair is? The shades of it—hair your color graces Titian’s paintings.”

He leaned toward her and lightly touched his fingertips to the curls over her ears. “I must adjust my opinion. The color of the stuff is richer than any red Titian ever produced. It is glorious hair you have, Rosalind.”

“Why do you pay me such an extravagant compliment? Are you trying to atone for the blue blanket?”

“When I saw you at the ball Thursday night, I knew, I simply knew, that you were—”

“Were what?”

He frowned a moment out the window, and shrugged as he turned back to her. “You dance well,” he said.

“Thank you. You’re quite right about that. Uncle Ryder taught me himself. Stop avoiding the subject, Nicholas. I wish to hear about how you lived in Macau. I want to know how you dealt with daily life in a strange land.”

“Ah,” he said absently, “listen to all the noise outside the carriage window. And all the people moving about—black-frocked clerks, ladies with their maids, gentlemen of leisure strolling to their clubs, swinging their canes, solicitors muttering to themselves, vendors hawking pies, flower girls surrounded with splendid color. It was the same in Macau, only you wouldn’t understand what anyone was saying.”

“You are extraordinarily eloquent.”

“Thank you. Now—”

“Now nothing. What did you do, Nicholas? Where did you live? How did you live?” Did you love a woman? Many women?

And out of his mouth came, “I will tell you when you agree to marry me.”

She stared at him for an instant, then laughed so hard she hiccupped and fell sideways.

Then she straightened up, hiccupped again, and looked over at him—stiff, silent, wary. By everything that was glorious and splendid, he was serious. Her body hummed. She felt the leap of excitement, the feeling that very suddenly, so very unexpectedly, everything was right. It didn’t matter that she’d seen him for the first time the night before last. She laughed again, joyously, and said, “Yes, I should like to marry you, Nicholas Vail.”

He looked suddenly panicked. “But I—”

She leaned toward him and lightly laid her finger against his mouth. Then she kissed him.

10

Rosalind read:

“The Tiber is vicious. Only slight force is needed for its hooves to smash a man’s face into pulp. The Tiber has one weakness. It craves the taste of the red Lasis. The black Lasis or the brown Lasis will not do, only the red Lasis. But the red Lasis, unlike the brown and black Lasis, is wily and reveals itself to the Tiber only when it can lead it to a covered pit. The red Lasis easily jumps the pit but the Tiber does not. It falls in and the Lasis sends fire spears into it until it is dead. A man must make friends with the red Lasis. Otherwise a man is destroyed by the Tiber. Sing to the red Lasis of your loyalty just as they sing to the Dragons of the Sallas Pond, and they will protect you.”

Rosalind looked up. “It is like Sarimund is writing for a child—simple, basic, crude, if you will.”

Nicholas sat on a sofa opposite her, holding a large silk pillow between his hands. He said as he tossed the pillow from one hand to the other, “Or he is writing an instruction manual and wants to make certain there is no misunderstanding. It is crude, you’re right about that, Rosalind, and unfortunately it gives us no information at all that is helpful.” And he wondered, as he had each time she read from Sarimund’s book: Why is this so clear to you and not to me?

Grayson was rubbing his hand, cramped from writing so quickly to keep up with her. He said, “Or the Tiber and the red Lasis simply stand for something else—they’re metaphors.”

“Metaphors for what?” Nicholas said.

Grayson shrugged. “Perhaps concepts of the afterlife. The Tiber represents Hell, the Dragons of the Sallas Pond and the red Lasis—well, Heaven seems a bit of a stretch.”

“Maybe the red Lasis are angels,” Rosalind said, an eyebrow raised. “They protect men, help them to survive. I don’t know, Grayson; even though Sarimund writes simply, I can see the red Lasis leaping over a pit meant for the Tiber. I can even picture a fire spear.”

“But note there’s no description of them, it only tells the reader that the Tiber has hooves,” Grayson said. “It’s interesting too, you have words like ‘Tiber’ and ‘Lasis’—foreign, strange words—but then there are words we know, like ‘moon’ and ‘spear.’ Read, Rosalind. I have a feeling this will change. I know it will change.”

He dipped his nib pen into the inkwell on the floor beside him and nodded to her.

She gave Nicholas a quick look and felt her insides glow even brighter. She fully intended to marry this man—it was astounding and absolutely mad. So few days earlier she hadn’t even known he existed. He was a stranger, she knew nothing about him, yet she knew, simply knew to her soul, that this man was the one for her. She thought again of what she’d said to him as they’d walked into the house earlier.

She’d looked up at him sadly, shoulders dropped, and sighed deeply as she’d whispered, “I hope no one believes me a failure.”

That pulled him up short. “A failure?”

“Well, the fact is, my lord, you are not a duke.”

His quick full laugh had made her want to jump on him.

Grayson snapped his fingers under her nose. “Come along, Rosalind, back from wherever you went. Why are you blushing? No, don’t tell me. Read.”

She studied the next sentence a moment, then raised her head. “This is strange. It’s a new section, but there is no empty space between to mark the end of one and the beginning of the next. It also changes from narrative to first person.” She read, “I discovered the Dragons of the Sallas Pond only eat every three weeks, and only fire rocks, heated for those three weeks until they’re soft and glowing. They have never eaten a man. When men venture to the Pale they cower inside caves and build fires, but learn quickly that the flying creatures swoop down upon them to kill the flame. It is a frightening sight, the dying flames, the creatures sucking at the embers, the men screaming, but withal, the flying creatures do not harm men.

“The men who survive settle into the body of the Pale. Just as I did, they observe the Dragons of the Sallas Pond and see that their snouts are rich glittering gold and their eyes bright emeralds and their huge triangular scales, the sharp points glistening beneath the brilliant ice sun, are studded with diamonds.

“To the best of my knowledge, the Dragons of the Sallas Pond do not die. They exist for the now and the ever after. If a man holds himself perfectly silent, he will hear the Dragons singing to each other, perhaps telling about men, what very different creatures they are, foolish and lost and afraid. If a man has patience and can wait, the Dragons will determine if he is worthy, and if he is, as I was, the Dragons will teach him the rules of the Pale.

“For myself, their love songs moved me unutterably, for the mating of the Dragons of the Sallas Pond is for all eternity. They are your salvation. Never lie to a Dragon of the Sallas Pond. This is a rule of the Pale.”

Rosalind stopped reading, frowning as she read again, silently, the last few lines. Grayson raised his hand and began rubbing it. Nicholas tossed the bright blue silk pillow to a brocade chair opposite him. He said, “Dragons of the Sallas Pond—it sounds like a tale spun out of an incredible imagination. What is the Sallas Pond, I wonder?”

Rosalind said thoughtfully, “A sacred place, perhaps like Delphi. And Mount Olyvan could be Mount Olympus, could it not? My throat is quite dry. Should you like some tea?”

“Nutty buns?” Nicholas asked, perking up.

“Stand up, Nicholas. Let me see your belly first.” He obligingly rose and waited for her to come to him. At the last moment before she touched him, she saw Grayson was gaping at her, his mouth open.

Nicholas said mildly, catching her hand, “I am thin as a pole, Rosalind, no extra flesh on me. Any man who allows himself to gain flesh in his belly is doomed, and will be spat upon. This is a rule of the Nicholas.”

His words, spoken with such seriousness, undid her. Laughter spurted out of her. Grayson didn’t know whether to laugh or to hit this man who was on such friendly terms with Rosalind. She’d thought to touch her hand to his belly to see if it was flat—what the devil was going on here?

“Oh, goodness,” she said, “does the rule of the Nicholas apply to the ladies as well?”

“Indeed it does. Heed me, for I speak true. Should I check your belly, Rosalind? I proclaim you exempt from this rule when you carry my—when you carry a child.”

Grayson leapt to his feet and opened his mouth, only to close it when he saw Rosalind’s face. Her eyes were wicked. He knew that look. She gave him a bow as she walked to the bell cord and gave it a tug. When Willicombe appeared in the library a scant three seconds later, Grayson said, “Willicombe, were you waiting outside? Did you somehow fathom that we were starving?”

“I am desolated to announce there are no more nutty buns, Master Grayson. I heard Cook say the last three were stolen right out of her kitchen, and it so upset her that she was unable to prepare more.”

“Oh, dear, I swear I am not guilty,” Rosalind said.

“I suspect my mother,” said Grayson. “Nutty buns are her weakness. And she is sly.”

Rosalind sighed. “Is it time for luncheon yet, Willicombe?”

“Actually, Miss Rosalind, I was on my way in to fetch the three of you. Cook has prepared ham slices so thin you can see through them.” While Willicombe spoke, he looked at Sarimund’s book. Rosalind could see his fingers twitching. He bowed once again, holding it a long moment so the full effect of his bald head could be appreciated.

Rosalind watched Grayson carefully tuck the Rules of the Pale into his jacket as they followed in Willicombe’s wake.

Nicholas said, leaning close to her ear, “I could not examine the flatness of your belly. Grayson would have surely run me through with that ceremonial sword over the mantel.”

“Perhaps if we slip around behind those stairs, I can kiss you quickly even as I suck in my stomach for your inspection,” Rosalind said and raced down the hallway.

He laughed. “Come back, Rosalind. I will feed you a ham slice instead.”

11

During luncheon, Grayson told his parents the plot of his new novel to distract them from the Rules of the Pale. His fond parents knew what he was doing, but they loved him, and told him they adored the idea of a young Oxford student dueling with a demon who held the heart of his beloved inside a magic gem, rumored to have been ripped out of Satan’s crown. It wasn’t bad, Rosalind thought, particularly since Grayson was making it up as he spoke.

The moment Aunt Sophie rose from the table, Rosalind pulled Nicholas into the small room that the Countess of Northcliffe had designed for ladies some two decades before.

“No,” Nicholas said as he lightly touched his fingers to her cheek. “We mustn’t say anything yet to anyone, particularly your aunt and uncle. We’ve known each other such a short time. Give them another day at least to witness how dazzled I am with you. So soft, you are, Rosalind.”

“I don’t wish to admit it, but you’re right. Uncle Ryder would believe we’d both lost our wits. He might have you kidnapped and shipped back to Macau. You really think I’m soft?”

He touched the tip of his finger to her nose. “Your Uncle Ryder would not consider lost wits; he would believe lust rules us. Your Aunt Sophie would have stars in her eyes at the romance of it, but upon brief reflection she could agree with Uncle Ryder—nothing more than rampant lust, all on my part since you are such an innocent. I am a man of the world, they would say, and one must always beware a man of the world when it comes to a young girl who looks like you do. You’re softer than a butterfly’s wing.”

“I will have you know I am not that innocent.” She fidgeted a bit. “The fact is, Nicholas, I don’t look like anything much.”

“Perhaps you are right. Perhaps you aren’t much at all.”

She crossed her arms across her chest. Her foot tapped, tapped, tapped. He was enchanted. She said behind her teeth, “You needn’t go that far. Now, this lust business—what a very strange word that is. I’ve never even thought about lust before. If it is lust that makes me want to leap on you and kiss you until you crumple to the carpet, then it is a powerful thing. I think I quite like it. Is that why you asked me to marry you so quickly, Nicholas? You’ve gone over the edge with lust for me?”

He hadn’t wanted to consider lust with her, it wasn’t what was important, but—he drew in a deep breath. Truth was truth, and it had to be faced. He said, “Lust is a fine thing, but I don’t believe it is lust that rules us.” Well, most of the truth was important.

She stared at him in amazement. “Never say so!”

He held back his laughter. She had to recognize it was more. “Well, it doesn’t rule us entirely. I am not completely mad with lust for you. You realize that, don’t you?”

She said slowly, her eyes going yet again to his mouth, “I honestly don’t know what I realize, Nicholas. All I know is that it is right for me—you are right for me, no one else, just you. When you kissed my hand this morning, something deep inside me recognized that you were for me.”

So quickly, and she knew? He knew he was the one too, of course he was the one, but he wouldn’t tell her that until he had the vows from her, not until she was legally his. He said lightly, “Not even one of the three dukes?”

“Into the fire with the dukes.”

He laughed again. He believed he’d laughed more in the past two days than in the past five years. “You have a wit that pleases me,” he said.

And she said then, flooring him, “But there is more to this, Nicholas, and I suspect you are well aware of it. For me, it is these overwhelming feelings, this recognition of you, but I think—well, it sounds absurd, I know, but I feel you were perhaps looking for me, as I, perhaps, was looking for you.”

“Looking for you? Actively searching for you? And you looking for me? You mean Fate guided our boats to the same shore?”

“I think our boats docked next to each other with our bows knocking together makes more sense than this place called the Pale with its Tibers and Dragons.”

“Perhaps the Pale isn’t real—perhaps it’s a metaphor, as Grayson said.”

“You believe it is real, Nicholas. I ask you, how is this book—the Rules of the Pale—possible? It was Grayson who found it, who was led to find it. Was this Fate or something stronger? And you say your grandfather had a copy of the book. This book boggles the mind. You know it is too much. And when I begin asking these sorts of questions, I become afraid.”

The whole thing would frighten him too if he weren’t so long used to it. He wanted to bring her against him, reassure her, but knew he’d be a fool to do it. He couldn’t ruin things now. Even this conversation, conducted only a room away from her guardian, was madness.

Nicholas sighed. It had all happened too quickly. He said, “If you wish, we could attend the theater tonight. My solicitor told me, laughing, that my father neglected to stipulate that the theater box he bought some ten years ago be willed to my half brothers; thus it came to me by default. He told me my half brothers were rather distressed about it. My solicitor is a master of understatement. They would just as soon see me underground.”

“Your half brothers? I don’t know about them, Nicholas.”

He stared at her, appalled at himself. He’d spoken so freely, without considering possible consequences, and it was very unlike him. Well, it was done. Unless she chanced to meet them, and believed whatever they may tell her in their spewing hatred of him, it wouldn’t matter. She would be his wife. She would meet them, doubtless, and discover quickly enough that all three of them hated his guts. Yet though he’d known her only two days, he was sure she wouldn’t hesitate to be utterly loyal to him, to attack anyone who was stupid enough to insult him. He smiled fatuously. No one had ever sought to protect him and yet he knew she would.

“But why do your half brothers hate you? You are the head of the Vail family. They owe you their respect just as you owe them your protection.”

“They hate me because my father taught them to hate me, my father and their mother, Miranda. I saw the two oldest ones, for the first time since my return, on Thursday night, the night I first saw you. Will they be pests? I don’t know, but it doesn’t disturb me.” His dark eyes glittered with banked violence. “And they would be fools to disturb you. Now, should you like to go with me this evening? With your aunt and uncle, of course.”

“You’ve already asked Uncle Ryder, haven’t you?”

“Yes. A man must know what is in the stew before he brings the spoon to his mouth.”

She laughed. “That was a dreadful metaphor. What are we to see?”

“It is Charles Kean playing Hamlet. He is Edmund Kean’s son, not as successful as his sire, but still, I understand after practicing his craft for several years in Scotland, he has returned to London and made this role his own. Do you like Shakespeare?”

“Oh, yes, very much. I have always believed, however, that a woman brought Shakespeare low, and that was the reason he brought Kate to such a wretched end. A revenge, of sorts. I mean, can you imagine a woman kneeling before her husband and promising to do whatever he wishes?”

His eyes nearly crossed. He swallowed. “Well, just perhaps—”

She lightly laid her fingers over his mouth. “No, I won’t let you dig yourself into a big hole. You are a man. Aunt Sophie says if a woman is wily and imaginative, she can easily manage a man.” She patted his arm. “No, don’t groan. Now, when do you wish to tell everyone, Nicholas? Perhaps tomorrow? Sunday would be a splendid day to announce our betrothal to everyone. When do you wish to wed?”

“Let me think about that,” he said, never looking away from her face.

“And what about the Rules of the Pale?”

He’d felt such urgency before, but oddly, it wasn’t prodding him now. Now he had time, since he had the key—namely, her. “Tell Grayson we will continue with it tomorrow afternoon.”

She nodded. “I will also tell Grayson to invite a young lady to the theater this evening. He is very popular, you know. The young ladies think he is vastly romantic.”

12

Miss Lorelei Kilbourne, eldest of Viscount Ramey’s five daughters, born and raised in Northumberland and in London for her first season, had, until this night, only worshipped Grayson Sherbrooke from afar. Rosalind had met her several times, and managed to listen, without snorting, to the young lady’s outpourings about Grayson’s magnificent physical self, his ever so lovely blue eyes, the ever so charming way he smiled, and his equally brilliant books. So when Grayson shrugged and said he could think of no particular young lady to ask to the theater on such short notice, she presented Lorelei Kilbourne for his consideration. At his perfectly blank expression at the young lady’s name, Rosalind punched him in the arm. “You are such an oblivious oaf. You’ve met her, Grayson. I believe you’ve even waltzed with her. Ask her, she adores you—admires you to the point of nausea. Even if she already has an engagement, I know she will break it for you.”

“Hmmm,” Grayson said. “Lorelei is a lovely name. Unusual. Strange that I don’t remember it. I would like to ask her parents why they selected this particular name for her. Perhaps they thought of the sirens, perhaps—”

“Grayson, blessed hell, time grows short. Take yourself over to Kimberly Square and ask her. That’s where she lives, at number twenty-three.”

“She’s the small girl? Shy, blushes a lot? Has glorious mink-colored hair?”

Mink? Trust a writer. “Yes, she’s got the minkest-colored hair I’ve ever seen. Shy? Not with me, she wasn’t shy. Not a single blush. Accept it, you’re her hero. Go now.”

Grayson laughed as he lightly touched a fingertip to her cheek. “Hmm, let me weigh this. Would I prefer to sit in a box next to a pretty girl who worships me . . . or to sit with loud, drunk, belching friends in the pit? This is very difficult. Ah, there are my parents sitting not two feet away from me, Rosalind. That doesn’t make it so easy a question, now, does it?”

“You dolt, your parents will not be perched on your shoulder. They would not dream of disapproving of her, what with all the praise she will doubtless heap on your empty head. They’ll probably join her, making you insufferable. Grayson, if you do not ask her, I will hurt you very badly. You know that I can.”

Grayson remembered that long-ago day she’d lurked in the shadows on a second-floor balcony of Brandon House, waiting for him. When he’d walked below, whistling, minding his own business, she’d thrown a bucket of freezing soapy water on him, all because his ugly pug Jasper had chewed a pair of her slippers and he’d had the nerve to laugh. “All right, I will go around and speak to her. Does that make you happy?”

“You don’t have to marry her, Grayson, so don’t sound so put-upon. But you know, now that I think about it, you’re nearly ripe enough—as Uncle Douglas says—to manage being a decent husband. Shall I ask him?”

Grayson looked ready to run. Then he began to look thoughtful. “Lorelei,” he said, studying the Grecian urn on the mantelpiece, “it rather sings on the tongue, don’t you think?” And he walked away, whistling.

She called after him, “All this worship for you, a moron of the first order, it fair to makes me gag.”

He laughed, waggled his fingers at her, but didn’t turn.

The Royal Theater, Drury Lane

Rosalind said behind her hand to Aunt Sophie, “Kean pauses so very long between his sentences, it’s difficult to know if he has finished declaiming his monologue. Poor Ophelia thought he was through with that last one and began her lines—even from here I could see the nasty look he gave her, and then he mowed right over her.”

“Ah,” Aunt Sophie whispered close to her ear, “but the passion in him, my dear, it fairly radiates around him, and the dramatic poses, so moving, so evocative—and would you look at the lovely stage sets, Rosalind. It’s said he strives with all his artistic might to make all the scenery and the settings accurate.”

“Aunt Sophie, are you laughing at me?”

“A small chuckle, no more. I will say he is not his father, but he does the part well enough.”

Nicholas sat quietly, his arms crossed over his chest. He looked on the point of nodding off.

Rosalind poked him in the ribs. “Don’t you dare fall asleep, Nicholas. Your snoring would be the ruin of all of us.”

He slowly turned to smile at her. It was only a smile, but it smote her. Rosalind actually felt her heart thump down heavily on the toes of her white satin slippers. I saw him the first time only two nights ago, she thought; only this morning I felt his mouth kiss my hand, so meaningless in the course of things, but he made my world turn upside down. Or right side up. It doesn’t matter. Whatever he did, he did me in.

“No,” he whispered, his breath warm on her cheek, “don’t look at me like that. I’m a weak man, Rosalind, spare me.”

“Weak, ha.” She pressed her fist over her mouth to smother the giggle. She looked over at Grayson and Lorelei Kilbourne. Grayson looked fascinated; she knew the signs. Unfortunately his fascination wasn’t with his companion, it was with the drama unfolding on the stage. He was sitting slightly forward, his hands on his knees, absorbed. As for Lorelei, she wasn’t looking at Kean; she was looking at Grayson, and the adoring look on her very pretty face made Rosalind want to kick her. She was a rug waiting for him to tread upon. But wait—did she, Rosalind de La Fontaine—look at Nicholas like that? Like a besotted half-wit? Oh, dear, could that be possible? She would get hold of herself. She would have dignity.

Nicholas whispered, “Lorelei is lovely and Grayson is basking.”

“Not really,” Rosalind said, eyes narrowed on Grayson’s face. “The blind sod is more interested in what’s happening on the stage.”

“You’re wrong. He is being smart; his seeming indifference to her is drawing her in and he well knows it.”

“She’s already drawn in. If he draws her in any more she’ll be plastered to him. But if you’re right, that must mean he likes her. And that means he’ll probably make her the beleaguered heroine in his next book.”

Kean yelled something toward the audience, clasped his hands to his breast, flailed about, and, head bowed, collapsed gracefully on a chaise, his posture artfully arranged. The green curtain swooped down. Applause rang out, loud and sustained.

When the applause, whistles, and stomping feet finally dwindled enough that they could hear the orange girls calling out, signaling the intermission, Rosalind said to Nicholas, “This is a lovely box. We can see everything and everyone. There are so many people. I’ll wager nearly all three thousand seats are occupied tonight. How delightful your father forgot he owned it.”

“Miranda is furious she couldn’t get her hands on the box.”

She saw he was staring toward a box to their left. She followed his line of vision and saw two young men staring back at her.

“Your half brothers, I presume?”

He nodded. “The eldest, the tall dark one who looks remarkably like me, is Richard Vail. The pallid young man beside him who looks like a tormented poet is Lancelot. Of the two of them, I would guess he’s the more vicious, since he hates the way he looks, hates his name, wishes I were dead at his feet, and needs only a sharp stiletto. Or perhaps he would prefer a nice heavy rock.”

“And the youngest brother?”

“Aubrey is his name. He is only eighteen, at Oxford for his first term. I have no idea of his character.”

“Those two aren’t smiling.”

“No, they are not. They’re probably wondering why I am with the Sherbrookes, a powerful family they dare not cross, and you, of course, who must be connected to the Sherbrookes. Perhaps they will come to visit during the intermission. Ah, I do believe they’re leaving their friend’s box.” He waited, still as stone.

She whispered close to his ear, “Don’t throw them over the side of the box, Nicholas, you might hurt some innocent below in the pit.”

He gave her a swift smile.

Not four minutes later, the curtain at the back of the large box parted, and Richard Vail stepped inside. He immediately stepped toward Ryder and Sophie Sherbrooke and bowed. “Sir, madam. I am Richard Vail. This is my brother Lance. We did not know you were acquainted with our half brother, Nicholas.”

Ryder nodded at the two young men, quite aware of the tension pouring off them. A gentleman to his toes, Ryder said pleasantly, “A pleasure. Allow me to introduce you to the rest of our party,” which he did. “And of course you are well acquainted with your own brother.”

“Half brother,” Lancelot said.

There were curt nods from Lancelot and Richard, a bland smile from Nicholas. Because Rosalind was sitting close to Nicholas, she was closely scrutinized. She hated it because it was laced with malice.

Lancelot said to Grayson, “I have read your books, Mr. Sherbrooke. I have thought to write myself, perhaps a memoir since my life has been so very fascinating, but I am so very busy, you know.”

Grayson nodded. “That is so often the case with people I have met. You must be very pleased to see your brother again after so long an absence.”

“Half brother,” Lancelot said.

An awkward silence filled the box. The air thrummed with animosity, but ingrained civility won out, that and the presence of Ryder and Sophie Sherbrooke. Richard nodded. “Oh, yes, to see Nicholas again must please us greatly, even though he is only our half brother, as Lance just said.”

Grayson looked surprised at that. “What does it matter? A brother is a brother, don’t you find that true?”

Finally, after a moment, Richard nodded. “As you say, Mr. Sherbrooke.”

Ryder wasn’t blind. It was clear that Rosalind had fallen hard for Nicholas Vail, and he knew next to nothing about him, and now here were two half brothers who would very much like to shoot the man dead. All the rumors Ryder had heard were obviously true.

And now his Rosalind was in love with this stranger, and he knew she’d made her decision. She’d only just met him. Ryder sighed. Well, how long did it take to fall in love? He would make inquiries immediately, starting with this hatred his half brothers had for Nicholas and focusing on any possible danger to Rosalind. He looked at Nicholas, who looked calm and somewhat ironic, his natural arrogance heightened, Ryder thought, because his two half brothers held him in such dislike.

Ryder wished he could leave London tonight and whisk Rosalind back to the Cotswolds, where she’d be safe from this young man and his mysterious past, this man who kept secrets as well as Ryder’s own father had.

There was also the case of Rosalind’s background. Had she mentioned anything to Nicholas as of yet? What would happen when she did?

He heard Lorelei laugh. Should he have Sophie drop a hint in the girl’s ear that it wasn’t wise for her to worship Grayson so blatantly? On the other hand, Grayson looked like he was quite enjoying himself so maybe the young lady knew exactly what she was doing. So many swirling undercurrents. Thank God Douglas and Alex would arrive tomorrow. He needed reinforcements, badly.

He conversed easily with the half brothers, knowing they were staring at Rosalind, their anger simmering. Richard Vail finally asked Rosalind if she was enjoying London.

“Oh, yes, ever so much. Everyone is quite kind, you know. Do you enjoy London as well, Mr. Vail?”

He nodded. “You became quickly acquainted with our half brother.”

“I surely hope so,” she said with a sunny smile.

“And he only very recently arrived in London,” Lancelot said. “One would think—” He paused, and because he was so pretty, it was a delicate pause.

Rosalind immediately filled the pause. “One would doubtless think I have immense good taste, is that what you wished to say, Mr. Vail?”

“Not really,” Lancelot said. He shot a look at his brother, but Richard only shrugged, and worried his thumbnail.

“But of course you would know when Nicholas arrived in London, wouldn’t you?” Rosalind patted her skirts. “After all, you are family.”

There was an eternal moment of silence, then Richard and Lancelot Vail bowed to Ryder and Sophie and left the box.

“Wasn’t that delightful,” Rosalind said behind her hand. “I don’t believe I am going to be tremendously fond of your brothers, Nicholas.”

“Trust me, they won’t be fond of you either,” he said.

The theater darkened. Rosalind said low to Nicholas as the thick green curtain was hauled back up, “Don’t worry, Nicholas, I won’t let those wretched dolts hurt you, and they want to, particularly Lancelot, the pretty little sod.” She raised her arm and made a muscle. “I could destroy him.”

He laughed, simply couldn’t help it. Then he cleared his throat. Laughter spurting out like that meant loss of control, no matter that it was for only a brief moment of time.

Ryder, who’d overheard this, sighed. Rosalind’s heels were dug in so deep they were probably close to knocking down a Mandarin farmer in China.

Eventually, after Laertes artfully slew Hamlet with a poisoned sword and the stage was strewn with bodies, it required a good half hour to make their way through the crowds outside, then another twenty minutes for their carriage to be brought around. They drove to the Kilbourne town house first, all of them waiting in the carriage while Grayson escorted Lorelei up the wide stone steps to the front door. When the door opened, Grayson quickly realized that directly behind the butler stood Lorelei’s father, looking closely at his little chick. What was he worried about? Grayson wondered. He gave Lord Ramey a bow, waved toward own his father and mother, who obligingly waved back, proving to Lord Ramey that their precious son hadn’t debauched his precious daughter, and finally Grayson made his good-byes.

“Mr. Sherbrooke?”

Grayson turned. “Yes, Miss Kilbourne?”

“Would you care to come to a small recitation tomorrow afternoon? All young people, perhaps twenty in all. We are reading Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein.” She lowered her lids a trifle and stared up at him through lovely thick lashes. “I recommended it. I felt it would please you.”

Well, it did. It was one of his favorite novels. However, Grayson wanted nothing more than to be left alone with Rosalind and have her translate the Rules. “Well, you see, Miss Kilbourne, I fear that—”

“Actually, after we’ve read a chapter from her book, we will read from your latest novel, sir, and would very much appreciate your lending your expertise to the discussion of vampires.”

“Ah, well, in that case—perhaps a chapter or two would be stimulating,” and it was done.

When Grayson climbed back into the carriage he looked so self-satisfied Rosalind wanted to clout him. After he’d told them what he would be doing on the following afternoon, Rosalind sneered at him. “You are so very weak. It is pitiful.”

“You’re just angry because I won’t be home to do your bidding. Besides, this recitation meeting, it won’t take very long. Unless, of course, they wish to read a goodly portion of my book, then—” He gave an obnoxious shrug. “If I’m not back in good time, Nicholas can take you for a ride in the park.”

Rosalind snorted. “If all the young people present are like Lorelei, you won’t escape for a week.”

He gave her a very satisfied smile.

His father laughed. His mother patted his hand.

13

Ryder wasn’t laughing the next afternoon when his brother Douglas Sherbrooke, the Earl of Northcliffe, said privately to him, “I am familiar with the Vail family, particularly this Nicholas’s grandfather, Galardi Vail. I hate saying this because it sounds so absurd, but I was told he wasn’t of this world.”

“Wasn’t of this world? What world, then? What the devil does that mean, Douglas?”

Douglas shrugged. “Fact is, the rumors were that Galardi Vail was some sort of magician, a wizard of sorts. As for his wife, I believe she died in childbirth.”

“I wonder,” Ryder said, “was he really a magician or a wizard, or did he simply believe he was?”

“I don’t know. Rumors were rife about strange incantations chanted in a strange language, blue smoke rising above the forest, strange red lights glowing from behind draperies at the house, nonsense like that, and Galardi raised young Nicholas when his own father had removed him from his house at the time of his second marriage. He was around five years old, I believe. Nicholas was still a boy when his grandfather died. Well, I should say supposedly died. There was no physician in attendance and there were whispers there was no body.” Douglas shrugged. “It sounds like one of Grayson’s novels, but this is what I have heard. I remember it because it is so very out of the ordinary.”

“From whom did you hear this?”

“My main source is Tysen’s curate, Mr. Biggly, some two years ago when he first arrived at Glenclose-on-Rowan. Alex and I were visiting Tysen and Mary Rose and he spoke of his prior living at Gorton-Wimberley, a small village in Sussex, near where this strange old man lived. Mr. Biggly could weave an excellent tale, and that is what I thought it until I chanced to hear a friend of Nicholas Vail’s father say much the same thing. He too claimed the old man was a wizard. What about young Nicholas? After Galardi’s death, he said that young Nicholas simply disappeared. Now Nicholas Vail has resurfaced and assumed his title. May I ask what this is all about? How did you meet Nicholas Vail?”

“Did you also know that young Nicholas’s father cut him off, leaving him only what was entailed?”

Douglas shook his head. “Is the young man a wastrel?”

“I don’t think so, Douglas.” Ryder sighed. “Before Sophie and Alex join us, let me tell you that Rosalind is in love with him. She met him Thursday night at the Pinchon ball. Four days. I hate to believe it, but you should see the way she looks at him. Our girl’s in love, Douglas, tip over arse. And you know Rosalind. She never does anything by half measure. That’s why I asked you what you knew about him.”

Douglas Sherbrooke could but stare at his brother. “I’ll admit I’m old, Ryder—but four days?”

“I know, it has fair to knocked me flat as well. Rosalind sees what she wants and she goes after it. The thing is, she also has excellent instincts. Remember that man who came to Brandon House to sell us wonderful bolts of material from France at a marvelous price?”

Douglas laughed. “Oh, yes. And Rosalind nailed him but good.”

Ryder said, “She got all the children to unroll bolts of his expensive, supposedly fine brocade and, sure enough, there were moth holes throughout.”

“He probably thought what with all the children, he would make a very pretty penny indeed and be well gone before he was discovered. So Rosalind approves this Nicholas Vail. But what about Nicholas Vail? Which way does the wind blow with him?”

“It blows in her direction.”

“Have you told him why you are Rosalind’s guardian? Has he inquired?”

Ryder shook his head. “I will let her tell him, when and if it comes to that. I don’t think it’s even occurred to her that there might be a serpent in the garden. Nicholas Vail is a peer of the realm. Blood and background are important.”

“Perhaps she wants to wait until she is certain of him. Rosalind is very well grounded.”

“In some ways, yes, but the other, Douglas—”

“Yes. What is Nicholas Vail all about? What do you want me to do, Ryder?”

“First I want you to meet the young man, take his measure. Then speak to your contacts in the foreign office. You’ve told me many times that what they don’t know, they can easily find out—see what they know of him, of his family, of his half brothers, two of whom I met last night at Drury Lane. There’s deep hatred there, Douglas.

“You also have several acquaintances with a reach into the underbelly of London. Ask them if they’ve heard anything about him. Nicholas Vail claims he lived in Macau for the past five years. I did find out from our solicitor that he is in shipping and that he’s quite successful, and did not need any money from his father, even though the rumors would have you believe he is without a sou and looking for an heiress. As for the nine years before he settled in Macau, he was not specific. I’ve got to make sure Rosalind will be safe with him.”

Douglas nodded. “Then he is twenty-six, near Grayson’s age.”

“But he is older than Grayson in experience, hard experience, the kind that brings you too close to death. I also believe he would be utterly ruthless, probably had to be to survive. He would be a dangerous man to cross.”

“On his own since the age of twelve—that would either toughen a boy or he wouldn’t survive.”

Ryder nodded. “So he left after his grandfather’s death, yet you tell me Tysen’s curate spoke of there being no body to bury. Damnation, Douglas.” Ryder slammed his fist into his palm, winced. “And there is this ancient book Grayson found in a bookstall in Hyde Park, written by a man whose idiot name is Sarimund. It’s titled the Rules of the Pale and it’s in code. Unbreakable code, I think you’ll agree.

“And let me tell you what scares me to my toes: Rosalind can read it, quickly, no problem at all. Blessed hell, how the devil can one explain that? I most certainly can’t. There’s something going on here and the children know more about it all than I do. I hate that.”

“Calm yourself, Ryder, we’ll find out all we need to know, and quickly. I should like to see this book as well. Code, you say? Unbreakable? Except our Rosalind is able to decipher it?”

Ryder nodded. “This isn’t good, Douglas. You know it isn’t.”

14

I’ve got to tell him, got to, got to, blessed hell, I’ve got no choice. Rosalind hated it, but it had to be done. Where was Nicholas? Why must he be late this afternoon of all afternoons? She couldn’t lose her resolve. That would be completely dishonorable. But what if he looked at her like an unwanted snail in the garden, stomped her, and walked away?

No, surely he won’t stomp me, but maybe he’ll give me one of those dangerous cold looks and walk away. It doesn’t matter. I’ve got to tell him, no choice.

Willicombe opened the door and said in his brilliant voice, “Lord Mountjoy, Miss Rosalind.”

Nicholas cocked a dark eyebrow at the back of Willicombe’s shiny bald head and smiled over at her. Rosalind jumped to her feet. She saw Willicombe wasn’t happy about leaving them alone. She wished he knew, wished everyone knew that she and Nicholas were engaged. That would remove the bilious look from his face. Well, maybe not.

Willicombe eyed first one, then the other. He cleared his throat. “Miss Rosalind, shall I inquire if Mrs. Sherbrooke is available to, er, come and converse with the two of you? Perhaps guide your conversational gambits to a proper elevated plane?”

“Oh, no, Willicombe. We will be unchaperoned for a mere matter of two minutes, no more. His lordship is a gentleman of stern moral resolve. He was born on an elevated plane. I don’t know if I was born elevated, but I was certainly raised that way. Don’t worry yourself.”

Willicombe still wasn’t happy and so he gave them only a small bow, this time not bestowing upon them the full glory of his bald head.

As soon as the drawing room doors closed, Rosalind grabbed Nicholas’s hand and pulled him toward the bow windows. “Nicholas, you are late.”

“Not more than a minute or two. What is this? What is wrong, Rosalind?”

She dropped his hand and began to wring hers, and looked down at her feet.

He stared at those wringing hands, an eyebrow winging upward. “What is this? You are obviously upset. Tell me what is wrong, Rosalind.”

“My name. It is my name that is wrong.”

“Your name? Yes, well, La Fontaine is on the unusual side. But as you told me, your namesake was a name to be respected. Rosalind de La Fontaine. I like your name, Rosalind, it suits you. What of it?”

“You don’t know who I am, Nicholas, you really don’t. You don’t know why Ryder Sherbrooke is my guardian. You don’t know anything about me.”

“Well, no, it hadn’t really occurred to me. We’ve been rather occupied since we met. But you will feel free to tell me when it pleases you.”

“You look very handsome today, Nicholas. I like the buck-skins and your riding jacket. Very smart.”

“Thank you. I’m listening.”

“Well, the thing is—” She stopped dead, then shook her head and paced to the far end of the drawing room, then back to him. “All right, I’ll just spit it out. I hear ghosts,” she said, coming to a stop right in front of him. “I know ghosts, I’ve lived with them for ten years. I’ve never seen them but I’ve heard them murmuring from shadowed corners or, most often, in my dreams.”

“All right, for ten years you’ve heard ghosts. Tell me about this.”

“I will spit it out, I will. I have heard ghosts since—well, since Uncle Ryder found me nearly beaten to death in an alley near the docks in Eastbourne.”

He grew very still. How could this be? “I don’t understand,” he said slowly. “You were nearly beaten to death? You were only a young child. What is this, Rosalind?”

“They believed I was around eight years old. They even let me select a month and a day for my birthday and of course I picked the very next day after they told me. Uncle Ryder took me to Brandon House—it’s where he brings children who have been abandoned or beaten or sold, children in awful situations—he raises them and loves them and educates them, and gives them hope. He told me the physicians weren’t sure I would live, but I did. But, you see, when I finally regained my wits, I had no idea who I was. I still don’t. My memory never came back. Just the ghosts lurking in the back of my mind, and they’ve never come forward, never told me who I am.”

He studied her pale face. “You still don’t know who you are?”

“No. The ghosts came and I’ve asked them over and over who I am, but I can never understand what they say, if indeed they themselves know.”

“But your name—La Fontaine.”

“I selected the name myself when I was ten years old because I liked Jean de La Fontaine’s fables, as simple as that. I’m more of a fiction than his fables are—at least his fables have a moral. I don’t have anything. I don’t know who I am. At first Uncle Ryder and Uncle Douglas tried to find out about me, but they could discover nothing. Then they decided that whoever had tried to kill me could still be out there, and still want me dead. If someone hated me enough to try to kill me, then I must be worth very little. Or worth nothing at all.”

Nicholas had never considered anything like this, never. It didn’t matter. He hated that her eyes were sheened with tears, hated her pallor. He pulled her against him and kissed her, gently, as if she’d only just been beaten and he didn’t want to hurt her more. “I’m so very sorry, Rosalind.”

She pushed away from him. “No, no, you don’t yet understand, Nicholas.”

“I understand someone tried to murder a child but you survived thanks to Ryder Sherbrooke. I will be grateful to him for the remainder of my life.”

“Yes, yes, of course, but that isn’t it, Nicholas. Don’t you see?” She drew in a deep breath. “You are the seventh Earl of Mountjoy—an earl, Nicholas, a peer of the realm. You have an impressive lineage, whereas, well, to say it plainly, I am nobody. I am very sorry I did not tell you immediately when you asked me to marry you, but the truth is, I simply didn’t think about it. I wanted to kiss you too much and it all happened so very quickly and we’ve been tossed into the Rules of the Pale, trying to figure out what it all means, and I simply didn’t think about it until I was lying in bed last night and it hit me in the nose. I cannot do this to you. I cannot marry you, Nicholas. Actually, it’s you who cannot marry me.”

Nicholas turned from her and walked to the bow windows. He pulled back the drapery and looked out onto the spring-ripening gardens across the street. There were daffodils swaying in a light breeze, their yellow vivid against the well-scythed green grass. He turned slowly to face her. “This is unacceptable, Rosalind.”

She felt clouted to her soul. She wanted to burst into tears, but she didn’t. When she’d realized at the advanced age of eight that her brain was perfectly blank, she’d wept until she was ill, and learned tears were good for exactly nothing. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m very sorry I didn’t tell you immediately. I allowed you to gain lust and fondness for me.”

“Lust and fondness,” he repeated, a dark brow arched. “You put that nicely. You misunderstand me. I find it unacceptable that someone tried to murder you—a child.”

“That is because you are noble. But I survived. Listen, Nicholas, I could be a butcher’s daughter, a pickpocket, a match girl. I could be a perfect nobody.”

“No, you’re not a nobody. Otherwise why would someone try to kill you, an eight-year-old child?”

“My Uncle Ryder and Uncle Douglas agree with you. They believe I must be the daughter of someone important, someone who made powerful enemies. It’s true I was wearing very nice clothes when Uncle Ryder found me. Ripped and torn nearly off me, of course. And this.” Rosalind unfastened a gold chain from around her neck. Hanging from the chain was a small heart locket. She handed it to him.

Nicholas held it in his palm. It was warm and smooth. He felt the small latch and opened the locket. Both sides were empty. He checked the thickness of the gold. No, there wasn’t hidden space.

“It was empty when Ryder found you?”

She nodded. “Perhaps there were two pictures, one of my mother or father, and one of me. Perhaps, but I don’t know. Were the pictures removed because someone might recognize them?” She shrugged. “But it doesn’t matter, Nicholas. No one has any idea at all of who I am or who my parents are—or were—or if they’re English or Italian. Uncle Ryder believes I’m possibly both, since when I began speaking, I spoke both Italian and English. Uncle Ryder also believes my parents must be dead or they would have searched the earth for me. Of course that is what he would do if Grayson disappeared. It’s a damnable thing, Nicholas, but I am a blank page.”

“No, you’re not at all blank. You have an ability that none of us have—you can easily read the Rules of the Pale. This is a gift, so perhaps you come from parents with a similar gift. You’ve accepted this gift of yours without question. I would say this gift is only one of many.”

One of many? Hmm. “So much has happened so quickly. I haven’t even wondered why I can read that blasted book.” She gave him a pathetic attempt at a smile. “I will ask the ghosts when I next hear them. They come to me less often now. It’s odd, but I miss them. It’s like they’re my only link to my lost past. And now they’re giving up on me.”

“Ghosts,” he repeated. “Ghosts around you.”

“You don’t think me mad, do you?”

He looked distracted. He drummed his fingertips on the mantelpiece. “Mad? Oh, no. My grandfather, I believe he was intimately acquainted with ghosts, and he wasn’t mad, believe me.” He shrugged. “To be honest, I suppose I assumed you were of my class. Say we discover you aren’t, Rosalind. What does that mean in the long course of events? Not much of anything. My own father was a weak man, manipulated by my stepmother, but vicious as only a weak man can be. Whoever you are doesn’t matter to me. You’re Rosalind de La Fontaine. You will shortly be mine, Rosalind Vail, the Countess of Mountjoy.”

“You cannot be so noble, Nicholas, so elevated in your spirit, you cannot—”

“Hush. That’s quite enough. Let’s be sensible here. You would like to know who you really are. I am acquainted with many different sorts of people from all over the world. I will have your portrait painted, perhaps a dozen miniatures, and I will have them sent out. We will discover who your parents were, Rosalind. Or, perhaps, one morning you will wake up next to me, and smile, and you will remember. I quite understand why your Uncle Ryder and Uncle Douglas stopped the search. But you will not worry about anyone ever hurting you again. I will protect you with my life.”

Rosalind turned and ran out of the drawing room.

15

“Rosalind!”

“My lord, Miss Rosalind scampered out of the house. Are you responsible for this, my lord? Did you insult that sweet young pullet?” Willicombe, all puffed up, actually barred Nicholas’s way.

“The pullet has nothing but air between her pretty ears. She ran out for no reason at all.” Nicholas lifted Willicombe beneath his armpits, set him down to one side, and ran after her through the open front door. He paused when he saw a flash of her blue skirt swing around the corner.

He heard a yell and a shout. He came around the corner at a dead run to see her on her backside on the sidewalk, skirts billowed about her. Beside her sat a heavy matron, flushed to her eyebrows, hat askew, a lovely ruffled petticoat fluffed up about her knees, parcels scattered around her, her mouth open to yell again.

Nicholas quickly helped the woman to her feet, not an easy task, and gathered her parcels for her.

Chins wobbled as she shook her fist at Rosalind. “I am Mrs. Pratt, sir, and I am the wife of Deacon Pratt of Pear Tree Lane. This young lady, sir, came flying out at me, fair to sending me to my maker, and it’s Deacon Pratt who wants that pleasure. Lucky it was that my precious pork knivers didn’t scatter themselves on the dirty ground. If she’s your wife, sir, you need to clout her good.”

“Yes, she is my wife, but she doesn’t deserve a clout in this instance, ma’am, since it is my fault she was running and had the dreadful misfortune to hit you.”

Mrs. Pratt crossed ample arms over her equally ample bosom and tapped her puce-colored boots. “Is that so? And what did you do, sir, to make this sweet young lady flee from you?”

“Well, I must be honest here, Mrs. Pratt. You deserve honesty. The fact is she isn’t yet my wife. The second fact is that I asked her to marry me but she doesn’t feel she’s good enough for me, which is absurd. All right, I admit that if you look at her now, ma’am, sitting there rubbing her rear parts, looking as though she wants to burst into tears and scream at me at the same time, perhaps you’d agree with her. But standing upright or waltzing, an enchanting smile on her face, she’s very fine indeed and will do me proud. And when she marries me, I will surely keep her from running over respectable ladies out doing their shopping.”

“I’ve never eaten a pork kniver,” Rosalind said.

The woman eyed Rosalind with disfavor. “You likely don’t deserve one. Marry him or I will introduce him to my sweet nieces, who would never consider taking a single step away from him. Just look at him—he has all his teeth and nice and white they are, and there is no fat hanging off his middle, unlike Deacon Pratt, who wears a very wide belt to hold himself into his shirts. I have told him repeatedly not to be a glutton, but he looks at me and says a man must take his pleasure where he can. The gall, I tell him. Marry him, missy, marry him.”

Rosalind stared up at Nicholas, wringing her hands again. “But, Nicholas—”

“You’re not getting any younger,” the woman said. “If I show him my nieces, he might turn his back on you fast enough. My little Lucretia is only seventeen.”

Since Rosalind ignored Nicholas’s outstretched hand, he turned to say to Mrs. Pratt, “Pray accept my apologies, ma’am, but she will wed me and thus I will not be available to make the acquaintance of Lucretia.” Nicholas gave her a marvelous bow and a fat smile that made her chins wobble anew. Mrs. Pratt gave him a look that Rosalind now recognized as fast-crumbling female principles, and said, just this side of a simper, “Perhaps my lovely Lucretia is on the young side for you, sir, perhaps it is an older, more experienced lady who would suit you”—she patted the fat sausage curls over her ears then stared down at Rosalind with a good deal of antipathy—“not this harebrained knot-head who ran away from you.”

“But you caught the knot-head for me, ma’am, and I thank you.”

“Only in a very remote manner of speaking, sir. Well, now, I suppose there was no harm done.” And Mrs. Pratt, all her parcels tucked beneath her arms, was gone with one long wistful backwards look at Nicholas and a sneer at Rosalind.

He stood over her, hands on hips. “Do you really want to sacrifice me to Mrs. Pratt’s niece Lucretia?”

“She’s only seventeen. You could mold her.”

“You’re only eighteen and I would rather mold you. Are you all right?”

“It is about time you inquired. No, I’m humiliated, and you had to rub my nose in it with your fine conversation with Mrs. Pratt.”

“One must consider all offers. I’m sorry to say this, but you deserved to be humiliated. Would you care to tell me why you bolted, or was I right on the mark?”

She looked away from him. “I simply couldn’t bear it.”

“Bear what, for heaven’s sake?”

“Your—your nobility.”

He could but stare at her. “If only you knew,” he said finally. He reached down a hand and jerked her up and into him, hard.

She said, her breath warm on his chin, “It’s depressing, my lord. I cannot even execute a dramatic exit with any style at all. Blessed hell, I wish I’d scattered that dreadful woman’s wretched pork knivers in the street. What is a pork kniver?”

“A cutlet that’s baked with peonies and thyme until it resembles the leather on the bottom of your slippers. It is a challenge to all teeth. Quite tasty really.”

He held her close, ignored the nanny and two children who passed close by. “So I am noble?”

“Yes, but what’s important here is that I’m trying to be noble as well.” She looked at his mouth, leaned forward, and kissed his neck. She actually felt the surge of energy pound through him. “It’s difficult to be noble when you’re holding me like this. Nicholas, are you perhaps feeling lust for me from that wee little kiss on your neck?”

“No, damn you, what I am feeling is abused. Now we have a good half dozen people staring at us, Rosalind. I am an important personage. Come along back to the house.”

She took a step away from him. “All right, I have some distance from you and thus some perspective. Here it is, Nicholas. You are noble, I am noble. I will not, cannot, marry you. Take it to heart, for I mean it well.”

“That sounds like you’re quoting from Shakespeare.”

“Well, naturally, since he provided me my name.”

Nicholas said to the heavens, “I wonder if it would help me understand if I pounded my head against that stone wall over there.” He looked at her, reached out, and managed to grab her hand. He pulled her after him back to the Sherbrooke town house. She didn’t yell, for which he was profoundly grateful.

Douglas Sherbrooke, imposing in his black evening clothes and his head of thick white hair, eyed the newly arrived Nicholas Vail, Earl of Mountjoy, and felt a bolt of fear for Rosalind. This young man was indeed honed hard to the bone, just as Ryder had said, and ruthless, he’d wager.

He watched the young man’s eyes search the room until they found Rosalind, who was seated quietly in a wing chair by the fireplace. She looked pale to Douglas, not at all her usual laughing self, and the pale yellowish-green gown she wore didn’t help. He frowned. Who had selected that gown for her? He would make sure she never wore it again.

He pulled his attention from Rosalind and her unfortunate gown as Ryder introduced him to Nicholas Vail.

The young man bowed, looked him straight in the eye. Be-damned, Nicholas Vail was as dark as he was, his eyes as black, and his swarthy skin wasn’t entirely due to his months at sea.

Nicholas Vail could be my son, Douglas thought, and isn’t that a kick to the head?

“My lord,” Nicholas said. “It is my pleasure and honor to meet you.”

Before Douglas could bear him off to seclusion in the estate room to pry every past sin out of him, Willicombe glided into the drawing room and announced dinner, addressing both the Countess of Northcliffe, all beautiful in dark green, her magnificent red hair twisted up about her finely shaped head (Willicombe occasionally entertained a vision of the countess’s head as nicely shaved as his own) and Mrs. Sophie (such a gentle iron fist she had, and a lovely manner). “Cook requested that I inform you that she has prepared a very fine half calf’s head, tongue, and brains, quite in the French way, although ‘execrable’ springs to mind when one speaks of the Frogs cooking anything.”

The Countess of Northcliffe asked, “Is there perhaps something not quite so unambiguous she is also serving?”

“Fortunately yes, my lady. Not to be overlooked is her famous boiled bacon-cheek, garnished with spoonfuls of spinach followed by a compote of gooseberries, and cauliflower with cream sauce, all blessedly prepared in the English way.”

“My dreams have come true,” Sophie said.

“I do not see Master Grayson,” Willicombe said.

“He is dining at his club,” Ryder said.

Willicombe bowed and walked from the drawing room, head tilted back, assuming, rightfully, that his betters would quickly follow, which they did.

“He is amazing,” Nicholas said.

“That is what he told me when he became our London butler,” Douglas said.

Alexandra had placed Nicholas and Rosalind across the table from each other, as Rosalind had asked her to. One of Nicholas’s black eyebrows shot up, but he said nothing. Douglas spoke about his twin sons’ own sets of twins, how they were the pictures of their respective fathers, which meant they were so fine looking it curdled his innards. As conversation and laughter flowed, Rosalind served herself some stewed Spanish onions, and screwed up her courage. She waited until everyone was served and there was a lull in the conversation. She cleared her throat and announced to the table at large, “Nicholas Vail, Lord Mountjoy, has asked me to marry him. It struck me between the eyes, and only after I accepted, that he did not know who I was, or who I wasn’t, and I knew it would be a gross misalliance.

“I wish to announce that I will not marry Nicholas Vail, even though he is insisting upon it because he is very fond of my person and my singing voice and yes, it must be said, he enjoys kissing me. He also speaks of Fate bringing us together, as if it were a meant thing, which sounds romantic, and somewhat mystical, but not at all to the point. He is noble. I am proving that I am noble as well.” She stopped and spooned up some stewed Spanish onions, sweet with a punch of black pepper.

There was perhaps three seconds of stunned silence. As for Nicholas, he slowly put down his fork and smiled over at her. He said to Ryder and Sophie, “You are doubtless surprised that I have proposed marriage to her so quickly, perhaps more surprised that I did not speak with you first, sir. I apologize for that, but when a man is faced with his mate, the passage of time seems irrelevant. I wished to wait to speak to you, sir, to allow you more time to get to know me, to perhaps judge me as acceptable, but Rosalind has changed the game.

“I fear I must say it—she isn’t being noble, she is being a knot-head, as a recent acquaintance of mine remarked. There is no one at this table who believes she is not worthy of me, that is, not worthy to be a peer’s wife. Otherwise, I daresay Mr. Ryder Sherbrooke would not have made her his legal ward and brought her to London for her season. Am I correct, sir?”

Ryder was betwixt and between. He had to hand it to Nicholas Vail, he’d pinned him very nicely. He nodded, nothing else to do, his eyes never leaving Rosalind’s face, now flushed because—why? Because Nicholas hadn’t folded his tent, but rather addressed the matter head on and with a great deal of skill? Ryder said slowly, unconsciously mangling a dinner roll in his hand, “Yes, we firmly believe she is wellborn. Actually, we have had no doubts from the time she finally opened her mouth and spoke, six months after I found her. However, Nicholas, we have been unable to locate her parents, or any relatives, for that matter. And we gave up because, honestly, someone had indeed tried to murder a child, and we feared if we found her parents, she would still be in danger.

“Even today, ten years later, who is to say the motives for this deed aren’t still valid in this person’s mind? No, we have kept quiet and we will continue to keep all our inquiries to ourselves. She will continue to be Rosalind de La Fontaine until she regains her memory, something our physician doubts will happen, given that she’s remembered nothing at all over the years.”

Douglas focused his dark eyes on Nicholas Vail’s face. “Understand, my lord, we are her family now and we will keep her safe.”

“As will I,” Nicholas said. “I swear it to all of you. No one will harm her in my care.”

Rosalind leaned toward Nicholas. “Listen to me, Nicholas Vail. I am no more real than Shakespeare’s Rosalind. I found my name in As You Like It, but I had preferred Ganymede—you remember, Rosalind disguised herself as a shepherd and called herself Ganymede—since I was living a sort of disguise myself, but Uncle Ryder and Aunt Sophie felt the name was perhaps a bit too unconventional. You must realize I could be the descendant of Attila the Hun or Ivan the Terrible, an alarming thought, don’t you agree?”

Sophie ignored her. “When you began speaking, Rosalind, your English was clearly that of a well-bred young English girl and we knew that you were wellborn. Your Italian was equally good, perhaps the result of an Italian nanny or an Italian parent.

“It was obvious there were evil persons in your background, evil persons who saw you as some sort of threat and acted on it. That is all we know for sure. Please don’t embroider yourself into the Devil’s spawn, else I must consider boxing your ears.”

Ryder said, “My love, remember some of the pranks Rosalind pulled the children into in her younger years?”

Sophie nodded. “Yes, you’re right. Upon reflection, perhaps the Devil’s spawn might apply.”

There was a spot of laughter, but not much. Ryder continued, “And your singing voice, my dear girl—the voice teacher we brought in to instruct you said you had received excellent instruction for at least the previous two years. To be honest here, I do not wish to know who you really are because I would fear for you. I want you safe. Naturally we discussed fully the chance we were taking with your safety bringing you to London for a season. Who’s to say someone wouldn’t recognize you? I will admit that sometimes I feel a certain foreboding about it, but no matter. Now, unless you remember someday, you will remain Rosalind. We are your family and we love you.”

16

After dinner, Nicholas steered Rosalind to the music room, hoping for a bit of privacy. She eyed him a moment before saying, “I used to spin stories about who my parents were—the Czar and Czarina of Russia or dashing pirates in the Caribbean. In each scenario there was a wicked witch who was afraid of my precocious self and yet jealous of my immense fairness of form and face.”

“Excuse me a moment, Rosalind. You say your mother was also a pirate?”

“Oh, yes, and she would wield her cutlass and wear a white shirt with flowing sleeves. Boots to her knees, of course. She and my father were the terror of the Caribbean. Yes, yes, I realize the odds of my speaking wonderful English are slim given that particular set of parents.”

“No Italian counts in your scenarios?”

She frowned. “No, I’ve always shied away from anything Italian. Now that I think of it, that’s odd, isn’t it?”

Nicholas opened his mouth to reply, but closed it when he heard the countess’s voice coming toward them. The private conversation he’d hoped for was not to be.

“Ah, dearest,” Alexandra said, beaming a bright smile on the two of them, “how perfect to find you here in the music room. We have all decided to beg you to sing for us.” The rest of the party followed her in.

Rosalind wanted to grab Nicholas and haul him away to some nice private nook or cranny in this immense house. At the same time she also wanted to kick him out the front door. She wanted to smack him for handling her family with such finesse and kiss him stupid that he’d so neatly cornered her.

“That would be quite nice,” Nicholas said. “Do sit down at the pianoforte and sing me a love song. Perhaps one of the love songs sung by the Dragons of the Sallas Pond.”

“Dragons of what?” Sophie asked.

Nicholas said calmly, “It’s the name of beings in the Rules of the Pale, the book Grayson bought at the fair in Hyde Park.”

Rosalind saw questions were ready to burst out of Aunt Sophie’s mouth, questions she didn’t want to address, so she quickly ran her fingers over the keys. She had intended to sing something Scottish and amusing, for her Scottish accent was quite decent, but what came out of her mouth was the song that had lived deep within her for as long as she could remember, never distant from her thoughts, a song she didn’t understand, a song that made her feel both tranquil and unsettled at the same time. Of course she didn’t remember how she had come to learn this particular song, but she knew it was from before. It was odd, but it felt as if it were drawn out of her, no choice for her at all. She sang:

I dream of beauty and sightless night

I dream of strength and fevered might

I dream I’m not alone again

But I know of his death and her grievous sin.

Sophie said quietly, “Every time I hear you sing that song, Rosalind, it makes me want to weep. Nicholas, if you did not know, those were the first words Rosalind spoke when she finally opened her mouth six months after Ryder found her.”

“She didn’t exactly say them,” Ryder said, “she rather hummed them, not quite a song, but almost.”

Nicholas said, “You have no memories from before you were eight years old, but this song was inside you. The words are curious. His death—whose death? And her—who is she? And what was her grievous sin? It seems to me the four lines are filled with clues about who and what you were, Rosalind.”

Douglas nodded to the young man. “Yes, that is what we have all thought, but Rosalind has no memory at all of what the words could mean.”

Rosalind shied away from thinking about the strange words. She began playing a Scottish reel, a clever tale about a bonnie lass who loved to dance for the prince of the faeries. Everyone tapped their toes on the pale blue and cream Aubusson carpet.

When Rosalind walked Nicholas to the front door after a lovely tea an hour later, Willicombe clearing his throat discreetly not six feet behind them, she said, “You know Uncle Ryder is standing not twelve feet away, back by the drawing room door, ever vigilant. I believe Willicombe is his forward guard.”

He looked down into those blue, blue eyes of hers. “I don’t doubt I’ll be doing the same thing when our daughter is your age.”

Her jaw dropped and she pressed her palms to her cheeks. “Oh, dear, that brings such a clear picture to my brain. It is appalling, Nicholas. I am only eighteen.”

“I know,” he said and smiled down at her. He lightly cupped her cheek with his own palm. “Only consider all the time you and I will spend bringing this about. Will you marry me, Rosalind? Will you let me be your Orlando?”

“A man who knows Shakespeare. It is a powerful temptation, Nicholas, but—”

“Perhaps it is I who am not worthy of you. Look at me, a merchant of Macau, an earl through an accident of birth, detested by his father. Not at all worthy of you.”

She chewed on her bottom lip. Finally, she raised her face to his. “Perhaps I would not lose all my nobility if I married you.”

“You would not lose a whit. Indeed, you would gain in worthiness.”

“Very well, then it is time you spoke to Uncle Ryder.”

Nicholas raised his head and nodded first to Willicombe, then toward Ryder Sherbrooke, still standing against the door of the drawing room, his arms still crossed over his chest. “Excuse me, Rosalind.”

She watched Nicholas walk back to her uncle and speak to him low, then he came back to her, lightly patted her cheek, and left.

Ryder merely nodded to her and went back into the drawing room, where she knew Uncle Douglas waited.

17

The following afternoon Nicholas emerged from the Sherbrooke estate room looking thoughtful. When he walked into the study, Grayson said, “It’s about time you came. Rosalind wouldn’t translate the Rules of the Pale until you got here.”

Nicholas nodded toward Rosalind, smiling automatically when he saw her. Good, she thought, it was done. She was going to marry Nicholas Vail, a man she didn’t know at all. She hoped she would have fifty years to learn all his bad habits. Her Aunt Sophie had once told her that Uncle Ryder still came up with a new crop of bad habits every single spring and it required great ingenuity to stamp them all out. Rosalind was smiling as she lowered her eyes to the ancient book and read:

The most amazing thing has happened. The Dragons of the Sallas Pond have sung to me that they believe me ready to join the wizards. Because the Dragons can read a man’s thoughts, they sang to me that the wizards were men like myself who maintained the balance of the different worlds tied to the Pale. These men, the Dragons of the Sallas Pond sang, were only wizards, not gods. One Dragon told me his name was Taranis. I remembered quickly enough that Taranis was the Celtic god of thunder. The thunder god of the Celts and a Dragon of the Sallas Pond, also a god, both carried the same name?

Taranis told me to sit between his mighty scales and hold on. For the first time I saw the Pale from above, where clouds the color of eggplant rolled like mighty waves through the sky. On and on Taranis flew, his powerful wings nearly soundless in the still air. I looked down to see many rivers and lakes, all as thin as thread, but never ending, and so blue they looked like raised veins on a man’s hands and arms, but it was the fortress of black stone I saw atop a huge mountain that froze my blood.

Taranis sang to me that this was the pride of the wizards, that the fear it engendered helped them to maintain their veil of power. The wizards’fortress, brooding like a black vulture atop Mount Olyvan, was called Blood Rock. I saw the reason for the name. Streaks of blood snaked down the black rock, like the rivers on the land below. The streaks were as red as blood just shed.

We were welcomed by a young man who greeted Taranis with great deference, almost reverence, I thought, and bowed low to me. He told me his name was Belenus—I remembered that Belenus was the Celtic god of agriculture who also was the giver of the life force and brought the healing power of the sun to earth and to man. The Romans called him Apollo Belenus and named the great May first festival after him, Beltane. Another Celtic god? When Taranis left, Belenus invited me into a small room hung with rich crimson draperies and gave me a bronze cup of witmas tea. It tasted of strawberries stirred with garlic.

Belenus had a great red beard that covered his face, leaving only bright blue eyes showing beneath his shag of more fierce red hair. He had big square teeth and he seemed to grow younger even as I spoke to him and drank the witmas tea. I drank a great deal of witmas tea during our time together and the taste changed with every sip, from strawberries and garlic to harsh green tea to a sort of beef broth. I was a wizard, I thought, and so I tried to change the witmas tea, but it ended up filthy black mud. It was very humiliating, but Belenus only laughed.

I met another that day as well, Epona, and she wasn’t a wizard, she was a witch, known to the Celts as the horse goddess because her father hated women and thus mated with a horse; she was the result. She represented, I knew, beauty, speed, bravery, and sexual vigor. It was a good thing that her father gave her his face, I thought, since her mother’s would not have gained the same result at all. The Romans, naturally, adopted her and held a festival in her honor each year in December. Odd that she was fully human and yet her mother was a horse. As to her sexual vigor, never would I have guessed at that moment what would come to pass with the witch Epona.

Belenus told me the other wizards wished me to join them. I knew deep down that if I did not remain with them, perhaps my blood would join the wet streaks on the fortress’s walls. And so I remained for close to a year. But one morning I thought hard that I wished to leave Blood Rock, where I seemed to forget as much as I was told, surely because of a spell they’d cast upon me. Soon, as I stood on the ramparts, hungrily searching the horizon through the eggplant clouds, I saw Taranis flying to Blood Rock to fetch me.

“That is why you remember so little,” Taranis sang to me. “They knew you would not choose to remain with them. I had hoped you would, for all the Dragons worry about the future with that vicious crop of wizards up there.”

On odd days I remembered the wizards had given me the name Lugh, pronounced “Loo,” the Celtic “shining god” who was a fierce warrior, magician, and craftsman. It was a very important name—the Romans had Latinized it into Londinium, which later became London.

Rosalind paused and drank some water. She said, “The Celts. This is very odd. Why are there Celtic gods in the Pale?”

“Why not?” Grayson said. “If there are Tibers, surely we can accept Celtic gods.” He shrugged. “We still didn’t learn anything at all useful, but I will say that this is a powerful story. I can see the fortress of Blood Rock clearly in my mind.”

Nicholas said, “You think it is a fiction, spun out of Sarimund’s brain?”

Grayson shrugged. “Were there not so many odd things about how I came upon the book, I should say yes immediately. But there were odd things, more than odd, really. Magical things. I find myself enjoying it as I would any good tale.”

Nicholas rose and prowled around the room, pausing here and there to pick up a cushion or a teacup or a book off a table. He said, “I don’t like any of this. It is as if Sarimund is playing with us, perhaps mocking us, and perhaps this Blood Rock is something he created to ease the boredom of his time in the Bulgar.”

Rosalind said, “There are only a few pages left. Shall I finish them today?”

Grayson consulted his watch and rose. “Let us finish it tomorrow. I must be off. I have an engagement.”

“Aha,” Rosalind said, grinning shamelessly at him. “An engagement with the lovely Lorelei? Will her father be hanging over your shoulder the whole time? Perhaps her four sisters will giggle in a circle around you?”

“I am not the one scandalizing my parents,” he said. “Look at the two of you—engaged! I tell you, Rosalind, it fair to curdles my belly to think of you married, and you wore pigtails only weeks ago, I would swear it. Nicholas, I will tell you about her misspent childhood, how she was as bad as any demon I ever created, led all the children into mischief, always with a wicked smile, drove my parents and Jane—Jane is the directress of Brandon House—quite mad. Yes, Mother is right, you were a Devil’s spawn, Rosalind.”

Nicholas sat down on an embroidered green wing chair, stretched out his long legs in front of him, and crossed his hands over his belly. “Tell me one evil deed this Devil child executed, Grayson—only one, because I don’t wish to become disillusioned.”

Grayson struck a thoughtful pose and grinned at Rosalind as he said, “When she was fourteen, she decided to visit the band of gypsies camping on the eastern corner of my father’s fields. I refused to go with her, and since she was afraid to go alone, one evening she took a dozen of the children to the gypsy camp, all of them wearing kerchiefs on their heads and banging cymbals and bells and hitting sticks on bottles, and whistling. The gypsies were surprised and amused and, luckily, welcomed them.

“My father was even more surprised when at the stroke of midnight several of the gypsies appeared at our door leading the children, who’d all drunk some gypsy punch Rosalind had given them. The children were vilely ill for the remainder of the night. As I recall, my father spanked you good and proper, the one and only time, as I remember.”

“Yes, he did, but it wasn’t fair. There were so many other times when it would have been fair, but not that one. I intended us to have a marvelous lesson, perhaps sing songs with the gypsies, learn how to dance as they did, you know, twirling about the huge campfire, skirts swinging. Then I saw a little gypsy girl drinking punch out of a big barrel. When I told her we were thirsty, she gave us all some. How was I to know that it would make everyone so sick?”

“You were sick as well, Rosalind?”

Grayson said, “No, she was the only one who wasn’t ill. I was certain you didn’t drink any of the punch. You didn’t, did you, Rosalind?”

“Yes. I drank at least three cups and it tasted so good. I don’t know why I didn’t get sick.” She was aware Nicholas was giving her a brooding look. There was calculation in that look, she was sure of it, and what did that signify?

18

Tuesday afternoon, Nicholas, Rosalind, and Grayson were seated in Nicholas’s small drawing room at Grillon’s Hotel, cups of tea on a silver tray next to Rosalind’s elbow, brought to them by Lee Po, Nicholas’s man of all affairs. The two men had spoken quietly in what Nicholas told them was Mandarin Chinese. When Lee Po had bowed himself out, Grayson said to Nicholas he’d never before heard sounds like that coming from a human throat.

Nicholas laughed. “Lee Po says the same thing about English, though he speaks the King’s English like a little Etonian.” He shrugged. “Since I lived and traded in Macau, it was necessary that I learn Mandarin. Lee Po corrects me regularly. However, I’m not able to correct his English.”

Rosalind laughed. “Why didn’t he speak English to us?”

“He tells me no civilized tongue should sound like a knife chipping ice.”

“Where did he learn English?” Grayson asked.

“He was married to an Englishwoman, ten years, he told me, before she died in childbirth with their only child. She’d been a missionary and a teacher.”

“How very sad,” Rosalind said. “Why is he so completely loyal to you?”

Nicholas looked off into the distance, seeing something neither Grayson nor Rosalind could see. “I saved his life when a Portuguese governor wanted to hang him.”

Rosalind gave him a shrewd look. “What did you do to the Portuguese governor?”

He smiled at her. “I merely told him what would happen if he attempted anything like that again.”

Rosalind said thoughtfully, “Lee Po was looking at me rather pointedly. Does that mean he knows we will marry?”

Nicholas nodded.

“It’s time to see if my tongue can form these strange sounds. How do I say thank you to him?”

“Shesh shesh is how you would pronounce it.”

Rosalind said it over a couple of times, then called out, “Shesh shesh, Lee Po!”

She heard him mumble something and grinned at Nicholas. “What did he say?”

“He said you are welcome, redheaded soon-to-be ladyship of his vaunted lordship.”

“You made that up!”

He gave her a crooked grin that made her knees lock. It was powerful, that grin of his.

Grayson asked, “Does Lee Po know about the book?”

Nicholas nodded. “I believe Lee Po knows about everything that is important to me.”

“Speaking of the book,” Rosalind said as she opened the Rules of the Pale, “we haven’t much time. I must be fitted for my wedding gown in two hours. I believe we have time to finish.”

Grayson said, “Lorelei told me she is to accompany you. She told me she helped select the pattern.”

Rosalind rolled her eyes at Grayson. “She simply agreed—with great enthusiasm—with everything my Uncle Douglas said. I had some ideas, but do you think anyone listened to me, the future bride? No, not even the assistant with the tape measure.”

Nicholas laughed. “Your Uncle Douglas told me you have unfortunate taste in gowns, Rosalind, and that is why he has selected nearly all your clothes for your season. He then questioned me about my own taste. I told him I had never had the opportunity to select a woman’s gown and thus I didn’t know if I was gifted with this special talent. However, I told him that Lee Po assured me I have very fine taste indeed, so we would see. I do have a bit of news for you, Rosalind.”

She was grumbling under her breath, but not under enough. “Here I am a grown woman with taste, good taste, I tell you, and yet it’s a gentleman who has the final word in what I wear. It’s not fair. And now here you are claiming Lee Po worships your bloody taste.”

“I understand. Now, I said I had some news for you, along the lines of taste as a matter of fact.” At her raised eyebrow, he said, “I’m to accompany you to Madame Fouquet’s shop. Your Uncle Douglas wishes to test me.”

Grayson burst into laughter. “Test you? Ah, and will you let Nicholas measure you, Rosalind?”

But Rosalind was studying him, her fingertips tapping her chin. “I fear we will see, Grayson, that his lordship is a toady.”

Grayson laughed, shook his head. “Uncle Douglas doesn’t like toadying. Only agree with him two out of three times, Nicholas, no more than that or he will blight you. Now, we need to finish up the Rules. Hopefully Sarimund will spin us more than just a fine ending to this tale.” They heard the front door to the suite close.

“Where is Lee Po going?”

“He is visiting an apothecary shop in Spitalfields, at my request. ”

“And what request was that?” Rosalind asked. “You are not ill, are you?”

“Never you mind. Read, Rosalind.”

Rosalind frowned at him as she carefully opened the book, cleared her throat, and read:

I realized I hadn’t been much of a wizard here in the Pale and so I cast a spell upon a red Lasis. To my surprise, it turned great eyes to me, came up and butted my shoulder, and sang to me, soft and sweet, its voice rather high. The red Lasis said his name was Bifrost, and he was the oldest red Lasis in the Pale. He had waited for a very long time for me to speak to him, since, of course, a red Lasis never spoke first. It was considered rude. He told me I was a mighty wizard, despite the fact that I’d let those boneheaded wizards and witches in Blood Rock roll my brain around like an empty gourd. He sang to me that it was time for me to leave, that I had left my seed in Epona, which was why they had wanted me to come in the first place. A good thing, he sang to me.

Left my seed? He saw that I was both appalled and disbelieving, though faint memories stirred, memories I’d forgotten, truth be told. He told me the tea they served me had left me senseless save the most important part of me. It was foretold, the red Lasis sang in his lovely airy voice, that Epona would birth a wizard who would be the greatest ever known and he would rule in the Pale until Mount Olyvan sank into dust.

I would have a son—only I would never see him. I knew it would hurt me deeply, but not until later when the reality of it sank into me. I told Bifrost that I was ready to leave but I didn’t know how I’d arrived in the first place, only that I’d awakened and I was here, but I had no idea of where the door—or whatever it was that got me here—was located so I could get back. He sang a laugh, which was very pleasing to the ear. He then sang that the Dragons of the Sallas Pond had brought me to the Pale, that this was how they judged possible new brethren for that vipers’ nest of wizards and witches upon Mount Olyvan. He sang they didn’t want me, however, that I was too set in my ways, but my son would do, a son I would never know. Bifrost sang to me that he would ensure my son knew about me. Then Bifrost sang that he would show me how to leave. But he did nothing at all. I saw him trap a Tiber in a pit and kill it with a fire spear through its big neck, and set to his meal ferociously. Then he left me. I felt abandoned. I did not understand Bifrost or anything else in this outlandish place. And I was leaving my son here.

When I finally fell asleep beneath a sharp-toothed angle tree I dreamed I was in a mighty desert storm, sand whipping around me, choking me, blinding me. There was no escape and I knew I would die. Then the storm stopped and I saw I was back in the Bulgar. I felt wonderful. I had no idea what Bifrost had done, but I knew it was magic, ancient magic from a strange otherworld. And Rennat, the Titled Wizard of the East, was there standing over me, and he kindly asked me if I had slept well the previous night, and I nodded. The previous night? He said even a single night spent away from all the other graybeard wizards was good for the spirit. Only a single night?

Is the Pale naught but a dream? Did this mean I also had no son? That none of it really happened, that my stay in the Pale was spun from my fevered brain? I told no one about this. What would I say?

It was on the following day when I was bathing that I saw the healed scars from a Tiber’s claws on my leg and knew the Pale was real and yet, and yet—how could I believe in a place that seemed to be someplace else, perhaps sometime else as well?

Rosalind turned the page. She suddenly stopped talking. She stared at the book, turned another page, studied it closely, then turned another and yet another. She finally closed the book and held it close to her chest for a moment. She felt her heart thudding against the book, fast strokes because she was afraid.

Nicholas said, “Rosalind, what is wrong?”

“There is more,” she said, drawing a steadying breath. “About six more pages. However, I am unable to read any of them.”

Nicholas stared at her. “No, that is not possible, you must be able to.”

“I am sorry, my lord, but it makes no sense to me either. It appears to be in the very same code, but the meaning of it is gone to me.”

Grayson struck his fist on his thigh. “What is the game Sarimund is playing?” He took the book from Rosalind and opened it to the final six pages. Then he turned back to the beginning and compared the pages. He raised his head, frowning deeply. “She is right, they look exactly alike, but—you really can’t make any sense of them, Rosalind?”

She shook her head. “It’s rather scary,” she said finally. “It’s scary being able to read most of it so easily, but then to have it stop—that scares me more, I think. It’s as if there had been magic at work in me but now it’s gone. Nicholas, why don’t you look at the final pages, see if you can read them.”

He took the book and gently turned each of the final pages and studied them a long time. His lips moved but he didn’t say anything. Finally, he looked up. “Sorry, it’s like the beginning, nothing but a series of jumbled letters to me.”

Grayson had to study the book again himself, comparing the final pages to all the others. “Nothing,” he said at last. He cursed, which surprised Rosalind, for, as with his father, it was a rare thing, except for “blessed hell,” of course, the Sherbrooke curse of many generations. “Forgive me,” he said, “but I cannot bear it to end like this.”

Rosalind said, “But would it not be something to travel to the Bulgar and see if the Dragons of the Sallas Pond would whisk us away to this magical place? I wonder who named this place the Pale and why? A pale is only a blockade, after all, to protect those within it. So why that name?” She sighed. “I surely would like to meet Sarimund’s son in Blood Rock.”

“I wonder if the son is still alive,” Grayson said. “After all, Sarimund wrote this in the sixteenth century.”

Nicholas said slowly, “Epona, his mother, if she is indeed the Celtic goddess, then she is very old indeed. Immortal, I should say.”

They all looked at each other.

“I wouldn’t want to tangle with the Tiber,” Rosalind said. “You do realize that there aren’t all that many rules, yet that is the wretched title. So what is the purpose of leading you to buy this thin little book, Grayson? And who did the leading?”

“It wasn’t meant for me, but you, Rosalind,” Grayson said. “After all, you’re the only one who can read it, and read it easily, I might add. Except for the final pages. Ah, that teases the brain.”

“Then why wasn’t I directed to the bookseller’s stall rather than you, Grayson?”

Grayson looked over at Nicholas, who was writing something in a small dark blue notebook Rosalind hadn’t seen before. “Perhaps Grayson is the catalyst,” Nicholas said.

There was a perplexed moment of silence.

“What is that book, Nicholas?” she asked.

He smiled over at her, closed it, and slipped it back into his pocket, the small pencil with it. “Merely a list of appointments I was in danger of forgetting.”

“What do you mean I am the catalyst?” Grayson asked.

Nicholas shrugged. “You must be the spark to set this all off. Ah, who knows? At least Rosalind could read most of it. Like you, though, I do wonder why she can’t read the final pages. Perhaps you are right, Grayson, perhaps this is meant only as a fine tale to amuse and tease. But enough for today. Rosalind, are you ready to go to Madame Fouquet’s to meet your Uncle Douglas?”

“For your bloody test in good taste?”

He grinned at her.

“Will you toady up to him, Nicholas?”

“We will have to see, won’t we?”

“I,” Grayson said as he rose, “have decided that you have no need of Lorelei at your fitting. I am taking her for a walk in the park.”

19

After Grayson left, Nicholas slowly rose and walked to her, gave her his hand, and pulled her to her feet. He realized in that moment he wanted to kiss every inch of her. He said, “Perhaps you will find me quite useful in the future, if, that is, I pass his lordship’s test.”

The future, she thought as she walked beside him out of Grillon’s Hotel. She looked up at his profile. He looked stern and preoccupied. She hated it. She thought, He is my future. I will not let him go away from me once he is mine.

Once she was seated in the carriage, her full green skirts spread around her, she thought again: He is my future. But what was the future going to be about? To be honest with herself, Rosalind hadn’t given a thought to the future, save that it would be perfect, a fairy-tale ending. What a dolt she was. Nothing was ever perfect. So many bad things could happen, did happen, all too often. Look at what had happened to her. What had her parents thought? Had they loved her? She had disappeared—simply there, then gone. Had they searched for her? Had they grieved?

She sighed. She’d asked herself these questions dozens of times, perhaps even more times than she could count. She wished she had more of a past than a measly ten years. Only the ghosts knew about her first eight years. Ghosts, she thought, those vague memories that crowded around her in quiet moments, memories and faces she could never grasp.

And now a future spread out before her with this man beside her, a future all blank, ready to be filled in. She felt a ripple of uncertainty. No, that was absurd, she was being absurd. For heaven’s sake, he was about to be tested to see if he had good taste. No strangeness or evil could be attached to such a man. But then there were the missing years in Nicholas’s life—not to him, of course—but she knew nothing about what that boy of twelve had done to survive. Then there was Macau—what sort of person lived in a place few people had even heard of? What Englishman spoke Mandarin Chinese? Did men have harems in Macau? No, the Portuguese were there, all Catholics, surely, not Muslims.

She became aware suddenly that he was studying her, just as she’d studied him. She turned to him and asked, “Nicholas, are you Church of England?”

“I suppose that’s as good as any,” he said, and studied his knuckles.

“Come, answer me. Are you a religious man?”

“Yes, I suppose I am. My boyhood years with my grandfather meant Sundays in the village church, but after I left England—well, to be honest, survival was more important than attending church, at least until I managed to make my way in Portugal. I believe I tend more toward Catholicism—the repetition of the ritual, the sound of Latin on my tongue—but it isn’t deep inside me. And you, Rosalind, what religion are you?”

“I have been one of the local vicar’s favorite parishioners for several years, since I began organizing fairs and gathering clothes for the poorer families. Before I came to Brandon House?” She shrugged. “I have no idea. But sometimes there are feelings that come, feelings for God, but a God not quite like the Church of England’s God. Does that make sense?”

“It probably means you were raised in another religion before someone tried to kill you. If you’re Italian, it would mean you’re probably Catholic.”

He’d said it so calmly, so—so emotionlessly. Someone had tried to kill her and she’d been only a child. Odd, she felt rather emotionless about it as well, since it had never been part of what she was, what she had become. Could she be Italian? Catholic?

She said, “A monster, I always believed it was a monster. When Uncle Ryder first brought me to Brandon House, I knew the monster was close by, especially at night, and I knew he would kill me and eat me whole. I remember Jane had me sleep with little Amy, to protect her, Jane said, from her bad dreams. Amy was an adorable little girl who wanted to design and make bonnets when she grew up. I remember one Sunday, Aunt Sophie wore one of Amy’s first efforts to church. A bunch of grapes were hanging down over her forehead, but she never took it off.”

“And she protected you?”

“Jane was very smart. I soon forgot about the monster, since I was so worried about Amy’s nightmares. She never had a single nightmare, as I recall. Now that I’m grown, the monster is flesh and blood, and whoever he is, wherever he is, he brims with malevolence. Whenever I remember waking up to see Ryder Sherbrooke holding me, whenever I remember the black nights, I can still feel the fright of the child, but it’s vague now. Now it doesn’t raise any horror or terror in me.”

He took her hand, looked her directly in her eyes. “No one will ever hurt you again, Rosalind. I swear it to you. Do you believe me?”

“Yes, I believe you. But what if someday I remember and I know who tried to kill me?”

“If that day comes, we will deal with it. I promise you that as well.”

The carriage hit a brick in the roadway and she was nearly thrown into his lap. A nice thing, she thought as she regretfully settled herself back against her seat. “Where will we go on our honeymoon?”

He hadn’t given it a thought, and she saw it on his face.

She punched her fist into his arm. “What is wrong with you, Nicholas? Surely you must have given at least a small passing thought to our honeymoon, since it will be the official place where you may indulge yourself with my fair person.”

Just saying those words made her cheeks flush, and he saw she was both excited and embarrassed. He smiled at her, which was difficult, since he wanted to indulge himself now. But of course he didn’t. “It’s not that I haven’t thought about it, precisely.” He gave her a look that made her feel absolutely naked. She didn’t know what to do, what to say. He continued easily, “However, I sincerely doubt we will reach a destination before I indulge both of us.”

He nearly leapt upon her when she looked about the carriage, obviously eyeing the cushions with lovemaking in mind, something, he imagined, she knew very little about. But she loved the forbidden wickedness of it. He wondered what she’d think when he had her naked, what she’d do when he kissed her white belly, pulled her equally white legs over his shoulders.

“I heard Aunt Sophie say to Aunt Alexandra that she feared all of society will believe I’m increasing since we are marrying so quickly. Although now that I think of it, we are wedding too quickly for me to even realize I’m pregnant, if, naturally, we’d been wicked immediately upon our acquaintance, say within a half hour of meeting.”

In that moment, Nicholas actually saw himself coming into her. He cleared his throat. “I imagine you will be soon enough.”

Rosalind fell back as if he’d shot her. Gone was the look of wickedness. He saw she was shocked and appalled.

Rosalind thought, Soon enough? SOON ENOUGH? It boggled her mind. It was the same when he’d spoken about their daughter. No, this “soon enough” business wasn’t going to happen. She wasn’t ready to stop running across the fields, leaping ditches, tying her skirts around her waist so she could shimmy up the apple trees in Uncle Ryder’s fruit orchard. She saw herself fat, waddling about, her belly huge, and made a grab for the carriage door handle.

He grabbed her hand, brought it to his mouth, and kissed her palm. “Don’t worry, Rosalind. I will take very good care of you.”

“I know, of course,” she said slowly, voice as thin as Cook’s ham slices, “that lust leads one to make love, which then leads to babies.”

“That is the normal way of things, yes. What’s wrong, Rosalind?” He kissed her palm again. “Why is the light of exploration gone from your eyes?”

“I don’t think I wish to have any more lust for a while, Nicholas. I am eighteen. I am too young. So please do not kiss my palm again, it makes me want to hurl myself into all sorts of wicked experiments that might lead to my own undoing.” She pulled her hand away from his, clenched it into a fist, and began to hit it against her leg.

He stared at her fist. “You’re trying to erase the wicked feelings?”

“Yes, and they are very nearly gone now.”

“Rosalind, if you do not wish to have a child immediately I will take steps to prevent conception.”

“You can do that? It is possible?”

He nodded. “It is not always successful, but I will try.” “Well, that is good. Yes, that is very good. I’m pleased you’re a reasonable man. It greatly relieves my mind. I like to race, you know, both on my own feet and atop a horse’s back. I want to continue racing for perhaps another five or so years.”

Was he a reasonable man? “Fine,” he said, knowing he had to calm her, reassure her, give her no reason to doubt him, “we will speak of my heir again when I am thirty.”

“Now that we have solved that small problem”—she beamed at him—“let me tell you again that it is your duty to select our honeymoon, Nicholas. Apply yourself to the task.”

He grinned easily at her, a grin he’d known for many years usually gained him his way with women. He saw her ease. She smiled back at him, a blinding smile that made him stare at her. Potent, that smile of hers. He wondered if she knew how effective her smile was.

When they arrived at Madame Fouquet’s, the Earl of Northcliffe showed Nicholas a dozen drawings of desperately elongated females who looked to weigh no more than the feathers that adorned their gowns, and more bolts of different-colored materials than Nicholas would have dreamed existed, and asked at least two dozen questions. Everyone else stood about, paying close attention. Finally, Nicholas was pronounced to have satisfactory taste. “Rosalind,” the earl said to her, lightly patting her cheek, “you are blessed. Nicholas has sufficient taste at the present time. I am certain it will improve even more as the years pass. I don’t mind telling you I was worried. I find it odd that so many ladies in my life select colors that make their complexions look like oatmeal.

“But no matter, you needn’t worry about looking like your breakfast since Nicholas has presented himself. All will be well.” The earl pointed down to a drawing of a willowy lady who seemed to be floating at least three inches off the floor. “You won’t embarrass yourself wearing that hideous shade of green with those ridiculous rows of flounces at the hem. Would you look at this? It fair to shrivels my liver.”

But it didn’t shrivel Rosalind’s liver. In fact, she particularly liked those flounces. Those lovely flounces would make her look as if she were floating too. Because she wasn’t a dolt, she kept quiet. She saw Nicholas and Uncle Douglas exchange a look.

As for Madame Fouquet, she looked at Uncle Douglas with too fond an eye, Rosalind observed, and agreed with everything he said. Uncle Douglas didn’t appear to mind the toadying from her.

When at last her wedding gown was pronounced acceptable by Uncle Douglas, she and Nicholas were dismissed. Nicholas winked at her and took her hand. When they arrived back at the Sherbrooke town house, Willicombe, his bald head sweating, came flying out of the front door, his face pale, and told them Miss Lorelei Kilbourne had been kidnapped, and everyone was tip over arse, and they must do something.

20

It seemed Grayson and Lorelei were strolling in Hyde Park, hand in hand, when suddenly two ruffians, handkerchiefs over their faces, jumped from the bushes and coshed Grayson over the head. When he awoke, Lorelei was gone.

But then, not more than two hours later, she was dumped unceremoniously on the Sherbrooke front door, bruised, her clothing dirty and ripped, and a bit dazed, but not hurt. All the Kilbournes—father, mother, four other daughters—were clustered in the drawing room, Alexandra and Sophie trying to keep them calm.

The gentlemen had just returned from examining the abduction spot in Hyde Park and suddenly, there she was in the open doorway, supported by Willicombe. Her mother screamed, pressed her palms over her bosom, and ran to enfold her precious chick. “God returned my oldest treasure to me,” Lorelei’s mother said over and over, clasping her child to her soft bosom. The four other treasures cried, and Lord Ramey looked like he needed brandy badly.

It was Grayson who placed a snifter of his uncle’s finest French brandy into Lord Ramey’s hand. Since Grayson had been the one to lose his daughter, he hoped this would begin his redemption in her father’s eyes. It was particularly fine brandy, and Uncle Douglas’s favorite.

At Uncle Douglas’s request, Sir Robert Peel appeared some thirty minutes after the reunion to question Miss Kilbourne, who was reclining gracefully on a pale blue brocade chaise, a lovely shawl spread over her legs, a dainty cup of hot tea in her hand, Grayson standing behind her, his hand on her shoulder. Since Grayson had wisely told her he was impressed by her wonderful bravery, despite her mother’s and sisters’ tears Lorelei didn’t hesitate when she spoke. “I feared Mr. Sherbrooke was dead since one of those brutal men struck him so very hard on the head. I fought them, Sir Robert, but they were stronger and one of them picked me up and threw me over his shoulder. He carried me to a carriage hidden in a nasty alley and threw me inside onto the floor. One man climbed in and gagged me and tied my hands behind my back. He didn’t say anything to me, just sort of grunted, as if satisfied he’d done a good job. The door slammed and the other man whipped up the horses.

“Perhaps fifteen minutes later the carriage stopped and one of the men opened the carriage door”—here she looked up at Grayson, who nodded encouragement at her—“but before I could do anything, he pulled the gag out of my mouth and pressed a handkerchief over my face. I breathed in a sickly sweet odor. I suppose I must have become unconscious, for I do not remember anything more.

“When I woke up I was lying on the carriage seat. My head ached, and I felt all logy, as if my legs were too heavy to move. Then the carriage stopped and one of the men opened the door and dragged me out. He tossed me on the doorstep. I looked up to see them driving away very fast. I kicked the door so someone would come. Willicombe untied my hands and helped me up.”

Sir Robert Peel, blessed with a judge’s unbending shoulders and beautifully dressed all in gray, nodded slowly at the pretty young girl and looked wise, which he was. “That was very well stated, Miss Kilbourne. Did you notice anything distinctive about the men who took you, or the carriage?”

Lorelei thought about this. “The men were toughs, the sort you see lurking around the tavern in our village at home, dirty clothes and mean eyes, as though they’d rip out your gullet and not regret it for a moment.”

“They didn’t call each other by name or say anything at all?”

“I heard one of them say he hoped the young lad hadn’t croaked it since the other man had struck him so hard, and they hadn’t been paid to croak anyone.” She paused. “The carriage had some sort of crest on the door, Sir Robert. It was as if the men had tried to cover it with a cloth, but it had gone askew and I saw—” She put her hands to her head and pressed.

Her mother, with a moan, rose to go to her, but Sir Robert forestalled her, and she sat again. He said, “You are doing fine, Miss Kilbourne. Think about it for a moment.” And he gave Lady Ramey a charming smile and a small shake of the head. He said to Lord Ramey, “You must be very proud of your daughter, my lord. She is no fainting miss.”

The other four daughters eyed each other, then their sister, then straightened their shoulders and tried to look competent. Since the youngest daughter, Alice, was no more than thirteen, Rosalind was impressed.

If Lorelei had considered fainting, she didn’t consider it now. Grayson had taken her hand and was lightly rubbing his thumb over her knuckles. “The crest,” Grayson said. “Were there colors, shapes, you can remember?”

“I saw the door for only a very brief moment,” she said, “but yes, I could make out the legs of a lion, I think, standing upright, and there was the lower part of a red circle and a band of gold around it. It was as if the lion were holding up the world. I’m sorry, that’s all I can remember.”

“They bound and gagged you but they didn’t hurt you? Didn’t threaten you? Gave you no idea that they were kidnapping you for ransom?”

“No. They cursed a lot, particularly when I bit one man’s hand, but he didn’t hit me or speak, just cursed. And after they put that handkerchief against my nose, I have no memory of anything.”

Sir Robert took his leave, well aware that more was going on in the Sherbrooke drawing room than anyone would ever tell him. It was another fifteen minutes before the Kilbourne women took their leave, Lady Ramey’s daughters now supporting her since Lorelei seemed just fine.

Lord Ramey, after drinking three snifters of the earl’s magnificent brandy, was still giving Grayson accusing looks for losing his daughter. However, a date was made for the following day, should Grayson feel up to it. No doubt about that, Rosalind thought, given his fatuous smile at Lorelei.

The drawing room was silent when the front door closed behind Lord Ramey.

It was Grayson who finally said aloud what everyone was thinking. “The men made a mistake. There is no doubt in my mind those men believed Lorelei was Rosalind.”

Ryder said, “They drove for fifteen minutes, so Miss Kilbourne believed, drugged her with the chloroform-soaked handkerchief, and obviously took her into a house where those who wanted Rosalind were waiting. They saw it wasn’t Rosalind and didn’t kill Lorelei. Whoever it was balked at the murder of an innocent. That is something at least. They sent her back.”

Rosalind was sitting next to Grayson, speaking low, when she heard Uncle Douglas say, “Where is Nicholas?”

But Nicholas wasn’t there. He was gone.

Lee Po pulled up Grace and Leopold in front of a well-tended redbrick Georgian town house at 14 Epson Square.

As he walked up the steps to the front door, Nicholas said over his shoulder, “No, don’t argue with me, Lee. I want you to tool the grays around the square. Don’t worry about me, I know what I’m about. I shouldn’t be long.”

Lee Po didn’t like it, but there was nothing he could do. He knew who lived in this house.

Nicholas hadn’t been inside the town house since he was a small boy—namely, at his father’s wedding to Miranda Carstairs, youngest child of Baron Carstairs, barely five months after Nicholas’s mother had died.

His knock was answered by a pallid, furtive-looking young man, his hair so blond it appeared white in the dim light of the entrance hall.

“Yes?” A very suspicious voice, Nicholas thought, and handed him his card, then watched him look at it and give a nervous start. That’s right, you little bugger, he thought, I’m here.

He said in a quiet voice, “I wish to see my half brothers, one or all of them. Now.”

“Ah, my lord, allow me to see if Master Richard is available.” The butler led Nicholas into a drawing room he remembered reeking of attar of roses, his father’s new wife’s scent. He hated the smell to this day.

The walls were oak paneled, the cornices classical, the fireplace ornate, and the furniture light and airy, making the drawing room feel more spacious than it actually was. Like the outside of the house, it was well tended. It required quite a lot of money to maintain this property, Nicholas knew; he wondered how deep his brothers’ pockets were. He looked for any sign that Lorelei had been in this room, but he saw nothing out of the ordinary.

He turned when the door opened and his half brother Richard strolled in, looking quite elegant in dark brown trousers and a waistcoat of brown and cream stripes. His coat was dark brown velvet. He looked quite fine and indolent, a young gentleman with nothing more on his mind than his evening’s entertainment. Ah, but in his dark eyes: wariness. No, even more, Nicholas could see he was alarmed.

In his cultivated bored voice, Richard said, “Well, well, if it isn’t a Vail I never expected to see here. What do you want?”

Nicholas walked to his stepbrother, drew back his fist, and slammed it in his jaw. Richard fell back, hit the arm of a chair, and went down. He was stunned for a moment. Nicholas moved to stand over him, hands on his hips.

“I didn’t hit you that hard, you little puke, get yourself together.”

Richard Vail shook his head and rubbed his jaw. He looked up at Nicholas and slowly got to his feet.

Then, without warning, he leapt upon Nicholas.

He was strong and fast. Both of them went down. Richard sent his fist into Nicholas’s belly. It hurt, but not all that much. Nicholas smiled as he struck Richard’s throat with the heel of his hand, sending him scrambling backwards, gagging, to fetch up against the wall, all the while his hands wildly rubbing his neck. Nicholas grabbed him by the collar and hauled him upright. He didn’t hit him, but took two steps back and sent his foot into his belly. Richard grunted and stumbled back against the fireplace, now clutching his stomach.

Nicholas said, “I could hit you lower, would you like that?”

“No!” Richard yelled, trying to get his breath, turning quickly to the side to protect himself.

Nicholas stood quietly, waiting.

“You bastard! You kicked my belly into my backbone. I’ve never seen anything like that. Is that from your heathen Chinese friends?”

“I will tell you this one time, Richard, then if you act again, I will kill you. Today you kidnapped the wrong girl. If you ever attempt to take Rosalind again, you are a dead man. Do you understand me?”

Richard Vail didn’t attempt to deny his complicity. He looked upon his half brother with hatred and a good deal of fear. His stomach burned ferociously.

Nicholas said, his voice even lower, quieter, “Do you understand?”

Finally, Richard nodded.

“Good,” Nicholas said, dusted his britches, and turned to leave. He paused at the doorway. “You hired two incompetent toughs, that’s how Lorelei Kilbourne described your men. You have all your father’s money. Surely you could have purchased better talent. Do you know the fools let the cloth fall away a bit from our father’s family crest on the carriage and Lorelei saw it? I would have known it was you without that information but it makes me feel better to have it verified.”

Richard Vail leaned against the mantelpiece, his swarthy face pale, impotent fury in his eyes. “I only wanted to talk to this girl you’re going to marry, this girl who is of no importance at all, who has no money save what the Sherbrookes will give you as a dowry. I wanted to tell her what you were really like, warn her she was making a big mistake.”

“If you wished to speak to the lady, why didn’t you simply pay her a visit? Didn’t your dear mother teach you any manners at all?”

Richard said nothing.

“Ah, of course you wanted to add on the threats, didn’t you? Do you know, I venture to say that if someone were stupid enough to threaten Rosalind, he would sorely regret it. She is”—Nicholas found himself looking at a statuette of a limp shepherdess sitting beside Richard’s ear atop the mantelpiece—“she is quite fierce.” And he realized, as he turned on his heel to leave, that he was smiling. But then he stopped in his tracks and whirled around. “If, by any mad chance, you weren’t considering threats, if you planned to weigh her down and throw her into the Thames to be rid of her once and for all—” Nicholas realized he was shaking. He said very quietly, “If you were considering making my betrothed simply disappear, don’t, Richard. If anything happens to Rosalind, Lancelot will be next in line for my title. You will be dead.”

“Damn you to hell! I hope she plays you false!”

Nicholas laughed at that.

The pale young man who’d greeted him at the front door stood not a foot outside the drawing room, wringing his hands. He was darting frantic looks behind Nicholas’s left shoulder.

“What are you doing here?”

Nicholas turned to see Lancelot Vail trip quickly down the front staircase, dressed elegantly, like his older brother, his face flushed at the sight of Nicholas.

“I was on the point of leaving, Lancelot,” Nicholas said. “Why don’t you go pour your brother a nice snifter of brandy?”

21

Rosalind was staring out the bow window at the daffodils waving in the Wednesday afternoon breeze, waiting for Nicholas, when the door opened. But it was Willicombe who came into the drawing room. She was impatient and worried, but still she smiled at him because Grayson had recently confided in her that he was making Willicombe a magician in his next novel, with a head full of red hair, and it was to be a surprise. Rosalind cocked an eyebrow at him.

“Lady Mountjoy is here to see you, Miss Rosalind.”

Wrong Mountjoy.

Lady Mountjoy didn’t simply walk into the drawing room, she sailed in, a figurehead swathed in lavender from her boots to her big bonnet decorated with big clusters of purple grapes. She was short and on the plump side, but still, she looked ready to take on the Roman legions, something both to alarm and impress. Beneath the awesome bonnet, her hair was quite blond, the few gray strands difficult to see. Her eyes were very light, perhaps blue or gray. Lancelot was the picture of his mama. So this was Nicholas’s stepmother, Miranda, the woman who had spawned three sons and taught them to hate Nicholas.

Lady Mountjoy didn’t look happy, but she did look determined, and to Rosalind’s eyes, she looked fretful, lines of discontent bracketing her mouth. She looked on the edge, as if afraid that something was happening she couldn’t control. Ah, perhaps she’s upset that her sons failed to get rid of me to prevent Nicholas from having a boy child off me, and she’s come to convince me to break off my betrothal to Nicholas herself. Rosalind hoped the woman didn’t have a stiletto in her lovely beaded reticule.

She eyed her future stepmama-in-law and hoped this was her mission; she could get her teeth into that. Maybe she was here to try to buy her off. Rosalind remained silent as Lady Mountjoy stopped a foot short of her nose—very rude, to be sure—but Rosalind found she wanted to laugh at this plump little peahen of a woman trying to intimidate her. Lady Mountjoy looked her up and down, and snorted. She took one step back, as if realizing she was at a disadvantage since Rosalind topped her by a good six inches, and announced, “You are young and don’t look as if you have much sense. I am surprised Nicholas would choose you, but then again, perhaps he is desperate. Tell me, missy, how much of a dowry are the Sherbrookes putting in his pockets?”

Missy?

A straight shot over the bow, no namby-pamby attack for this one. “Ah, I presume you are Nicholas’s stepmother?”

“Unfortunately that is true.”

“I understand you haven’t seen your stepson since he left after his grandfather’s death. What was he, twelve years old? And how many times did you and his father visit him while he was living with the former earl’s father? Once, twice? It appears to me, madam, that you do not even know him; Nicholas is a stranger to you. You could pass him on the street and not know him. Why then are you surprised at whom he would choose?”

Lady Mountjoy waved her hand around. “One hears things from one’s relatives and one’s friends. All agree he is not stupid and therefore choosing you has left them bewildered, perhaps believing you seduced him.”

“Hmmm. I only met him a week ago. A very fast seduction, don’t you think?”

“Don’t you make sport with me, missy!”

Rosalind gave her a sunny smile and a wave of the hand. “How do you do, Lady Mountjoy? To what do I owe the honor of your presence?”

“You ask me how I am? Very well, I will tell you how I am. My spirits are upended; I am perturbed. I didn’t wish to ever meet you, missy, yet here I am forced to come. I wish you no honor with my presence.”

“Should you care to leave? I will not force you to remain.”

Rosalind got a fat diamond-adorned nanny finger shaken in her face. “You will be quiet. You are really quite common, although it does not surprise me.”

“Perhaps I could sing for you. I’m told I have a lovely voice, that when one listens to me sing, one easily forgets my youth and my commonness. I do not even need a pianoforte to accompany me. What you think?” Rosalind didn’t smile, she simply stood there, waiting to see what Lady Mountjoy would do.

“I do not wish to hear you sing. That is ridiculous. Now, I am looking for Nicholas, though I imagine he will be rude and not show himself.”

“Did not your relatives and your friends tell you his residence is currently at Grillon’s Hotel? He has a lovely suite of rooms there and all the staff are quite deferential to him. Should you like the direction to Grillon’s?”

“I know where Grillon’s Hotel is located, you impertinent little no-account. I have also heard he has a heathen servant who is very likely more dangerous than he is. No, I shall not go there.”

“Lee Po, dangerous?” Rosalind nodded thoughtfully. “Possibly so. As for Nicholas being dangerous, I cannot be certain about that. However, in all honesty, he can be rather curt, but it is because he feels things so very deeply, you know.”

Lady Mountjoy snarled. “He is a man, you ninny. Men rarely feel much of anything that is worth remarking upon. It is true they feel lust in their younger years, but in their older years one must pry the brandy bottle from their hands.”

Perhaps that was part of the reason for Lady Mountjoy’s discontent—no lovemaking and no brandy. Rosalind said, “It is a great pity you don’t know your stepson at all, ma’am, for I believe him to be truly remarkable.

“I fear Nicholas isn’t here at the moment. I believe he went off with my uncles to shoot at Manton’s. I wanted to go, but they do not yet allow ladies. Would you care for a cup of tea?”

Lady Mountjoy grabbed Rosalind’s hand and held on tight, making the grapes on her bonnet dance. “I don’t want tea, you stupid girl, I want to tell you to call off this absurd wedding with Nicholas. I’m trying to save you even though you are as common as a weed and don’t deserve to be saved.” She lowered her voice to a hiss. “Your life is in danger. Nicholas Vail is a scoundrel. When his father kicked him out, he didn’t have a single sou—”

Ah, so she was finally getting to it. Rosalind said easily, “Well, how could he have a single sou when his father kicked him out? Wasn’t he a little boy?”

“It is one and the same thing. My dear husband told me the old earl gave Nicholas quite a lot of money before he died, but I ask you, what happened to it? We heard Nicholas simply disappeared—I know he gambled the money away. He was sly and mean, a good-for-nothing from the age of five. He had nothing when he left England.”

“Do you know, I don’t believe Nicholas gambles at all, but I shall ask him. I wonder too what happened to the money if his grandfather did indeed give him some. Was he robbed? Perhaps left for dead?”

“Control your melodrama. Nicholas was a wastrel when he was a boy, and I’m sure he’s remained one. Whatever happened, Nicholas lost the money his grandfather gave to him. All know he is still poor. He has a title and no money and thus he needs an heiress. So I am here to tell you the truth. He is only after the money the Sherbrookes will give you. He will get a boy child off you, then murder you in your bed. If you trust him you are more a fool than I believe you are.”

“As in the fruit never falls far from the paternal or maternal tree?”

Rosalind believed for an instant that Lady Mountjoy would strike her. Her bosom heaved, she turned alarmingly red in the face, and her breath was as loud as a bellows. But she held herself still. Rosalind realized in that instant if the woman had hit her, she would have retaliated, knocked her flat, with great enjoyment. Chin up, shoulders squared, Lady Mountjoy said, “My sons are gentlemen, nurtured by the parental and maternal tree. They know what is what, they know how to behave. If possible, my husband would have declared Nicholas a bastard, but the boy had the gall to look the picture of him, curse the fates.”

Rosalind managed to pull her hand free of Lady Mountjoy’s surprisingly strong grip. She turned away from the woman to sit down on the sofa. She watched Lady Mountjoy pace in front of her. Her imposing bosom looked ready to topple her, but didn’t, possibly because she was so tightly corseted. She had once been very pretty, Rosalind thought.

Rosalind said finally, “I met your sons Richard and Lancelot, at Drury Lane, to see Hamlet. I, myself, didn’t care for Kean’s performance all that much. Have you seen him as Hamlet?”

“You are trying to distract me and it won’t work. Be quiet.” She paused, eyed Rosalind up and down. “Besides, I know you are a fraud yourself.”

“Ah, so I am no longer the victim. Like Nicholas, am I now a scoundrel too? If that is what you believe, then why are you concerned? We are both poor and we are both scoundrels. Like to like. Don’t you think it fitting?”

Rosalind thought the woman would explode. That made her feel quite good. She was learning an excellent lesson: Hold on to your temper with both hands, and breathe. As for Lady Mountjoy, she hadn’t learned this lesson. Her face was alarmingly flushed. “You mock me, you worthless excuse for a proper lady. The only reason society is forced to pay any attention to you at all is because of the Sherbrookes.”

“Well, of course that’s quite right. What is your point, ma’am? That I am not good enough to marry the Earl of Mountjoy, even though you believe he is poor and a scoundrel?”

A spasm of rage seamed Lady Mountjoy’s mouth. She realized she was getting far afield and couldn’t find the road. “You are certainly not good enough to marry the real Earl of Mountjoy! Nicholas, the earl? Bah, I say. Neither of you should carry that proud name! And your name—La Fontaine—the man wrote nothing but silly fables about rabbits and turtles racing, of all things—ridiculous!—morality tales that have no bearing whatsoever on life.”

“Well, to be honest yet again, I fear you are right. But don’t you see, I somehow misplaced my own name and had to cast about for a new one. Since I love sly foxes and vain crows, you can imagine my delight when I learned that Jean de La Fontaine wrote such charming tales. La Fontaine—it floats rather nicely on the tongue, don’t you think?”

Lady Mountjoy looked both amazed and furious. In fact, she looked as though if she’d had a gun, Rosalind would be lying dead at her feet. She shook a plump white fist, three large rings on her fingers, in Rosalind’s face. “None of this is to the point, my girl. You will be quiet.”

“Then why, ma’am, did you bring it up?”

Lady Mountjoy heaved and huffed and Rosalind feared for her stays. “The fact remains, you are not a real La Fontaine.”

Rosalind said, “Well, naturally not. I already explained that to you. I must say, ma’am, you don’t seem to have found out very much about me. Perhaps you don’t have a very competent solicitor.”

“Glendenning is an idiot. He even allowed Nicholas to claim my son’s title. It is my very special friend, Alfred Lemming, who is competent. Unfortunately he is in Cornwall at the moment, visiting his moldering estate in Penzance.”

Lady Mountjoy had a lover? Rosalind said, “You mustn’t blame poor Glendenning about losing the title. I believe the law of primogeniture prevents any other course of action. Nicholas was the firstborn, after all, and despite his father’s machinations, he is the rightful Earl of Mountjoy.”

“Primogeniture, what a ridiculous word, what an outmoded, outrageously unfair bit of law. It is ancient, not at all to the point in the modern world.

“Nicholas should never have come into the title and that’s the truth of it. My precious Richard should be the earl.

“I have friends, missy, friends who know the Sherbrookes, friends who have told me about Ryder Sherbrooke and his collection of little beggars, one of which you have been for over ten years. Ah, I can see the shame in your eyes. What do you have to say to that?”

“I say thank you to God, every single night, that Ryder Sherbrooke found me and saved me life. Do you think I should do more? Oh, dear, all my money comes from him as well. I did knit him some socks one year for Christmas, and he did wear them, bless him.”

Rosalind sincerely prayed Lady Mountjoy wouldn’t fall over with apoplexy. Her powerful lungs looked ready to burst through her lavender bodice, her fists knotted at her sides. Perhaps Rosalind should stop laying it on with a trowel.

Miranda, Lady Mountjoy, was frustrated and baffled by this far too smart young lady with her glorious red hair, which even Richard had remarked favorably upon, unwillingly, of course. She wished the girl’s hair were coarse and vulgar, what with all the thick riotous curls, but it wasn’t. And those blue eyes—her own boys’ father had had such blue eyes, beautiful eyes—but he was dead, that inconsiderate lout who’d really been too old for her at the time she married him, but she’d insisted—and then he’d had the gall to croak after barely twenty years. She yelled at Rosalind, “You are not paying proper attention to me, missy!”

“Ah, it just occurred to me that once I am wed to Nicholas, I shall take precedence over you. You will call me Lady Mountjoy and curtsy. You will be the Dowager Lady Mountjoy.”

Lady Mountjoy picked up what was close at hand—a lovely green brocade pillow—and hurled it at her. Rosalind plucked it out of the air, laughing. She was very relieved that Lady Mountjoy did not have a cane in her hand.

“Pray, ma’am, if you would care to be seated and converse like a reasonable person, I would be delighted to respond in kind. Do you wish to leave or do you wish to sit down and calm yourself?”

Even as Lady Mountjoy’s vision blurred in her rage, she sat herself down across from Rosalind in a high-backed brocade chair that matched the pillow. The lines on either side of her mouth appeared even deeper, a pity. She sat perfectly straight as if a board were down her back, imperious as a judge, Rosalind thought. But there was an air of uncertainty about her now. Could it be that she’d fired all her cannon? She could think of no more insults, no more attacks?

Rosalind rose and walked to the fireplace and pulled on the bell cord beside it. When Willicombe appeared barely ten seconds later, Rosalind asked him for tea and cakes.

“Shall I inquire if Mistress Sophia is available, Miss Rosalind?”

“Oh, no, Lady Mountjoy and I are having a charming time. She is to be my future stepmother-in-law, you know.”

Willicombe did know and it took all his training not to tell the old besom to climb back on her broom and ride out of there.

The two ladies sat across from each other, Lady Mountjoy tapping her fingertips on the arm of the chair, frustration pouring off her. Rosalind swung her foot and whistled a lilting tune until Willicombe made his stately way back into the drawing room, bearing a silver tray with tea and cakes. When all was in order, Rosalind found she nearly had to shove Willicombe out. She closed and locked the door.

She smiled pleasantly at Lady Mountjoy. “My Uncle Ryder always says if there is bile to be spilled, it is wise to lock the door. He also says there is nothing quite like a good cup of hot tea to set things aright.”

“A man would say something stupid like that, curse all of them to the Devil.”

22

“So, ma’am, would you care for tea?”

Lady Mountjoy told her she wasn’t thirsty, requested two sugars and a drop of milk, and proceeded to pour it down her gullet.

“My Uncle Ryder is quite right about the bile spilling, don’t you think?”

“He is not your uncle!”

Rosalind said quietly, “I know. I often wonder if I have an uncle by blood out there somewhere. Perhaps he is still looking for me. More likely, he believes I died many years ago.”

Lady Mountjoy appeared momentarily disconcerted. She managed a substantial snort and then snarled; “I certainly would not look for you.”

That was an impressive blow. Rosalind sat back, her cup of tea in her hand. “You never told me why Nicholas’s father sent his five-year-old firstborn son away. I imagine it was after you wedded his father, is that right?”

“When Richard was born, my dear husband knew he was the rightful son, the one who deserved to follow in his foot-steps, not Nicholas.”

“What was Nicholas like, ma’am?”

“He was an impossible child, sly, always hiding and spying on me. He hated me, hated his father, claimed his father had murdered his mother and that I had helped him. I knew he would try his best to murder poor little Richard once he was born, and so my husband sent him to live with his grandfather, that mad old man. But he came back. Damn him, he had the gall to come back!”

“I believe his mother had only been dead five months when you and his father wed?”

“What does that matter? We were in love, we’d waited long enough. His mother was a pious creature, one to rival the vicar in black looks and condemnation. When she died of a lung infection, it was a great relief to everyone, particularly her husband. Even though she fancied herself a saint, she still complained endlessly that it wasn’t fair the old earl was still alive—I must admit she was quite right about that. The old man had enjoyed quite enough years on this earth.” She sipped at her tea. “Mary Smithson—yes, that was the name everyone had to call her. As for the old earl, he simply became more and more eccentric—thought himself some sort of magician, if you can believe that. He was mad, I always thought. He raised Nicholas to hate us all the more—”

“But why?”

Lady Mountjoy eyed her with loathing. “That is none of your business. Let me tell you, missy, you are not clever. You string words together that sound clever, but they are not. The old man taught Nicholas strange things, otherworldly cants and mysterious rituals, mad ceremonies with ghosts and spirits invited, the brewing of deadly potions. There was wicked magic going on at Wyverly Chase, all knew it.”

The words clogged in Rosalind’s throat, then broke loose. “Do you really think Nicholas’s grandfather was mad? Or deep down do you believe he was a wizard?”

“Don’t be a blockhead. There is no such thing. I told you—the old man was mad, nothing more, and he taught Nicholas bad things. I believe it quite possible that Nicholas could inherit this madness from his grandfather, that he could become crazed, and thus any boy child you presented to him could carry the seeds of madness.”

“If that is your belief, it is very sad, ma’am, for that means you are discouraging your own three sons from wedding and providing you with grandchildren because of the taint of madness.”

“You have the brain of a scallop. It is well known that madness passes only to the eldest, never to the other children.”

“I have never heard that.”

“That is because you are ignorant. Since the old man had Nicholas to mold, he paid no attention to my three sons, didn’t even acknowledge their birthdays. Even without any of the old man’s wealth, they grew up straight and tall and worthy to be what they are, the sons of an earl.”

“I understand your husband wasn’t supposed to be the earl, that he had an older brother.”

“I never met him but I know that Edward was a small-minded varmint of a man, always dreamy-eyed, and could never answer a question sensibly. My husband told me he spoke to rosebushes while he stroked their petals. Then Edward died and the title came to the rightful son, Gervais, and he became Viscount Ashborough.”

Rosalind was no longer listening to the vitriol pouring from Lady Mountjoy’s mouth, she was thinking of Nicholas’s grandfather. Why had she asked if he was a wizard? Because something deep inside her believed it was true, that was why, and it was all wrapped up with Sarimund and the Rules of the Pale. She remembered Nicholas had told her his grandfather also had a copy of the book and had told him all about Sarimund. But he hadn’t told him what was in the book, because obviously he couldn’t read it.

Rosalind said, “What was the old earl’s name?”

“Galardi. Stupid foreign-sounding name.”

“How old was your husband when his older brother, Edward, died, ma’am?”

“He was newly down from Oxford, only twenty. Wait, are you accusing my husband of murder? You believe he murdered his older brother and his own wife, Mary Smithson? You are a vile-minded no-account, stupid as a mole.”

“Ah, so thinking about that worries you as well, does it?” Rosalind held up her hand. “If Nicholas doesn’t marry me, he will marry someone else, someone probably not nearly as nice as I am, someone who would refuse to listen to your rantings, someone who would instruct her butler to close the door in your face.

“I would say you’re blessed, ma’am, in having me for your future stepdaughter-in-law. Are we not drinking tea together? Did I not give you two sugars? I am so courteous I am not even berating you for your sons’ misdeeds.”

“There is nothing to berate!”

Rosalind tapped her fingertips against her chin. “Only imagine if Richard and Lancelot had managed to get their hands on me rather than poor Lorelei Kilbourne. And just imagine they wanted to do more than warn me away from marrying Nicholas. Just imagine they had murdered me, all to keep me from becoming their stepsister-in-law, all to prevent me from having a boy child. Imagine all that, Lady Mountjoy. I fancy it must bring you a certain amount of melancholy.”

“Nicholas hoved in poor Richard’s ribs!”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“I don’t wish Nicholas to attack my poor Richard again; he fights like an alley tough. My poor Richard said Nicholas is vicious, no better than an apish dockworker. Yes, Nicholas forced his way into the house and attacked my son viciously, with no provocation at all. Richard is delicate. His health is precarious. He could be badly damaged—”

Rosalind was relieved that she had swallowed her tea; otherwise it would have spewed out of her mouth. “Excuse me. I thought we were speaking of Richard Vail, that very tall and fit young man who looks very much like Nicholas? You’re saying that Nicholas attacked him? There was no provocation? I wonder what Lord Ramey would say to that. He is Lorelei’s father, you know. I will check Nicholas’s knuckles, see if they are skinned. Drat him, he knew Richard was behind Lorelei’s kidnapping, and he didn’t tell me. Did he hurt Richard badly? Did he really hit him that hard? Ah, his poor fists.”

“No, you pork-brained ninny, he didn’t hit him with his fists all that much, he used his foot—his foot!—he kicked poor Richard in the stomach, knocked him backwards. It makes me ill that this barbarian is now the Earl of Mountjoy.”

“Hmm. I wonder if he could teach me to do that.”

“Be quiet! I don’t want him to murder my son, do you hear me?” Lady Mountjoy jumped to her feet and waved her fist at Rosalind.

“He won’t, ma’am, if your sons don’t try to hurt me. Do tell them that.”

Lady Mountjoy went silent.

Rosalind hoped she had expended her venom. If so, it had certainly taken long enough.

There was a knock on the door.

Rosalind jumped to her feet to race over and unlock the door. She was profoundly relieved to see Grayson stroll in. The last person she wanted in her drawing room at this moment was Nicholas. Nicholas and his stepmama in the same room would not be a pretty sight.

Grayson nodded to Lady Mountjoy. “You are the parent of the two young men who should have had their arses kicked many times before the age of fourteen. Richard is a bully, but I’m betting soft-looking Lancelot is the more vicious of the two. But to give them credit, they did have the brains to return the young lady their men had mistakenly abducted. They scared her to death, but they didn’t hurt her. By the way, ma’am, I am Grayson Sherbrooke.”

“I am Lady Mountjoy, not this one here.”

Grayson sketched her a brief bow. He was very relieved neither of his parents was here. From what he’d heard in the corridor, both his mother and his father would have rushed in and pounded this dreadful woman into the wainscoting.

“That is all a lie! My poor sweet Lancelot, vicious? Nonsense! Nor is he soft looking. His is a gentle soul, he harbors a poet’s heart. Know this, Mr. Sherbrooke, my sons would never kidnap a young lady, even the wrong one.”

Rosalind said, “Despite your belief in their innocence, ma’am, I would suggest you impress upon your sons that if anything happens to me, they will be dead.”

Lady Mountjoy leapt to her feet, sending her empty teacup tumbling to the carpet. She waved her fist in Rosalind’s face. “You are a liar and a hussy. My fine sons wouldn’t touch you, they would scarce look at you unless they were forced to. You are a nasty bit of goods.” After malevolent looks at both Rosalind and Grayson, Lady Mountjoy swept out of the drawing room. They heard Willicombe moving quickly to open the front door for the lady.

Grayson’s eyebrow shot up a good inch. “She called you a liar. Now, that’s all right because you are indeed an excellent liar. But a nasty bit of goods isn’t at all accurate.”

“I suppose she couldn’t think of anything else to call me, poor woman, and so it popped out. Actually, she fired off insults at everyone. I also got the impression she wasn’t too fond of her husband. And she also has a special friend, an Alfred Lemming.

“She knows all about my background, Grayson. I made it seem that everyone knew and who cared?”

“Poor woman, she picked the wrong target. Hmm, now that I think about it, you always have a light hand when there is unpleasantness to deter.”

“Well, yes, I try. I suppose it’s because when I first arrived at Brandon House I was terrified that if I yelled back at anyone, your father would kick me out. No, no, I know I was wrong, but still, I was very young and afraid. Imagine not knowing who you are, Grayson, no memories of anything at all.” She shrugged. “I suppose a way of behaving begun at an early age sticks well.”

“I didn’t know that,” Grayson said slowly. “I remember when Father first brought you home, he trembled with rage at what had been done to you, a child. And the pain in him that you would die. I remember Dr. Pomphrey and my parents spent hours at your bedside when your injuries brought on that horrible fever. I remember clearly how my father shouted to the rafters when he came running down the stairs to say you would live. Your father and mother weren’t there loving you, Rosalind, but mine were. Never doubt that. Never forget that.”

She felt tears sting her eyes and swallowed. “No, I won’t. Thank you for telling me, Grayson. In any case, none of it matters now. A light hand was the best way to make her spit out nuggets as well as bile. I learned a lot from her.”

“Everyone views you as a mystery, and it is ever so romantic how you came to be with us, even though it was actually quite awful since you could have so easily died. You’re not a no-account, Rosalind. I daresay if someone happens to remark that you are, all you would have to do is sing for them and they would admire you endlessly.”

“I did offer to sing for her, but she refused.”

He laughed. “I wasn’t joking. Your voice is magic.”

“You used to think so when we were young,” she said and he grinned at her, showing those beautiful white Sherbrooke teeth of his. “How is Lorelei today?”

To her astonishment, he merely shrugged, then pulled his watch out of his vest pocket and consulted it. “I suppose she is fine now. I’m off to my literary meeting. I’ll see you later at the Branson ball.” And he was gone before she could say a thing, such as, In matters of the heart, Grayson, you are a blockhead. What had poor Lorelei done?

23

That evening at the Branson ball, Nicholas gave Rosalind a brooding look after a particularly exciting waltz that left her dizzy with pleasure. She studied his face a moment, accepted a glass of champagne punch from a passing waiter, drank down a good half glass, and realized the problem. “Ah, I see, you somehow found out about your stepmama’s visit to me this afternoon. I dealt with her, Nicholas, you needn’t worry. Did you really kick Richard in the ribs with your foot? You really got your leg that high? Please, Nicholas, please teach me how to do that.”

“Unfortunately you cannot do it because of all your petticoats.”

“I can wear pants. Teach me, Nicholas, perhaps on our honeymoon. What do you think?”

He pictured her wearing a pair of his trousers and grinned. “We’ll see.” He stared down at her. “You should have told me she’d had the gall to insult you.”

Rosalind only shrugged. “She didn’t overly concern me. I must tell you, though, I had to open all the drawing room windows to air out the vitriol.”

“She tried to warn you away from me, didn’t she?”

“She certainly tried.”

He laughed, marveling at her good humor. It pleased him, most of the time. He wondered if she would laugh when he took her to bed. He wouldn’t mind her starting out with a laugh, but—since he’d never made love to a woman who was laughing at the same time—he didn’t know. He took her glass and drank the rest of the punch. He shook his head. “Two glasses of this stuff and you would leap upon one of the tables and do a dance that would make my eyes cross.”

She leaned up and whispered against his neck, “Would I dance slowly and take off each item of clothing?”

He pictured her quite clearly on a lovely table in the corner. “I’m thinking of all the ridiculous petticoats you wear, the silk stockings, and don’t forget the corset and chemise. There is simply no way you could do it by yourself.”

He gently placed his fingertips over her mouth. “I want you to be serious now. Listen to me; my dear stepmama is a bitch. She sows discontent and sees herself as sorely abused. I don’t wish you to see her again.”

Rosalind frowned at him. “How do you know this about her? You haven’t seen her in twenty-odd years.”

“She hated me when I was five years old, wanted me dead, but since that didn’t happen, she wanted me gone. Why would she change? You have only to look at her sons.” He couldn’t believe he’d said that. “I have an excellent solicitor. I asked him to give me complete reports on all my relatives. He is right, isn’t he?”

She snagged another glass of champagne off a waiter’s tray, saying, “Do you know, I think she was there to convince me her beloved sons had nothing to do with Lorelei’s kidnapping, meaning they were no threat to me. I think she is afraid you will kill Richard and Lancelot. She was trying to protect them. She simply doesn’t have the talent to go about it smoothly, not like you would have done. Yes, you would be smooth, and you would be deadly.”

“The only reason I didn’t kill Richard this time was because he bungled the job so badly. However, if Richard and Lancelot ever attempt to touch you again, I will kill them.”

“You told them that?”

“Oh, yes, one must be perfectly clear when dealing with villains, particularly young ones, because they lack sense, and experience in the pain of consequences.” He eyed the glass that was tilted to her mouth.

“Am I wedding a tippler, Rosalind?”

She grinned at him. “Perhaps once you rid me of my ignorance of wickedness, I will forgo this tasty stuff that makes my head all light, and makes unexpected words pop out of my mouth. Perhaps, my lord, you will ensure that I have no need of it.”

He took the glass from her and set it on a table. He didn’t want to dance with her, he wanted to fling her over his shoulder and run down the stone steps that led into the deep-shadowed gardens. He said, “Waltz with me.”

She grinned up at him as he led her to the dance floor. “I read I was to marry you in the Gazette this morning.”

“Yes, you are well and fairly caught.” He sounded inordinately pleased with himself. Since she was very pleased with him too, she didn’t remark upon it.

When later she danced with Uncle Ryder, he said, “Dearest, Willicombe told me about Lady Mountjoy’s visit to you this afternoon. He also told me you handled the old bat very well.”

“I thought he was eavesdropping.”

“We have a long line of successful eavesdroppers in the Sherbrooke family. Willicombe is one of the leading lights. Just as Sinjun passed it down to Meggie, I believe Hollis passed it to Willicombe. Hmm, do you eavesdrop well, Rosalind?”

“Oh, yes, very well. Don’t you remember, Uncle Ryder? If there was anything you ever wished to know about what was going on at Brandon House, what Jane was feeling at any particular moment, you asked me. If I didn’t know it, I knew which door to listen at to find out what you wanted to know.”

Ryder laughed and swung her around the floor. Nicholas looked up from his conversation with Grayson, just arrived at the ball, at the sound of her bright laughter.

Grayson said, “Her laugh is nearly as magic as her voice. I imagine my father is questioning her about your stepmother’s visit.”

“And she will tell him everything?”

“Oh, no. She will pick and choose. She’s quite good at it. Since she loves my father, she has no wish to overly distress him. Don’t get me wrong, if a problem grabs her by the heels, she’ll always go to my father or mother for advice. Come to think of it, I suppose I tend to trust both of them myself.”

Nicholas said without thinking, “I’ve wondered what that would be like, having a father and mother one loved and admired and trusted.”

“Oh, yes, and it is a pity you did not, but you had your grandfather.”

“Yes—I did have my grandfather, didn’t I? Ah, I see Miss Kilbourne on the other side of the room and she is waving at you. You never told me how your reading went at her literary salon.”

“My head was nearly so big by the time I left, it was a good thing I was riding King because I couldn’t have stuffed my head through a carriage door.”

“Worshipped to the point of nausea?”

Grayson nodded. He was studiously avoiding looking at Lorelei. As a young lady, she could not detach herself from her mother and come to him. He said, “I read your announcement in the newspaper this morning. Well done. Now, I believe I shall ask Alice Grand to waltz,” and he strolled off.

Nicholas was pleased with the wedding announcement he’d written; it had been effective. He’d been congratulated a good three dozen times since he’d arrived at the Branson town house. Soon she would be his wife and—and then what?

Nicholas normally did not meddle, but when he chanced to look at Lorelei Kilbourne again, he saw she was staring piteously at Grayson waltzing with Alice Grand, a buxom young lady with a ready laugh and a heavy wit that could fell an ox. He found himself walking to Lady Ramey, and asking her if he could have the pleasure.

Some five minutes later, after laborious conversation with Lady Ramey, the orchestra started up another waltz and he led Lorelei to the dance floor.

She was a good dancer, fitting to his style with ease and grace. He looked down at her, saw the misery in her eyes, knew to his boots that he should keep his mouth shut, and said, “What happened?”

She said without hesitation, “I don’t know. Do you know?”

“Only that something is amiss, at least from Grayson’s point of view.”

“Would you find out what, my lord? I haven’t much experience with gentlemen and find I’m at a loss to explain what is wrong with him.”

Such an innocent, Nicholas thought, charming and quite pretty, really. He saw tears pooling in her eyes. What was a poor man to do? He cursed to himself and gave up. “I will try to find out, Miss Kilbourne.”

Her soft mouth firmed. “Since I was kidnapped in the place of your damned betrothed, you could call me Lorelei, you know.”

A touch of vinegar, he thought, and was pleased. He nodded. “Lorelei.”

Nicholas knew he shouldn’t interfere, only a fool interfered between a man and a woman, but yet, here he was wending his way through the gloomy exhibit halls of the British Museum in search of Grayson. He finally found him bending over a glass case, a look of near reverence on his face.

“What is it?”

Grayson jerked up, blinked in surprise, and motioned him over. “Look at this, Nicholas. The card claims it is the scepter used by a long-ago king of Persia.”

Nicholas studied the ancient gold scepter, noted the empty holes on its hilt where precious gems had once been embedded. “It says it is from the time of King Darius. Do you think it was his?”

“No. It belonged to someone of greater magnitude—I think it belonged to a wizard. Cannot you feel the power of it, the magic—sort of like a vibration deep in your gut?”

Nicholas automatically shook his head. There was no way he would admit to such things as vibrations, but the damned thing seemed to glow and pulse in its ill-polished glass case. He could very nearly feel it, warm in his hand. “How long has it been here?”

“I don’t know. I discovered it last week and find that I keep coming back to it. Even the director doesn’t know exactly when it arrived here and who brought it. He checked and told me there weren’t any records. Now, isn’t that strange? It’s as if it suddenly appeared. What are you doing here, Nicholas?”

“You are ignoring Lorelei because you’re afraid she could be hurt again.”

Grayson Sherbrooke stared at the big man who was two inches taller than he, built like his uncle Douglas and his cousins, James and Jason. And he had the look of Uncle Douglas, dark and swarthy and dangerous, at least until he smiled. It didn’t occur to Grayson to tell him to mind his own business. He said simply, “I promised her father I would not see her again. He told me he would be very happy if I weren’t to tell Lorelei why, and I haven’t, but there you have it. You guessed it immediately.”

“I am many things, but not blind. To be honest, I am very surprised Lorelei hasn’t figured it out as well.”

“She is innocent. However, I agree with Lord Ramey because I don’t want to have to worry about her. Once all this is resolved, then we will see.”

“You know, from Lorelei’s description of the crest she saw on the carriage door, I knew it belonged to my father, and now to my half brothers, so I had my proof. I spoke to Richard.”

“I heard you smashed your foot into his middle, chopped his neck, fighting moves he’d never seen before. Well done. Too bad you didn’t kill the blighter.”

“If he or Lancelot ever tries anything else, they know I will kill them. I don’t believe they’re that stupid. They won’t do anything more. Should you like me to speak to Lord Ramey? Assure him there is no more danger to his daughter?”

Grayson looked away from him, down at the scepter again. “You are remarkably naive, Nicholas, given your experiences of the last dozen or so years. I met Richard and Lancelot Vail, remember? At Drury Lane. The danger is not over. They will not stop. It simply isn’t in their nature. Richard was raised to believe himself the rightful Earl of Mountjoy. I heard one of my friends say Richard even used the title Viscount Ashborough once your father became the earl. He did not, however, ever call himself the Earl of Mountjoy upon your father’s death. He couldn’t go that far. Probably because he knew he’d be laughed at.

“As for Lancelot, I believe his innate viciousness provides sufficient motive to kill you. He’s more dangerous than his brother.”

“Perhaps,” Nicholas said after a moment, “if this scepter did belong to a powerful wizard, he visited the Pale.”

“It is certainly possible,” Grayson said. “I’ve thought it odd how the Pale appears like another world, or in another dimension, and we are the ones beyond the pale.”

“Beyond the pale,” Nicholas repeated slowly, “beyond the fortress, the designated safe place, the sanctuary where all is civilized, and to be outside of it means danger, savagery, and death.”

Grayson nodded. “But Sarimund’s Pale isn’t a civilized place at all. Tibers try to kill the red Lasis, and the Dragons kill whatever animal displeases them. As for the wizards on Mount Olyvan, they reside within the Pale, keep a balance of sorts, and yet there is no safety there. It is a place of violence and magic. It is all very strange.”

Nicholas said. “Perhaps you are right, Grayson, perhaps the Pale is a metaphor, for the earth perhaps, where chaos reigns given the least opportunity and where men kill each other with keen abandon.” They were silent a moment. Nicholas laid his hand on Grayson’s arm. “Believe this, Grayson, if Richard and Lancelot try to do anything more, I will kill them. They know this and they believe me.”

“Not if I kill them first,” Grayson said, his voice utterly emotionless.

Nicholas nodded and left Grayson to stare once again at the scepter in the glass case.

As for Nicholas, he was shaking his head at Grayson’s words. He was naive? Grayson was wrong in this. He’d dealt with countless villains. He suddenly saw Richard Vail’s face in his mind’s eye, a face filled with black malice, unspoken rage, the satisfying physical pain that Nicholas had inflicted on him, and something more—it was determination; a promise of violence? Revenge? Retribution? As for Lancelot, Nicholas believed that since he’d met the pretty butler at the Vail town house he now understood Lancelot very well.

He cursed, then turned to call to the young boy holding Clyde’s reins. Clyde nickered when he saw him, then butted the boy’s arm. The boy’s face split into a big grin, showing a space between his two front teeth. “Oh, my, guv, wot splendid words I ’eard ye string together. This ’ere big boy sure likes the sugar cubes ye left for ’im. I gives ’im jest one at a time, so’s not to overload ’is belly. Aye, me and the big bad boy understands each other.”

Nicholas was thoughtful as he rode through Russell Square and slowly made his way through heavy traffic toward Fleet Street, where his solicitor kept his sparse offices. When he pulled Clyde sharply to the side to avoid a dray filled with beer kegs, and felt the stinging slap of hot air against his cheek as the bullet flew by, he thought, Hell, Grayson was right.

24

“I tell you I’m not a murderer! I did not try to shoot you nor did I hire anyone.” Suddenly Richard’s angry flush died. He gave Nicholas a superior sneer as he flicked a piece of lint off his coat sleeve. “Believe me, if I’d wanted you dead, dear brother, I would do it myself.”

Nicholas couldn’t say why, but he simply knew in his gut that Richard was telling the truth. This time. It both galled him and worried him. There were so many unknowns plaguing him right now, he hated adding another. “Where is Lancelot?”

“What? Now you believe my younger brother tried to kill you? Well, he didn’t. He’s visiting a friend near Folkestone, left early this morning.”

Now that could be a meaty lie. “Give me Lancelot’s destination and his friend’s name.”

Richard Vail gave it, his sneer intensifying. “It seems to me you have more enemies than a man should have. You’ve only been in England, what, two months?”

“About that, yes,” Nicholas said as he jotted the information into the small book he carried in his vest pocket. He looked at his half brother. “I didn’t see your pretty young butler at the front door.”

Richard shrugged. “He is also Lance’s valet. I believe he accompanied him to Folkestone.”

There was a rush of silks at the drawing room door and a strident voice boomed out. “What are you doing here? You leave him alone, you no-account barbarian!”

Nicholas turned to see a plump little woman, beautifully gowned in violet, every uncovered inch of her sporting jewels, actually run into the drawing room, her fist waving at him. He recognized her voice and her eyes, eyes both uncompromising and hard, eyes that had scared him to death when he’d been five years old. However, he wasn’t a small boy anymore.

On her heels was a fat gentleman, barely two inches taller than she was. Nicholas had seen him gambling at White’s a couple of times. Was this his dear stepmama’s lover, Alfred Lemming, whom Rosalind had mentioned to him?

He waited until she was very close before he arched a black brow and said mildly, “I believed only my betrothed was a no-account.”

“She is, more no-account than you are, sir. At least your antecedents are known, more’s the pity. What are you doing here? Don’t you dare try to murder my son again!”

“Someone tried to kill him,” Richard said to his mother. “A gun shot right past his ear. A pity whoever it was did not succeed. I told him I had nothing at all to do with it. I was at my club, my friends will vouch for that. So now he is questioning me about Lance.”

“You were nearly shot?” said Lady Mountjoy, blatant disappointment in those hard eyes of hers. She looked him up and down. “So you are Nicholas Vail. You look even more like the old earl than you do your father, and those two were nearly twins.”

“I suppose you must also say that about Richard,” Nicholas said.

“Perhaps. I told that impertinent girl you wish to wed that you would likely pass on your grandfather’s insanity, but it was for naught. The chit exhibited no understanding of the human brain.” Miranda, Lady Mountjoy, looked from him to Richard and back again, and frowned. They were even dressed similarly this morning, and everyone in the drawing room knew they looked clearly like brothers, unlike her precious Lancelot.

“Tell me, ma’am, where is my third half brother, Aubrey?”

“Ah, so now you think he’s a murderer? Well, Aubrey isn’t in London,” Lady Mountjoy said, and sighed. “He is at Oxford. Aubrey is a scholar, if you must know, studious from his earliest years, always surrounded by his books.”

Richard said, “Aubrey wouldn’t know which end of a gun to use, so forget about him.”

Miranda thought about the thick violent red hair that covered his scholar’s head—Aubrey’s hair was almost the exact color of that little hussy who would take precedence over her if she indeed married Nicholas, and that was surely a revolting prospect.

Miranda pictured Aubrey in her mind. How she hated that his shoulders were stooped, that he had to wear glasses because he’d surely read every book at Oxford. Ah, how she’d begged him to let Richard take him to his private boxing salon, straighten his back, get his chin to go up, to show pride in his heritage, perhaps give him a dollop of aggression. How could a man stand up for himself if his shoulders were round as a bowl? His father hadn’t been any help, he’d simply clouted the boy whenever he chanced to say something clever or quote from an ancient Greek philosopher. Ah, but she wasn’t about to tell this interloper any of that.

As for Lancelot—at least he shot well, enjoyed hunting and riding. Even though he comported himself like a romantic poet, his shoulders were straight. Even though there wasn’t much hair on his face for that valet of his to shave, he could still sneer as well as Richard.

And now here was Nicholas standing in the drawing room, her drawing room, big and fit and hard, just like her precious Richard, but there was something more in his dark eyes, something that bespoke experiences and fantastic adventures and something else—and what was that? Pain, black and deep?—no, she wouldn’t think about his life after his grandfather died. After hearing nothing from him for years, they’d believed him dead, and in her heart, she’d rejoiced at the justice of it and swelled with pride when she looked at Richard.

Only Nicholas wasn’t dead. He was alive and looming, ready to kill her boys. “You could have died when you were a boy,” she said, “so why didn’t you?” Miranda was aware that Richard was staring at her and she shut her mouth.

“I am like a tough strip of leather, ma’am, although”—he looked her up and down—“perhaps I am not as tough a piece of leather as you are.”

“See here,” Richard said, taking a step forward.

“No, dear,” said Miranda, halting him. “So someone tried to put a period to you—well, you can forget about any of my sons.”

“No,” Nicholas said, “I don’t think it was Richard. We’ll have to see about Lancelot, won’t we?”

“See here, my name is Lance, damn you!”

“Lancelot—” Nicholas rolled the name around on his tongue as he turned to see his half brother, the sunkenchested, pallid butler standing just behind him.

“Lance! My precious boy, what are you doing back in London? Richard told us you were visiting a friend in Folkestone.”

Lancelot shrugged. “We had a wheel break on the carriage. No choice but to come back. So what? What is he doing here?”

“So you might easily have been the one to try to put a bullet through my brain this morning,” Nicholas said, a blast of cold in his voice, wondering how long it would take him to strangle this supercilious little sot, and enjoy every second of it.

“Nonsense,” Lancelot said, and frowned at a tiny speck of dirt on his burgundy velvet jacket. “I am an excellent shot. If I had been in London, if I had shot at you, you’d be lying dead on your damned back.”

“You’re not as good a shot as I am,” the butler suddenly said. “Don’t you remember our competition? And Master Richard is the best of all of us.”

The butler was very free in his speech with his employers, Nicholas thought, and watched his stepmother gape at him. Nicholas asked, “What is your name?”

“I? I am called David Smythe-Jones.”

Nicholas couldn’t help himself, he laughed. “Davy Jones? Your parents are seafaring people then, with strong ties to irony?”

“No, they believe in treasure, trapped in long-ago sunken Spanish galleons, lying deep in the sea. However, since they live in Liverpool and haven’t a groat to go searching for their prize, it isn’t likely they will ever find it. Still my mother spends her life searching out old treasure maps and making plans.”

Nicholas studied the young man, his petulant mouth, his nervous hands always moving. Then he looked at his two half brothers. So very different they were. And here, of all things, the third half brother, Aubrey, was a scholar. He wondered what his sire had thought about what his seed had produced. He raised his hand to get their attention. “No more bickering, no more insults, no more protestations of innocence. Including you, sir,” he added to Alfred Lemming, who was standing on his tiptoes, ready to leap. “All of you will listen to me now. I am Lord Mountjoy, the Earl of Mountjoy. None of you will ever take that title. My son will follow me and his son will follow him down through future generations. If your mother taught you this was really your birthright, and not mine, if she taught you that you were the rightful heirs, then she did you a grave disservice.

“I will say this only once. If anything happens to me, I have several close friends who will avenge me.” He turned to face Richard. “If I die, you will die, and Lancelot will die. Given my friends’ rage were I to be murdered, I doubt Aubrey would survive either. Then there will be no Vails, the line will be dead as all of us. Do all of you understand me?”

Lady Mountjoy yelled, shaking her fist at him, “You’re utterly mad! You are so mad you threaten my sweet boys who have never harmed you.”

“Attend her, my lord, for that is the truth!” Alfred Lemming bellowed, his face now alarmingly red.

Nicholas sketched his stepmother a brief bow. “I will see that you are not killed, ma’am. I would want you and your fat lover to continue on; perhaps eventually you would feel despair that you taught them to hate me, taught them I was an enemy to be destroyed, rather than their brother whose responsibility it would be to protect them, to be at their backs, perhaps even to assist them. In the end, madam, you would realize you were surrounded by nothing at all.”

There was stone silence for a moment before Alfred Lemming stepped forward on small well-shod feet and said, barely above a whisper, “I say, my lord, you should not make such a blanket statement as that.” His very white brow was damp with perspiration, but he persevered. “Despite the venom and threats floating around the drawing room, it is no excuse for bad manners. I am Lord Heissen and I will personally vouch for the young gentlemen. That is the point, my lord. They are gentlemen, not hooligans. You have come from heathen places, doubtless tracked by heathen enemies with no sense of what is suitable in a civilized world. No English gentleman would fire a gun in the midst of traffic—to possibly be seen and identified. It is absurd that you would be suspicious of these fine upstanding boys.”

Nicholas eyed the very dapper Alfred Lemming, Lord Heissen, whose white hands were as plump and beringed as his stepmother’s. “I am pleased to hear your opinion, my lord. Since you appear to be slithering about in this pit of vipers, I have decided to add you to the list. If I die, this entire drawing room will be cleaned out, save for my venomous stepmother. I bid you good-bye. Oh, yes, madam, stay away from my betrothed.”

“Betrothed! It is not to be borne. Why, I—”

Nicholas took a step toward her at the same time one of Alfred Lemming’s white hands gently pressed down over her mouth. Nicholas nodded at him, noted that despite its apparent softness, that hand of his looked, surprisingly, very strong. Nicholas said, “Keep it there, my lord, for her own safety.”

When he passed by David Smythe-Jones, he said, “You really should consider a new name.”

“What? It is a noble name, it is a name that carries countless unspoken tales of bravery and adventure.”

“How long have you been employed here as the butler?”

The soft, white chin went straight up. “I took care of Master Lance at Oxford. I was ready to assume greater duties in London. I am now in charge of this magnificent house. All look to me to resolve difficulties, to train the tweeny, to ensure Master Lance’s cravats are white as a virgin’s spit, and well folded. I am perfection and that is what I demand from all the servants.”

Nicholas had a sudden memory of actually smelling the rot eating away at the books in the library just down the corridor. It was odd for a five-year-old boy to remember that. He looked over the young man’s head at Lancelot. “See that you keep your butler in line,” he said, and he paused in the doorway, looked at each of them, his expression pensive. Then he left the town house, seeing their stony faces in his mind’s eye. As he took the front steps, he heard his stepmother yell, “Why did you even let him in, Smythe-Jones? That is not perfection, that is serious bungling. What sort of butler are you?”

“But I wasn’t even here! Master Lance and I were still at least a mile away when he shoved his way in. Had I been here, he would have walked on my face. I didn’t have my gun so I couldn’t have shot him. He is dangerous, that big fellow.”

Big fellow? Clyde nickered. Nicholas smiled.

25

An hour later, Nicholas was closeted with Ryder Sherbrooke. Thankfully the Earl of Northcliffe had escorted the wives and Rosalind to Madame Fouquet’s. It was a vast relief because Nicholas knew Rosalind would realize something was wrong, and then the three of them would hold him down and question him until he spurted out everything he knew or imagined he knew. And then they would all throw their opinions into the ring and it would be chaos. Rosalind, he thought, something of a fatuous smile on his mouth, would have gotten a gun and gone off to murder the lot of the half brothers. And his stepmother as well, he imagined.

He said now to Ryder, “One of them is behind the attempt on my life, I simply cannot prove which one it was and so I threatened all of them. Funny thing is, I do have friends who would gladly avenge me. If I leave word, as I most assuredly will, all that pernicious family would be wiped out were I to die.

“However, since I do not believe them stupid, perhaps that is the end to it.” He paused a moment, looking toward the empty fireplace grate. “Still, I cannot be certain. Fact is, I don’t know what to do, sir.”

Ryder paced the beautiful Aubusson carpet in the library, a splendid room filled with five thousand books covering three walls, floor to ceiling. Ryder remembered his father gently cutting each of the pages, handling all the books with incredible gentleness, placing them carefully on the shelves. “The world is in this room, Ryder,” he’d told him.

After the silence stretched long, Nicholas said, defeat leaching out all emotion in his voice, “I will leave right this moment and never return if you believe it the thing to do.”

Ryder looked down at a massive globe, spun it slowly, watched England appear, then quickly disappear. So small, he thought, England was so very small, insignificant really, in terms of the size of the earth, but still—He said finally, looking over at the young man, “I want to agree with you, Nicholas, I really do, but I cannot. Actually, you will add me to the list of your avengers.

“But I do not believe murder will be done. We will take steps to ensure it does not. Now, I know Rosalind wants you for her husband. I know that Rosalind being what she is, being made how she is, being as loyal as she is, she would doubtless follow you back to Macau if you tried to leave her. Thus, I don’t believe I have any choice in how to proceed.”

Ryder rubbed his forehead, cursed low and fluent. “You and Rosalind must wed immediately and leave London. What do you think of Wyverly Chase? I know you spent time there before you came to London.”

“Yes, nearly a month there, putting repairs into motion, so many needed since my father left that beautiful old estate to rot. As for all the tenant farmers, they were in dreadful straits, but that is being corrected as well. I have an excellent estate manager there to oversee repairs.”

“I trust you have sufficient funds to see to all of it?”

“Yes, of course. The penniless boy who left England at the age of twelve made good, sir, as the vernacular goes. You wonder if Wyverly Chase is a good sanctuary. That is what you mean, isn’t it, sir? You want Rosalind safe while I sort all this out.”

“Yes. Do you think you and Rosalind will be safe there or should you simply leave the country for a time?”

Nicholas marveled at the decency of this man, his logical brain, and the fact that, when it came down to the meat of the matter, he was doing what Nicholas wished him to do. Nicholas wondered if Rosalind would really follow him to Macau. He said slowly, “Wyverly Chase is set atop a lovely hill with open views all around. There is a thick pine and maple forest that ends a good one hundred yards from the house.

“As I said, I have an excellent estate manager, Peter Pritchard, the son of my grandfather’s man. I have already hired servants, all local, which bodes well for loyalty to me. The tenant farmers are very pleased with me, as is the town of Wyverly-on-Arden since I’ve ordered most all our supplies from the local merchants. I honestly believe both of us will be safe there until I am able to find out who is behind this.”

“You don’t wish to take Rosalind on a honeymoon?”

“Not yet, sir. There would be too many risks to her safety. Let her settle into Wyverly first, see what she thinks of the place.”

Ryder eyed him a moment. “I hate to tell you this, but it wouldn’t matter if Wyverly were a grand palace, she would still redecorate it. She will doubtless redesign and replant the gardens, she will add peacocks, and heaven knows the racket they make.”

Nicholas’s left eyebrow shot up.

“It’s in her blood, she says, whatever blood that is. She was always trying to change Brandon House, and when Jane refused, Rosalind brought herself to our house and made immediate plans to change the draperies in my estate room as well as rearrange all my furniture.” He grinned. “She has no taste in clothes, but show her a room and she will make it glorious very quickly indeed. But first—I strongly suggest that this wedding take place as quickly as possible. Hmm, it’s Thursday. How about Saturday? Do you think it sufficient time?”

Nicholas nodded. “I shall visit Bishop Dundridge to procure a special license. I know Rosalind is having her final fitting today with the earl and his wife and yours.”

Ryder nodded. “I will meet with Willicombe and Cook to see that all is in order for Saturday morning.” He paused a moment, then nodded to himself. “We shall invite all your relatives, Nicholas.” He quickly raised his hand. “No, this is important. Trust me on this.”

“They won’t come.”

“You are the head of the family. Society would not look kindly upon them if they refused to attend your wedding. And trust me, society will know if they come since I will ensure that all know.”

“But—”

“No, it must be done. Your half brothers and your stepmother must see that it is done, it is over. Douglas and I will be there. It will be all right.”

Nicholas left the Sherbrooke town house feeling a bit light-headed. He paid a visit to Sir Robert Peel on Bow Street, then returned to Grillon’s Hotel to inform Lee Po of the new plans.

Lee Po raised a thin black brow that was already arched high, sending it nearly into his hair, and said in perfect English, “And I had thought to be bored in this frigid rain-soaked country. But instead, you and your betrothed are both in mortal danger, not to mention the magic and mystery of this Pale place—what an excellent diversion, my lord. You can be sure I shall be on my guard. None of the three half-wit brothers will harm you when I am about.”

Nicholas laughed. “Thank you. Now, there is much to be done.” Then he told Lee Po about the two men Sir Robert Peel was sending to him.

Rosalind found out quite by accident about the attempt on Nicholas’s life. She had raised her hand to knock on the estate room door, when she heard Uncle Ryder’s low voice and pressed her ear to the door. Uncle Ryder was telling Uncle Douglas about someone firing a gun at Nicholas.

“You fleabrain,” she whispered to the absent Nicholas. “You will learn to confide in me if I have to box your ears.” But since the debacle was the catalyst for their quick marriage, and that was surely very fine, she kept her peace. She had years in front of her to bring Nicholas around to trusting her absolutely. Given his unfortunate childhood, not to mention the villains he’d surely had to deal with since he was twelve, she knew it would be small of her not to accept his silence, but still, it hurt. What hurt too, but angered her more, was the attempt on his life. She wished she had Richard Vail’s neck between her hands.

It was Grayson, told by his father that Rosalind had very likely eavesdropped when he told Uncle Douglas about the murder attempt, who warned Nicholas to stay away. Grayson told him, “Otherwise, she might call it all off and shoot you herself. She’s a fine shot, my word on that, so don’t take any chances. My father fed her some drivel about a problem at Wyverly Chase and that was why you needed to have the wedding moved to Saturday. Rosalind pretended to believe him, though I know very well she didn’t. Truth be told, I don’t know what she’s thinking right now, she’s been very quiet, perhaps too quiet.”

Nicholas said, “I would wager every groat in my pocket she’s planning something.”

Grayson agreed, told him to keep his distance, and wished him the best of luck.

Nicholas called after him, “Please invite Lorelei Kilbourne, Grayson. Both Rosalind and I are very fond of her. Since she suffered for Rosalind, it’s only right she be invited.”

Grayson said stiffly, “I will consult her father.”

“Ask her parents to come as well,” Nicholas said.

“And her four sisters?”

“Naturally.”

Nicholas laughed when Grayson muttered, “The giggling gaggle.”

26

At ten o’clock Saturday morning, Rosalind was modestly accepting all the fulsome compliments, knowing she looked very fine indeed in Madame Fouquet’s pale yellow silk gown, but she wasn’t thinking about this, her wedding day, she was thinking about Nicholas’s half brothers, how they should be dispatched to Hell.

And they were coming to her wedding.

Perhaps she should carry a small knife. And what about their mother, Lady Mountjoy, probably escorted by Alfred Lemming? Perhaps Rosalind should carry a knife up her other sleeve as well. She wondered idly how long Alfred Lemming had been Lady Mountjoy’s lover. Before her husband had died? She wondered about the third son, Aubrey. For all she knew, he could be devout as a vicar, or as rotten as his brothers.

“Just look at this lovely nightgown and peignoir Alex has given you, dearest,” Aunt Sophie was saying. “Ah, I venture to say your groom’s eyes will roll back in his head when he sees you in it.”

“Peach silk,” Alex said, “it makes a man’s heels drum. The silk is as sheer as your veil, Rosalind.”

Rosalind saw herself standing in front of Nicholas wearing this delicious, sinful confection, and Nicholas, eyes blazing hot, striding to her, those big hands of his outstretched to touch her. She saw his big hands molding over the silk and—

Sophie said, “Ah, dearest, I only wish you could have been married at Brandon House. How the children would have loved that. They always accepted you, Rosalind, just as they always knew you were different.”

She hugged Aunt Sophie close. “Let us have another wedding for them, all right? Perhaps in a few months. I have already bought them all presents here in London—I will save them until Nicholas and I come to Brandon House. Ah, how I wish Nicholas were not constrained to return to his home so very quickly. I cannot imagine what has happened to necessitate this terrific rush. Do you know?”

Alex and Sophie had no clue Rosalind was lying through her teeth, since she had perfected the necessary lie very early on. “No,” Alex said, demure as a nun, “we have no idea what happened.” She gave Rosalind a fat smile and hoped Nicholas came up with some plausible catastrophe before they arrived at his family home. “Nicholas told me Wyverly Chase was named after an heiress in the sixteenth century who filled the family coffers and paid for the house—Catherine Wyverly, a duke’s daughter. Nicholas told us her ghost roams about the vast corridors of the east wing, though he admitted he’d never seen her.”

“Now, dearest”—Sophie patted the sheer material that sheathed Rosalind’s arms—“forget about the ghost, I understand Douglas has declared your groom sufficiently blessed with good taste to clothe you properly. Ah, how very wonderful it all is. I am so excited.” And Sophie wiped away a tear she’d managed to manufacture to distract Rosalind.

Alex said, “How quickly the past ten years have flown by. I remember so clearly the day you first sang for us, Rosalind, that strange song in its sad minor key, so hauntingly lovely it was.

“Now, don’t forget, dearest, to savor the present since the future is always lurking right around the corner to grab you by the throat.”

“I won’t forget, Aunt Alex.” She loved them both, knew they were trying to protect her, and evidently that meant to everyone in this blasted house to keep her in ignorance. She wanted to tell them she didn’t need protecting, what she needed was to know everything so she could devise strategies to keep both her and Nicholas safe. Perhaps she could even figure out herself who was responsible for this misery. Truth be told, she believed Nicholas needed more protecting than she did. Well, she would see to it.

Sophie consulted the ormolu clock on the mantel. “It’s time to go downstairs, dearest. It is but four minutes until ten o’clock, and you know how Bishop Dundridge believes in the power of time. He is probably already tapping his foot, frowning at his watch hands, worried that you or Nicholas will bolt.”

Rosalind tried her best to float down the wide staircase since Nicholas was standing at the bottom, dressed in black, his linen white as his teeth, so very strong and fit, that jaw of his hard and stubborn, looking up at her, no smile whatsoever on his face. He looked stern, like a Puritan minister ready to blast his sinful flock. In that instant, she didn’t want to do this. She didn’t know this dangerous man, she—He watched her very slowly raise her gloved hand to lay it on his forearm. He said nothing, nor did she. He led her into the drawing room filled with white roses and the scent of vanilla.

Bishop Dundridge placed his watch with its shiny silver chain back into his pocket, and hummed. Then he smiled at the pair, looked back briefly at the assorted people in the drawing room, all of whom he knew. They clustered in two separate groups, neither group speaking to the other save in the stiffest of voices. He looked at the Countess of Northcliffe, acknowledging to himself, but only to himself, that he’d admired her immensely for a good twenty years now. He wanted to sigh as he stared at her, but he wasn’t that stupid. He watched Mrs. Ryder Sherbrooke, who, along with the countess, had followed the bride and groom into the drawing room. She walked to stand by her husband, a lovely smile on her face. He looked toward the four younger girls who crowded together around a very lovely young lady who was in turn staring at Grayson Sherbrooke, who stood alone by the fireplace, arms crossed over his chest, looking remote. Now what was all this about? A very protective father hovered over the flock of ladies, eyeing the earl’s three half brothers in the other group with ill-disguised loathing. The two looked as if they would rather shoot arrows into the groom, like the sainted and martyred Saint Sebastian, than celebrate his nuptials. And the mother, Lady Mountjoy—he found himself staring at the two bright circles of rouge painted on her cheeks.

Bishop Dundridge suddenly realized the bride looked ready to run. As for the groom, he looked as determined as Wellington at Waterloo. Well, no matter what the undercurrents swirling about the drawing room, it was time to marry these two beautiful young people who would doubtless produce beautiful children.

Bishop Dundridge married them in four and a half minutes.

“My lord,” he announced in his deep plummy voice, “you may now kiss your bride,” and he beamed at them. Both had said their vows in clear voices. He heard some muttering from one of the half brothers, but ignored it.

They were married, Nicholas thought, a bit stunned, and he very slowly raised Rosalind’s veil. Her face was pale, her eyes slightly dilated. “It will be all right now,” he said low, for both of them. “Let me kiss you.” And he did, only a light touch of his mouth against hers. She made no move whatsoever, kept her eyes open and staring up at him. He would swear he heard her gulp.

When he raised his head, he lightly touched his knuckles to her cheek. “I like the smell of vanilla.”

As if the spell were broken, she grinned up at him. “It was my idea.”

“I knew you would be a very smart wife. Now, let’s see if that unpleasant group of carrion over there will deign to congratulate us.”

Nicholas hated to admit it, but Ryder Sherbrooke was right. It was good his family was here. They now knew it was done. Perhaps they could get past their murderous hatred of him. Perhaps his half brothers would realize now that the money they’d inherited from their father was quite sufficient for any sane man. Richard managed to spit out a meager congratulations. Lancelot looked straight ahead. A male throat cleared. Richard frowned, but was forced to introduce Rosalind to the third brother, Aubrey Vail. Nicholas was struck at how similar his youngest half brother looked to his wife—like brother and sister, what with the nearly identical shade of red hair, Aubrey’s nearly as thick and curly as Rosalind’s. His eyes were blue, nearly as rich a blue as hers. It was as if the lid had come off the boiling pot—Aubrey began talking. He never stopped, a good thing since he drowned out the rest of his family’s deadening silence.

“I am writing a book,” he announced as he sat himself at Rosalind’s right at the breakfast table, paying not a bit of attention to where his hostess wished him to be seated. “Ah, what a splendid feast this is. At Oxford, we are fed well, but nothing like this,” and he picked up his newly poured glass of champagne and drank it down. “Should I have waited for a toast? Ah, well, no problem.” And he motioned for a footman to refill his glass.

Rosalind, buffeted by his endless and entertaining monologue, said, “You don’t hate your half brother? You don’t wish to murder him?”

Aubrey drank down the second glass, gently belched, and carefully placed his champagne flute at an exact thirty-degree angle to his plate. “Murder Nicholas? Why, I don’t even know Nicholas. He looks like Richard, doesn’t he? Really, a remarkable resemblance. Let me tell you about the book I am writing.”

“In a moment, Aubrey,” Nicholas said easily. “I believe Rosalind’s uncle wishes to make a toast.”

“He is not her bloody uncle,” Lancelot said in a low voice, but not low enough.

“Ah, I have need of more champagne,” Aubrey said, covering his brother’s words, and he held up his flute. He beamed at Rosalind. “You are quite beautiful, Rosalind. If I were not too young to wed, I would have thrown my hat at your feet. However, as a girl, you are the perfect age, the accepted age. Odd, isn’t it? I have always believed our English mores more baffling than not.”

Uncle Douglas said, smiling, “I rather think it is the fact that boys mature more slowly than girls, thus they must have more time to season.”

Aubrey said with a considering frown, “I believe I’m already well seasoned. Lance, now, he must needs have another decade so he may attempt to grow some hair on his chin.” Aubrey toasted his brother and laughed, ignoring the black look he got.

Ryder Sherbrooke tapped his champagne flute with his knife. He rose to his feet, raised his glass, and smiled toward Rosalind. “Rosalind is the daughter of my heart. When she and Nicholas have children, I hope they will call me grandfather. I foresee that they will never bore each other. They each make the other laugh, you see, and that is a very fine thing.” And he saluted them.

“Hear, hear,” Douglas called out.

“A grandmother,” Sophie said, “I should like being a grandmother.”

Finally, because Bishop Dundridge was seated next to Lady Mountjoy, and she saw she had little choice, she said behind her teeth, “Hear, hear.” Richard and Lancelot, Nicholas’s eyes on them, echoed their mother.

“Just think,” Aubrey announced to the table at large, “when you have children, I shall become an uncle.” He beamed a big smile to show a mouthful of very white teeth. “Here’s to me, the future uncle.”

There was laughter this time, not from the Vails, to be sure, but Sophie Sherbrooke, in particular, was looking at this redheaded young gentleman with approval. She said, “I heard you telling Rosalind that you are writing a book, Mr. Vail. What is it about?”

Over the magnificent breakfast feast featuring Cook’s famous crimped cod and oyster sauce—delicious with the kippers and the mountain of scrambled eggs as yellow as the dining room walls—Aubrey said, “The book I am writing deals with the ancient Druids.” And he said no more, simply began forking up eggs as if he hadn’t eaten in a week.

Grayson called out, “Is it a story or a history?”

“I have not made up my mind as of yet,” Aubrey said, “but I will tell you that the Druids’ use of mistletoe to heal was an excellent thing, and yet our Christian church ignored mistletoe’s natural curative powers and turned it into a kissing ball—bah!—and all to collect a few more pagan souls into the Christian basket.” His mouth was full now of a scone, some crumbs falling off his chin. He dabbed them up with the tip of his finger wet in his own mouth, and grinned around the table. “I forget to eat at Oxford.” Nothing more, and there was more laughter, and again, none of it from the Vails.

The Earl of Northcliffe had gladly relinquished his place to Nicholas since he wished to keep a close eye on the Vails. Who knew if Miranda, now the Dowager Countess of Mountjoy, carried a vial of poison in her reticule? He took his wife’s soft hand and kissed it. “All is going very well. What do you think of the third Vail brother?”

“His hair is as red as Rosalind’s and as—”

“No, not yours, dearest. Your hair is unique—Titian would have killed to paint your hair since it is better than the insipid red he produced.”

Rosalind heard their soft words as she eyed her new husband. He was toying with his cod, not eating much, she saw, but again, neither was she.

After three more toasts, the level of laughter had tripled, her own included. Aubrey Vail, in particular, appeared to be enjoying himself immensely if six glasses of champagne were any measure. Richard Vail looked dark and still, Lancelot looked soft and furious. Lady Mountjoy’s mouth looked pinched, as did her lover’s, Alfred Lemming.

When Nicholas leaned close and said against Rosalind’s ear, “It is noon and time for us to leave,” wickedness and excitement roared through her. She took a sip of champagne, lightly touched her tongue to her bottom lip. “As in, you and I will be alone in your carriage?”

“That’s it,” he said, and gave her a shameless grin. He gave one last look at his half brothers and his stepmother, and slowly nodded. “They’ve all drunk too much champagne to stick a knife in my ribs on our way out.”

Aubrey was sitting back, his hands clasped over his stomach, smiling widely, eyes glazed, telling how the Druids loved cats, the priests walked about with cats on their shoulders, all proud and arrogant.

At one o’clock in the afternoon, Rosalind and Nicholas were off for Wyverly Chase, in the middle of Sussex, merely a six-hour drive from London.

27

Rosalind’s first sight of Wyverly Chase was at the exact moment Nicholas’s tongue eased into her mouth. She squeaked, jerked back from him, and stared at the incredible house up on top of a smooth hillock. He kissed her again. She flattened her palms against his chest, and lightly butted her forehead to his—she’d learned that move from a little boy who’d been a wharf rat before Ryder Sherbrooke had brought him to Brandon House. A head butt always got the other person’s attention.

He couldn’t believe she’d done that. He gave his head a shake, rubbed his forehead, and stared at her, bemused. “Why did you do that? What’s wrong?”

She touched the tip of her tongue with her finger, and he stared at her tongue, ready to throw all finesse to the wind and leap on her, but he managed to hold himself in check because she looked so damned silly gaping at him. She said, “Nicholas, oh, dear, how difficult this is to say, but the fact is you stuck your tongue in my mouth. You actually touched my tongue with yours. I’m trying not to think about that but I can’t seem to help it. I suppose it’s something men feel they must do so that—no, no, let’s speak of that house—is that Wyverly Chase?”

He’d kept his distance during their six-hour trip, truly he had, at least for the most part, until just three seconds ago when he simply couldn’t bear it anymore. Her mouth—staring at her mouth while she spoke of the red Lasis and its fire spears—but not really hearing much of what she said, her words lovely background noise while he thought of cupping her breasts in his hands and kissing them, pressing his face against her warm flesh, then her mouth, her tongue—it had done him in. He’d wanted to wait for the simple reason that taking a virgin on the seat of a moving carriage lacked a certain finesse. Yes, he’d planned to wait until he had her in the huge master suite at Wyverly with its immense mahogany bed and thick soft feather ticking. He’d planned to have her in that bed not more than six minutes after he carried her over the threshold—the greeting of Peter Pritchard and Block his butler, and all the servants—very well, he could have her in the middle of that bed in eight minutes. But then she’d wet her lips with her tongue as she’d wondered aloud if the red Lasis ever attacked that disagreeable lot of wizards and witches with their Celtic god and goddess names who resided atop Mount Olyvan. Done in, he thought, dazed, as he’d slipped his tongue into her mouth. But he didn’t get the result he’d expected—actually, he nearly shocked her out of her slippers. Of course she’d never been kissed like that before. He grinned fatuously.

What had she said? Oh, yes, she’d asked about Wyverly Chase. He focused his eyes on his home and managed to clear his throat. “Yes, that’s Wyverly Chase, our country home, built in the sixteenth century by the Wyverly heiress who saved the first Vail’s bacon with her immense number of groats. Ah, what do you think of your new home?” He realized in that moment that his house wasn’t perhaps what a new bride would expect. It wasn’t in the Palladian style, nor was there a single Elizabeth diamond pane to be seen. No moat, so a castle was out as well. It was, quite frankly, outlandish, not to him, certainly, but—What was she seeing, thinking? He found he was holding his breath.

She straightened, righting her charming little green hat with its cream-colored feathers that curved around her cheek. She remained silent, her eyes widening as the carriage bowled up the long winding drive, the graveled road surrounded by thick maple and pine trees, up, up, to the top of a bare gentle slope, thinking it rather looked like a full-bearded man with a bald head. He waited, praying she wouldn’t laugh.

“It’s magic,” she whispered, wonder and excitement in her voice. “Magic. The Wyverly heiress, she built it? She was magic, Nicholas. You know that, don’t you?”

He looked at the nearly white stone that rose up and up, almost touching the clouds, and the late afternoon sun beamed a silver spear through the clouds to strike a certain point on the back eastern turret and make the stone sparkle like raindrops. There were four rounded stone towers that rose high above the house itself. No, not really a house—it was simply Wyverly, his home. Was it magic? No, surely that was absurd, and yet—yet he knew deep in his gut that what was happening right this instant was very, very important.

He said slowly, feeling his way, “Magic? No, not the Wyverly heiress. The newly created earl built it. Before Queen Bess tapped him on the shoulder with the ceremonial sword, he was the captain of the Bellissima, Sir Walter Raleigh’s forward ship in the battle with the Spanish in 1578. He saved Raleigh’s ship Falcon from a broadside. Since Raleigh won the battle and was in good stead with the queen, she thanked him with gold in his coffers, and at Raleigh’s request, she bestowed land and an earldom upon my ancestor, making him the first Earl of Mountjoy.”

“Where does the title Mountjoy come from?”

“It had become extinct but the year before, displeasing the queen, even though she herself had beheaded the final earl in the line. But the first earl didn’t settle down. You see, he was a very successful trader before he threw in his lot with Raleigh, and so he went out again. Not three months later, his ship sank in the Mediterranean. He was the only survivor. He never wrote about it, only that he’d been both cursed and blessed, whatever that means.

“My grandfather told me the first earl kept a journal. He’d written that he’d pictured this house or castle or manor house, whatever you wish to call it, in his mind, all full-blown down to the last white round tower stone, and his new heiress wife had enthusiastically poured all her money into the venture, and Wyverly Chase was the result.”

“I trust the Wyverly heiress gained an excellent husband for her money.”

“Well, they both lived a long time, if that is any measure. His name was Jared Vail. From his portrait—it’s in the long picture gallery in the east wing—he was a strapping gentleman, the flashing dark eyes of a pirate, face ruddy from the wind and sea, and a wicked smile. Fortunately, the Vail men have been fairly astute in dealing with finances over the years and have flourished.” Nicholas grinned. “Do you know Captain Jared also wrote of that dreadful day in 1618 when Raleigh was beheaded with an axe? He claimed Raleigh boomed out before the axe fell, ‘This is a sharp Medicine, but it is a Physician for all Diseases.’”

She studied his face. “I agree, the Wyverly heiress wasn’t the magic one, it was this ship captain, Jared Vail, he was magic and you know it, else he couldn’t have built this magnificent house that must whisper of secrets and ancient magic rattling about behind its walls. You also know it because you carry your grandfather’s blood and his teachings, and he carried his father’s blood all the way back to Jared Vail. I want to see your grandfather’s library, Nicholas. I want to see his copy of the Rules of the Pale.”

“You will,” he said, looked at her mouth again, and lifted her onto his lap. “Let me kiss you, and don’t try to leap away from me in shock.”

For the moment, the magnificent magic house receded to the back of her mind. Rosalind gave him a slow smile. “I’ve never had a man’s tongue in my mouth, Nicholas. I’ve been kissed before you, naturally, but not this way. Grayson was the first.”

“Grayson?” His temperature of his voice plummeted. “Grayson?”

Rosalind poked him in the arm. “Yes, but truth be told, I goaded him into doing it. I told him Raymond Sikes was the best kisser in all of Lower Slaughter and I was willing to wager a shilling that Grayson couldn’t come close to him.” She laughed. “Poor Grayson, he didn’t know what to do. I was fourteen and he was quite the young man, newly up from Oxford, ready to sample all London’s wickedness. I remember I puckered up when he forced himself to lean down and peck my mouth.” She paused a moment, remembering the appalled look on his face, then giggled, a delightful sound Nicholas had never heard out of her before. Who knew Rosalind could giggle like any other young girl? Then she laughed. “Poor Grayson looked so revolted, so guilty, really, and so I told him I’d kissed a frog not more than five minutes before he’d kissed me—he fled to London. I didn’t see him for six months. Do you know that I was convinced to kiss three more frogs?”

“None of them turned into princes, I gather.”

“Not even a duke. I worried for months I would get warts, but I didn’t.”

“What about Raymond Sikes?”

“Oh, I made him up. Poor Grayson never knew I’d plucked the name out of nothing at all. I suppose now that I am married, I should tell him. He can’t smack a wife, can he?”

“It would be very bad form,” Nicholas said, then shook his head. “So Grayson gave you your first and only kiss before me?”

“Well, to be perfectly honest about it, yes.”

He kissed her again, this time running his tongue over her bottom lip, and whispered, his breath hot and exciting, “Open your mouth, Rosalind. Open now.”

She did. All of his focus was on her mouth. He wanted the warmth and wet of her and so he eased his tongue—

The new footman he’d hired himself a month before yelled right outside the window, “My lord! We’ve arrived! Shall I open the door for you and her ladyship or would you prefer that Mr. Lee Po and I carry in all the luggage and leave you alone here with your new bride, perhaps until it is dark?”

Nicholas hadn’t even realized the carriage had stopped in the wide circular drive in front of Wyverly. Given the dazed expression in Rosalind’s eyes, neither had she. He wanted to kill. He wanted to cry. Instead, he rolled his eyes and removed his tongue from his wife’s mouth. His wife, what a thought that was. He’d known her for nine days, and she was now his wife.

He pulled himself together and stuck his head out of the carriage window. “Thank you for felling me with your wit, John. Ah, I see Block is opening the front doors. Tell him we need several more footmen. Introduce him to Lee Po. Go.”

John didn’t want to go. He wanted a nice long look into the carriage even though a blind man would know exactly what was going on. He was being small and nosy, and enjoying it immensely. He sighed.

“Go!”

Nicholas straightened Rosalind’s gown, her bonnet, lightly touched his fingertip to her mouth, still open in surprise, and wondered if he could have her in his bed in under five minutes.

“Goodness,” she said and lightly touched her fingertips to her mouth.

“I plan to treat you to the unexpected for the next thirty years. What do you think?”

She looked up at him through her lashes. “Perhaps I’ll have some unexpected surprises for you too, Nicholas.”

His eyes nearly crossed. He lifted her down from the carriage and walked beside her up the foot-worn stone steps. “You’re ignorant,” he said, not looking at her. “You don’t know a blessed thing, much less anything about surprises.”

“Aunt Sophie gave me a book. With pictures. She said they’re not as explicit as the naked statues at Northcliffe Hall, which I was never allowed to see, by the way, but informative enough.”

“You will show me this book.”

She gave him a wicked smile.

Block said to him without preamble, “It is not all a disaster, my lord. There are a few of us who have stuck and will continue to stick. As will Mr. Pritchard, who is sleeping in the entrance hall to guard us.”

28

She blinked at the instant change in her new husband. He now looked suddenly hard, ready to fight. He looked dangerous. She’d swear his eyes had darkened to black, but his voice was calm, low. “Peter is guarding you? What the devil is going on here, Block?”

“I did not mean to overly alarm you, my lord.”

“Ah, so I take it that rats are racing through the kitchen? Perhaps smoke is billowing out of the bedchamber fireplace? Oh, yes, Block, this is my new wife, Lady Mountjoy. Rosalind, this is Block. He was with my grandfather for twenty years. To the best of my knowledge, Block has never encountered a problem he couldn’t resolve.”

Rosalind smiled at the old man, who looked ancient as the single pine tree whose gnarly branches waved against the second story of the house. He walked right up to her, eyed her briefly, then said close to Nicholas’s ear, “It is not rats or smoke, my lord, it is the return of the old earl. No, no, don’t think for a moment he is displeased. He appears quite happy that you are wed and that you and your new wife are here at Wyverly. Since he has never presented himself before, I must assume it is because you have wed and returned home.

“We have heard him singing at the top of his lungs, and laughing, and banging into things, as if he were blind and couldn’t see that the old Indian chest was right in front of him. He told me I had at least seven more years before I departed to the hereafter. I told him it wasn’t enough years but he told me to get hold of myself, that I would be older than he was when I finally croaked it. Unfortunately, he wasn’t specific about my final destination. He sang it all in rhymes that were not at all felicitous.”

“I see,” Nicholas said slowly, eyeing Block, whose expression never changed, remaining aloof, only a slight tic at the corner of his left eye. “Well, then, since my grandfather is singing because her ladyship is here now, he is bound to sing even louder when he meets her.”

“I would, were I he,” Block said, and gave her a formal bow and a smile that showed a near full mouth of beautiful teeth. “It is a pleasure, my lady. Welcome to Wyverly Chase. If it would please you, my lady, I will also sing to you. I would accompany myself on the pianoforte. Do you like rousing Scottish tunes? Do you know, his old lordship doesn’t ever sing Scottish ditties.”

Rosalind was charmed even though she didn’t have the slightest idea what was going on. There was a ghost singing in the house? Nicholas’s grandfather?

She smiled at Block. “I should love to hear you sing, Block.” She noticed the old man’s linen was as white as the cumulus clouds overhead, his black suit such a shiny black she could see herself. She said, “Willicombe, our butler in London, has always wished for his trousers and coat to be shiny like yours, Block, but has never managed results such as yours. Perhaps you could write to him and tell him how it is done?”

“I have done nothing, my lady,” Block said. “These clothes are as ancient as the Moorish tiles in the bathing closet. What you see is the high shine of honest age. How I enjoy viewing my noble countenance when I chance to gaze down at my sleeve, and thus have refused new clothes. Our laundress knows how to brush them just so, so they remain shiny. Do not be alarmed. I assure you that no moths hunker down in my seams, my lady.”

“Thank you, Block. I will communicate with Willicombe and tell him to simply refuse all new clothes. So our laundress hasn’t left?”

“She and her assistant are too far away from the library to hear the old earl sing and bang into furniture. Cook tells me that as long as she feeds Mrs. Bates and Chloe her excellent stuffed chicken necks, they will be content to remain and wash and iron.”

Nicholas heard Peter Pritchard’s deep melodic voice. “The old earl was singing a moment ago in the library, my lord. Earlier in the day I believe he was reading. If you would care to assure him that you and your new wife are home to remain, perhaps he will depart the premises and continue on to the heavenly climes.”

Block said, “Perhaps it is the possibility of traveling in the other direction that keeps him earthbound.”

Rosalind looked from one face to the next. She stared at Peter Pritchard. “What does he sing, Mr. Pritchard?”

“Ditties, my lady. At least they sound like something a man might sing while striding a ship deck.”

To the best of Nicholas’s knowledge, his grandfather had never set foot on a ship deck in his life.

Rosalind asked, “What does he read?”

Peter gave her a lovely bow. “Forgive me, my lady, I am Peter Pritchard, the earl’s estate manager. I fear I have been a bit distracted.”

You have a ghost in the house. No wonder.

Peter said, “Yes, things have been rather at sixes and sevens here for the past several days, actually, since the day his lordship sent a messenger informing us of his plans to return home with a wife. Forgive me, my lady. You asked me what the old earl reads. There are piles of books on the floor beside his favorite chair. The one on top is a treatise on hermit wizards who dwell in caves in the Bulgar and eschew all human contact.”

Rosalind said, “If they eschew all human contact, I wonder how anyone could write a treatise about them.”

Nicholas laughed.

Rosalind slipped her hand into his. “I should like to accompany his lordship to the library and make the acquaintance of my grandfather-in-law’s ghost.”

Block heaved a sigh. “How fortuitous that you do not appear to be of a highly sensitive nature, my lady. Indeed, an overabundance of nerves could possibly prove fatal to your marital bliss, given our current visitation.”

“Not I, Block. I am as stout of heart as Lee Po.”

“Ah, his lordship’s man of affairs. Lee Po tells the grandest stories. Come now, Cook has chilled one of the old earl’s bottles of French champagne and made her exquisite gooseberry tarts. If you would like to enter, my lady, I will introduce you to the maid, Marigold, who appears to be about the same age as that young maid of yours, who looks really rather alarmed and a bit white about the mouth.”

Rosalind turned to Matilde and smiled. “Come along, Matilde, everything is all right.”

Matilde nodded even though she didn’t think anything was all right, and dutifully trailed after Rosalind into the massive ugly house, which gave her the shudders. At least Mr. Lee Po was here. No one and nothing would try to harm her whilst he was about.

Only one young girl, dressed in a dark muslin gown, a white cap perched on the side of her head, stood at attention in the center of the massive black-and-white-tiled entrance hall. She saw Nicholas and Rosalind and quickly dropped a curtsy. “Oh, dear, here ye are, standing right here in front of me eyes.” She bobbed another curtsy. “Me name’s Marigold. Me mum loves yellow, she does, that’s why she named me Marigold.” And she curtsied again.

Block said, “Marigold laughs when the old earl sings. Or sings along with him, depending on her mood.”

“He doesn’t carry enough of a beat for me to dance,” Marigold said. “But we do make lovely harmony.”

Rosalind smiled at her and said, “This is Matilde. If you would show her to her room, Marigold, and introduce her to Cook, Mrs. Bates, Chloe, and the tweeny.”

“The tweeny would be Mrs. Sweet, my lady. She’s fair to doddering, but still can polish an armoire to a high shine. Not as high a shine as Mr. Block’s suits, but high enough to remark upon.”

Rosalind hadn’t met many tweenies, but she’d never heard of one older than sixteen. “How old is Mrs. Sweet, Marigold?”

“Older than me mum, my lady, got three teeth left in ’er mouth, all in the front, a good thing, me mum says, else she’d have to gnaw ’er food with ’er gums.”

“I see. I would also like you to give Matilde a tour of the house. Matilde, when you are finished, come to my room. Go along now. Thank you, Marigold.”

“Yes, my lady.” And yet another curtsy, this one deeper, nearly toppling her onto her face. “Matilde, now that’s a purty name too, I’ll ask me mum what she thinks of it.” And off they went.

Nicholas was looking toward the library, listening.

Block said, “I suppose even a ghost must occasionally take a respite.”

At that moment, they heard a strong loud bass voice sing out,

I went to sea as a wee young goat.

I crossed the waves in a very small boat.

I learned to swim—I can tell you that!

And never once did I wear a hat.

Hey ho. Hiddy ho.

The sun burned and blistered but there I sat

And not once did I wear a hat.

There were three more eminently forgettable verses, then silence, dead and utter silence.

Peter gave them a crooked smile. “The hair on my arms no longer rises. To become used to the presence of the ghost of my old master, now, doesn’t that bespeak a tortured brain? But the fact is he is indeed here and so what is one to do?”

Nicholas saw a pallet lying in the corner. Peter’s bed, he supposed. “Rosalind, why don’t you accompany Block upstairs and I will go bid Grandfather hello.”

Like that would ever happen, she thought. “Oh, no, I’m coming with you. Do you know, perhaps the two of us can sing a duet.”

Peter Pritchard gave her an amazed look, then laughed and coughed behind his hand.

Nicholas gave one final fond thought to his huge bed upstairs with Rosalind naked on her back in the middle of it, perhaps beckoning to him, smiling, then took a resolute step toward the closed library door at the end of the long corridor.

“I leave the door open,” Peter said, “but it always closes. Always. At first I was disconcerted, frightened to my booted heels, to be honest about it, but now—” He shrugged and gave Rosalind another smile. “You do not appear to be afraid, my lady.”

“Oh, no, I adore singing,” Rosalind said and gave the young man with the clever eyes and tousled bronze hair a sunny smile.

29

Silence, dead silence. Appropriate, Nicholas thought, given his grandfather was dead and really shouldn’t have anything to say about it.

He and Rosalind stepped into the huge library, so shadowed and so long you couldn’t see either end of it. It was rather narrow and there were more books than Rosalind had ever seen in a single library in her entire life, and that was saying something, given Uncle Douglas’s immense library at Northcliffe Hall, not to mention Uncle Tysen’s vast collection at the parsonage.

“Are there windows anywhere in this room?” she asked.

“Yes,” Nicholas said and strode to the front end and flung back the thick dark gold velvet draperies. He looped the thick braided cords over golden hooks. Then he flung open the windows. Light and fresh spring air flooded into the room. He sucked in the blessed fresh air, then turned to say—

There was a moan.

Both Nicholas and Rosalind froze where they stood.

“I’m sorry, I forgot to tell you,” Peter said, now coming into the library, “but I suppose he doesn’t like the light. Perhaps if you’ve been dead a long time, you’re quite used to the dark. If you wait a bit, those draperies will close themselves again.”

Nicholas didn’t look away from his grandfather’s old wing chair that sat at an angle to the fireplace, perfectly empty. He said, without looking away from that chair, “Have you actually seen him, Peter?”

“No, I haven’t.”

Nicholas nodded. “Thank you, Peter. Leave us now.”

“Er, you are certain, my lord? I worry that her ladyship—”

“Her ladyship could face down a band of Portuguese bandits,” Nicholas said, smiling. “She will be fine. Leave us, everything is all right. My grandfather returned because she was coming, that is what Block said, so let him meet her.”

When Peter walked out of the library, he left the door open, a demonstration, Rosalind supposed. As they watched, the door very slowly closed itself.

“Well, Grandfather,” Nicholas said to the empty chair, “it seems you’re causing quite a commotion. I would just as soon not hear another moan, to be honest here. Come, speak to me and Rosalind. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? To meet her?”

Nothing but silence, then, a very soft old voice chanted in a singsong voice,

At last the girl comes home

A girl who never belonged

To her is owed the debt

Well met, my lad, well met.

Nicholas would have fallen over if he hadn’t been leaning against the mantelpiece. The debt, he thought, the bloody debt. He still didn’t understand this debt business but it was deep inside him, spun out in the dream that had filled his youth, and with it the need to pay this debt. He looked at Rosalind. She was no longer the little girl in his dream, but she was his debt, this woman, now his wife.

The old voice sang again, from everywhere and nowhere, surrounding them, yet sounding hollow, puffed out of an old reed, ancient as yellowed parchment.

The little girl nearly died

The monster nearly won

The debt was paid by another

But the race must still be run.

The wispy voice faded into the soft air and they were alone, quite suddenly they were utterly alone, and both of them knew it. The draperies remained open.

Rosalind sang softly into the still air, toward the empty wing chair,

I dream of beauty and sightless night

I dream of strength and fevered might

I dream I’m not alone again

But I know of his death and her grievous sin.

The ancient chair toppled onto its side.

The draperies flew closed.

“Well, that certainly got a rise out of the old boy,” Nicholas said. He pulled Rosalind close. “What do you think of my home now?”

“I think,” she said, looking up at him, “that we have something very important to accomplish.”

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, we do. Do you know, I’ve never before heard my grandfather sing. I remember once he told me his voice scared small children and dogs.”

Rosalind said nothing, but she still stared at the empty wing chair lying on its side on the carpet.

30

Nicholas took a bite of his roast pork, and chewed quickly. Dinner had been the last thing on his mind when Block had waylaid them coming out of the library. “Now that you are in the country, my lord, it is country hours you must observe.” He bowed. “It is now well after six o’clock, nearly seven as a matter of fact and Cook is anxious to present you with her pee-ss de resistence.”

What was a poor beleaguered very newly married man to do? Strangle Block, that’s a good start.

After Rosalind met the cook, Mrs. Clopper, tall and bony, dressed all in white, not a single food stain to be seen, and a mustache that looked like a thin swatch of black satin, Block steered them into the massive dining room.

Nicholas had no fond memories of this airless, gloomy room, but the table was set for the two of them and candles were lit. “After this, Block,” he said, “we will have our meals in the breakfast room. This room is so dark a half dozen thieves could be hiding in the shadows. I don’t wish to come armed to my dinner.”

Block bowed. “As you wish, my lord. Ah, I will now fetch Cook’s white soup. It is renowned. She never serves her soup first, as perhaps you may remember, my lord, but tonight, she believed . . .”

Rosalind wasn’t listening, she was breathing in murky air and studying dark corners. A single twelve-branch of candles stood in the middle of the table and cast strange shadows on a large bowl of muddy-looking grapes. She said, “If Grayson saw this table, he would say it was at least three coffins long.”

“At least,” he said and gave her hand a squeeze, all of her he could reach. He heard Block clear his throat yet again, and whispered, “Eat as much as you want, Rosalind, for I plan enough activity to skinny you to the bone.”

She smiled at him, though he saw that her eyes were a bit dilated, perhaps her face a bit pale.

The two of them, if asked, would have said the dinner was quite delicious, but in truth, neither particularly noticed the succession of dishes brought out by Block.

“I am quite fond of fig pudding,” Rosalind said finally, and forked up a small bite.

“I believe that is an apple tart.”

“Oh, dear.”

“Figs, apples, it doesn’t matter, keep eating. You will need your strength.”

She took another bite. “I believe you are right, it is apple. Do you know, Nicholas, I wonder if your grandfather will visit us in your bedchamber.”

“Our bedchamber. If Grandfather comes to sing us a lullaby, we will listen, I suppose, then applaud and politely ask him to leave, else he will find himself shocked to his ghostly toes.”

“If I know the lullaby, I could sing it with him.” She gave him a look from beneath her lashes.

She felt the urgency in him, heard it in his voice even though he sounded light and amused. Despite her excitement, she knew this was uncharted territory. She had to admit to a bit of apprehension, a bloodless word, really, when she felt her innards jumping with excitement mixed with terror.

“Nicholas? About this lovemaking business.”

He came to full attention, his focus on her. “Yes?”

She waved her hand around her. “This is all very civilized, I mean, we’re eating our apple tarts, but now I’m thinking about what you’re going to do to me as soon as you get me into the bedchamber.”

He did indeed have plans, wonderful, detailed plans. “Did you look at all the pictures in the book Aunt Sophie gave you?”

“I tried to thumb through it quickly, but neither aunt would give me a moment’s peace. I think they were embarrassed and regretted immediately giving it to me, but I held on, let me tell you.”

“If you wish, when we are in our bedchamber, we can look at the pictures together. Should you like that?”

“Yes. Well, no. I don’t think I could do that with you peering over my shoulder, your eyes on the same things mine are on. The couples don’t have any clothes on, Nicholas. There is not a single petticoat to froth up and hide things.”

“And the gentlemen in the pictures? Are they unclothed as well?”

“I looked at as many as I could while Aunt Sophie was trying to gently tug it out of my arms. I think I managed to get a brief glimpse of a good half dozen before—to be on the safe side—I folded it beneath my chemises in my valise hoping they wouldn’t filch it. The gentlemen”—she cleared her throat—“well, they looked very strange, not at all like the little boys at Brandon House.”

“Strange how?”

“The front of them, low on the front of them—they looked deformed, big and puffed out and, well, one could not help but think there was a tree trunk sticking out of their stomachs.”

Nicholas laughed. “Sounds to me like the artist was a man with a grand view of himself, a man who wanted to impress, and that led to a good deal of exaggeration to carry home the point.”

She sat forward, her fingers locked together. “What point? I didn’t see a point. Now, I don’t wish to speak of that book anymore. I don’t wish to dive beneath this table to hide my mortified self. I don’t like to think what could be under this bloody table when it is dark, and no feet are there in a row to keep strange creatures away.”

He merely smiled at her. “Finish your fig pudding. Let’s go to the library and request that Grandfather not pay us any bridal visits. Then, we will enjoy ourselves, Rosalind. I promise you everything will be fine. I am your husband and you will trust me.”

She chewed on that a moment, then said to his surprise, “Nicholas, do you know why your grandfather’s chair fell over when I sang my song?”

Oh, he’d thought about that all right. “We will discuss it, tomorrow at noon, at the earliest.”

Block came into the dining room, carrying another branch of lit candles. The light haloed his face, making him look like a ruddy-cheeked devil. “I fancied you might wish to have your port now, my lord.”

Was that irony in Block’s voice? Nicholas folded his napkin and laid it beside his plate. “No, thank you, Block. We are going upstairs now. Is the house quiet and secure?”

“Yes, my lord. May I say I thought it particularly sensitive of Mr. Pritchard not to dine with you this evening, what with this being your very first evening together at Wyverly Chase, er, and your very first evening together as a married couple?”

“No, Block, you may not say it.”

Rosalind choked back a laugh. “Please thank Cook for the delicious meal, Block. My lord?”

Nicholas pulled back her chair and took her arm. “Good night, Block. Ah, tell Mr. Pritchard to hire some additional staff. I can’t imagine Cook was pleased to clean all the pots and pans by herself. I will personally speak to each of them, allay their ghostly concerns.”

“Very well, my lord, but I don’t hold much hope of gaining an additional servant. There’s talk in the village, you see, and people are remembering your grandfather and the fact that there was no body.”

“I assure you, Block, when Grandfather died, he left his earthly remains behind. After all, what use would he have for his corporeal self in the hereafter?”

“As to that, my lord, you were only a lad, and didn’t know anything at all. I remember well what was said by He Who Should Know.”

“Who would that be?”

“The physician. You remember Dr. Blankenship, my lord, a fussy little man with wheat-colored hair and eyes so pale he could stare at you and you wouldn’t know it? He evidently whispered to his sister that when he made his final visit, the old earl wasn’t snug in his coffin, as he should have been. You, my lord, were, of course, already gone.”

“I remember Blankenship. What happened to him?”

“I believe he went to France, my lord.”

“Well, now, there you have it,” Rosalind said. “Very fitting. Anyone who would claim such a thing deserves to wind up in France.”

Block nodded. “I must admit that Dr. Blankenship was a strange little man. However, as you may imagine, having the old earl’s body missing was a titillating tale. However, we will try, nonetheless, despite knowing we will fail, to bring more servants here.”

“What happened to Dr. Blankenship’s sister, the one he whispered this to?”

“Why, she still lives in her brother’s house in the village, still dines out on her brother’s whisper. It appears that our fellow man never tires of hearing about otherworldly phenomena. Unfortunately she is now also drooling in her soup. Ancient she is.”

Block trailed them into the library, watched by the door as they spoke briefly to the empty chair in front of the fireplace.

When they came out, Block cleared his throat and stood his ground. “My lord, it is Lee Po.”

“What about Lee Po?”

“It is Cook, my lord. At dinner she asked him to prepare a Chinese dish for her.”

“I see.”

“He told her he was a master at noodle preparation, but little else, to which Cook said she’d heard that heathens ate raw octopus and live squid still trying to crawl off your plate. Lee Po laughed, my lord. He informed her that he’d always allowed octopi and squid to escape although many times they tangled themselves up in his noodles. Cook was charmed. She batted her eyelashes at him. Such a thing hasn’t happened since she was eighteen and fancied herself in love with Willie, the old butcher’s son.” Block sighed. “I don’t know what she will do now. If that weren’t enough, Marigold wanted to touch him. He allowed her to lightly lay her palm on his cheek to see if yellow came off on her hand. It didn’t. She remarked in a throaty voice that his skin was very nice, soft as—then she began reciting colors. I fear there might be a rivalry brewing between Cook and Marigold, for Lee Po’s favor.”

“He is quite used to females admiring him, Block. Don’t worry about it,” Nicholas said. “I remember he even once impressed the empress with his superior tailoring of a sable robe.” Nicholas frowned a bit. Lee Po also had a way of making events unfold just as he wished them to. He’d told Nicholas once that they fit together very nicely, both of them with abilities that flew above the heads of normal men. Nicholas didn’t like to think about what Lee Po had meant by that.

When he and Rosalind had the master bedchamber within sight four and a half minutes later, Nicholas was breathing hard and fast, his eyes a bit on the glazed side. Rosalind was matching him, step for step. He saw her so clearly—lying naked beneath him and she—He ran the last dozen steps, pulling her with him now. He closed the door, thought about it a moment, then locked it. He left the key in the lock. “Not that a locked door would stop him if Grandfather decides to stir from the library.”

“I don’t think he was in the library.”

Nicholas said, “Perhaps he was sleeping.”

Rosalind didn’t say anything. She was staring over at the massive bed.

31

Nicholas laughed as she walked over to the fireplace and began to desperately warm her hands.

At least there were a good three dozen candles lit against the darkness, but still it wasn’t enough. “Is this a lovely room, Nicholas, when the sun is shining strong through the windows? There are windows, aren’t there?”

“A good score of them. Big windows, I promise. Think of it as being nice and cozy in here right now, all right? Now, come to me, Rosalind, and I will play your maid.”

“But—”

“No, don’t worry about Matilde. I told Block to inform her that she was free to get to know Marigold and Mrs. Sweet and Cook and Lee Po this evening.”

“I see my nightgown is lying on the bed. Perhaps your grandfather is snuggled beneath it.”

“Forget Grandfather.” Nicholas fetched her nightgown and laid it on the back of a lovely brocade wing chair facing the fireplace. He said, “This was my grandfather’s favorite chair when I lived here, this one and the one in the library. When I was a boy I spent many hours sitting on that worn hassock listening to him tell me stories about the great wizard, Sarimund. He told me Sarimund was married, but no one ever saw his wife. It was said by some, he told me, that she was a figment of his tortured brain, not a real woman, but then one day he was strutting about demanding everyone congratulate him on the birth of his little daughter, and surely she would be an explosion of light in the dark English skies. This announcement was met with skepticism. As far as Grandfather knew, no one ever saw the daughter either.”

She grinned up at him. “Is there any written record of her?”

Nicholas shrugged, cupped her chin in his palm, raised her face, and ran his thumbs over her jaw. “I don’t know, Lady Mountjoy. Ah, such a lovely name.” He leaned down and kissed her. It wasn’t the sort of kiss meant to stir her blood and make her heart pound like a battle drum, but rather a light touch of his lips against hers, and his tongue, always his tongue, now tracing the outline of her bottom lip. Such an odd feeling it was. He continued to kiss her until she lay her palms flat against his chest. She felt his heart thudding loud and fast beneath her palms.

To Nicholas’s delight and relief, she snuggled up against him, wrapped her arms around his back.

He knew he needed patience, a difficult thing for a man on his wedding night after weeks of abstinence. He knew she could feel him against her belly, she was so close now, and he wondered if she believed a tree trunk was pressing against her. He kissed her mouth a dozen more times, licked and nibbled on her earlobe. Her hands moved to his shoulders, squeezing him, hard. Ah, good, she wanted more, he couldn’t be wrong about that, and so he said against her warm mouth, “Open, Rosalind, let’s try this tongue business again.”

“Your tongue has been all over me, licking me between nibbles. Even my chin is wet.”

A lot more of you is going to be wet, he thought, but managed to hold his tongue.

She opened her mouth wide, and he laughed. “No, not quite that wide, just a little bit. Tease me.”

Her eyes flew open and she stared at him. “You’re sure about this, Nicholas?”

“Oh, yes.” And he slipped his tongue into her mouth after again nibbling her bottom lip. “Yes, that’s right. Give me your tongue, Rosalind. I’m suffering here.”

To his besotted relief, she did, and with a good deal of enthusiasm. His hands cupped her even though she was separated from his hands by at least five layers of clothes. He’d swear he could feel her. He wanted to take her to the floor this very minute. He felt her start in surprise, and that firmed his brain a bit.

Rosalind heard a moan, stiffened, but it wasn’t from his grandfather, thank the good Lord, nor was it from Nicholas. Oh, dear, it appeared to be from her, from deep in her throat, from a place she didn’t even know was there, then there was something else—

A low cackle came from behind them. Nicholas whirled around, ready to kill.

No one was there.

There was another cackle.

Nicholas turned back to her and touched his forehead to hers. He drew in a deep breath and raised his head. “Grandfather, go away.”

There came yet another cackle.

Nicholas cursed with great and long fluency, involving goats and chickens and the sharp quills of feathers.

“You are very good at that.”

“Thank you.” He picked her up in his arms, grabbed a small branch of lit candles, and walked to the door. He managed to turn the key in the lock, no small feat, and not scorch either of them with the candle flame. He said over his shoulder, “Old man, I am taking my wife to another bedchamber. You will take yourself off, back to the library, or I swear we will leave to return to London in the morning. All the servants will leave then and you will have no one to appreciate your wretched songs.”

And he slammed the master bedchamber door.

When he opened a door near to the opposite end of the endless stretch of hallway, he carried her into a room small enough so the branch of candles lit every corner. There was a narrow bed in the center, an armoire and a desk against the far wall. In front of the small fireplace was a dark blue rug with a wide green border, well worn, a very old chair sitting on it, high-backed, its seat sunk in. A lot of bottoms had settled in that chair over the years. Rosalind said, “I like this bedchamber.” Then she shut up fast when he laid her on her back in the center of the bed.

He was breathing hard, unable to focus on her words, on anything. “Now, Rosalind. Now.”

“Wait, Nicholas!”

“What? What is it?”

“This room, ah, I think it suits you more than that massive earl’s chamber—particularly with your grandfather in it.”

She was afraid, dammit. He had to slow himself down even though he knew it would kill him. He owed his grandfather a fist to the nose, if a ghost had a nose. He set the branch of candles on the small table beside the bed, managed to say in a credibly calm voice, “It was my bedchamber as a boy. I spent many happy hours here. I plan to spend many more this night.”

And the dam broke. His hands were all over the buttons on her gown. His fingers were nimble, a vast relief, and when he pulled the gown off her shoulders and down her arms, imprisoning her, she lay on her back, looking up at him. “Nicholas?”

“Hmm.”

“That cackle we heard in your bedchamber—maybe that was a chicken we heard and not your grandfather.”

Laughter spurted out of his mouth, and he turned away, holding his stomach he laughed so hard. He finally caught his breath, leaned down, and pulled her up against him. He whispered against her cheek, “How is a man supposed to perform his marital duties if he’s howling with laughter?”

“I’d rather it was a chicken.”

He kissed her, then laid her onto her back again. “Perhaps,” Nicholas said, laughter bubbling up again, “if it was Grandfather, he will sing advice to me tomorrow.”

“Oh, dear, do you need it?”

That got his attention. He prepared to lunge.

“Nicholas, no, wait. You’ve got me half-undressed and here you are still in your bloody coat.”

In record time, his record at least, he was naked, his boots tossed at right angles next to his boy’s chair, his clothes scattered on the floor at his big bare feet.

She made a funny noise in her throat.

“Rosalind?”

He saw himself then through her eyes and cursed, this time detailing a goat who mistook a boot for a female goat. He was naked. Could he be any more of a clod? What to do? He couldn’t very well grab a blanket and wrap it around himself, that would lack finesse, it would be, quite frankly, unworthy of a man who knew what was what. So he faced her, arms to his sides, and didn’t move. “I’m a man, Rosalind, just a man. I am sorry if you are disappointed there is no tree trunk sticking out from my belly.”

What if she were repulsed? What if she thought him the ugliest creature on God’s earth?

She was breathing hard; he heard it and wondered what she was thinking, feeling. He continued to stand there, looking down at his big toe, stubbed in his haste to get her away from his grandfather’s bedchamber. It pulsed with pain. It steadied him. What was she thinking? What—

She came up on her elbows, never looking away from him. “You are beautiful, Nicholas. I never imagined a man could look like you do, all hard and smooth. I mean—” She actually broke off, swallowed, and her eyes went right to his sex.

He was aroused, nothing he could do about it. He was beautiful? He cleared his throat. “You think all of me is beautiful? Or just parts? Or maybe just my feet? I was told once that I had David’s feet, you know, Michelangelo’s sculpture? What do you think?”

Whatever she thought remained unspoken. She looked utterly absorbed, staring, staring, and her eyes were looking nowhere near his face. Because he was a man, because a woman’s attention was focused on him, he predictably got bigger.

She sat up suddenly, swung her legs over the bed, and reached out her hand toward him. Then her face flamed red and she dropped her hand back to her lap. A pity that, he thought. She whispered, “Oh, dear, as fascinating as you look, I don’t think this will work. I’m very sorry, Nicholas.”

“It will work, I promise you.” He walked to the narrow bed. She squeaked, rolled, and nearly fell off the other side.

“Didn’t you see it work quite well in your book? And all those gentlemen were far more well-endowed than I am.”

She clutched a pillow to her chest. “Well, yes, I suppose so. But you’re not a drawing, Nicholas, you’re a man, all real flesh and blood and you’re standing right by my bed.”

“We will go slowly,” he said, and prayed he could manage that tall order. It would be a close thing, but he was determined not to muck it up. “Come back to me, sweetheart, and let me see you. You want to be fair about this, don’t you?”

“No.”

“Here I am, naked to my feet, and you’re still dressed ready for a ball.”

She gave him a long, considering look. “All right,” she said and scooted back to him. She lay on her back, her arms at her sides, and closed her eyes.

Again, he couldn’t help himself, he laughed. “If you would clasp your hands together over your breasts, I could slip a lily between your fingers. Oh, Lord, Rosalind, you look like a half-dressed sacrifice.”

Her eyes remained tightly shut. “I am.”

He was still laughing when he tossed her gown to the foot of the bed. He studied the acres of virginal white petticoats, her slippered toes sticking out. He must be careful not to rip the lovely lace-edged white chemise. He got her slippers off, pulled her stockings down, smiled at the hand-stitched pale blue garters she wore. He looked at those long narrow feet of hers, the nice arches. He wanted to lick her toes.

Her eyes popped open when he lifted her bare foot to his mouth. “What are you doing?”

He licked and caressed his way up to her knees. “You are really going to like this.” He raised her leg, her petticoats frothing around them, and began kissing and licking the back of her knee.

Bless her heart, she didn’t move, but since his ears were attuned to any sort of sound she might make, he heard her breathing jerk a bit. Suddenly, she shot upright and leapt on him, taking him backwards. They rolled off the bed and landed on the floor, Nicholas thankfully on bottom. A rug was beneath his butt but his back was on the bare oak planks, scratchy and cold.

Who cared?

She kissed his nose, his chin, his ears, licked his jaw, and he thought he’d die when she slipped her tongue inside his mouth.

He went to work on the billowing petticoats—five of them—and soon they looked like small snow mounds scattered across the small bedchamber. When she was wearing naught but her lovely chemise, she was lying on top of him, her hands all over his face, tugging at his hair, kissing his nose, his eyebrows, his mouth. He eased his hands beneath the chemise and nearly expired at the feel of her.

“Now there is nothing between thee and me,” he said.

32

She reared up, stared down at him as he kneaded her flesh. She moaned, looked horrified, then she whispered, “Nicholas,” and kissed him again.

His fingers stroked her inner thighs, moving upward until he found her. He stopped breathing. He eased a finger inside her, and to his utter joy, that blessed finger set off a cataclysm. She began to move frantically against him, making small mewling sounds that drove him mad. His finger deepened and butted against her maidenhead. Nothing could have brought him to attention as that did.

Her maidenhead. He knew she’d have one, virgins did, though he’d never before been this close to one. But feeling it, actually touching her maidenhead nearly made him howl. He grabbed her up and tossed her onto the bed, came down over her, and shoved her legs wide.

He breathed hard and fast into her mouth. “Rosalind, tell me you want me this very instant.”

“I want you. But I’m still wearing my chemise.”

He cursed, reared back, and tore the chemise off her.

“Oh, dear, Nicholas, we mustn’t tell Aunt Sophie what happened to the chemise she made. Perhaps—”

He knelt between those lovely white legs, pushed them wide, lifted her hips, and gave her his mouth.

She yelled so loud surely Cook could hear her, and jerked away, pressing hard against the headboard of the bed, her knees drawn up to her chin, and jerked the covers over her.

Nicholas stared at her. His mouth was wet with her, her scent in his nostrils, her taste in his mouth, and his brain empty. He was panting hard. He wanted to cry. What to say? She didn’t look frightened, she looked appalled. He must be a man of the world here, fluent and self-assured. Was he capable? He cleared his throat. “Listen to me, Rosalind, this is very important to me. Kissing you with my mouth is vital to me, it is what a man must have in order to gain pleasure from coupling. Surely you know that, don’t you?”

“No, I’ve never heard of such a thing. That can’t be right, Nicholas, it is a mistake, your aim was wrong. You wanted the back of my knee again, or perhaps you wished to lick the bottom of my foot, not—oh, dear.”

“You would deny me pleasure on our wedding night? You do not care for me at all?”

She saw him between her legs, his mouth, his tongue, touching her, kissing her, and she nearly folded up into nothing at all at the mortification of it.

He gave a very deep sigh. “I see you do not trust me to do what is right and proper.” He sighed again, not looking at her, but at his toe, which was throbbing again.

“Oh, no, Nicholas, it isn’t that, it’s—”

A man made a decision and acted, he thought. He grabbed her, flattened her onto her back again, pulled her legs apart, and sat on his heels between them. “Now,” he said, “you will enjoy this.” Again he gave her his mouth and this time, to be on the safe side, he held her down with the flat of his hand on her belly. When, thank the blessed Lord, her shock became astonished pleasure, she moaned, twisted the sheets in her fists, and moaned again. If he could have thought of any words, he would have sung to the heavens. When her hands were wild on his naked back, on his hips, her nails scoring his flesh, he was quite willing and ready to conquer the world.

Her fists struck his shoulders, her fingers shoveled in his hair, yanking hard, but it was nothing. Suddenly, quite suddenly, she heaved up, arched her back, and screamed as her orgasm tore through her. It was wonderful, beyond wonderful, and he reveled in it, holding her firmly in those precious moments, pushing her, giving her all he could. He welcomed the strength of it, the intensity of it, and it burrowed deeply inside him. He began to love her more gently now as he felt her ease. Finally, when she was as limp as the sheets, he raised his head to see her staring up at him, her eyes a deeper blue, if that were possible, dreamy and bewildered. Her red hair was tangled around her head and face and all her beautiful white flesh, her legs sprawled—he reared up and came inside her, hard and fast and deep. When she screamed again, as he knew she must, his palm was over her mouth. He felt her pain, but he didn’t stop, not until he pressed against her womb. His heart pounded, he trembled like a palsied man, but discipline was the important thing here.

He pressed his forehead against hers. “Your maidenhead,” he managed to whisper against her hot skin, “I had to get through your maidenhead. I swear it will never hurt again. Lie still, get used to me. Let your muscles relax. No, don’t curse me, you’ll just make me laugh. Breathe deeply. Feel me in you, Rosalind. All right?”

Relax? With that man part deep inside her? How could that be possible? Curses bubbled up, but she held them in. She leaned up and bit his earlobe. Not at all loving or gentle, but that was all right, it steadied him. He whispered against her temple, “I won’t move, I promise. Please, try to relax.”

She bit him again.

Not such a violent bite this time. He kissed her cheek, the tip of her nose. He was a man in pain, a man whose muscles would lock for all eternity if he didn’t move, and quickly. “Surely this is the hardest thing I have ever attempted to do. Surely this makes me a very fine man indeed. Lie still, that’s right, just lie still.”

How could his voice sound so soothing, so gentle, when he’d skewered her? Men came into women, she wasn’t stupid, but still, she’d simply never imagined how it would actually work. She could feel him, and wasn’t that the oddest thing, hard and smooth and he was pulsing. How could that be?

He was heavy on top of her, and hot and sweaty. He didn’t move. Nor did she.

She began to ease, began to let herself feel the length of him, the heat of him, and how very alive he felt. It was the small clenching of muscles deep inside her that sent him over the edge.

“Rosalind.” His brain blurred, every feeling centered on her, driving into her—and her womb, oh, merciful heavens, her womb—he yelled his release.

He collapsed on top of her, feeling the slick of her sweat. Blessed be, he was still alive and of this earth, and she was holding him, her arms tight around his back.

Rosalind said against his shoulder, “I can feel you inside me. It is a very strange thing, Nicholas.”

He’d never understood how women could find the breath and brain to speak after having sex. No, this wasn’t simple sex, this was the hurtling of self into chaos, and exploding, so many vivid colors filling his brain. This was the most wonderful thing that had ever happened to him.

He nuzzled her neck. “I can feel you too. You’re soft now, Rosalind, and wet from my seed and wet from you. Did I yell louder than you did?”

She leaned her head up and bit his shoulder, then licked where she’d bitten. Now that was a lovely bite and so he pushed a little, felt her tighten, and stopped. She said, her eyes as bemused as her voice, “I did yell, didn’t I? I couldn’t help it, it just came bursting out of my mouth. It was probably close either way. I love the taste of you, Nicholas.” And she bit and licked him yet again. “And the way you made me feel—your mouth on me—it is something I could not have imagined.”

Her words settled deep inside him where he usually didn’t spend much time, deep burrowing feelings, powerful feelings that pooled into soul-deep pleasure, filling all the empty corners of him. He managed to bring himself up on his elbows. He wanted to say something clever, something with a touch of world-wit to it, but instead, he stared down at her face, her cheeks flushed in the candlelight, her hair stark red against the white pillow, and those eyes of hers, the blue so deep, so fathomless. No, no, he was fast becoming a moron. A woman’s eyes weren’t fathomless. He swallowed. He realized in that instant that this woman was his. She was his wife until he died. If her eyes were fathomless, so be it. He felt her muscles squeezing him, then easing. A man could happily expire.

She smiled up at him. “You’re sweating, Nicholas.”

“So are you.”

She looked thoughtful. “Do you know I’ve never liked sweating before, but now?” She gave him a dazzling smile. “Now, who cares? That was wonderful, really, until you had to shove yourself inside me.”

“My coming inside you, that was your reward, your bonus for being a very good wife and letting me love you with my mouth.”

“Oh, dear.” She pressed her face into his shoulder.

“Rosalind, I am inside of you, my naked self is pressed against your naked self. There is no reason for you to be embarrassed, ever again.”

She looked at him. “Some reward. It hurt.”

“I know, but do you hurt now?”

“Well, no, not really. But you are very big, Nicholas, and I’m not. Surely the men in all those pictures, as bountifully as they were portrayed, they still aren’t built like you are.”

I’m deformed?

“Still, to be fair, despite your size, it wasn’t really so very bad after a while.” She leaned up and kissed him, a shy kiss, on his mouth. And fatigue suddenly fled. He wanted to make love to her all over again, right this instant, but he didn’t move. It was difficult being sensitive to the fact that she must be sore. He nibbled on her chin, whispered in her mouth, “Thank you for explaining everything so clearly to me.”

“I hope your grandfather isn’t standing in the corner watching us.”

He only smiled and kissed her again, on her mouth, a bit swollen, he could feel it, and so he licked her bottom lip. “You’re my wife now, legally now.”

“And you’re now my husband, legally now.”

“Ah, I’m much more than that, Rosalind.” The words spilled out of him. “I’m the man who sought you out in London, the man who knew who you were the moment he saw you, even before he saw you, the man who must figure out what—” He broke off, cursed himself along with the goat’s boot, then realized it didn’t matter. Rosalind was asleep. He eased away from her to lie on his side beside her. He stroked her hair, easing out the tangles, picturing her head thrashing on the pillow when she’d fallen headfirst into her first orgasm, not a timid little orgasm, but a loud, ankle-thrumming, bone-melting orgasm. He gently pressed the wild curls behind her ear. “Yes,” he whispered against her temple, “you’re now legally my wife.”

He spooned her, his hand on her belly, and kissed the nape of her neck. She tasted like salty jasmine.

He’d listened to men over the years talk about their mistresses and their wives. The biggest difference, they’d say and laugh, was that a wife followed you to your grave, or placed you in it, whereas a mistress perforce caressed whatever it was you instructed her to caress, and hopefully she would mourn your death perhaps a week before finding a new protector.

Wives, the talk usually continued, were to be taken quickly, without fuss and candlelight, in hushed darkness, a husband fast, done, and gone, all modesty preserved. Whereas a mistress, she was fashioned to enjoy a man, to enjoy his slavering all over her.

He’d always believed the men idiots.

Tonight, he’d proven it. He imagined that Ryder Sherbrooke would agree with him wholeheartedly.

He wondered what it would be like to have Rosalind take him into her mouth. He nearly shuddered himself off the bed.

He fell asleep with her scent in his nostrils, the taste of her on his mouth.

He didn’t love her, couldn’t love her, for a man couldn’t love a debt. Could he?

33

Nicholas handed her the ancient leather book. “Here is my grandfather’s copy of the Rules of the Pale. As you can see from the meager number of pages, it appears only to be an extract.”

“Perhaps this is something of an introduction that will have explanations.” But her voice didn’t hold out much hope.

Rosalind sat in his grandfather’s chair by the fireplace. The seat was warm even through her petticoats and her gown, and that made her wonder, but since there came no moans or groans when she’d sat down, she would deal with the possibility of sitting on a spirit. Hopefully the old earl was prowling elsewhere this morning, perhaps still hovering about in his former gloomy bedchamber, or standing on the other side of the room, watching her in his chair.

She let the skinny volume fall open at random. It was in the same code, she recognized it, and she could read it as easily as the other. She read:

The wizards and witches who reside on Mount Olyvan are an unscrupulous lot, endlessly contentious and vain. They hurl spells and curses at each other, so vicious the heavens hiss.

I realized at last that they could not leave Mount Olyvan, perhaps they could not even step off of Blood Rock, this cold and grim fortress that seems older than the Pale itself. Not one of the residents seemed to know where the fortress name came from, or the fortress itself, for that matter. I asked Belenus and he said vaguely, “Ah, we are from before time decided to travel forward.” What a typical wizard answer, I thought, and wanted to kick him.

Another time I asked Belenus how old he was and he ran large fingers through his thick red beard, showed me his white teeth, and said finally, “Years are a meaningless measure created by men who have to count them to ensure they get their fair share, which men never do because to kill each other fulfills them more than continued life.” On this, I fancied he had a point.

I asked Latobius, the Celtic god of mountains and sky, if he was really a god, if he was immortal, and he raised his hand and a flame speared out from the tip of his finger and exploded an exquisite glass sculpture across the vast chamber. From King Agamemnon’s palace in Mycenae, someone had told me. I remember the shards flew outward, cascades of vibrant color.

And I thought, You are a wizard, not a god, and I pointed my finger and hurled a spear of flame at a sconce on the stone wall. To tell the truth, it relieved me to see it burst apart. We both stood there watching the heavy shards hit the marble floor and scatter. He said nothing. It was difficult, but I didn’t either.

And Epona? My son’s mother? I never saw her again after the sixth night I spent in her white bed.

What are these beings?

I knew there were servants, but they were only flashes of shadow and light, as if they moved about in a slightly different time and place, out of phase, like a moon hovering just outside your vision. They certainly kept the fortress clean, its inhabitants well garbed, but they were separate from the witches and wizards, separate from me as well. Did they take their direction from something outside the fortress? Perhaps they were guards, or bodyguards. There were cooks too because the meals were splendid.

“Where are the servants?” I once asked Epona. She wore only white, her gowns always spotless. Her bedchamber was also completely white, it seemed to me the air was white around her. “We call them only when we need them,” she told me, but that didn’t sound right at all. “So they are not really here then? Where do they go? Where do they come from?” But she only shook her head, smoothing one white hand through my hair, and began kissing down my belly. And I wondered, before my brain became nothing more than empty space between my ears, Do you have any idea who or what these creatures are who serve you?

Rosalind raised her face. “Nicholas, this book isn’t an extract from the other, it’s completely different.”

His heart was beating hard, strong strokes. “Yes, so it seems. Keep reading, Rosalind, there aren’t many more pages.”

There came a night when Blood Rock heaved and groaned and spewed rock and dirt high into the sky. Flames speared into the moonless black sky, the three bloodred moons inexplicably gone from the heavens. I heard screaming and shrieks, like demons from the deepest pits of Hell. The wizards and witches? Or the other creatures I didn’t know about? Rocks tumbled down the steep sides of Mount Olyvan. I could not hear them crash at the bottom, and I feared for a moment that there was no longer a bottom, no longer a valley below. I ran to the ramparts and prepared to face my death. But I didn’t die, Blood Rock did not tumble down Mount Olyvan. As suddenly as the cataclysm had begun, it ended. It was still, utterly still, as if the air itself were afraid to stir.

I didn’t want to remain here and so I sent a silent plea to Taranis, the Dragon of the Sallas Pond who’d carried me to Blood Rock, and soon he came, swooping down gracefully onto the ramparts. No wizards or witches came to bid me farewell, indeed I hadn’t seen a single one after the upheaval that had shaken the bowels of the fortress. My bowels as well. Had they all died?

Taranis lifted his mighty body gracefully from the ground and winged away from Mount Olyvan. When I looked back, everything seemed as it had been. I wondered yet again at all their Celtic god and goddess names, for none of them ever seemed to worship anything at all—and at Taranis the Dragon of the Sallas Pond, who was named after the Celtic god of thunder, the god who demanded human sacrifices. Had Taranis caused the mayhem on Mount Olyvan? He was immortal, he’d told me, unlike those bedeviling wizards and malignant witches in Blood Rock. I asked him if the wizards and witches had survived. Taranis told me the creatures of Blood Rock were cowering within their individual enchantments, a cowardly lot. I wanted to ask him about my son, if he had indeed been born of Epona’s body, if indeed he had ever existed, but Taranis chose that moment to dive straight toward the earth and I lost what few wits were in my head, and my bowels were again in question.

She looked up again. “Sarimund is occasionally amusing in this account. It’s completely different from the other. I wonder what really happened? Or if any of it happened at all.”

“Perhaps the Blood Rock wizards and witches unleashed all their powers.”

“Unleashed their powers on what? The fortress? The mountain itself? On each other?”

“I don’t know.”

“I wonder if Sarimund ever found out what happened. Perhaps there is a third thin volume somewhere. Oh, dear, do you think his son survived? Epona’s son? Was he even born yet? This is very frustrating, Nicholas.”

“Read the final pages, Rosalind.”

She tried to turn the page, but it was stuck. It wouldn’t part. She looked at her husband, saw he was frowning at that page. “Drat, Nicholas, I cannot turn the page. It seems stuck together with the last page. Remember with the other Rules of the Pale, I simply couldn’t read the code on the final pages. With this little one, the bloody pages refuse to come free. I really would like to hurl this across the library.”

Was that a rustling sound she suddenly heard?

There was a knock on the library door.

Nicholas looked ready to curse. Rosalind quickly got to her feet. “Let’s see what’s happening now.”

It was Peter Pritchard, his young face haggard, his pale eyes ringed with shadows, his dark hair standing on end. His clothes, however, looked freshly pressed and his boots were polished. Behind him stood six women and four men in the vast entrance hall, all waiting, Peter told them, to be convinced by Nicholas to come to work at Wyverly, which was surely an opportunity only a dolt would deny—just imagine, a lifetime of tales to whisper about in front of winter fires.

“Give us a moment, Peter,” Nicholas told him and shut the library door in his face. He’d forgotten. He didn’t want to deal with convincing a bunch of villagers to work at Wyverly, and Rosalind saw it. She also saw his mouth, ah, his mouth, when he’d kissed her, when he’d caressed her with his mouth. She shivered, remembering how when she’d awakened, he was gone, and she wanted to howl. As she stretched sore muscles she hadn’t been aware of even having, she thought about burrowing against him in her sleep, and waking to kiss him, letting him—well, she’d kissed him at the breakfast table, in a small, really quite lovely room with huge windows that gave onto the front drive, kissed him until Marigold had staggered into the room balancing heavy silver-domed trays on her arms. She’d stopped in her tracks and stared and stared, then grinned from ear to ear.

And after breakfast, when Rosalind had thought perhaps Nicholas would carry her up to his boyhood bedchamber, he hadn’t. He’d brought her to the library and handed her the thin leather book. She knew this was vital, she knew it, but still—

She smiled at him now, tossed him the thin volume. “Why don’t you slip out into the gardens, Nicholas, and think about this. See if you can free those final pages. Did you notice there are no more rules? Yes, you go to the gardens. Since I am the Wyverly mistress, it is only right that I deal with hiring our staff.” She patted his arm. “I am very good at convincing people to do what I want.”

He looked down at the book, opened his mouth, but she lightly placed her fingertips against his lips.

“The book has been here for a very long time. It isn’t going to fly out the window. Try to get the last page unstuck, though I don’t hold much hope. Now, let me see what I can do. We need to get Wyverly back to its former glory. Ah, there was former glory, wasn’t there?”

“There was until my father became ill, actually faced his own mortality and realized the house and lands would come to me. He moved his family to London and left everything here to rot. Not all that long ago, thank God. I was very lucky Peter Pritchard was available.”

“I’m sorry, Nicholas. What a wretched old wart your father was. I wish he were here so I could punch him in the nose.”

He laughed, bent down and gave her a hard, violent kiss, and took himself out of the glass doors into a small overgrown garden. He heard animals scurrying about in the underbrush. He called out over his shoulder, “We need gardeners.”

She opened the library door and ushered Peter in. “Peter,” she said, turning to face him, “I think I should like to speak to all of them at once. I trust you have ensured that none are ripe to steal the silver?”

“The old earl told my father, who told me, that Nicholas once stole three silver spoons forged during the time of Queen Bess so he could sell them in Grantham and buy himself a pony. The old earl, my father told me, thought it was very well done of him. The pony was treated like a prince here at Wyverly Chase. Indeed, he still resides in the stables, content to be brushed and fed carrots.” Peter paused, slapped himself, and said, “I’m sorry but that has nothing to do with the matter at hand. As best I can ascertain, we have no thieves in this bunch.”

“All right, Peter, bring in our people.”

“They’re not ours yet, my lady, and I doubt—”

She merely shook her head at him. When they were all lined up in front of her, many looking frankly alarmed to be in the old earl’s library, the rumored seat of all ghostly occurrences, several of the men trying to sneer away their fear, Rosalind smiled at each of them in turn, and said, “I am Lady Mountjoy. My husband and I are newly arrived at Wyverly Chase.” She leaned closer. “Let me tell you all truthfully—I played chess with the old earl’s ghost last evening, and do you know what? I beat him every time. He grumbled and threw several chess pieces across the library, but all in all, he took it well.”

There were several gasps, a couple of indrawn male breaths.

“The old earl is in transit, I suppose you could say. He is neither here nor there, but currently more here than there, if you know what I mean. He is not dangerous, not at all alarming, indeed, I find that he is a good listener and I enjoy singing duets with him.

“Do any of you sing?”

34

Dead silence. An older woman’s hand slowly crept up. “I do, my lady. The vicar told me I have the sweetest voice in his whole flock.”

“Then doubtless you will have to carry the duet with the old earl, as his voice isn’t all that true. Do you think you would enjoy that, Mrs.—”

“Mrs. McGiver, my lady. Mr. Pritchard spoke to me about the housekeeper position.”

“The old earl knows some clever songs, Mrs. McGiver.”

“’E’s not the old earl, ’e’s a ghost,” one of the men said, “a bloody ghost wot doesn’t belong aboveground! Singing duets, it isn’t right. All this talk about playing chess with a ghost—there’s evil and bad business, that’s what everyone says. No good will come to anyone who stays ’ere.”

Rosalind nodded at the older gentleman with a rooster tail of white hair. “I understand your concerns, Mr.—”

“Macklin, my lady, Horace Macklin. I was the ’ead gardener ’ere before the old earl came back to ’aunt.”

“The gardens are in dire need of your help, Mr. Macklin. Now, listen to me. I have discussed this with the old earl and he assures me he is not evil, he is, indeed, of a happy frame of mind. The reason he is happy is that he is very glad his grandson is here and wed.

“He told me about many of you, how kind you were, how pleasant and witty, how very good you all were. He also said he hoped you would come back and scrub things up so Wyverly Chase can be brought back to its former glory.”

Still uncertain looks, at least two appalled faces.

Rosalind leaned a bit closer to the group and lowered her voice. “I can tell you this: He will add interest to your lives, he will make you smile after you become used to hearing his booming voice. When he breaks into song, I daresay you will soon find yourselves singing along with him. Who among you can be so timid, so fearful, as to turn down this very rare opportunity? Isn’t this an adventure, something to tell your grandchildren? Your friends? I daresay they will all be hanging off your words, buying you glasses of ale to hear you talk.”

Ah, most of the faces weren’t quite so stony now.

She continued, “All great houses have their ghosts. Without ghosts, great houses simply don’t come up to the mark. Now, the old earl’s ghost isn’t ancient and thus he hasn’t yet decided whether or not he wishes to settle here. As I said, he is still afloat, but eager to greet all of you. Will he remain? I don’t know. We will see.”

She stepped back and let them huddle. Voices were muted but they were talking, and that was good. Eyes darted around the library, but the old earl remained quiet, if he was even here.

Finally, the woman with the sweet voice, Mrs. McGiver, took a step forward and said, “All but Robert will come, my lady. Robert is afraid, a sorry thing for a man to be—”

“ ’Ere now! I ain’t afeared!”

Mrs. McGiver sneered at him. “Then sign on, my lad. You won’t even have a chance to hear the old earl sing, or sing with him for that matter, since you’ll be yanking up weeds in the gardens. You too afraid to do that?”

More grumbling, then Robert nodded. “All right, I’ll stay on the grounds, but niver will I come into this den of iniquity. A ghost in the library—it fair to beetles the brow.”

Thankfully, the old earl’s den of iniquity remained quiet, the air unruffled and warm.

Rosalind heard Peter Pritchard tell the group as he ushered them out of the library, “If you would all begin today, his lordship and ladyship would be very pleased. Do you know that I myself have sung a duet with the old earl? His is not a very good voice, I must say, but he does try. I’m thinking there must be heavenly points for singing rather than simply speaking. What do you think, Mrs. McGiver?”

“He never had a good voice, at least I wouldn’t imagine he did. I never heard him sing, truth be told.”

Robert said, “Well, now, the old earl’s dead, ain’t ’e? Who could sing good with grave dirt in ’is mouth?”

Mumbled agreement. Thank the good Lord no one mentioned there hadn’t been a body in the old earl’s casket.

Rosalind was grinning when she joined Nicholas in the small overgrown garden with hummingbirds dipping into the rich tangled rose blooms. The air was soft, the sun shining down hot from a clear sky.

“I like my new home, Nicholas. We now have ten additional servants. All will be well. Our new housekeeper is Mrs. McGiver, and I have to hand the prize to her. She’s got a backbone, in addition to a lovely voice.”

“However you and Mrs. McGiver managed it, I am impressed.” He kissed her. The hummingbirds were blurs in the air, swooping closer when he took her to the ground behind a thick-pedestaled sundial. She asked him between kisses if the earl ever visited this small garden.

Nicholas, no fool, said, “No, never. He hated flowers, hated the bright sun. Do you know, I hated leaving you this morning, I ground my teeth, kicked the chair on my way out the door. Do you know you clutched me to you when I tried to leave? Ah, be quiet now.”

“Then why did you leave?”

“You had to be sore,” he said between kisses. “I didn’t want to hurt you. You’re better now, aren’t you, Rosalind?”

“Oh, yes,” she said into his mouth even as she pulled his ears, “I am perfect.”

He laughed.

Because Peter Pritchard wasn’t a fool either, when he heard voices in the garden he immediately turned himself about and went back into the old earl’s library. He thought about the widow Damson, her lovely smile, her pillowy breasts, and decided it was time to pay a visit.

Twenty minutes later, Nicholas helped Rosalind to her feet and straightened her gown. She fussed with her hair. “Oh, dear, how do I look?”

He was so sated, so contented, not a care in his brain, his eyes heavily hooded, that he wanted to fall in a heap and grin like an idiot. His fingers touched her cheek. “You look like a queen.” Since this was perhaps not all that accurate, Rosalind punched his arm. He grinned down at her, kissed her mouth again because he couldn’t help himself, and said, “You look happy and satisfied with yourself. You look silly and adorable as well. There were three twigs sticking out of your head like horns. This look of yours befits a new bride. Don’t concern yourself—no one will know what you’ve done beneath the sundial. Trust me, you also look like the stern mistress of Wyverly just so long, well, so long as one doesn’t look at your eyes.”

“What’s wrong with my eyes?”

He kissed her again. “Not a thing. However, the terms ‘vague’ and ‘dreamy’ come to mind.” Like his own eyes, he guessed. “That sundial is very old, you know, at least two hundred years. I’m pleased it didn’t fall on us when you kicked out with your foot.” He lightly touched his fingertips to her cheek. “I am very pleased with you, Rosalind. Very pleased.”

Rosalind didn’t look up at him. “I am pleased with you as well, Nicholas. I know I should be shocked at what I most willingly wanted you to do to me—again—things that you did to my great satisfaction—again—but I’m not.” That tongue of hers licked over her bottom lip. He went en pointe. She stood on her tiptoes and whispered against his ear, “There are things I wish to try, only you didn’t give me a chance.”

He could practically feel her long white legs, sleek with muscle, squeezing his flanks, and consulted his watch. It was ten o’clock in the morning. Perhaps after luncheon he could take her riding to the small copse where a stream ran through it surrounded by soft grass, and larks sang their sweet songs overhead on the maple tree branches. He beamed down at her. “I will give you a chance. We will ask Cook to make us a picnic.”

“Oh, yes. Would you look at all the hummingbirds. Do you know how long they live?”

“Only about three years, I believe.”

“They move about awfully fast, don’t they? Always moving. Do you think with all our activity we will shorten our lives?”

He stared down at her, kissed her because he simply couldn’t stop himself, and said, “I wouldn’t mind.” He felt the book in his pocket. He cleared his throat. “I couldn’t free the last pages. The answers are there, I’m thinking, only something or someone is preventing us from finding them.” And he kissed her again.

When she would have taken him behind the sundial again, he raised his head and smoothed his thumb over her lower lip. “What do you think?”

“I think it’s time to use your brain rather than other parts, my lord,” she said and laughed as she tugged him back into the library. They both stopped cold on the threshold when a scratchy old voice boomed out,

Sins of the flesh

Sins of the flesh

A bloodless bore the world would be

Without sins of the flesh.

Rosalind shook her fist toward the empty chair. “We committed no sin. We are married. You are surely a lecherous old ghost. Be quiet.”

“The thing is,” Nicholas said slowly, after hearing nothing else from the old earl for several moments, “my grandfather never sang a note in his life. Why should he begin singing in his death?”

“What?”

He drew in his breath. “I can never remember him singing when I was a boy. I’ve been wondering how a dead man would begin to sing when the living man never had.”

“But that’s all he does, only sings out one ridiculous ditty after another, no rhyme nor reason.”

“Well, this last one was pointed and fairly accurate, I’d say. I’ve given this a lot of thought. Fact is, I don’t think it’s my grandfather.”

“Then who?”

“I think we need to go back to Sarimund’s century, to someone he knew firsthand. We need to go back to the time of the first Earl of Mountjoy. Fact is, Rosalind, I think our ghost is our long-ago captain, Jared Vail.”

“But why is he here? Why did he welcome me?”

Two excellent questions, Nicholas thought, and asked the empty chair, “Are you indeed Captain Jared Vail?”

There was a faint cackle, from behind the wainscoting, Rosalind thought, or maybe it came from that empty spot above a painting of a seventeenth-century Vail with a very elaborate curled black wig, holding a ripe peach in his hand, some sort of ancient ruin behind him.

“So, if you are Captain Jared Vail, why are you glad to see me?” she asked, looking in that direction.

Nothing at all, just calm peaceful air, no lurking ghost to stir it up.

Then the painting cocked itself crooked.

35

Two hours later, Rosalind went in search of Nicholas. She paused when she heard Mrs. McGiver’s rich contralto coming from the library. She was singing a clever song about a young girl in Leeds who fell in love with a cooper’s son and how things went awry over a beer barrel.

Rosalind moved closer to the library door, listening, then, finally, a scratchy old voice sang out,

Three girls are better than two

Two girls are better than one

Nail one and it’s fun

Nail two and swoon

Nail three or more

And the lion roars.

Praise be, Praise be.

I always nailed three

Until I had to wed

And take the fat cow to bed.

Alas, my cock fell dead, so dead.

She heard Mrs. McGiver’s sharp voice, “What a nasty thing to sing, my lord! It was somewhat funny, I’ll grant you that—but I must say your words aren’t what the vicar would consider respectful. And what is this about a cow for a wife? Your wife was never fat. She was a thin little mite as I recall. For shame.” And in the next moment, Mrs. McGiver, plump cheeks flushed, came striding out of the library. She shut the door sharply behind her. She pulled up short when she saw Rosalind.

“Oh, my lady, did you hear that nasty old—” She waved a work-roughened hand toward the library.

Rosalind said, “I heard you sing very prettily, Mrs. McGiver, and yes, I heard the old earl’s reply.” There was no need to tell Mrs. McGiver which old earl—a two-hundred-year-old ghost might not go over as easily as one who’d just gained his ghostly wings only ten years before. Still, Mrs. McGiver was clearly outraged, not because she’d heard a ghost sing, but because of the words of his bawdy song. Rosalind couldn’t help herself, she burst into laughter. She cleared her throat, and quickly said, “Do forgive me, but don’t you see? Our ghost listened to you. He was probably enchanted by your lovely voice and trying to think of a song to flatter you, to amuse you, but unfortunately those appalling rude verses were all he could think of. Don’t forget, Mrs. McGiver, he was still a man, and you know what men are.” Rosalind herself didn’t know much about what men were and weren’t, but she was married, after all, and so she gave it her best.

To her surprise and relief, Mrs. McGiver’s outrage disappeared. “Hmm. My lady, do you think he really liked my song? But, take the fat cow to bed—I mean, how spiteful—well, perhaps you have the right of it, perhaps our old earl couldn’t think of a more uplifting tune. The odd thing is, though, I can’t ever remember the old earl harking so often to the pleasures of the flesh. You don’t think that ghosts—?”

“No, no, surely not. The thing about our ghost . . . He realizes that he upset you, Mrs. McGiver. Perhaps next time, he will moderate his content.”

To Rosalind’s astonishment, Mrs. McGiver giggled. Then she harrumphed and cleared her throat. “Well, as to that, I must say now that I think about it, it was fairly amusing. Now, I left him, my lady, all upset, perhaps his ghostly innards twisted with shame and embarrassment, and I realize I must go back in the library and dust. Mrs. Sweet told me it fair to shriveled her liver to work in the library, particularly after the old earl’s chair tilted from one leg to the other to work itself closer to the fireplace, right in front of her.”

“I know. Mrs. Sweet has a fine set of lungs. You’re an example to all the staff, Mrs. McGiver.”

“Well, that’s as may be. I told Mrs. Sweet that since he was a ghost, there was little if anything at all left to him now, so didn’t it make sense that he had to have more warmth?”

“But the fireplace isn’t lit.”

“Aye, that’s true enough, and I’ll admit I did hold my breath, but luckily Mrs. Sweet accepted the explanation. Aye, in addition to singing like an angel, I’m a very brave woman, and that’s what my father told me when I married Mr. McGiver. Of course it didn’t take much bravery to crack Mr. McGiver’s head with a cooking pot when he sent his fist to my jaw, now did it?”

“You were fast?”

“Oh, yes, it only required a couple of smacks right in his face—a man with a black eye doesn’t like to be questioned about it by other men—and Mr. McGiver turned into a model husband. As you said, my lady, the old earl was still a man, whatever else he is now.”

“Hmmm.”

Mrs. McGiver whirled around at the sound of the deep male voice, a deep male voice that warmed Rosalind to her toes, and she would swear that deep male voice made those toes flush. She’d been working with Peter Pritchard, and hadn’t seen Nicholas for two hours—too long a time without him. Mrs. McGiver quickly bobbed the new earl a curtsy. “Oh, my lord. So you’re here and not somewhere else. Well, these sorts of things must occasionally happen, I suppose. It is still a pity you were close by, if, that is, you chanced to hear anything you should not have heard.” And Mrs. McGiver bobbed him another curtsy and took herself off.

“I’m a critter?”

“Doubtless a model critter, my lord.”

She saw that he was carrying several old books, and raised a brow.

“I found these in an ancient trunk on the third floor.” He stepped closer. “They’re Captain Jared Vail’s journals, Rosalind.”

“Oh, my.” The books he held were ancient cracked black leather, laden with dust, and looked ready to crumble. She eyed those books. “They are very old indeed. You told me your grandfather said Captain Jared kept a journal, but how did you know where to find it?”

“Come into the library. I don’t want any of the servants to hear this. They’d think I am quite mad and send for the magistrate. Wait, I am the magistrate. Unfortunately, I still might just declare myself ready for Bedlam.” He gave her a crooked grin and led her back into the library. He closed and locked the door. “I don’t know how good Captain Jared’s ghost is with locked doors. Perhaps we’ll find out.” He looked down at the books lying in the palm of his hand. “Or maybe he’s seated right there. If so, perhaps he’ll want to sing about the journals.”

She didn’t tell him that the ghost had just sung a bawdy ditty to Mrs. McGiver. “But how did you find them, Nicholas?”

“Fact is, I think when the old fellow saw I’d figured out who he really was, he knew it was time to direct me to his journals.”

He touched her cheek with a dirty finger. “Sorry.” And he pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped her cheek. “Perhaps you will believe me when I say I knew, I simply knew. From one moment to the next, I knew there would be something in a corner room on the third floor in the east wing, and so I went up there. Sure enough there was this ancient trunk tucked snug under a window beneath a pile of equally ancient draperies, so moth-eaten they fell to pieces when I lifted them off the trunk. Nothing else in the room, just that old trunk. Inside the trunk was a mound of clothes, and at the bottom of the trunk, wrapped in a tattered yellowed petticoat, were these three volumes.” He grinned. “What’s wonderful is they aren’t in code. I can actually read them.”

Rosalind was frowning at him. “I don’t understand, Nicholas. As a boy, you must have explored every inch of Wyverly. Why didn’t you find the trunk?”

He frowned, stared toward the library door he’d firmly closed and locked when they’d come in here. Now it was the tiniest bit open. He hadn’t heard a key turning in the lock, he hadn’t heard a thing. How had Captain Jared managed to unlock it? He walked over and closed it again, and once again turned the huge old key in the lock, saying over his shoulder to her, “Yes, I did explore every inch of this place during the seven years I lived here. So did my grandfather—he would brag that he knew where every splinter was, where every creaky stair step was. But even though he knew about Captain Jared’s journals, he didn’t know where they were.” He stared down at the key a moment, then pulled it from the lock. He looked around the room as he waved the key about. “Come and get it, you old sea dog,” he said, and slipped it into his jacket pocket.

“So the trunk with the journals just somehow appears? This is getting rather alarming, Nicholas.”

He shrugged. “Who knows? I think I shall wrap the journals in cheesecloth and take them on our picnic. We can study them in private, with no ghost or servants to peer over our shoulders.”

36

An hour later, Nicholas helped her down from Old Velvet’s back in a maple copse set at the back of the Wyverly property. Rosalind was carrying the cheesecloth-wrapped journals as tenderly as she would a baby.

Old Velvet, he’d told her when he’d introduced her to the bay mare with lovely white socks, had been intended to mate with Beltane. Unfortunately, Beltane wasn’t interested, a blow to Nicholas and to Velvet, who proceeded to eat every oat she could find and became quite fat. “They still ignore each other,” he said, and patted the old mare’s nose.

After they tethered the horses, Nicholas carried the picnic basket and a large tartan blanket, the plaid of Scottish Highland cousins many times removed, and led her deeper into the maple copse.

The air was as soft as Old Velvet’s nose, soft like silk lightly touching her cheek. The scent of wild roses and star jasmine filled the air. Was that lilac she smelled? There were animals rustling about in the woods around them. A lone nightingale sang from the top branch of a maple tree.

Rosalind looked around her, touched the leaves of a wild rosebush. “What a wonderful place. It is perfect.”

He nodded. He was standing very still, his eyes closed. “When I was a boy I always thought something good and fine lived here a very long time ago. Whatever it was, or whoever it was, it left an echo of sweetness behind. And joy,” he added, then flushed.

This hard tough man, she thought, who’d carved himself an empire with his brain and his back, and he thought of an echo of sweetness. And joy. And he was flushing because surely a man shouldn’t speak so poetically.

He’d seen her and wanted her. Only her. He hadn’t cared that she could very well be less than a nobody.

She watched him fall to his knees and spread out the tartan, and arrange the food atop it. She stood there, the journals still clasped protectively to her chest, and marveled at him. At Fate. At a two-hundred-year-old ghost and the journals he’d led Nicholas to find.

He smiled up at her, patted the plaid. “Come, sit down.”

“I must be very careful not to hurt the journals.”

He said with absolute conviction, “They’re not about to disintegrate on us now, since I—we—were meant to find them. Hand them to me, Rosalind.”

He laid them on the tartan. “Let’s eat first, I’m starving to death, unless—”

“Unless what?”

He shrugged, all indifferent, picked up a leg of baked chicken, and bit into it.

She said, “Unless perhaps you would care to kiss me first?”

He chewed on the chicken and looked at that mouth of hers, and slowly smiled. “A very nice idea.”

She laughed aloud and leapt on him. He fell onto his back, tossed the chicken leg over his head, heard a small animal scurry to pinch it, and brought her over him.

He would never tire of kissing her, he thought, never, and when his hands touched her bare flesh, he trembled. She didn’t know what to do—until she felt the earth suddenly tilt and all her embarrassment fell out of her head. She grabbed his hair to yank him down to her.

When she lay quietly, her head on his shoulder, her breathing finally smoothing out again, he sighed. “I am a selfless man, a man so noble he ignores his own needs, content to bask in the pleasure he gives his wife. Ah, if I feed you, Rosalind, will you have the energy to perform your marital duties?”

“But, you—” She reared up and grinned down at him. She struck a pose. “Ah, I understand. You want more than one marital duty from me. Do you know, I have some ideas about that.” She remembered one drawing in the book her aunts had reluctantly given her that showed a woman on her knees in front of a standing man and he had his hands clenched in her hair while she was pressing her face against his belly. At least at the time she’d thought it was his belly, and hadn’t understood why that was of enough interest to merit a page in the book, but now she knew the truth. She gave him a look to cramp his guts.

They didn’t touch the journals until an hour later. Even then, Nicholas really didn’t give a good damn. He was stretched out on his back, naked, his shirt, pants, and boots tossed to the ground beyond his right arm, a silly grin on his face, his eyes closed against the spear of sunlight coming through the maple leaves, basking in utter contentment, remembering when she’d dropped to her knees in front of him. “Tell me what to do,” she’d said, her warm breath on his flesh, but he’d said nothing at all.

“Nicholas?”

A soft voice, a sweet voice, coming from above him, insistent, that voice. She kissed him. Slowly he opened his eyes and looked up at her. What to say when the earth had opened beneath his feet, and he’d dived right in? “That was very fine, Rosalind.”

She preened, she actually preened. If he’d had the energy, he would have laughed.

She nearly sang it out. “You were as wild as I was, Nicholas.”

His eyes crossed. He blinked. “Perhaps,” he said. “Perhaps. I suppose you wish me to get myself together, don’t you?”

“Yes. I just looked over at the journals, and I swear to you, they’ve moved closer to us.”

Nicholas sincerely hoped that Captain Jared’s ghost hadn’t nudged them closer since that would mean the old boy had gotten himself a ghostly eyeful. He raised his hand and lightly touched his fingertips to her lips. “I love your mouth.”

She ran her tongue over her bottom lip and he swelled, ready to take her down again. He swelled even more when she looked down at him.

No, he had to get a grip on himself. At least she was wearing her chemise—how did that happen? But a chemise didn’t matter since he was a young man and he was newly married and—he took her down, both of them laughing wildly, then there were only whispers and deep sighs. This time, he managed to work her chemise up to her neck.

When he buried his face against her breasts, and moaned deeply, all those dark places inside himself that had been empty far too long, bubbled and filled, perhaps even overflowed. It was astounding.

When he handed her his handkerchief, she walked into the trees, giving him a quick smile over her shoulder. Her wild curling red hair tangled about her shoulders. He lay back and closed his eyes, grinning like a fool, he couldn’t help it. When she came back, her chemise was in place again.

He dressed himself, then assisted her with the buttons on her wrinkled gown, even rubbed at the grass stains, and knew the laundress would know well what had happened to the mistress’s gown.

“It is two hours after noon, Nicholas, only the second day of our union, and you have already loved me three times.” She gave him a huge grin. “And I loved you.”

“I have always liked the number four. Would you—”

She raised her face to the cloud-tumbled sky. “I am stalwart, I am focused, I will not let you distract yet again. Ah, but you are beautiful, Nicholas.”

He had to clear his throat three times before his brain was focused enough to read from the first ancient journal. The handwriting was spidery and barely legible, the years had so scarred and faded the ink.

“This entry is dated the same year as his marriage to the Wyverly heiress,” he said.

“Goodness, you remember that?”

“No,” he said absently, “Captain Vail wrote it here.”

“Have you already read the journals, Nicholas?’

“Just a few pages here and there. In this first one, he chats about what was happening at the time—how his decision to wed the heiress was a good one because his pockets were so empty they were dragging the ground. His creditors were six feet behind him, and closing fast. You will like this: She is eager, a fine thing for a virgin of seventeen, and even though she has an arse the size of a cow’s—”

“What a nasty thing to write, particularly when she saved him.”

“Yes, very true,” Nicholas said. “He goes on to detail the actual building of Wyverly—at great boring length, I might add—and the workmen he’d like to kick in the arse. Ah, he appears to have an obsession with this rear part. All right, here we go. Now he writes about what happened to him the previous year when he lost everything in the Mediterranean, his ship, his cargo, his crew, yet he was saved. He writes, I knew something wasn’t right. I was lying on my back and I couldn’t move. A single light shone directly onto my face, but it wasn’t a strong light so it didn’t blind me. The light was strange, all soft and vague, and it seemed to pulse like a beating heart.

. . . I don’t know who or what this being is, but I indeed promised to pay my debt so that I would continue living.

. . . A young girl appeared in front of me, her hair streaked with sunlight, loosely braided down her back, eyes blue as an Irish stream, freckles across her small nose, a sturdy little girl with narrow hands and feet. She threw her head back and she sang.

“What did she sing, Nicholas?”

He saw that she knew well what the little girl sang.

He read:

I dream of beauty and sightless night

I dream of strength and fevered might

I dream I’m not alone again

But I know of his death and her grievous sin.

He looked up at her. Neither said a word. He knew she also realized she was the little girl. Rosalind whispered, “Then what does he write?”

A child’s voice, sweet and true, it called forth feelings I hadn’t known were in me, feelings to break my heart. But those strange words—what did they mean? What male died? What female’s grievous sin?

. . . She spoke again; this time her words rang clear in my brain: I am your debt.

She said slowly, “I don’t suppose we can escape it now. I was the little girl and whoever, whatever it was who demanded Captain Jared pay this debt—whatever this debt is—I’m it.”

37

They gathered up the remains of their picnic and rode silently back to Wyverly. Nicholas felt the fear in her, just as he felt it in his own gut. He didn’t like it and sought to distract her. He spoke of their tenant farmers and the repairs he was making on their cottages, the new equipment he’d provided for their fields. He was nearly hoarse from talking so much when at last they were sitting again in the library, both of them looking over at the earl’s chair. It remained perfectly still, and hopefully vacant.

Rosalind said, “I wonder where our ghost goes when he’s not in this room.”

“Don’t be afraid,” he said abruptly.

“That isn’t possible,” Rosalind said. “I’ve never felt such fear, not since I was eight years old, woke up to hear I’d nearly died, and couldn’t remember who I was. Worse yet, I still don’t know who I am. I only know I am a debt.” She slammed her fist on the chair arm. “What bloody debt?”

Suddenly, one of Captain Jared’s songs was clear in her mind. She recited the verses slowly aloud.

At last the girl comes home

A girl who never belonged

To her is owed the debt

Well met, my lad, well met.

The little girl nearly died

The monster nearly won

The debt was paid by another

But the race must still be run.

How could she remember the words so clearly, so easily? She looked up to see Nicholas studying her, his fingers steepled.

“Yes,” he said, “I remember them as well. It all began when a being whose identity we don’t know, whose identity Captain Jared never learned either, a being who saved his life, took him to this unidentified place, told him he had to pay this debt because, as this being told him, I have sworn not to meddle. It is a curse that I must obey my own word.”

“What being would promise not to meddle, Nicholas? That is what a magic being does—it meddles, it plays, or it devastates. And I am the debt, yes, I will accept that though I was also seemingly the debt over two hundred years ago, the debt Captain Jared was to have paid, and how can that be? Who was he to pay a magic debt?

“I don’t know anything of a debt, I don’t even know who I am. All I know is that wretched song. It’s always been inside me, you know it was the first thing out of my mouth when I finally began to speak after Uncle Ryder brought me home.

“I don’t know who the monster is in the song. Obviously it was Uncle Ryder who saved me. The race must still be run. So it’s still there, the monster, the mystery, the need to pay the debt, whatever it is.

“And then after you came, we found Sarimund’s book, the Rules of the Pale. Or rather Grayson did. What does that wretched book have to do with anything? Why can I read it and not you or Grayson? Who cares about this red Lasis who kills the Tibers in fire pits? None of this makes any bloody sense and I’ll tell you, Nicholas, I’m very sick of all of it.”

She jumped to her feet, grabbed a pillow, and threw it at the old earl’s chair. The very heavy chair tilted a bit, then settled again.

“Oh, go away, you miserable old fright! I didn’t strike the chair hard enough to make it move. I am a normal female person now, not some sort of planted dream from hundreds of years ago. Am I a wizard’s debt, for God’s sake? A wizard who’s sworn not to meddle?”

The chair tilted again, then settled.

They both stared at it. Rosalind growled deep in her throat and threw the other pillow at Nicholas. He snatched it out of the air six inches from his face. “Sit down, sweetheart. It’s time—” His brain closed down a moment. No, he had to say this, he had to tell her the truth now. No choice.

“Time for what?”

“It’s time I was completely honest with you. It’s time I told you who I am and what I know of this.”

Something was very wrong here, and she knew she really didn’t want to know. But there was no hope for it. Her heart jumped, then begin to thud, slow hard strokes. She sat beside him and clutched his arm. She said, her mouth so dry she could barely form the words, “What do you mean, who I am? You actually know something? Tell me who you really are. Tell me what is going on, Nicholas.”

He took her hand in his, began stroking her long fingers. He stared into the empty fireplace as he said, “I was eleven years old when I first dreamed of you. You were a little girl, skinny, your glorious red hair in braids, the line of freckles scattered across your nose. You had the sweetest face. Then you sang your song to me. After you’d sung, you fell silent and looked at me, sad and empty, and you said, I am your debt.

“I finally told my grandfather about the dream after I’d dreamed it a half dozen times. Always the same, always your face, your voice, that haunting sad song.

“To my astonishment, Grandfather told me he’d had the same dream as a boy but it had simply stopped when he’d been about sixteen, but he’d never forgotten it or you or the sense of failure. He said his father had told him the same thing, but he’d never understood the debt either, and his dream had stopped also when he’d been a young man. It was as if, my grandfather said, whoever or whatever had brought on the dreams had given up. My grandfather supposed it went all the way back, although exactly how far he didn’t know, and it always came to the eldest son and he always dreamed that dream, but then, as he gained years, it simply stopped. But not the feelings of loss, the feelings of something vital left undone.

“I asked him about my father. Had he dreamed the dream? My grandfather told me my father was the second son and he denied any such dream, as did his older brother, the first-born son.

“And so it came to me. Then he recited the words of the song, looked at me sadly. ‘I never did a thing, Nicholas, never did a thing because I didn’t know what to do, like all the men in our line, I suppose. But now it is your turn. It is up to you to pay the debt, if the debt finally appears.’ He told me he believed the little girl had somehow been out of time, and surely that was beyond a man’s comprehension, but he knew she would appear when it was right for her to appear, and not before.

“Perhaps, he told me, now it was time and she would be there for me, but in truth, he didn’t know, though he was hopeful.”

Nicholas fell silent.

“Did the dream fade away when you were a young man?”

He shook his head. “No, and that is how I knew I was the Vail to pay the debt. I dreamed the identical dream perhaps twice a month. After I met you I dreamed it every night, until we wed. But not last night.”

Rosalind said slowly, “Perhaps this all ties together with the Rules of the Pale. It was your grandfather who told you about Sarimund the wizard and Rennat the Titled Wizard of the East. I dreamed of Rennat, and he told me I would come into my own and to obey the Rules of the Pale, and he kept repeating it.”

He stared at her. “Rennat actually appeared to you? He told you you would come into your own? Those were his words?”

She nodded, searching his face. “So the Rules of the Pale must fit in all this mess somehow. What is this all about, Nicholas? Who am I?—What am I?”

Nicholas smoothed his thumb over her palm. “I kept dreaming about you, the little girl with the rich red hair and eyes as blue as the summer sky, and the beautiful haunting voice. I knew someday, Rosalind, knew all the way to my soul that I would find you and I would save you since you were now my debt. It was time, you see, it was the right time, and something deep inside me knew it was the right time. And so I came for you.”

“To pay Captain Jared’s debt?”

“Yes.”

“You came to London, you saw me, recognized me, married me. A debt is one thing, but—why did you marry me, Nicholas?”

Not a single word came to his brain.

“You didn’t succumb to the coup de foudre, as the French say, did you? You did see me across the ballroom, but your heart didn’t fall to your feet, did it? You said you recognized me, Nicholas. And you came to me. Why didn’t you simply tell me who you were, what this was all about?”

“I couldn’t very well tell you when I had no idea what I was to do. What would I have said to you? Besides, whatever I could have said, you would have believed me mad. Your Uncle Ryder certainly would have put his boot to my back and kicked me out.”

“So you believed so strongly in this debt business that you married a girl you didn’t even know?”

38

“There was more to it than that, Rosalind.”

“Yes, there was the Rules of the Pale. And Sarimund and your grandfather—who just happened to have another sort of Rules of the Pale written by this Sarimund character. Now that’s a universe of madness in itself, isn’t it? You must have been so excited when it turned out I could read the bloody thing—but the Rules of the Pale didn’t tell us anything, nor did the scribblings of Sarimund that your grandfather had in his possession. He couldn’t read it either. That’s what you told me.”

“No, he couldn’t. And it drove him to near madness. The hours he spent trying to decipher it. I can remember him sitting up until late into the night studying the code, trying to figure it out.”

“But he couldn’t, because it isn’t really a code. It’s magic, some sort of enchantment.”

“Yes, perhaps so. Who knows?”

“So since I’m the only one who can read the bloody thing, I must be magic as well. Do you agree?” She laughed over his silence, an ugly sound because it was filled with fear and something else he couldn’t identify. “Oh, yes, I’m so magic I was nearly beaten to death. I’m so magic I can’t even remember who I am or how I could possibly be anyone’s debt.” She jumped to her feet and paced the length of the library. “That visit of Rennat the Titled Wizard of the East in my dream—and what does that ridiculous title mean anyway?—I’m to come into my own. How would he know that? Why did he come to me? What does he want me to do?”

“Perhaps Rennat was the wizard or being who saved Captain Jared’s life. After all, he isn’t a simple plain wizard, he’s the Titled Wizard of the East. Perhaps he also caused the storm, the being who brought the huge wave that destroyed Captain Jared’s ship and killed all his men. He set it all up so Captain Jared would believe he did owe him a great debt.”

“You believe Rennat brought the storm? That bespeaks a power neither of us can comprehend, Nicholas. Could a wizard do that, even a wizard with a bloody title?”

“I don’t want to believe it but there doesn’t seem to be a choice for me. It also means that this is a very powerful being, if this being did indeed bring Captain Jared Vail under his thumb. It can only mean that Jared Vail was the only man to pay this debt. If it wasn’t Rennat, was it Belenus, the wizard Sarimund wrote about at Blood Rock? Or Taranis, the Dragon of the Sallas Pond? He was the god, after all, supposedly immortal and all-powerful. Is that why we were led to the Rules of the Pale? But again, why Grayson and not one of us?”

She walked over to the big mahogany desk, pausing a moment by the ghost’s chair. She leaned down to say into an invisible ear, “You might try to be of some assistance here. A song perhaps that isn’t lewd, a song that really means something.”

There was nothing from the chair.

Rosalind sat behind the desk in the overlarge leather chair. “Let me get a piece of foolscap and a pencil. I want to list out all the questions. Then we will try to go about answering them one at a time.” She sat down and began writing. He watched her silently until at last she looked up at him. She said very precisely, “The question at the very top of my list, Nicholas, is why did you marry me? You are the only one who knows the answer to that question. Tell me now.”

His brain, working at a furious speed until this moment, shut down. Nothing at all came out of his mouth.

She said, her voice utterly expressionless, “Very well, I don’t really blame you for keeping quiet. Your answer wouldn’t be excessively gratifying to a new bride, would it? So allow me to answer it for you. You married me because you knew if you were ever to figure out this debt business, figure out what exactly was owed to me, figure out exactly what you had to do in order to rid yourself of the wretched dream, and this immense sense of obligation you feel, that the men of your family have felt for many generations, then I had to be close to you, I would have to be tied to you. Yes, I can understand that you would be terrified I would get away from you.

“So as I see it, you married me because you felt you had to.” And she wrote it down.

He lunged to his feet. “Bloody hell, no!”

She looked him dead in the eye. He was pale, his eyes blacker than midnight. Slowly, at last, he nodded, and his black eyes were now desolate, his face leached of color. “Yes, that is what happened.”

Rosalind slowly rose, the pencil still in her hand. “So much has happened since I met you, so many inexplicable things. I’ll wager it’s because the two main players are finally together. Do you remember I asked you once if your grandfather was a wizard and you told me you didn’t know? But then you told me he knew things, guessed things that no one else would know?”

“I remember,” he said. “There was something in him, something magic. I can say that now without feeling contempt for myself.”

“I accept that your grandfather was magic. This magic goes all the way back to Captain Jared Vail, it simply has to, and it puts magic in you as well. No, don’t argue.

“Now, do you believe this being who saved Captain Jared is some ancestor of mine?”

He didn’t want to answer, she saw it clearly, but finally he said, “It is possible.”

“All right, if Captain Jared was a wizard, and Rennat the Titled Wizard of the East saved him in order to wring agreement from him, then it also makes sense that he knew I was in trouble—or would be in trouble—and in need of saving whenever the time was right. You know, when something bad would happen to me.”

Slowly he nodded.

“Do you believe I’m a witch, Nicholas? Do you believe that someone tried to kill me because they recognized me for what I was, recognized I was from this long line of wizards, and was afraid I could harm them in some way? And so this someone tried to destroy the witch, or tried to destroy the spawn of this long-ago wizard?”

“I don’t know.”

He walked to where she now stood, and placed his hands on her shoulders. “I simply don’t know, Rosalind, but I do know that everything is becoming clearer.”

“Nothing is clear at all, Nicholas, save that like the Wyverly heiress, you married me because you felt you had to.”

“Marrying you was the most important thing I have ever done in my life.”

“It didn’t matter to you what I wanted.”

“You wanted me. That’s what you told me. This marriage has been a two-way road, Rosalind. I didn’t force you to do anything you didn’t want to do.”

“But our reasons for marrying each other were quite different.”

When he said nothing, she continued. “That’s beside the point in any case. It didn’t matter to you who I was, where I’d come from, what I believed.”

“Don’t be an idiot. Of course it mattered.”

“How were you so certain I was that little girl when you saw me at the ball that night, Nicholas? Surely I bear only the slightest resemblance to the little girl?”

He shrugged but didn’t release his hold on her. Was he afraid she’d bolt? Probably. “I knew. I simply knew, there’s nothing more I can tell you.”

“All right, so you’d found the little girl you’d dreamed about, you were led right to her, is that correct?”

He nodded.

“She was now a woman and that added layers of problems. And your solution was to marry her—me.”

“Yes. But there is so much more, Rosalind. From the beginning you were important to me.”

“Well, naturally I’m important to you. If I hadn’t wanted you desperately, why then, you would be cursed to dream that dreadful dream for the rest of your days.”

“Yes,” he said, “that is the truth.”

“What if I am indeed a witch, Nicholas? Remember Rennat told me I would come into my own, whatever that means.”

He drew in a deep breath and his hands tightened on her shoulders. “Then you are a witch and my wife, and we will deal with it.”

“When I come into my own—my own—what will you do, Nicholas?”

“Do you mean you will smite the land and bring famine to the world?”

She didn’t laugh. “What will you do, Nicholas?”

“I don’t know. How can I know something before it happens? If it happens? Or what the result will be?”

She looked up at him, studied the face that had become so beloved to her in such a short time. She felt deadening pain. It was difficult to force the words out of her tight throat. “The most important fact of all of this is you don’t love me, Nicholas.”

“Rosalind—”

She held out her hand. “You’re an honorable man, Nicholas. Give me the key.”

“But we need to study Captain Jared’s journals, see if he’s hidden some information to help us, to—”

“Give me the key, Nicholas.”

He released her and gave her the key.

She walked quickly away from him, turned, and said, “I know you want me, Nicholas, I know well you enjoy making love to me. However, from what I’ve heard, it seems a man is content with any woman who wanders into his vicinity. She simply has to be available.”

“No. Well, yes, perhaps there’s some truth to that. But you, Rosalind, you are very special to me, you—”

She raised her hand. “You don’t love me, Nicholas. That’s the truth of it. How could a man love a debt?”

And she unlocked the library door and left.

Nicholas stood frozen in the middle of the room. He heard a deep sigh from behind him.

“Go to the Devil,” he said and went out into the gardens.

39

Two hours later, he went looking for her. He finally found her in the long portrait gallery in the east wing, staring up at Captain Jared Vail, the first Earl of Mountjoy. She was looking up at a man in his prime, a big man, his legs in the tight leggings of the Elizabethan times. Broad shoulders, a chin possibly more stubborn than Nicholas’s. She started when she studied his eyes. His eyes—they looked familiar. She’d seen those eyes, hadn’t she? No, that didn’t seem possible. His eyes were a glorious blue, bright, filled with wickedness and endless dreams and wonders, and mayhem.

She knew the moment Nicholas entered the gallery. He walked with lazy grace, but she saw the tension in him. They stood only three feet apart, but in truth, there was a chasm between them.

“He was quite a man, was Captain Jared,” he said, looking up at the portrait.

She eyed him a moment, then said, “You said you simply knew who I was, simply knew I was the child you’d lived with nearly all your life in your dream. Come, Nicholas, how did you recognize me? I was a woman, not the child you dreamed about.”

“I told you the truth. I simply knew. I realize it must sound impossible to you, but I knew you would be at that ball, knew it all the way to the deepest part of me, and I knew you the moment I saw you. Does that mean nothing to you, Rosalind? Can’t you see? We were meant to know each other, meant to be together.”

She crossed her arms over her chest, tapped her toes. “Listen to me, Nicholas. Despite all that’s happening here, despite all the questions, the mystery, it is still my life. Mine. And you married me under false pretenses.”

Yes, true enough, damn me for an idiot. He reached out his hand to her, dropped it when she didn’t respond. “Rosalind, I did what I had to do. Whatever this debt is, I know to my bones that both of us, together, must figure it out. We must figure it out because I know I am meant to save you.”

“Ah, so now you believe the debt is to save my life? Uncle Ryder saved me first and now it is your turn?”

“No, I’m not certain that is the debt, but it seems certain to be a part of it.”

She said nothing for a very long time, merely stared at him, through him really, and he had no idea what she was seeing, thinking. She said at last, “That first night I sneaked a look over my shoulder at you even while Grayson was leading me to the dance floor. I will be honest here, Nicholas. You fascinated me from the first moment I saw you. You looked so mysterious, so dangerous.” She stared back up at Captain Jared. “You made me feel things I didn’t know existed. You made my insides want to shout with joy. I felt drawn to you. In some deep part of me, I knew you were meant for me. I was very glad when Uncle Ryder told me you were coming to visit that next morning. And you came and I knew I wanted you, desperately.” She paused a moment, thoughtful. “And now you will say that I too recognized you, recognized you as what—my knight? My husband? What?”

He said, without looking at his wife, “I’ve been wondering why you can’t read the final pages of the Rules of the Pale.”

“All right, so you are not ready to deal with my questions. Aunt Sophie says that a man, if he is smart, can distract with great skill, he can avoid facing something that makes him uncomfortable. Perhaps you would like to deal with this question: If Grayson hadn’t been led to the Rules of the Pale, by whomever or whatever, if we didn’t know about Sarimund and his damnable rules at all, there would have been nothing to focus on, nothing to draw us into this mystery. What would you have done? Would you simply have hung around me, hoping something evil would try to do away with me and you would slay it?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t think of it, truth be told. Everything has happened so very quickly. I only knew that finally, in this span of almost three hundred years, it was I, Nicholas Vail, not Captain Jared or any of the other following firstborn Vail sons, who was finally in the right place at the right time. And there you were, in the middle of it. Waiting for me.”

“I wasn’t waiting for anyone or anything except my memory to return. I didn’t know there was anyone for me or anything to wait for. No, that’s not true—the song was always there, waiting to be understood, I suppose you could say.”

“Yes, it is. Even without the Rules of the Pale, the song is a focus. And where would you say it comes from, Rosalind?”

“I suppose I would say it’s always been printed in my mind and on my soul. Even losing my memory made no difference to the song.”

“Just as my knowing you, recognizing you, was deep inside my mind, always there.”

“But Nicholas, you must see that I don’t know anything else. I sing the song, but I don’t know what it means, didn’t really care, not after so many years. Without your coming, there would never have been a mystery, no debt I knew of, that my adopted family knew of. In the long view of things, what does a simple song have to do with anything at all?”

“Richard tried to take you.”

“Yes, he did, and that is quite interesting. I wonder why he did. To keep us from getting married? So that I wouldn’t bear you an heir? So that he could kill you at his leisure and then take the title and estate? We’d only just met, Nicholas. Why would Richard act so speedily on something that probably wouldn’t even come to pass?”

“I don’t know Richard, I don’t understand him. Was that his motive? It sounds logical, given that he’s a very angry man, mayhap a very bad man, albeit too young a man to be so accomplished at sin already.”

“You indeed look like brothers, nearly twins, save you do look a bit older. He is only twenty-one, so very young to be thinking of murdering his brother, or murdering me.”

“You’ve seen what a rotter Lancelot is. Can you imagine what he will be like when he is thirty? If he lives that long. As for Aubrey, who can say? At our wedding breakfast, he was certainly interesting and clever for one so young.”

Rosalind said, “I agree you are not blessed in your remaining relatives. Do you think perhaps Richard wanted me for himself—for some reason we don’t yet know? Or perhaps he saw me and he is the one who fell head over heels in love? The infamous coup de foudre? He had to have me or die trying?”

“Now that’s a mawkish thought.” Nicholas took a step toward her. Rosalind looked him squarely in the eye, then down at his outstretched hand.

“Don’t,” she said.

He drew a deep breath, but didn’t back away. He dropped his hand to his side. She saw a flash of anger in his eyes, but he said only, “The fact is, you are very important to someone. The people who tried to murder the child, are they still about? Would they recognize you like I did? And Rennat the Titled Wizard of the East—who is he to you? What is he? A long-ago ancestor? Or perhaps simply a beneficent being assigned to look after you? If so, he didn’t do a very good job of it when you were eight years old. Who are your parents? Are they still alive? Where are they?”

“You know I have no answers to these questions. You also know when I finally spoke, I spoke fluent English and Italian. Which am I?”

“I told you I would send off inquiries and so I shall.”

“Just what would you inquire about?”

“That’s easy enough—any renowned wealthy family who mysteriously lost a child ten years ago. No, don’t doubt that. How else could you speak two languages fluently? Your English is obviously a lady’s English; your Italian, I am certain, is the same. Well, let’s see.” He spoke Italian to her, not an educated, aristocratic Italian, since he’d learned it from an Italian mistress from Naples, but he did indeed know educated Italian when he heard it. In the next moment, she answered his question about her favorite hobbies in smooth upper-class Italian.

Nicholas nodded. “Ryder told me your clothes were well-made, though ripped to rags. And there is your gold locket. Someone will recognize it.” He said it with absolute conviction. “Now, after you left me alone with the old earl’s ghost, I finished reading Captain Jared’s journals. I told him his assistance was worth spit, that he hadn’t written a single helpful thing. He didn’t even tilt the chair.”

“Perhaps he is embarrassed.”

“I’m thinking he simply doesn’t know himself since he never found the little girl to whom he owed his debt.”

She said, “For me, it always comes back to why would anyone wish to murder a child?”

“Don’t forget that whoever it was, he didn’t get the job done. He failed. Now that is something to consider, isn’t it?”

Now that she thought of it, she realized he was right. “Surely it wouldn’t be all that difficult to kill a child. It’s not as if the child could defend herself.”

“And why on the docks in Eastbourne? Say you are Italian, then why were you here in England? Were you with your parents? Were you kidnapped from them here? No, that can’t be right. Your parents would have raised a mighty hue and cry and Ryder Sherbrooke would have heard about it. No, you were likely taken from Italy. By whom? And why would he or she or whoever want to murder you here? In Eastbourne?”

“For that matter, why not simply toss me over the side of the ship in the English Channel?”

He sent his fist into the wall right beside Captain Jared’s portrait, making its heavy gilt frame tilt. When he faced her, he looked dangerous, his eyes dark, opaque, vicious, she thought, his mouth cruel. “Bloody hell, don’t be angry at me, Rosalind. I did what I had to do.”

She sighed. “I know.”

He felt a surge of relief, felt the rage fade a bit. “You do?”

“Of course. Tell me, Nicholas, when all this is resolved, will you journey back to Macau? Are the laws different enough there to enable you to have a wife in England and one in this Portuguese colony?”

He froze. He looked primed for violence, his face now even harder, colder. He said very precisely, “You are my bloody wife. You will remain my bloody wife until the day we die.”

“No,” she said, her face still, “I am your debt.”

She heard him cursing as she walked away from him down the long gallery, vicious curses. She didn’t recognize many of the animal parts he used so fluently. She did understand the occasional reference to a woman whose ears he wanted to box.

When Nicholas walked into the master bedchamber late that night, Rosalind wasn’t where he’d believed she would be—namely, in bed. He didn’t expect her to want to make love to him, but he’d believed she’d be there, possibly pretending sleep, he didn’t know, but she’d be there. Perhaps because she feared a ghost’s machinations, and his company was better than none at all.

At dinner, she’d spoken calmly, detailing plans she’d made with Peter and Mrs. McGiver for improvements within the house and work on the grounds. She’d played the piano, and he leaned his head back, closing his eyes to listen. And when she’d added her voice to the songs, he’d sighed with pleasure. When she crashed down on the final chords of a Beethoven sonata, they both looked up to hear applause coming from the corridor outside the drawing room. Peter Pritchard stuck his head in, smiling, pointing to the audience of servants.

She’d played a song for Mrs. McGiver to sing, and that had been very fine indeed. Then all the servants had been encouraged to sing, and they’d had an impromptu musicale. It had been, he thought, quite nice.

Where the devil are you, Rosalind?

Yes, she’d been calm whenever she’d spoken to him or looked at him. Nicholas realized finally, after following her up to bed, that he’d thought of more questions, and decided that once they made their way to the cursed center of this maze, he never again wanted to hear another question in his natural life. Ah, but if there was magic in him, maybe nothing in his life would be natural. If he’d had magic in him from as far back as Captain Jared, then why had he been forced to eat roots in Portugal when he’d been a starving twelve-year-old?

As he paced the large bedchamber, he remembered that storm in the Pacific, near the Sea of Japan, when one of his sailors had nearly been swept overboard and Nicholas, through sheer luck—or something else—had managed to loop a rope around the man’s flailing hand, surely an unlikely feat, and haul him upright. The first thing the sailor had done was cross himself a good six times, others of his men as well, and none of them had ever looked at him again in quite the same way. On a very deep level, they’d feared him.

The candlelight flickered.

“Go away,” he said.

The light calmed. That ancient old sea dog was ready and willing to keep him company, but not his wife.

He went to the adjoining room door and turned the knob. It was locked. She’d locked a door against him.

He knocked on the door. “Rosalind, let me in. I wish to speak to you.”

Nothing.

“Dammit, I’m your husband. You will obey me. You will open this damned door now.”

“I know well who you are, my lord. I, however, have nothing more to say to you. Go away. Good night.”

His booted foot itched to break down the door. Instead, he walked quickly to the main door off the hallway. It was locked too. He felt like a fool. He stood against the opposite wall, his arms crossed over his chest, staring at the locked door, and finally managed to calm himself. Let her stew. Let her get cold during the night without him to warm her. Let her be frightened of all the unknowns all by herself. Curse her.

When he finally fell asleep, alone and naked in that big bed, a heavy dose of fatalism settling into him, he realized what he wanted was to make her angry enough to try to murder him. He yearned for violence, violence he could handle, anything but her polite disinterest.

He thought he heard an ancient old voice humming and resolutely ignored it.

40

At exactly three in the morning, Nicholas sat straight up in bed at a deafening roar. Windows shuddered, the room rocked. Thunder, he thought, heart racing, it was only thunder. It was odd, though, because it hadn’t looked to storm when he’d finally fallen into his bed. Another clap of thunder shook his bed. Suddenly, a jagged sword of lightning struck directly into his bedchamber and he was bathed in light. Only thing was, the light didn’t fade. It was as if a dazzling sun was trapped in his bedchamber.

This isn’t right, isn’t right at all.

He looked toward the windows as he jumped out of bed. And waited, standing by his bed, but there were no more slashes of lightning, no more thunder to rattle the windows and shake the room, but still, the huge bedchamber remained pure white. And he thought, No, this is whiter than sunlight. This is something else entirely, only he didn’t have a clue what was happening. The Pale, he thought, this is a message from Rennat.

He remained standing beside his bed, breathing hard, wondering what the devil was going on, trying not to let his imagination run wild and his heart slam out of his chest. Or perhaps—he said, “Are you here, Captain Jared? If this is one of your bizarre performances, stop it at once, do you hear me?”

No sound, nothing at all, just the empty stark white. Dead white, he thought, as dead white as the face of a bandit he’d killed outside of Macau the previous year.

He heard Rosalind scream.

He ran to the adjoining door, kicked his foot into the wood close to the lock, but the door didn’t give. He cursed, then rubbed his injured foot. Not broken, thank God. He pounded the door. “Rosalind! Open the damned door!”

Suddenly, the door swung wide open and he was nearly blinded. The countess’s bedchamber looked even whiter than his own vast room, the white light nearly blinding. He could see every corner of the room, every detail of the furnishings and draperies. Even the light layer of dust on the vanity table glittered the same dead white, as if encased in ice.

Rosalind stood beside her bed, a white nightgown covering her from neck to toe, her vivid red hair now as white as the room, tangling over her shoulders and down her back. Her face looked dead. He knew his face must look the same, and wasn’t that an image to turn his innards to water?

“Rosalind? Are you all right?”

She didn’t move, said nothing. She seemed unaware of him, seemed not to even hear him, much less see him.

He stopped cold when he neared her and saw she held a knife. It was dripping blood. Only, the blood drops were white.

She’s been hurt, she’s been—

He looked closely at her white face, at her hair still white as an old woman’s. Why didn’t the white fade away? Unless it wasn’t natural. His wife holding a dripping knife in her hand was far from natural as well.

He looked down at the knife, saw the steady drip, drip, drip of white blood onto the carpet beneath her bare feet. Where was all the blood coming from?

He watched a white blood droplet splash on her left foot. White on white. It was obscene.

He didn’t touch her, merely held out his hand. “It’s all right, sweetheart, I’m here. It will be all right. Give me the knife.”

She didn’t look at him, didn’t respond at all. Finally, she stretched out her hand to him. He gently uncurled her fingers from around the knife handle.

He realized soon enough that he’d seen the knife in the library beneath glass in a small case on one of the bookshelves, locked to the young boy who’d once tried to open it. Had it belonged to his grandfather, or had it gone all the way back to Captain Jared Vail? He didn’t know. The knife looked vaguely Moorish, the blade curved like a scimitar, gems embedded in the ivory handle. He didn’t remember what sorts of gems they were and couldn’t tell now because they were utterly without color.

He raised his voice. “If it isn’t you, Captain Jared, is it Rennat? I don’t care who is causing this—stop it now. I am tired of this trick, do you hear me? Stop it now!”

To his relief, and, he admitted, to his surprise, the room went slowly dark, fading finally into the simple dark of night. He turned toward the window to see rain streaking down the windowpane. He realized there’d been no more thunder, if indeed thunder it had been. As for the strange lightning, no, lightning wasn’t the word for it either.

He carefully laid the knife on the night table beside the bed. It no longer dripped white blood, no surprise, since whoever, whatever, had stopped the magic.

He clasped Rosalind’s shoulders in his big hands and lightly shook her. “Rosalind, come back. Everything’s over now.”

Slowly, she raised her head to look up at him.

Her eyes, once dilated, were normal now, and blue once again, her hair vivid red, her face no longer the dead white, but still too pale. “Sweetheart,” he whispered against her temple, “it will be all right. I’m here with you now. I can protect you, well, perhaps not completely. I nearly broke my foot trying to break down your door.” He pulled her tightly against him, pressed his palm against her head until she rested on his shoulder.

Her breathing was slow. She said facing his neck, “I’m sorry about your foot.”

He rocked her where they stood, kissed her hair, began to smooth out the tangles. “Can you tell me what happened?”

She pressed closer. He held her tight, felt her nails digging into his back. “It’s all right,” he said, and repeated it once more, twice.

She said finally, her voice thread thin, “I was dreaming I saw a man I’d never seen before. He was very handsome, Nicholas, like a golden angel, with the most beautiful pale blue eyes, but I knew there was darkness behind those pale eyes of his, and that sounds strange, but it’s true. Too much darkness, and such intensity. I felt his intensity to my soul. Even though he looked at me he didn’t seem to see me, didn’t seem to know I was there, although I was standing right in front of him, on the other side of a huge fire. He was brewing something in a large pot and I thought he must be careful else the flames would burn him, for they were leaping upward, spewing, then funneling, forming peculiar shapes. I’d never seen a fire like that before in my life. I told him to be careful of those mad flames, but he didn’t hear me. For him, I suppose I wasn’t there. It was as if there was a wall between us and it was clear only from my side.

“He continued to stir the pot with some sort of long-handled metal spoon. I watched the pot bubble and hiss and the flames roar, as if an unseen bellows blew on it. I realized he was chanting something and I thought, Why can’t he hear me if I can hear him?”

She fell silent, her hands in fists now against his shoulders. He continued to hold her tightly, running his hands up and down her back.

“There is a clear wall between us, I thought as I watched him, but it made no sense to me and so I stuck out my hand to touch it. There was nothing there. I stepped to the side of the fire, and stuck my hand out again.” She shuddered against him. “I touched his shoulder. He jumped in surprise. Believe me, so did I. He stopped stirring, stopped his chanting, and looked straight at me, and I knew he could see me now. Nicholas, he smiled at me.”

“He what?”

“He smiled at me, and said in this deep voice, ‘You are mine. Isn’t it odd how the light always brings clarity?’ Then he looked back over his shoulder as if hearing something or someone coming that alarmed him. Then he turned back to me and he put his fingertips to his lips. He stared at me. I saw something strange and scared in his eyes, but it was gone quickly. His eyes were so intense, Nicholas, so powerful, I felt he was looking into my soul. He whispered, ‘Be careful, look to the book, and you will be here, soon now, soon now—’ ”

She looked up at him now, and he saw her eyes were clearing, becoming more focused.

“What happened then?”

“Suddenly it was as if I was hurtled into a huge well of white, like a blizzard, but there was no wind, no movement of any kind, no cold, nothing save blinding white. Then you were holding me and talking to me and I slowly came back into myself. Was it the white that frightened him? Or was he the one who stopped it when you commanded it? Nicholas, what was in the pot? What did he mean that I had to be careful?”

“For once a being in a dream says something that makes sense. This being believes you’re in danger, he’s warning you.”

“But who was he?”

“We will find out, don’t worry.”

“And the book, I’m to look to the book. That has got to mean Sarimund’s the Rules of the Pale or Sarimund’s short book that belonged to your grandfather. All right, I can do that. I can read both books again, we can study them more closely.”

“Yes, we will even look at the book seams, see if there is anything hidden within the covers. Another helpful clue. We’re getting there, Rosalind.”

“And what did he mean when he said I would be there soon? In the Pale?”

He didn’t like it, but he said, “Yes, very likely. As to the light bringing clarity, that requires more thought. We will figure it all out.” He pointed to the knife. “When I came in, you were holding this knife. Blood was dripping off the tip, only the drops were white like everything else. Do you know where it came from?”

She looked horrified. “No, no, I’ve never seen it before. It wasn’t in my dream. I was holding it and it was dripping white drops of blood?” She sounded terrified now and he couldn’t blame her. “But wait, Nicholas, you were wrong, there’s no blood on it, white or red.”

He picked up the knife, looked down, and felt his heart stop. She was right—there was no blood, no sign there had ever been any blood. The blade was glittering silver. He immediately released her and fell to his knees to study the carpet. No blood.

Nicholas slowly rose, felt his heart tripping. He hated that there was something going on here he couldn’t begin to understand, hated not understanding, not knowing what it was. He felt helpless, impotent. What if she’d been with him? Would she have dreamed the same dream? Would there have been the same thunder, the terrifying white that filled everything? Would he have seen the knife appear in her hand? He said, “Wait, I saw blood drip on your bare foot.” She raised her foot. There was nothing at all. She raised her other foot. Nothing.

“Well,” he said, trying to center himself, trying to think clearly, calmly. “You called it a dream. It would seem you were plunged into the middle of a vision.”

Rosalind laughed, a shaky laugh, and said, her voice a bit stronger now, “I don’t know where the knife came from. I’ve never seen it before in my life.”

“It’s kept in a glass case down in the library.”

“Nicholas?”

He laid the knife back on the night table, gathered her against him again. He kissed her ear. She was at last warming. He began stroking her again through the soft muslin nightgown.

“The man who was stirring the pot,” she said against his shoulder, “I told you I’d never seen him before.”

He kissed her temple. And waited. And his heart pounded slow deep strokes.

“He smiled at me. He knew me. He said, ‘You are mine.’”

He waited.

She pulled back in his arms and looked into his face. “It’s all so clear to me now. I know who the man was in my dream. It was Sarimund.”

There was more confusion in her voice than fear now. He tried to keep his voice light. “Since I met you, Rosalind, I must say my life has been anything but boring. So Sarimund is in the middle of this rich mix of chaos, no surprise there.”

“First I dreamed of Rennat the Titled Wizard of the East and now Sarimund. What does it mean, dammit?”

He smiled at her curse, touched his fingertip to her chin. “We’ll figure it all out.”

“All of the whiteness, the dagger with the white blood, Sarimund speaking to me—you’re right, it wasn’t a dream, Nicholas, it was a vision.”

“Yes,” he said, “I think it was.” Having a vision sounded all well and good, but he had no answers that he could get his brain around, and it nearly killed him.

“And that knife. Is it someone’s message that there will be violence? Was that an additional warning for me to be careful?”

“I plan to keep you safe, sweetheart, I swear that to you. As for the rest of it—” He paused, stared down at her. “But not now, not now.” He leaned down and kissed her mouth. He felt her jerk of surprise, felt her initial resistance, then she sank into him.

She whispered against his mouth, “Sarimund was a vision, but you’re not. You’re my husband, Nicholas, and you’re naked.”

He’d forgotten, truth be told. Her hands stroked up and down his back now, and she moved even closer, if that were possible. Her palms stroked down his flanks, his legs, then smoothed forward toward his belly. He wanted to laugh. Here he was ready to take his wife down on the bed and there was a knife not a foot away from them that had, five minutes before, been dripping white blood. Whose? Sarimund’s?

He pulled back and closed his eyes when her hands pressed against him between their bodies, and her fingers touched him. He jerked away.

“Did I hurt you?”

He laughed. “Oh, no, my brain is dead, but nothing else. I beg you, Rosalind, don’t move your hands, well, I take that back, yes, move your hands but not away from me. Touch me, Rosalind. This is about us now, only us, and I want you very badly.”

When Nicholas lay on his back a short while later, a sleeping Rosalind tucked against his side, he stared up at the shadowed ceiling, listening to the light rainfall against the windows.

He suddenly realized he didn’t like the way the room smelled. It wasn’t musty, no, it smelled coppery. Then he realized what it was. The scent he smelled was blood.

He lifted his wife in his arms and carried her back to the earl’s bedchamber, kicked the door to the countess’s room closed with his foot.

She jerked awake when he laid her onto the cold sheets.

“Shush,” he whispered between kisses, “it’s all right now. Come close and I’ll warm you.”

She murmured against his neck as she settled once again against him, “Sarimund said I’d be with him soon, soon I’d be coming to him.”

He kissed her eyebrow, then her eyelids. “Rosalind, did you see any resemblance between you and him?”

He felt her start. “Did I look like him? Oh, no, Nicholas, I told you, he was beautiful, like an angel, all golden, his eyes light, light blue.”

“What do you think he meant when he said to you, ‘You are mine’?”

“Could it mean I’m a descendant of his? Sarimund lived in the sixteenth century, at the same time as Captain Jared. And he’s here, at least his voice.”

A descendant of Sarimund—he supposed it explained a lot, but what exactly he couldn’t say. He kissed her again, pulled her close. She whispered against his chest, “I let you make love to me. I shouldn’t have done that.”

Laughter came up in his throat, but he managed to hold it in. “Do you feel better now?”

“Yes, you know I do, but that is not the point.”

“The point, whatever that is, can go to the Devil.” He kissed her forehead, and settled in.

He was nearly asleep when he felt her lips move against his shoulder, and somehow, even though she only murmured the words against his flesh, he knew what she said. “The Pale—that’s where all this is leading us.”

He fell asleep to the sound of the rain against the windowpanes and an image of a red Lasis in his mind.

It was the bright sunlight shining onto his face the following morning that brought him instantly awake, but it was the sound of Mrs. McGiver’s loud shout that made him leap out of his bed, nearly dumping Rosalind onto the floor.

41

Rosalind yelled, “Nicholas, you’re naked!”

He stopped at the door, whirled back around, and caught the dressing gown she threw to him. She pulled a sheet from the bed and wrapped it around herself.

The two of them raced down the long corridor.

There was another loud shriek.

They ran down the main staircase and pulled up short. Mrs. McGiver stood over Peter Pritchard’s body.

Nicholas was at Peter’s side in an instant, his fingers against the pulse in his neck. He breathed a sigh of relief—his pulse was steady and slow. Peter was wearing trousers and a shirt, and only his socks. His boots lay beside him. He’d probably come into the house and taken off his boots because he didn’t want to disturb anyone. “He’s not dead, thank God.” But he was unconscious. Nicholas felt for injuries, but nothing seemed broken. He heaved him to his shoulder and carried him into the drawing room and laid him on a sofa. He said over his shoulder, “Mrs. McGiver, what happened?”

“Oh, dear, my lord, I was coming down to see Cook about the oatmeal—there were lumps yesterday, and that’s just wrong—well, yes, I saw Mr. Pritchard lying here. I immediately went to him, my lord, and I thought he was dead because he didn’t respond even when I pinched his arm on the inside just above the elbow like I do to my grandchildren when they’re naughty.”

“Then what happened?”

She sucked in her breath and blurted it out, “I thought that miserable ghost had murdered him. I was afraid, my lord.”

“Who is the physician in these parts?”

“Andrew Knotts, my lord, skinny as a windowpane but he doesn’t go out of his way to kill his patients. Oh, here’s Mr. Block.”

Nicholas saw Block pulling on his black coat over a white linen shirt not tucked into his trousers. He did, however, have his boots on. “Block, get the physician immediately. Go, man.”

Peter stirred some five minutes later. Both Nicholas and Rosalind, now in a dressing down brought to her by Mrs. McGiver, hovered close, her feet, like his, unfortunately still bare. Rosalind dabbed a handkerchief dipped in rose water to his forehead.

“Peter?”

His eyes slowly opened. “My lord?”

“Yes. How do you feel?”

“There were three of you, but now there are only two, so I must be better.”

“Yes, you are better. Peter, what happened? Mrs. McGiver found you unconscious on the floor.”

“My lord!”

It was Marigold, breathing fast, racing to a stop inside the drawing room door. “There are visitors. They’re coming fast, impudent as you please, and here it is barely dawn.”

Nicholas said, “Keep yourself still, Peter. Rosalind is going to give you some nice strong tea. I’ll be back.”

He walked into the entrance hall to see his stepmother standing squarely in front of him, dressed entirely in lavender all the way to the straw bonnet atop her head with two very purple curling feathers that quivered, chin up, looking like a banty rooster ready to take all comers. Arranged behind her were all three of her sons—Richard, Lancelot, and Aubrey.

Nicholas crossed his arms over his chest. “Well, now, it’s true I’ve been gone from England for a long time, but isn’t this a bit early to pay a morning visit?”

Miranda said, “You aren’t dressed. There is a bruise on your foot. Your bare foot.”

He shrugged. “Why are you four here in my house?”

Richard stepped forward. “We had meant to arrive last evening, but our carriage broke down and we were forced to spend the night in Meckly-Hinton.”

His mother whisked around him to stand in front of him. As if she were somehow protecting him from Nicholas? “We were forced to stay the night at this miserable little inn called the Raving Rooster, set in the middle of a village that shouldn’t exist since it has nothing to recommend it.”

“And you got up before dawn to pay me a visit. May I ask why?”

Richard Vail, dressed in black, dark beard stubble on his face, gently eased in front of his mother again. He said without preamble, “We are here to warn you.”

Miranda stuck her head around his shoulder. “I told him, why bother? You hate the lot of us, who cares if you croak it? Or if someone croaks you?”

“Mother,” Richard said.

“Warn me?” Nicholas’s voice was all languid and arrogant, and he knew it drove Richard mad. But Richard didn’t look as if he wanted to kill him; he looked pale, he looked—frightened. Nicholas frowned at him. “I know the four of you would not shed a tear were I belowground, yet you all troop into my house at near dawn to warn me?”

“Yes,” Lancelot said, his poet’s face flushed with anger, his voice nearly breaking with it, “but I didn’t want to come. Don’t tell you a bloody thing, that’s what I wanted, but Richard insisted, blast him. I don’t know about Aubrey.”

“Shut up, Lance,” Richard said, not looking at him. His brother sucked in a curse.

Aubrey, with his red hair and bright intelligent eyes, nearly bounced forward. “I wanted to come, Nicholas. I don’t even know you, so why would I hate you? You and your bride were quite nice to me at your wedding. Listen, Nicholas, the fact is, we are here. Mother is fatigued, though she has the energy of three Druid priests. Won’t you invite us in? We really are here to warn you, that’s no lie.”

“My lord!”

Trying to edge past his half brothers was Block, towing a very tall, very gaunt man in his wake. The man’s hair was nearly as white as his own hair had been in the vision.

“You are the physician, sir?”

The man gave him a short bow. “I am Dr. Knotts. Where is my patient? I hope it is serious enough to justify bringing me out at this unleavened hour of the morning. I say, there are quite a few people standing here in the entrance hall. Madam, I must say you look on the bilious side. Perhaps it is because of the vast quantities of lavender you’re wearing. My lord, would you care to direct me?”

Nicholas eyed his stepmother. “Ma’am, you and your whelps will accompany Block to the library and he will give you tea. I shall be along shortly.”

“But—”

Nicholas didn’t look back at her. He directed Dr. Knotts to the drawing room. He heard grumbling behind him but didn’t turn.

As he stood by the door watching Dr. Knotts gently shove Rosalind out of his way, he called out, “Come with me, Rosalind. You and I must dress now. We have unexpected guests.”

Not twelve minutes later the two of them returned to the drawing room to see Dr. Knotts standing beside Peter, the doctor’s arms folded over his chest.

He turned at Nicholas’s entrance. “My lord, there is nothing to warrant leeches.” He sounded disappointed.

“Do you know what caused Mr. Pritchard to collapse?”

“He carries the curse of youth, which is idiocy, but he assures me he was not drunk. I have no idea what made him faint, for that is what he did, pure and simple. He had no seizure, no sudden pain in his head or limbs. So I must conclude that he collapsed for the simple fact that he is young and untried and—”

Nicholas said, “He is older than I am, Dr. Knotts.”

“Then it must be a stricture in his bowels. This is not uncommon, particularly in young men with excesses of male vigor.”

Peter sat up suddenly, thoroughly alarmed now. “A stricture in my bowels?”

“Aye, lad, but it will work itself out. Now, I must be off.” And Dr. Knotts, after bowing to both Nicholas and Rosalind, was gone within the next second, Block at his side.

Nicholas said, “Don’t worry, Peter. I fancy the good doctor has no idea why you passed out. Odd things sometimes happen when you least expect them, but then they pass. How do you feel?”

“I am fine now, my lord. I honestly don’t know what happened. I was feeling quite fine, and suddenly, I saw this bright flash of white and then you were leaning over me, speaking to me.”

It was the light that had laid him flat, Nicholas thought. But why? He said to Peter, “I wish you to confine yourself to very light duty today, Peter. Let’s not take any chances. Now, my stepmother and my three half brothers just arrived. Her ladyship and I must attend them. Rosalind, come with me.”

She asked him again as they walked to the library, “Richard wanted all of them to come here to warn you? That is nonsense, Nicholas, and you know it. I do not trust any of them, except perhaps for Aubrey. He seems harmless enough.”

“Richard looks scared. No, he is scared. He’s not a good enough actor to fool me and that alone gives me great pause.”

In the library, they found the three brothers seated, drinking tea and eating Cook’s gooseberry muffins. The Dowager Lady Mountjoy stood next to the fireplace, a teacup in her gloved hand.

“I never liked this room,” Miranda said when they walked into the library. “It’s dark and cold, and so I told that mad old man.”

“I agree,” Nicholas said. “Now, Richard, you will tell me exactly why you have descended on Wyverly Chase.”

But Richard was staring at Rosalind.

“You’re here,” he said.

“Well, yes, I live here.”

Miranda said, “Richard has had a dream, Nicholas, a dream that—”

“Why don’t you let Richard tell us about the dream, ma’am,” Nicholas said pleasantly, his eyes never leaving his half brother’s face.

“Terrified about a silly dream, just like a girl,” Lancelot said, and gave his brother a fat sneer.

“If you don’t have anything useful to say, then shut up, Lancelot,” Nicholas said. “Now, Richard, what is this all about?”

Richard rose. He looked straight at Rosalind and pointed his finger at her. “She killed you, Nicholas. I watched her kill you.”

Rosalind didn’t protest. She smiled at him and marveled aloud, “What a lovely thought that is—killing my husband and here we are newly wedded. Hmmm. Have you looked at your brother, Richard?”

“Of course I have! What of it? I’m very nearly as big as he is and probably more dangerous!”

That earned him an ironic look from Nicholas and another big smile from Rosalind. “Please, do tell me exactly how I managed to kill my husband.”

“You think this is amusing, do you? You stabbed him, damn you. I watched you stab him.”

Nicholas said slowly, “Did you happen to see the knife, Richard?”

“Why do you care what the bloody knife looks like? That is the least of your worries. This woman—your precious new bride—who has no family, no known background—she killed you.”

“Then what did she do?” Nicholas asked him.

Richard’s face flushed, his eyes darkened. “You think this is all a jest? You’re mocking me?”

“Tell him what she did, Richard,” Aubrey said. “Tell him.”

42

Richard gave Rosalind such a venomous look she wanted to cross herself.

“She dug out your heart and held it up as if it were an offering to some heathen god, your blood streaking down her arms, dripping off her fingers. There was blood everywhere. She was covered with your blood, Nicholas, splattered upward even to her face.”

“What did she do with my heart?”

Lancelot took a step toward Nicholas, fist up. “You bastard, you don’t believe my brother. He doesn’t lie, damn you. Listen to him if you wish to live.”

“I’m listening, Lancelot, but so far it sounds like a tale Grayson Sherbrooke would write, perhaps set at Stonehenge. You said this was a dream, Richard?”

“I’m not sure, actually, I was in a sort of waking state, so not really a dream, no. More like a vision. A vision of something that will happen. I was alone, in my bedchamber at home, and time lost all meaning to me and then the vision came into my brain, clear and sharp. I could even smell the blood when she cut your heart out of your chest.”

Nicholas looked at each of them in turn. He saw bone-deep resentment in Lancelot, a sort of academic interest on Aubrey’s face, flat contempt on Miranda’s face, and on Richard’s face—cold fear. He said to his half brother, “You came to warn me because—?”

Miranda stepped forward, her expression now venomous. “She held up your heart, you moron, and she chanted foreign words Richard didn’t understand. Your wife killed you! And you have the gall to question your brother’s motives in coming to help you?”

Rosalind spoke. “Richard, what was I wearing in this vision?”

“A white robe belted at your waist with a thin rope of some kind. Its ends hung down nearly to your knees. Your hair was long down your back.”

“You are certain it was me?”

“Yes, all that wild red hair, your blue eyes. It was you.” He frowned. “But it was as if you were in a different time, in a different place. I don’t know, that doesn’t really make sense, but I know it was you.”

Nicholas said, “So now she’s a vestal virgin of some sort or a high priestess?”

“I don’t know,” Richard said finally. “I don’t know. There were no priests hovering about, no one else, only the two of you, you bound on your back and her leaning over you.”

“Do you know why I cut out my husband’s heart?”

Richard, for the first time, looked uncertain. “I don’t know that either,” he said slowly. “All I know is that you did it.” He looked at Nicholas. “You asked me what she did with your heart. She flung it away from her, as if it were refuse, then she rose and stood looking down at you sprawled at her feet, and she was rubbing her bloody hands together.”

“Like Lady Macbeth?”

“No!” Richard shouted at her. “There was no real blood on Lady Macbeth’s hands, only her guilt made her believe that, but your hands were covered with Nicholas’s blood.”

Rosalind said, “We did have an argument last night, and I admit I wanted to smack him with a book, but I didn’t even do that. This ripping-out-his-heart business, that would require a dedication to something fanatical. Another time, another place, I think you said.” And she thought of the bloody knife in her own vision, the white drops sliding to the floor off the tip. Where had the blood come from?

“Be it elsewhere and in another time, you still did it, I saw you do it!”

“My lord.”

Nicholas turned to see Block in the doorway, looking stiff and proper, though his eyes were a bit on the wild side.

“What crisis is upon us now, Block?”

“The old earl’s ghost will not stop singing lewd ditties. Mrs. McGiver requests that you order him to stop.”

Nicholas turned to his half brother. “Would you care to attend the old earl’s ghost, Richard?”

Richard gawked at him. “A ghost? You’re saying the old earl’s ghost is real? That is nonsense. There are no ghosts. My grandfather is in Hell where he belongs.”

Rosalind, seeing that Nicholas was primed for violence, said, “Richard, why do you find a singing ghost more unbelievable than me dressed like an ancient priestess plucking out Nicholas’s heart and offering it as a sacrifice?”

“Let us go to the drawing room,” Nicholas said. “Block, tell Mrs. McGiver we will take care of the ghost.”

The door to the drawing room was open. Outside in the entrance hall stood Mrs. McGiver and Marigold, both listening intently, neither of them looking particularly alarmed.

Nicholas motioned the group into the room, placing his finger over his lips to keep them quiet. Once inside, Nicholas said toward the wing chair, “I am here. Rosalind is here. Other relatives are here as well. What is it you have to sing to us this morning, sir?”

A minute passed. Two.

Richard said, “It is as I thought. Servants are fanciful, they make things up, they—”

A creaky old voice sang out,

I am tired of strife

I am tired of trouble.

He stirs the pot

And it boils and bubbles.

Once he comes the danger’s near.

Once he acts then death is here.

Go to the Pale and slay the source

Else the future may change its course.

“Don’t be afraid, it’s merely the old earl,” Mrs. McGiver said kindly to Miranda Vail and the three young gentlemen surrounding her, all of them looking sheet white and ready to bolt. “He loves to sing, you know,” she added, all confiding now, “and usually he doesn’t make much sense. What he just sang, now that wasn’t lewd. A warning it sounded like to me. I wonder who this he is? I don’t like the sound of this, my lord.”

Rosalind didn’t either. She wondered who this he was as well. How were they supposed to get to the Pale to find and slay this bloody source to keep the future from changing from what it should be?

Nicholas said into the dead silence, “Thank you, sir, for your fine song. Your rhyming was inspiring as well.”

Miranda said in a choked whisper, “There is no one here. We are the only ones in this room. This—this ghost—he sings like this all the time?”

“This was a trick,” Richard announced to the room at large, “some sort of absurd trickery done by a servant who is hiding behind the draperies. One of you doubtless made up those ridiculous words for him to sing.” He strode across the drawing room as he spoke. “Where are you?” he yelled, shaking his fist. “Come out from your hidey-hole now, else I’ll gullet you.” He pulled a knife out of his coat pocket and brandished it at the draperies.

The draperies didn’t move.

Richard flung them back. There was no cowering servant there. He looked behind each piece of furniture. He found nothing at all.

“Where are you, you bastard?”

An ancient moan came from the depth of the old wing chair before it toppled onto its side to the floor.

Miranda Vail screamed.

Rosalind, Nicholas, and his four relatives sat at the breakfast room table.

Rosalind said into the strained silence, a smile in her voice, “Let me assure you again that our ghost is harmless.” None of them looked too certain about that; indeed, Rosalind wasn’t all that certain either that Captain Jared was merely the singing messenger. She said, “Enough excitement for the moment. We’ll have a lovely breakfast.”

“I could not eat,” Miranda said.

“I can,” Lancelot said. “I’m hungry.”

“You are so pretty sitting there daintily spreading butter on your muffin,” Richard said to his brother. “Just look at you, the image of a romantic poet. As for your gluttony, you’d best take care else you will strain your trouser buttons.”

“I am not pretty, damn you!”

Rosalind called out, “Block! We are ready for another breakfast course.”

Aubrey said, “This is a lovely room. Are you certain the old boy isn’t dangerous?”

“I don’t think so,” Nicholas said. “He makes no threats. He simply sings and occasionally sends his chair toppling to its side.” He shrugged. “One becomes used to it.”

“You do not believe me,” Richard said, and he drummed his fingertips on the mahogany tabletop.

Nicholas said, “Richard, tell me about the knife Rosalind was using.”

“The bloody knife?” Richard smashed his fist on the table. “You’re concerned about the bloody knife when what you should be thinking about is how to rid yourself of this vicious bitch before she murders you!”

“Cook has made some lovely toast and scrambled eggs, not to mention kippers and—” Block froze in his tracks at the violence he saw on his master’s face, indeed felt in the air itself.

Nicholas rose slowly from his chair. “You will apologize to my wife, Richard, and you will do it now and with grace and sincerity.”

Richard shot Rosalind a look. His voice was halting as he managed to get out, “I am worried about my half brother. He does not seem concerned, and any intelligent man would be very concerned. We all came here to warn him, but—”

“You are mucking it up, Richard.”

Richard cleared his throat. “I apologize, Rosalind. I do not know you so I cannot judge your character, but I had the vision and that is a fact.”

“Do you know, Richard,” she said, her voice emotionless, “I have never even been called a bitch, much less a vicious bitch. This vision of yours—”

“It is a portent,” Miranda announced as she forked down scrambled eggs. “Visions don’t lie.”

A portent, Rosalind thought, and set to her own breakfast, surprised she was ravenous. She looked up to see Nicholas watching her. Surely he wasn’t thinking she’d cut out his heart. But that vision of Richard’s—

Nicholas said, “Richard, the knife. I ask you again, what did it look like?”

“It had a curved blade, and there were diamonds, rubies, and even sapphires embedded in the hilt.”

Nicholas nodded. “I wish to show you something after breakfast.”

“After breakfast,” Miranda said, voice hard as the brass candlesticks in the middle of the table, “we are leaving. Richard has delivered his warning. We have done our duty. What happens to you now is on your own head, Nicholas.”

Nicholas carefully laid down his knife. “I would like all of you to remain here for several days.”

“So you believe me then?” As Richard spoke, he shot Rosalind a cold smile.

“Believe that Rosalind stabs me and cuts out my heart? No, but there are unanswered questions roiling about. Perhaps amongst all of us, we can figure out what is going on here.”

“There is something else going on?” Aubrey asked, sitting forward, his eyes glittering. “Something better than Richard’s bloody vision?”

“Oh, yes,” Nicholas said, “much better.”

43

Richard’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Yes, yes, that is the knife I saw her plunge into your heart.”

Rosalind saw herself holding that knife as it dripped blood—white blood. What if it was indeed a portent? What if something happened, something utterly catastrophic, and she did kill Nicholas? No, it wasn’t possible, it simply wasn’t. But what was possible, what was fact and she and Nicholas had to embrace it, was that there was magic at work here, ancient magic. She thought of all the Celtic names of the wizards and witches in the Pale. She thought of Taranis, the Dragon of the Sallas Pond, who’d been Sarimund’s confidant of sorts. His was a Celtic god’s name as well, and he’d claimed to be immortal. What if they were the same beings, but they’d somehow ended up in a different time, a different place? And somehow they’d spilled over into this world? Were they trying to come back, only something terrible had happened and they were stuck in the Blood Rock fortress? What if they wanted her to kill Nicholas because he’d descended from Captain Jared, who hadn’t paid his debt to her?

How could such a thing be of help to them?

It didn’t make sense. She’d been born almost three hundred years later, well beyond Captain Jared’s time, surely a god would know that. But then again, maybe there were boundaries on ancient wizards and gods, restricting them to certain skills in a certain time, a certain place. Maybe they weren’t all-powerful or omniscient.

It was time to act, she thought, time to discover what this debt was all about, time to learn who she really was, maybe what she really was. The possible what scared her to her toes.

She heard Richard Vail ask Nicholas, “What is the knife doing here?”

“This knife appears to have many incarnations,” Nicholas said, and she admired his ambiguity.

“Lawks,” Aubrey said, rubbing his hands together, “wait until I tell my friends at Oxford what is happening in my family—ghosts and knives in a vision that really exist. But wait, Richard, are you certain you never saw this knife before? It did belong to Grandfather; it was in this room when you were a boy, wasn’t it?”

Richard still stared at the knife, as if mesmerized. “I don’t think so, but that was a long time ago and I was young—” He shrugged and tried not to look frightened.

“Nicholas is not our family,” Lancelot said to Aubrey, “not really. Our father detested him, claimed he was a bastard, but since he was the image of himself, he couldn’t very well prove it, now could he?”

Richard said, almost as an afterthought, “Shut up, Lance.”

Lancelot puffed up and looked ready to yell, when his mother said, “It’s all terribly unfair, but, at this moment in time, Nicholas is the head of the Vail family.”

“Unfair to whom?” Rosalind asked. “Richard is the one who has been disloyal to his brother. I mean, trying to kidnap me, surely not a very praiseworthy thing to do.”

Miranda said, “And why should he be loyal to this unwanted stranger? Gone when he was but a boy and he only returns to collect his dead father’s title. What sort of son does that?”

Nicholas said, eyebrow arched, “One that is disowned, perhaps, madam?”

Miranda shouted, “It’s still not fair, do you hear me?”

“I don’t think it was particularly fair for someone to try to kill me when I was a little girl,” Rosalind said. “What do you have to say to that?”

“I have to say you are probably a harlot’s brat and her drunken lover took a cane to you, deservedly so, that’s what I say.”

In a flash Nicholas was not an inch from his stepmother’s nose. He looked intimidating, dangerous, and ruthless. In a voice so soft no one could hear what he said except Miranda and Rosalind, he said, “Listen to me, you vicious old bat, you will never insult Rosalind again or I will ruin you. Do you understand me, madam? No more new gowns since there will be no more money, no more entrée into society. In short you will be ignored and ostracized.”

“Ruin me? Ha!”

Nicholas smiled down at her, and that smile surely had to freeze Miranda to the bone. Was the woman mad? Had she lost all sense, to bait a man like Nicholas?

“Heed me, madam, for I am quite serious. Not only will I ruin you, I will ruin your three sons.”

Miranda opened her mouth to blast him when Aubrey said in a loud voice, “I say, Mother, I don’t wish to be ruined. I don’t wish to be booted out of Oxford. As for Lance, he loves his new waistcoats and his horses. Hmm, and our butler Davy as well, I think. Please rein in your tongue.”

“I pray this bastard meets a foul end,” Lancelot said, his hands clenched, his pretty face flushed.

Rosalind clapped her hands. “All of you will listen to me now. We have an unusual situation here and it behooves us to figure it out, not fight and insult each other. Nicholas is the Earl of Mountjoy. Get yourselves over your disappointment for it grows very tedious to hear the lot of you whine and complain and curse Fate. Now, Nicholas and I need to attend to some matters that don’t involve any of you.”

To her relief, Mrs. McGiver arrived in the next moment to show the Vails to their bedchambers. Rosalind assigned Marigold to attend the Dowager Lady Mountjoy. “Stick close to her, Marigold,” Rosalind said close to her ear. “She will complain endlessly, but you keep smiling and tell her you will see to everything, all right?” She dropped her voice another ten degrees. “She isn’t to be trusted.”

When Nicholas closed the library door a few minutes later, he turned the big brass key in the lock, then called out, “Sir, are you in here?”

No answer.

“Captain Jared, we need you,” Rosalind said.

No answer.

She turned to Nicholas. “Why did you invite them to remain?”

“This vision of Richard’s and his identification of the knife made me want to keep them close. I have this inescapable feeling they’re all a part of this, whatever this is. I’ve learned over the years that having your enemy within your reach gives you a better chance to survive than having one lurking unseen in the shadows.”

She stepped up to him, went onto her tiptoes, and whispered against his ear, “Nicholas, I know how to get us to the Pale.”

He stared at her, nonplussed.

“Why are you whispering?”

“I don’t know, it simply seemed the thing to do. My own vision of Sarimund last night before the whiteness awoke me—remember I told you he was chanting something? I didn’t hear the distinct words, but they somehow remained in my mind. The words he was chanting, they’re crystal clear now.”

Nicholas wasn’t surprised, not after she’d read the Rules of the Pale when no one else could. “Why now, I wonder?”

“Because time grows short,” Rosalind said. “Everything is happening very quickly now. Listen.”

Look in my book

The pages are free

Follow my directions

And come to me.

“Free pages?”

“Yes. Don’t you see? I couldn’t read the final pages of Sarimund’s book that Grayson found in Hyde Park and then I was unable to read the final pages of the shortened book here in your grandfather’s library because the pages simply wouldn’t separate. Sarimund is telling me I can now open them, so that makes them free.”

She laid her hand on his forearm. “Nicholas, you and I are evidently the two main performers in a strange play. I do not want to cut out your heart. I really don’t. I am very fond of you.”

He kissed her. “We are performers, you’re right about that.”

“To work. Let’s begin with freeing the pages in your grandfather’s book,” Rosalind said.

Rosalind’s fingers hovered over the pages, then, easily, she turned the page. Both of them froze for an instant, aware of an unknown that was close—or was it somehow Sarimund whose spirit floated above them? Perhaps Sarimund was slapping her in the face, but she couldn’t feel it because those slaps were behind veils of time, too thick for anything to come through. She was afraid to read the page, afraid of what it would do. She looked over at her husband. “What if—”

“Read the pages aloud, Rosalind.”

“Yes, you’re right. I cannot lose my nerve now.” She read:

I wanted desperately to know if Epona had birthed my son, but Taranis would not tell me. He began singing a love song to his mate, which I found quite sweet actually, but I nonetheless wanted to kick him. Now was not the time to praise eternal commitment.

Taranis said to me before he left me at my cave entrance, “Go home, Sarimund. Your time here is at an end, but do not forget what happened here because what you saw must be told to the girl. You must see that she knows this specifically”—and Taranis said, “Repeat the words in your mind. Now,” and so I did:

Turn the last page

And think of my might

Read the words slowly

And wait for the night.

Did the words come from me or from the Dragon of the Sallas Pond? I do not know. I am home again—so many humans, jostling each other, all of them talking at once—how did I get here? I do not know that any more than I know how I arrived in the Pale. I seem to remember being in the Bulgar, but then it is gone and nothing is there in my memory. I wrote down the rules for you, just as my purpose for being in the Pale was you.

You are the crown in my kingdom, the bringer of peace and destruction, the one who must right the grievous sin. It is a very strange thing, but as I write this, I know I am one with Taranis.

Turn the page now and think of my might. Aye, it is my might Taranis recognized, and mighty I am, the mightiest wizard who has ever lived in the here and now, and in the future and past, and all other places not seen by mortals.

You are a woman now, not the little girl who sang so beautifully. Good-bye. My heart is with you.

Sarimund.

Rosalind very slowly turned to the last page and stared down at a perfectly blank page. But she knew to her bones that beneath it was the stark white that had struck them last night, and within that stark whiteness was—what? She wanted to scream, but knew it wouldn’t help. She had to find out. She closed her eyes and thought of Sarimund’s might. What might? That he was strong? That he could mold and form events to suit himself? That perhaps he was an extension of Taranis? What did he mean that she was the bringer of peace and destruction? Now that sounded important indeed, terrifying too, since it sounded like she was vital, but to what—

“Rosalind! Come, wake up. Do you hear me, you twit, wake up!” A hand slapped her face, not hard. That same hand slapped her face again, and this time it hurt because she was back to herself enough to feel it.

“No, don’t hit me again, that’s quite enough. I’m back now, all right?”

“Excellent, that’s more like it. Open your eyes.” He gave her another light tap on her cheek. “Open your eyes.”

She did and looked up into her husband’s face. She blinked. “What happened?”

“You stared down at that damned blank page and just—went away, as if you’d fallen asleep. You must tell me what happened.”

“Nothing,” she said. “Nothing at all,” but she knew that wasn’t true. But what had happened was beyond her reach. “How long was I—away?”

“Twenty minutes. How do you feel?”

“Quite marvelous, really.” She gave him a very big smile. “Now, Nicholas, we have to wait for the night. Look at the last page—it’s perfectly blank, yet Sarimund’s chant tells me to think of his might and wait for the night.”

“Not very humble, is he?” Both of them studied the blank last page. No magic occurred, no words appeared, but Rosalind wasn’t worried, odd, but she simply wasn’t. “We’ll wait, just as Sarimund said to.”

Nicholas wished he’d sent his relatives on their way. Surely there was no need to have them here now. But Richard’s vision—why the devil had his half brother had a vision that was appallingly violent and clearly showed Rosalind with that knife, cutting out his heart? He wasn’t frightened simply because he knew that she would never do such a thing, even to an enemy. But what if she were under some spell? No, that was absurd. Who had sent such a vision to Richard? And why? What did it mean?

He said to Rosalind, “I wonder if I will be allowed to come with you tonight, if that is indeed what is to happen.”

44

“Oh, yes, I know you will be with me. While I was away, Nicholas, that is, I was right here, but my mind was elsewhere—I saw you, and you looked fierce and cunning, and because I suppose I was elsewhere, looking at you through different eyes, I saw the rich red aura of magic surrounding you, and I knew, Nicholas, I knew. You are powerful.”

“How do you know red is the aura of magic?”

She cocked her head to the side. “I don’t believe I knew, but it is. Yours is a very potent magic, I know that it is.”

“We spoke of this before, Rosalind. Why do you think me some sort of wizard?”

“Do you doubt for a moment that Captain Jared was a wizard?”

He plowed his fingers through his hair, and cursed.

“You are in his direct line. Your grandfather was magic, probably other past Vails as well, perhaps all the way back to the beginning when wizards first sprang from the earth. But I simply know there is more magic in you than in any of your predecessors. I know it.”

“So you believe the being who plucked Captain Jared off his sinking ship did it for a specific reason—because Captain Jared was a wizard and that’s what the being had to have. You believe that is why all the first sons of each generation dreamed of you?”

She laid her hand on his forearm. “Haven’t things happened in your life you can’t explain? You may begin with your dreams of me.”

He didn’t like this and she saw that he didn’t, but she remained quiet, watching him. He was fighting this with all his will, and his will was formidable.

“The dream of you,” he said finally, his black eyes hooded. “I was only a boy. One night you were simply there, and as you continued to come every night and sing that song to me, you—the dream—simply became a part of me, seeped into my bones, settled in my brain.

“The little girl that you were was a part of me for so long I ceased to question it. I was used to you, you comforted me when I believed I wouldn’t survive.

“But understand, the dream was nothing special, not really, even after I told my grandfather about it and he told me about the legend.”

“It is not a legend, Nicholas. I’m quite real. I was out of time for Captain Jared, but not for you.”

He looked into her face. “Out of time—how very odd that sounds, yet—you are here now with me and you are my debt, mine alone. I would gladly pay that debt if only I knew what it was.”

“You can’t think of any more strange things that have happened to you? Do you so easily forget that you knew I would be at that ball the first time you saw me, Nicholas, and that is why you came, to find me, to meet me, to assure yourself that I was real? Remember, you told me you knew me when you saw me?”

“Yes, I knew you. Yes, I knew you would be there. I don’t know how I knew, the knowledge was simply there, dormant I suppose you could say, until I journeyed back to England after I heard about my father’s death. And then, the moment I stepped foot here at Wyverly Chase, everything changed. But magic? As in I’m a bloody wizard, if there is such a thing?” He cursed again. “All right, all right. Here’s the rest of it. One of the last dreams I had of you, you were no longer the little girl. You were a woman as you are now. I remember leaping out of bed, sweating, hating that the little girl was gone because she was mine, both she and her song, her skinny braids, her freckles, the strength that even I could see in her, and I saw her vibrant red hair and knew it was you grown up.

“I remember I lay back down on my bed and fell asleep again, immediately, and there you were, you the woman, and you sang that song to me. Dammit, that’s how I knew you when I saw you. I didn’t tell you before—it simply seemed too unbelievable.”

You didn’t think that was magic? She said, “It seems it was time for you to come back to England. I’m thinking you were meant to come to me when I was eighteen, you were meant to marry me, and the two of us were meant to end it—whatever it is—and that’s why you dreamed of me as I am now.

“When I was away from you in those moments after I read from the Rules of the Pale, Sarimund said I was the crown of his kingdom, the bringer of peace and destruction, the one who had to right the grievous sin.”

She jerked away from him and pulled her hair, actually jerked it with her hands. “What is this wretched grievous sin?” She jerked at her hair again. “To understand magic, I suppose you must simply accept all the twists and turns, the questions that can drive a mortal mad.”

Nicholas said, “Almost three hundred years is a very long time for this being who saved Captain Jared to wait. Wait for what? Like you said, Sarimund called it a grievous sin and those are the same words in your song. I know of his death and her grievous sin. Perhaps it is a sin committed long ago by a god or a wizard or a witch, something strong enough, something bad enough, to continue existing all these years—until the two of us came together.”

“Yes,” she said, “yes, we are one.” Her heart was tripping. “You believe that our coming together brings us more knowledge, more power?”

He strode away from her, walking the length of the library, staring out the windows for a long moment before saying over his shoulder, “I am a simple man, dammit, a man of business. I own ships, I own property in Macau and in Portugal and here in England. Despite my wealth, I am still simple. Dammit, I want to be simple, I don’t wish to be cut adrift from what is normal, what is expected, what I am used to.” He turned around and smacked one fist against the wall. A portrait of a racing horse shuddered, the frame tilted to the left. “Here I am carrying on, and you don’t even know who you are. I am a fool—but a simple fool. Forgive me, Rosalind.”

“What happened to me when I was a child was not your fault.”

He walked back to her, grabbed her hands, and held them against his chest. “If it means being magic to resolve all this, then I will give up my simpleness. We will wait for the night and see what happens.”

“Open the door this minute, do you hear me? I want to speak to that wretched ghost! He is not in the drawing room so he must be hiding from me here in the library. Open the door now.”

He kissed her quickly, set her away from him. “Shall we let my dear stepmother come in and try to find Captain Jared?”

“Will you tell her it’s the very first Vail and not her father-in-law?”

“No, let Captain Jared amuse himself at her expense if he wishes to.”

Nicholas opened the door, gave Miranda a slight bow. “My wife and I have to visit a sick tenant. Have yourself a fine time with our ghost.”

Miranda gave both of them a malevolent look, turned her back on them, and said loudly, “Well, you dead old monster, are you in here? I don’t see you. Are you hiding from me?”

There was only the sound of the ormolu clock on the mantel, its steady ticking like falling rain in the silence.

“So you’re afraid of facing me, are you? Well, you always were a coward when you were alive and—”

A creaky old voice sang out,

A crooked root is what I see.

Not the rose you pretend to be.

A black-hearted witch with an ugly nose

Set big and lumpy on a rotten rose.

“I am not a crooked root or a rotten rose, you cursed dead moron! I am a rose! Lumpy? I have a beautiful nose! What do you know, you’re only a bloody ghost with a big mouth. You’re not even here, just your voice, and let me tell you, your rhymes aren’t at all clever. Ugly nose indeed! Show yourself, I’ll show you a lumpy nose!”

Captain Jared, smart ghost that he was, kept quiet. “You never liked me, never accepted me. It wasn’t my fault that mewling bitch died. She was a weakling, a drain on your son, an encumbrance. I didn’t kill her, your son didn’t kill her. She simply died from all the meanness inside of her.

“Your son loved me, he married me, and I gave him an heir—I gave him three heirs—yet my heirs still wait in the wings for that miserable Nicholas to drop dead. You always turned your nose up when I came here and for no reason. I hate you, do you hear?”

A soft rhythmic sound came from the corner, like a boot lightly tapping its toe against the floor.

Nicholas took Rosalind’s hand and they left the library to a silent ghost and his furious stepmother.

They heard her shout through the closed door, “I am not crooked! It is you who were crooked your entire blighted life, pretending to be a wizard. Tell me what is going on here, you old sinner, tell me now, else I’ll never leave! Why did my precious Richard have that wretched vision?”

Silence, then a deep pitiful sigh, and a depressed singsong voice:

She’ll leave if I talk

She’ll stay if I don’t

She’ll haunt me forever

Unless I’m more clever.

Prithee, just look at me now

Shrieked at endlessly by a lumpy-nosed cow.

“More clever than I? You’re a dolt, to have you as a father-in-law fair to burned me to the core, but I survived. A cow? I’m a cow? You should thank me, for I was the one who sent you that little brat who cursed me with those black eyes of his as he slunk behind furniture so I couldn’t see him, but I heard him chanting curses, death curses. I told his father how he spewed hatred at me and at him, that I feared for my newly born son’s life, how he bragged that he would kill you, kill all of us. Nicholas was always a spawn of the Devil, I told his father, had thick bad blood in his veins, and he believed me. A man should believe his wife, curse you.

“At least now you’re dead, save for something malignant that has managed to stick its snout out of the ether. And just what is this prithee business? Another of your affectations, no doubt. No one has spoken that word for hundreds of years. Ah, but you must always be the poseur, even dead. I believe I’ll have you dug up out of your grave and burn your wretched skeleton. That’ll see you gone, now won’t it?”

Nicholas and Rosalind had to lean close to the library door when Captain Jared sang softly, that ancient voice echoing eerily,

The knife rises high

And brings the end near.

The knife starts to fall

And you choke on the fear.

The prince must win

Evil must die

Pay attention, madam, for the end draws nigh.

The prince will win? What prince? The end was nigh? Captain Jared sounded very serious about that. Rosalind supposed nigh meant tonight. They heard Miranda shriek and throw a hassock toward the fireplace.

Nicholas whispered against her temple, “Do you think he’s hiding up the chimney?”

Rosalind shuddered. “If she was thinking aright, she would realize it isn’t the old earl, that it is someone else. And all those things she told your father . . . It’s evil what she did, Nicholas—claiming a little boy chanted curses, making threats.”

Nicholas shrugged. “Whatever she said or did, when I think about the past, I am vastly relieved I was forced to leave England, forced to face what I was at my core, forced to make my own way. Had I remained, raised as a pampered earl’s son, would I have become like Richard perhaps? Or like Lancelot?”

“You would have become exactly what you are only you would not speak Chinese and have Lee Po about to correct Marigold’s English. I begin to believe she makes mistakes on purpose to gain his attention.”

He couldn’t help himself, he laughed, kissed her, said against her temple, “Captain Jared certainly has the old girl going, doesn’t he?”

The day seemed interminable, so many hours to be got through until the sun set and it could be considered night. Nicholas and Rosalind did indeed visit tenants, happy to welcome the new countess, happy to see Nicholas now their roofs didn’t leak, there was hay in the sheds for their animals, and grain grew in the fields.

They spoke to three more women who were willing to sing with a ghost and work at Wyverly Chase, and they managed to get through a tense dinner with Nicholas’s three half brothers and his battleaxe stepmother.

Nicholas asked Richard as he sipped on a lovely Bordeaux, “You had this vision only once?”

“That’s right. It was real. It was the truth. But I see you still have her with you. You are a fool, Nicholas, a right fool.” Richard shrugged. “Why should I care? After she flings your heart into the bushes, I will be the Earl of Mountjoy.”

Miranda hissed.

Richard turned to her. “What makes you dislike that image, Mother?”

Miranda waved her fork at her son. “A vision simply shouldn’t happen to a fine, normal, wickedly handsome young man like yourself. It happens only to crazy old men like your grandfather, whose blasted ghost sang out a ‘prithee’ to me.”

“I rather like his songs,” Aubrey said as he chewed on Cook’s ham. “I wonder if he will allow me to sing with him.”

Miranda hissed again.

“All of you are bloody mad,” Lancelot said and threw a slice of bread across the dining room. “I want to leave. There is no reason to stay in the same house with a murderess. And Nicholas amuses himself at our expense. He will doubtless try to kill us, or set his wife to do it.”

Rosalind was beginning to think that dispatching the lot of them wasn’t a bad idea.

“Not if his precious wife stabs him first,” Aubrey said, and Rosalind saw him grinning behind a spoonful of vegetable marrow soup. “What with all that violent red hair, I imagine she has a formidable temper, is that true, Nicholas?”

“He wouldn’t have the nerve to strike her,” Lancelot said, his mouth full, “now that he knows she’ll cut his heart out. As for that heathen servant of his, I swear the fellow is cursing me whenever I chance to see him. He looks foreign. I don’t like him.”

Nicholas said, “It’s true, Lancelot, that Lee Po knows many meaty curses, some of them designed to tangle up your innards so you choke on your own guts. I’d keep my distance from him.” Nicholas paused a moment, looked around the table. “You know, perhaps Lancelot is right, all of you should return to London. Perhaps after dinner. Or after an early breakfast in the morning. Thank you, Richard, for delivering your vision message.”

Richard came right out of his chair. “No!”

Nicholas lounged back in his earl’s chair, arched an eyebrow. “No? Why ever not?”

“I cannot,” Richard said, his voice, his very posture intense. His hands were splayed on the table, his knuckles white. There was something desperate about him, Nicholas realized, but what was it?

45

Dinner dragged on with no explanation from Richard. Nicholas and Rosalind finally left his family to tea and whist. Lancelot was in a vile mood, throwing down his cards as if each one were a weapon. Aubrey baited him, said he was pretty as any girl he’d ever seen, which Nicholas thought wasn’t far from the truth. Aubrey’s smile never faded, his good humor seemed inexhaustible. On the other hand, Aubrey spent most of his time at Oxford. He didn’t have to live with this bunch.

As for Richard, he brooded, one booted leg swinging over the arm of his chair. Nicholas didn’t think he was brooding over his luck at cards. Why, he wondered yet again, was Richard so anxious? If Rosalind did stab him, as Richard claimed he’d seen in the vision, then why wasn’t he raising a brandy glass?

It was a relief to leave the four of them behind the closed drawing room door.

“I wonder where Captain Jared is this fine night?” Rosalind said as they walked into the earl’s bedchamber.

“He kept quiet and I can’t say I blame him,” Nicholas said.

They drew on cloaks over their clothes. “It might be quite cold in the Pale,” Rosalind said as she tied the black velvet ties together.

Rosalind made certain there was always a good three feet between them even though they held hands. She didn’t want to fall into the Pale with the both of them naked.

Nicholas said, “I feel bloody ridiculous, lying in bed, waiting. Waiting for what? How the devil will we get to the Pale? I have no flying carpet.”

She shook her head. “We must be patient, and wait, no choice. Would you like me to sing to you?”

He sat up. “No, what I want is to see if you can now read the final pages of the Rules of the Pale.”

She sat up beside him. “I can’t believe I forgot about it. You believe Sarimund has removed the veil from them as well as freed the pages from the shorter book?”

“We will shortly see, won’t we?” He fetched the book from the top drawer in his dresser.

She sat in the large comfortable chair in front of the fireplace, and Nicholas stood beside her, his hands outstretched to the sluggish flame.

Her fingers trembled as she thumbed to the end of the book. She looked down at the writing, then up at Nicholas.

He said, “You can read it now. It would make no sense if you still couldn’t.”

She looked down again, cleared her throat, and read:

This is the end, I can offer no more help since I promised not to meddle.

You are a gift, Isabella, never doubt that, you are brave and true, your honor bone deep. Many times, I have found, a gift is a debt to another.

I have but to warn you not to trust anyone or anything, be it a god or a goddess, a wizard or a witch. Do not accept what you see for it may not be real at all. Those in the Pale fashion lavish illusions and violent phantasms to drive the unwary mad. Be disbelieving. Be cautious.

But know that evil cannot touch you.

Good-bye, my sweet girl. You must sing, never forget to sing.

Sarimund

Rosalind stared down at the last page for a good long time before she raised her face to her husband’s. “My name is Isabella.”

He looked at her thoughtfully, stroking his long fingers over his chin. “It is a beautiful name. I wonder how Sarimund knew your name was Isabella some three hundred years before you were born.”

“If that is indeed my name in the present day. Why didn’t he tell me my last name as well?”

“Since we are speaking of magic, then we are naturally speaking of obfuscation. I now believe that to make a proper magical pronouncement, you must be infuriatingly murky; you must litter ambiguous metaphors over the landscape; and you must spice your pronouncements with otherworldly words that don’t fit into any comprehensible framework. You must unveil only half clues, a lame bit of garbled nonsense here and bit of misdirection there. And withal, we simply must accept it.

“And as for Captain Jared’s dreadful rhymes—if his ghost would show himself but once, I would wring his bloody neck. Hmm, I wonder if my hands would go right through his neck. I wonder if there are more rules—vital rules—that Sarimund is still hiding from us.”

Rosalind cocked her head to one side. “Being a wizard, you would know, now wouldn’t you?”

“If I am a wizard, then you, madam, are a witch.” And he began pacing the bedchamber, his cloak billowing about his ankles. He said, “I am a simple man. I am, I really am. And I like the name Isabella.”

“That must mean I am Italian. Oh, curse Sarimund, why didn’t the moron write down my full name? Ah, yes, that would mean breaking a magic rule. You know, Nicholas, I’m thinking one must study obscure texts to think magically.”

“Leave me out of it. All I want to do is to stride over my acres, watch my lands flourish, give Clyde free rein to jump over that fence at the back of my northern border, watch the barley and rye grow tall, and make love to my wife until I am unable to move. Ah, if we are blessed, to fill the Wyverly Chase nursery.” He heaved a sigh. “Don’t look alarmed and tense upon me. I have no intention of attacking your fair person.” He brushed his fingers through his hair, making it stand straight up. “Well, I most certainly will think about how you feel when I’m deep inside you, but not now. Now I want this over with. Behold, madam, a patient man. Come lie with me.”

And so they lay next to each other, again holding hands, a blanket pulled over their cloaks and their booted feet. Their talk dwindled. Rosalind was on the edge of sleep when she heard Nicholas say, his voice low and deep, “If we do not survive this, Rosalind, know that I love you. Like the Dragon of the Sallas Pond, you are my mate for life. I pray we will survive this journey, that we will enjoy a nice long life.”

“I love you too, Nicholas. It would seem I’ve loved you all my life—no matter which life. It is amazing how you make me feel, how you make me want to skip and jump and sing and perhaps play a rousing waltz on the pianoforte.”

He basked. This incredible woman he’d dreamed of for so many years actually loved him, despite—despite what? He wondered, and frowned. But he didn’t ask because suddenly, all words, all thoughts faded from his brain and he fell asleep instead.

Suddenly both of them jerked straight up in bed.

“What the devil?”

“I don’t know,” Rosalind said, and clutched his hand.

They watched as the smoldering ashes in the fireplace suddenly ignited, as if fanned by an invisible hand. The flames roared upward, making a loud whooshing sound, as if all the air in the room were being sucked into it. The flames whipped up and out, and the sound of a high wind filled the room.

Nicholas cursed and grabbed her against him. He yelled, “Don’t let go of me, whatever you do, don’t let go of me. Do you hear me?”

She nodded, unable to speak, only stare at the roaring flames. The sucking sound became even louder. The flames turned bright blue, then the blue deepened into a rich royal blue. They watched the big chair whip round and round until it disappeared into the whirling vortex. The gigantic flame seemed to swallow the chair. But how could that be? They’d watched the vortex actually suck the chair into the fireplace, but it was too large to fit, surely it was. Yet it didn’t matter, the chair was gone. The blue flames roared, leapt upward as if trying to reach the sky, and the sound of it was like the cackle of a hundred mad witches.

Then the huge funnel turned itself on them. They felt the incredible pull, and despite themselves, it jerked them to their feet and pulled them toward the roaring flames that now had leapt out of the fireplace and formed a huge funnel that was twisting wildly, reaching to the ceiling, filling the bedchamber, twisting and circling fast, the noise unbelievable. But there was no smoke, no particular heat.

It was madness.

Nicholas instinctively grabbed the bedpost against the incredible pull of the vortex.

Rosalind said in a calm voice, “No, Nicholas, it is all right. Let go.”

He released the bedpost and the vortex swooped them up, slapped them together, whirled them about so fast they couldn’t see or hear anything except the deafening roar. She felt his hand squeeze hers as they were both spun into the huge column of blue flame that roared and shrieked around them. Her hair whipped into their faces, blinding them. And Rosalind thought to herself, It is the Cretan light. There was a tremendous crashing sound.

Then they heard nothing at all.

46

Rosalind slowly raised her head. Her brain was clear, her mouth dry, her hair tangled in her face, and she wasn’t afraid. She was lying on top of Nicholas, who was now blinking his eyes, and he felt very good indeed.

His hand was on her cheek. “What happened?”

“I think that vortex of flame somehow deposited us in the Pale. It was the Cretan light written of by Captain Jared. Remember?”

He said nothing, merely lifted her off him and set her next to him. “It appears we’re in some sort of cave. Look at the sandy floor, and the opening, just over there. I can’t see the back of the cave—it’s black as a pit back there. I wonder how big it is.”

Rosalind didn’t care how big the cave was; she’d have to be forced at knifepoint to go exploring.

They rose slowly and walked to the opening and looked out. Three bloodred moons shone bright overhead.

“Oh, my, it is beautiful.”

Alien and unnatural was what it was, Nicholas thought, but the utter strangeness of it didn’t concern him at the moment. He cursed, smacked his palm against his forehead. “Blast me, I’m a fool. Here we are in cloaks and boots, ready for cold weather and a hike into the mountains, yet I forgot to bring a weapon.”

“Sarimund didn’t say anything about needing one,” she said, and moved closer to his side, and wondered if somehow Nicholas had been blocked from thinking of a weapon.

“He didn’t say anything about wearing cloaks either,” he said, and cursed again. “Well, no hope for it. All right, I know we aren’t to build a fire because that will bring the fire creatures in to devour it. Is that right?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’m wondering how anyone ever cooked anything if these fire creatures always flew by to kill the flame.”

“We will ask the red Lasis when we find it. We’ve got to make friends with it, so it will protect us from the Tiber. I hope Sarimund comes to us soon. Remember, he said he was waiting for me.”

He said, “I cannot imagine meeting someone three hundred years dead. Well, yes, I can—Captain Jared. Do you think Sarimund will be only spirit and song?”

“I saw him across from the huge kettle he was stirring. He looked very real.”

Nicholas said, as he looked out over the land, “Hopefully we are in the Vale of Augur and that is Mount Olyvan at the end of the plain beyond that skinny snake of river. If Sarimund doesn’t come, if we can’t find a Dragon of the Sallas Pond to fly us over it, then we will have to cross it. If I remember aright, we can’t cross the river until the three bloodred moons are full, and rise together over Mount Olyvan. I wonder why that restriction? The river doesn’t look deep at all, its surface appears calm, and over there, it doesn’t appear to be more than fifteen feet wide.”

Rosalind said, “If you stick even your toe in that river before the three bloodred moons are full, I shall kick you.”

He didn’t know where it came from, but he grinned down at her. “The moons aren’t quite full, are they?”

“No. Tomorrow night.”

A black eyebrow shot up. “You seem very sure about that.”

She looked momentarily surprised. “Yes, I do, don’t I?”

He eyed her a moment, then said, “Perhaps there is another way to get to Blood Rock, besides crossing the river or finding a Dragon of the Sallas Pond to fly us there.”

She turned away from him suddenly and began to walk toward a single tree that stood on a small mound some twenty feet away. Nicholas called out, “Rosalind, no, we must remain together. Come back here.”

She kept walking straight toward that tree, at least he thought it was a tree. Of all things, it was a bright yellow and had very long bare branches sticking out from the trunk, moving lazily about like thin waving arms. The only thing was, there wasn’t any wind, not even a slight breeze to make those branches move and sway the way they did.

He yelled her name again, but still she didn’t turn. Then he called out, “Isabella! Come back here.”

She turned then and smiled at him, a mysterious smile.

He said, “I want you to sing to me.”

He saw that her hair shined as violent a red as the three bloodred moons above her head, and her face was washed of color, not as white as the whiteness that had shrouded them and their bedchambers the previous night, but her pallor was marked. Had it only been last night? It seemed like eons ago. He stared at her as she walked toward him. The thing was, she was Rosalind, yet, somehow, she wasn’t. He would swear red sparks flew outward from her head, forming a crimson halo—or a blood halo. Her cloak and gown were gone and in their place, a long white robe, a narrow golden rope at her waist. He felt a spurt of fear and quashed it. “Please, Isabella, sing to me.”

She took another couple of steps toward him, the hem of her gown brushing against some spindly bushes that didn’t appear to have any color to them at all. She sang:

I dream of beauty and sightless night

I dream of strength and fevered might

I dream I’m not alone again

But I know of his death and her grievous sin.

She lowered her head and he heard her sigh, deep and broken, as if wrenched from her very soul. “She wants to kill him, badly. He’s only a little boy, no bad in him, none at all, yet she is afraid of him, afraid that when he reaches manhood he will smite her down and exile all the other wizards and witches to a place beyond death.”

He walked slowly to her. She didn’t move. He reached her, but didn’t touch her. “What little boy?” His heart began to pound in hard, slow strokes.

“His name is Prince Egan. He is Epona’s son, hers and Sarimund’s. I must protect him. I must save him.”

“How do you know his name?”

In the turn of a second she looked at him out of Rosalind’s clear blue eyes, not Isabella’s. “The final page of Sarimund’s book—neither you nor I saw anything save a stark white page, but you see, there was something written there. I can see his name very clearly now. I must hurry. Epona will know I’m here, and she will kill him.”

“What do you mean?”

“Sarimund’s spell, it’s stayed her hand. She cannot kill him until I am here.”

“But how?”

“I don’t know. He must come soon to tell me what I must do to save Egan.”

It had to be asked. “If you do not save Prince Egan, will I die as well? Or will I never exist?”

There, it was said.

Suddenly her red hair bristled as if lightning had whipped through it. “If I don’t stop her then she will kill Egan. Then it won’t matter, will it?”

A terrifying roar rent the silence from directly behind Nicholas. He whirled about to face a monster that looked a cross between a lion and one of those strange beasts that roamed the western plains in America. The beast roared again, its huge mouth open wide, showing knife-sharp fangs. This creature had to be the Tiber. He barely had time to thrust up his arm before the Tiber leapt on him, going for his throat, its fangs glistening beneath the red moonlight.

He yelled, “Run, Isabella, run!”

She picked up her skirts and ran to the lone yellow tree. She jerked off one of the long naked yellow branches, and ran toward the man and the beast atop him, raising the branch high over her head. Suddenly, Nicholas was on top of the beast, his hands around its throat. She would hit Nicholas if she struck the branch down now. The Tiber grunted with rage, globs of white liquid flew out of its great mouth, its hooves and legs flailed wildly. The Tiber shrieked and Rosalind saw its fangs were as yellow as the tree, and those sharp fangs strained upward, toward Nicholas’s throat.

“Nicholas, pull him over on top of you!”

He arched his back, gained leverage with his legs, and kicked his feet with all his strength into the Tiber’s belly. It howled and he rolled over and whipped his legs up and closed them around the beast’s neck and hauled it down over him. She swung with all her might at the Tiber’s head, a blow so powerful the branch shuddered in her hands and her arms trembled with the force of it. The Tiber twisted its head about to look up at her and she hit its head again, even harder this time. The branch split apart in her hands and yellow sand gushed out.

The Tiber said, “Nay, mistress, do not kill me. I saw the man reach out to you and believed he would hurt you. Do not kill me, mistress. A branch from the yellow Sillow tree is a mighty weapon, no human before has known to use it.”

Now this was a shock, Nicholas thought, and released his legs from about the Tiber’s neck. The Tiber slowly rolled off him and came to its four feet, shaking its shaggy brown coat. No, not entirely brown, there were dark blue stripes across his back. Then it stood there, head down, panting.

Rosalind dropped the stick, watched more yellow sand spill out of it. “I’m sorry,” she said to the branch. “I’m sorry.”

Nicholas came up to his feet. He stared from her to the Tiber, now rubbing its head against some outcropping rocks. “Look at me, Tiber. Sarimund did not write that you could speak. He wrote only that you were our enemy. How can you speak? How can we understand you?”

The beast raised its ugly head. “The Tiber is the enemy to everything, man included, but not your enemy, my lord.”

My lord?

“I do not understand this,” Nicholas said. “Sarimund wrote we were to make friends with the red Lasis so we would be protected from you. Why do you call her mistress? Why do you call me lord? Why aren’t you our enemy? We are human. I am a man.”

“You will find that all things are possible here in the Pale, my lord,” said the Tiber, and Nicholas was certain he heard a snicker in the beast’s voice. Before their eyes, the Tiber began to shimmer. Slowly, it turned into a dragon, and they both knew to their boots that this was a Dragon of the Sallas Pond that Sarimund had described. His snout was gold, his eyes bright emeralds, and on his back were huge triangular scales, studded with diamonds. The dragon rolled its emerald eyes at them. “Behold, I am not a Tiber. This is the first time I have taken its shape. A nasty creature, the Tiber, all rage inside, only eating and killing on its tiny mind. I had no idea. I won’t do that again, no matter the possible sport of it.”

The dragon slewed its mighty head toward Rosalind and its tail thumped, making the earth shudder. “You have great strength in your arm, mistress. Forgive me, my lord, I honestly thought you were an attacker. Now I see clearly that you are not. And the mistress, she knew to strike me with a branch from the yellow Sillow tree. It is an amazing thing.” The dragon bowed to her, folding its huge wings briefly over its head. Then it looked up and stared upward at the three bloodred moons.

“You are no god,” Nicholas said, and stared at the dragon in its whirling emerald eyes.

The dragon slewed its head back toward Nicholas. “Of course I am.”

“No, you cannot be, otherwise you would have realized exactly who I was immediately. You would have known I wasn’t going to hurt her. You would not have attacked me.” He shrugged, “Or, if you are a god, then you must be very new at it.”

Rosalind said, “Taranis only sings, at least that is what I have read. You are speaking to us.”

“No, I am thinking to you. I don’t sing well.”

The dragon stretched out his formidable wings and rose straight up, a dozen feet into the air, and hovered there, wings barely moving, dramatically silhouetted against the three bloodred moons, a fearsome sight, but Nicholas wasn’t impressed; he was angry. He waved his fist upward. “Stop your games, dragon, I am not afraid of you. Is your name Taranis? Stop your posing and your pathetic efforts at intimidation. If you wish lessons in that fine art, ask me to teach you. Now, I command you to come here and tell us what is going on.”

“I know who you are,” the dragon said as his mighty wings flapped and he rose higher, whipping up the yellow sand that had fallen from the Sillow branch. A lick of flame snaked out of his mouth, and he quickly swallowed it, his massive neck rippling with the effort. “Yes, I know well who you are, my lord. I had flecks of desert sand in my eyes and did not see you properly.” Then he winged higher and higher, until he was as large as the middle bloodred moon. He paused a moment, on purpose, of course, posing again, and they saw his black silhouette against the bloodred moon and he looked like a mad painting in a storybook. They heard a voice so close it sounded right behind them, “Beware the Tiber. He is more vicious than one of those Blood Rock wizards. Seek out the red Lasis. As for Sarimund, who knows what that human wizard will do?”

Both Nicholas and Rosalind whirled about but there was nothing there.

Nicholas shook his head. “Imagine, that damnable dragon only thought that advice to us, curse him.” He paused, lightly touched his fingers to Rosalind’s hair.

Rosalind said, “The dragon, he called you lord and me mistress. I wonder why. If he is a Dragon of the Sallas Pond, then why all the games? Oh, yes, I forgot—a rule of magic.”

“The next time he flies near us, I wish to know if being ‘my lord’ grants me special favors in the Pale.”

He brought her close against him, felt the pounding of her heart against his. He said against her cheek, “How did you know to break off a branch from the yellow Sillow tree and strike the Tiber’s head with it?”

She said. “I didn’t think, I simply did it. Oh, dear, I believe the tree groaned.”

Nicholas began to rub his hands up and down her back. She hadn’t seemed to notice she was wearing a gown that a medieval lady might wear, or a lady from further back than that, a lady who tended altars at Stonehenge. “It’s all right. You saved me and I thank you. I hope you gave that bloody dragon a powerful headache, it would serve him right.” He stared down at her a moment, streaked his hand through her hair, twisted a red curl around his finger. “Rosalind, before the Tiber attacked, you became someone else, or rather, perhaps you shifted toward someone else. You realize that, don’t you?”

Slowly, she nodded against his shoulder. “I know only that I am different here in the Pale, both how I look and my clothes. Where is Sarimund?”

She drew back in his arms. She looked away from him, out over the vast barren plain between the Vale of Augur and Mount Olyvan.

“Rosalind?” He tightened his hold on her and whispered against her ear, “Isabella?”

“I must stop her, Nicholas. I told you, now that I’m here, her hand is no longer stayed. She is evil, she will kill him.”

He asked, “Is Epona also a seer? Did she look into the future and foresee her own death if she allowed her son, this Prince Egan, to grow to manhood?”

Rosalind spoke, but her voice was deeper, with an odd lilt to it. “I believe it was Latobius, the god of the mountains and the sky, who saw the devastation of Blood Rock come to pass. He is both a god and a magician, you know. He feels so very much. He is oftentimes in pain because of others’ actions. Were Egan to die, it would distress him unutterably.” She looked down. “My belt is gold, all thin threads twisted together. And my hair is longer.”

“You look like a princess, or perhaps a priestess.”

He sounded calm and accepting, but he didn’t know what was happening to Rosalind, he knew only that he couldn’t let it matter now. He heard a soft blowing noise and looked down. He took her hand and together, they watched the yellow sand blow over the two halves of the Sillow branch, though there was not the slightest wind to whip the sand up. He watched as the two branch halves came back together, their fit perfect. They watched the blowing yellow sand move over the branch, slowly disappear into it. Sealing it?

Without thinking, Nicholas picked up the branch. He walked back to the yellow Sillow tree and set the branch carefully against the jagged hole in the tree. It settled in instantly. He stepped back, heard a sigh of pleasure, and knew he should be surprised, but he wasn’t. “I am a powerful mender of trees,” he called back to Rosalind. “I did not even require a needle or thread.”

“It is because you are a wizard,” she said matter-of-factly, and came up beside him. She touched the branch, bent it a bit, and nodded. It was again firmly attached.

Nicholas heard a loud popping sound off to his left, like a gun’s report, and pulled her behind him as he whirled about.

47

There was another popping sound, and another, louder and louder.

Nicholas threw back his head and yelled, “Stop that infernal noise, do you hear me? It is not frightening, merely annoying. Stop it, I command you!”

The wild cannon shots stopped.

Silence fell around them.

“That was the dragon,” Nicholas said. “I won’t put up with such nonsense.” His voice sounded cold and impatient. And now, like her, he looked different—his hair longer, framing his face in a wild black tangle, making him look barbaric, an ancient warrior primed for violence. He was no longer wearing his black cloak. He was now dressed in black breeches, a billowing white shirt, and black boots to his knees. He looked both dangerous and violent. She reached out her hand to touch his forearm. “Are you all right?”

He shook his head impatiently. “Of course. I am simply as I should be here in the Pale. Just as are you.”

His Pale counterpart, just as Isabella was hers, well, it made sense. Or an illusion, just as Sarimund had warned them about. She said, “You look like a warrior.”

“The differences in us, we will ask Sarimund, if that no-account writer shows himself.” He felt only mildly curious at the changes in himself, and not at all alarmed. “Don’t worry. We will deal with it. We must find a red Lasis.”

When they turned back, they saw a beautiful creature as red as the bloodred moons in the heavens standing in the cave entrance. It looked sleek, as if its coat were brushed every day, the muscles in its legs thick, its back wide, its neck long and graceful. It looked like a cross between a Shetland pony and an Arabian. Its eyes were huge in its long narrow face, a dark vivid gray, and filled with a sort of glowing light.

The red Lasis said nothing, merely gazed at them. It had absurdly long eyelashes. Nicholas knew in that instant that the red Lasis was very vain about its long eyelashes, and he thought, Yet another small curiosity.

He said, holding perfectly still, keeping Rosalind plastered against his side, “Are you Bifrost?”

The red Lasis bowed his head.

“You are the oldest red Lasis in the Pale?”

Bifrost sang in a beautiful sweet voice,

Yes, I am he.

Yes, I am old.

I came before time.

So it is told.

Not more poetry and bad rhymes.

Bifrost said, “It is not such a bad rhyme. Yes, yes, I can hear your thoughts. You are harsh. Rhymes are difficult. Let us speak then in human talk.”

Nicholas said, “Sarimund wrote you would protect us from the Tiber. But you were not here when we came into the Pale.”

Bifrost slowly nodded. He chanted this time. “I am the only remaining red Lasis in the Pale. My mate was killed by a moon storm—” At Nicholas’s raised eyebrow, Bifrost said, “The storm comes occasionally when the three bloodred moons are full. Perhaps every thousand years or so, there is a moon storm and the moons are shoved together. There is a horrible rending noise that brings all out to see what is happening. Huge flaming spears of sheered-off moon, glowing red, fall to the ground. That time, unfortunately, one of the flaming spears killed my mate, who was standing beside a sharp-toothed angle tree. I am alone. However, the Tiber don’t know this.”

Once in a thousand years? “When did this happen?” Rosalind asked.

“Perhaps at the last full moon, but I doubt that can be true whenever I think about it carefully. My cousins are black and brown, a dull bunch with no imagination, always complaining, the lot of them. Even the Tiber doesn’t like to eat them, much too salty, so it is said. But the Dragons of the Sallas Pond say their meat is beyond sweet. However, the dragons do not eat meat so I wonder how they could know.

“The Tiber still do not realize I am the only red Lasis left in the Pale. They are that stupid.

“I came to see that you were all right, that you survived your tussle with Taranis’s son, Clandus, a spoiled little buttel, that one. You both did very well.”

“What is a buttel?” Rosalind asked.

The red Lasis batted his long eyelashes at her. “A buttel is a particularly noxious creature that is forever trying to make himself more important than he is. I would kill all the miserable buttel if I were not so depressed.” Bifrost dipped his head down and sighed.

After a few moments of silence, which neither Nicholas nor Rosalind wished to break, he raised his head again and spoke with a bit more vigor. “Perhaps it was a foolish thing you did, my lord, telling Clandus he wasn’t a god, though it is quite true. A Dragon of the Sallas Pond must do great deeds to gain the state of godness.”

Nicholas said, “Who decides whether or not to make a Dragon of the Sallas Pond a god? What can possibly be higher than a god?”

Bifrost blinked his very long eyelashes, his head down again so both of them could better see the amazing length and thickness. “On precious occasions, a golden shell cracks open and a dragon rolls out, all tiny and wet, its wings plastered against its body. It grows quickly, hopefully in both its brain and in its body, and is then offered tasks to perform.”

“Rather like Hercules in earth mythology?” Rosalind asked.

Bifrost said, “I don’t know of any Hercules, all I know is that if the Dragon of the Sallas Pond is successful, he changes—both his status in the Pale and his abilities. He is able to impress his will and wishes sufficiently upon all the wizards and witches who dwell in the fortress of Blood Rock to prevent them from butchering every creature here in the Pale. I will tell you, he once controlled them easily, but now their depravity makes them stronger, more conniving. Now they occasionally try to do him harm though they pretend to worship him, to admire him. They should be thrown into the river and sucked down by the demons who rule the underrealm. My mate once tangled with an underrealm demon and survived.” Bifrost paused a moment, then looked at Nicholas. “You wonder what creature or being is above a god. There must be something, I suppose, else how do the Dragons of the Sallas Pond know what tasks to perform? Who judges them? I shall contemplate this mystery in those moments when I am not mourning the loss of my mate.

“Now Clandus is offended and has doubtless flown back to his cliff to huddle next to a fire in his mother’s cave, his wings spread, naturally, to protect his fire from the flying creatures. It will be interesting to see what Taranis does after Clandus whines in his ear about how loathsome you and the mistress are. Taranis hates sulking, and that is what Clandus is doing right at this moment.”

“I hope that a father dragon disciplines the son by smiting him hard with his tail,” Nicholas said.

The red Lasis bowed his head in agreement, his thick lashes fluttering. They heard his deep voice, amused now. “It seems like only yesterday that Taranis and I wagered about your coming and what would happen. But again, my mate’s death seems such a short time ago as well.

“I have waited for you, my lord, and you, mistress. It is a strange thing to see you, mistress, as a woman and not the small girl whose face Sarimund placed in my mind. As for you, my lord, you are yourself and yet also the boy.

“And there is Epona, a witch who is vicious to her soul, though I do not know if she has a soul; probably not. She kills cleanly, no madness for gore in her. There is not a wizard in Blood Rock who isn’t afraid of her, or, at the same time, who doesn’t admire her immensely. She is very dangerous, my lord. I pray you will not forget that.”

Rosalind said, “But she wanted Sarimund.”

“That is so.”

“Because he is so beautiful?” Rosalind asked.

“That is so as well.”

“What is your wager with Taranis?” Rosalind asked.

“Taranis wagered you wouldn’t come, mistress, that the passage of time had distorted what should happen, but you are here. You are very powerful, both of you. I wagered you would come, that you would save Prince Egan, that my lord would indeed pay his debt to you, for both your lines are powerful.”

Rosalind asked, “What was your prize if you won the wager with Taranis?”

“Taranis swore to intercede for me with the wizard Belenus. He is more powerful than he should be, Belenus is, with his big white teeth. The fiend cursed me to shepherd about the occasional magician who found his way to the Pale. He laughed, said since my mate was dead I had more than enough time to see that the few straggling humans who wander into the Pale do not end up Tiber victuals.”

“What did you do to bring down Belenus’s curse?” Nicholas asked.

“He did not come to my mate’s interment. My grief was great, and so was my anger. I sent an army of black snails to invade his living quarters on Blood Rock. They naturally found their way into his bed to sleep with him at night. Belenus cursed me for it. And so I have protected the pathetic magicians who have come here for a very long time now, surely a millennium. Perhaps.

“At last you have come, both of you. Mistress, I watched you save his lordship by breaking off a yellow Sillow branch and striking Clandus with it. My lovely eyelashes thickened with the excitement of witnessing what you did so naturally, without a human’s infernal questioning or doubts. I was convinced at that point that you were the two predicted to come to the Pale, even more so when his lordship reattached the branch to the yellow Sillow tree. I have seen that done only once in my life. By Epona. Ah, but withal, I must make certain you are indeed what you say you are.” He stopped and suddenly opened his mouth and sang to the three blood moons in a beautiful baritone:

I dream of beauty and sightless night

I dream of strength and fevered might

I dream I’m not alone again

But I know of his death and her grievous sin.

Without hesitation, Rosalind sang back to him, joyously, her beautiful voice filling the silent Pale night:

I was small and I was weak

He left me broken, without a name

But I lived and now I seek

What to do to end the game.

“Ah,” said Bifrost, “it is time for you to ride Taranis, the Dragon of the Sallas Pond, to the fortress on Blood Rock.”

He fluttered his eyelashes at them again, then simply faded into the cave wall.

Rosalind called out, “No! Wait, come back here. Where is Sarimund?”

There was only silence. The red Lasis was gone.

They stood inside the cave opening, looking out beyond the river in the distance, at the far end of a vast flat plain to Mount Olyvan, and at its peak the dark brooding fortress of Blood Rock that speared up toward the moons.

They heard a scuffle, panting, grunts. Suddenly standing before them was Sarimund, and he seemed to shimmer, his golden hair brilliant beneath the bloodred moons. He muttered, “Ah, you are here,” and he gave them a beautiful smile.

Rosalind stepped up to the beautiful man who looked like an angel. “I first saw you in a vision. You were stirring a pot. You told me I would be with you soon.”

“And here you are, my beauty. Here you are. Ah, to see you as a woman grown.”

“Are you my father?”

“I? Certainly not, but I will say that I have held you close for a very long time, the spirit of you, the promise of you. Now I am here and let me tell you it was difficult. Although Bifrost believed you would come, Taranis did not. He believed I had failed, that too much earth time had passed, but you are here and that proves that I did not.” He cupped graceful hands beside his mouth and shouted, “Do you hear me, Taranis? I have succeeded. I am the bringer of peace—”

“—and destruction,” Nicholas said. “That is what you told her.”

“Yes, both she and I are the bringers of peace and destruction.”

“Are you speaking to us, in English, or are you thinking all of this to us?”

“I speak beautiful English.”

“But it is modern English you are speaking,” Rosalind said.

“Even a dumb beast like the Tiber keeps abreast of things. His English is halting, but the grammar is well nigh perfect, which surprises me since he has the brain of a fig.

“You have met Bifrost, known as the Scholar. He was hollowed out when his mate was killed in a moon storm so long ago. Everything lasts for a very long time in the Pale, affections included.”

“Where is the Pale?” Nicholas asked.

Sarimund studied Nicholas’s face. “The Pale is as close as those three bloodred moons above our heads, yet it is apart, a study in contrasts. But it is as real as an eternal dream. Am I not real? Am I not standing here before you? Do you not see me? Am I not speaking to you?”

“You could be another specter like Captain Jared,” Nicholas said.

“His is not idle curiosity, Sarimund,” Rosalind said, lightly touching his arm, a very real arm, the muscles rippling beneath her fingers. Whatever he was, he was no specter. “Listen, we are here because you brought us here. You set this all into motion almost three hundred years ago when you convinced Captain Jared that he owed the little girl the debt, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Did you really bring a storm to destroy Captain Jared’s ship, or was it all an elaborate illusion?”

He made a choked noise in his throat and his golden hair lifted, very nearly standing on end. “The little girl had no bite to her, no impertinent questions for a wizard, but you, the woman, do,” he said, now visibly calming himself. “I am more powerful than you can begin to imagine, I can whip the skies into a froth of madness, I can—”

“Yes, yes,” she said. “Then you wrote the Rules of the Pale and prayed I would find it, somehow, so everything would be in motion.”

“No, I did not pray; a wizard casts his spells, and waits to see them unfold. And waits. And watches. And guides. Of course you found it.”

“Well, yes, I suppose you did that right, though you were a bit on the late side. And you finally released the final pages for me to read, but still that last page was stark white and perfectly blank. I only realized a little while ago that you had written Prince Egan’s name on that page.”

Nicholas said, “You planned for the little girl to come to the Pale, but she didn’t come because it wasn’t yet her time. Nearly three hundred years passed before she came, not a little girl, but a woman.”

Sarimund said, “I know. It has driven me quite mad to know I was so very wrong in my calculations.”

Nicholas said, “How could this be? Why did you want her in the first place?”

“After I left the Pale, wondering if Epona had indeed birthed my son, Taranis visited me in my dreams one night. He dreamed to me that Epona would kill our son—Prince Egan—because she’d somehow divined what he, the man, would become. Taranis said I had to stop her or the Pale would be thrown into incredible chaos, and he didn’t know if he would be able to fix it. He said there was no wizard, no witch, no creature here in the Pale to help me so I must rely on humans. What could a human do, I asked in my dream back to him. He puffed out a whiff of flame and I swear to you I felt a sting of heat. He told me I was a wizard and a human, wasn’t I, and I awoke. He was right, and so I settled into my wizard’s brain and cast about for other witches and wizards on earth as strong as I. I found two separate, very powerful wizard lines that stretched back into time, meeting at one point back in the times of the Crusades. One was the Vail line. In my time your powerful line was represented by Jared Vail, a ship captain then, but not simple. He was brave, many times too brave. Ah, he was filled with strength, but being human, living in your constricted civilized world, he did not realize what he really was. I knew then that Jared Vail was the one. And you were there in my mind, Isabella, in the same time, representing your powerful line, and you were so clear, so strong, so very magic. I knew that both of you would be successful.”

She said, “You saw the little girl. Why would you believe a little girl would have a better chance of saving Prince Egan than a grown woman, namely me?”

“The little girl was a light so bright no evil could touch her. She saw everything clearly, she could not be deceived by either magic or evil. But now? Is your light still as bright, your eyes as clear? Is the little girl still burning bright inside you? We will see.”

“What does that mean—we will see?” Nicholas asked. “You’re telling us you do not know?”

“Now is now, even though in the Pale, the present can bleed into the future or shrink into the past, though time itself is not really a factor, and thus I cannot know what will happen.”

Nicholas looked angry enough to strike Sarimund.

Rosalind said, “When the child didn’t come, why didn’t Epona kill your son?”

“The point of the spell was to stay her hand until you arrived, Isabella, until you could come to the Pale to save him.”

Nicholas said slowly, “You froze time?”

“That is a crude way of saying it, but yes, Egan has remained a little boy. When you save him, Isabella, he will become the man, the great wizard ruler he was meant to be.”

Rosalind said quickly, “There is a problem, however. I don’t know who I am so I cannot know what the little girl was and how her strengths would aid—” She stopped dead in her tracks. She stared from Sarimund to Nicholas and back again. Sarimund smiled at her and slowly nodded. She swallowed. Then she gave them a brilliant smile. “My name is Isabella Contadini. I was born in San Savaro, Italy, in 1817.”

“And your name is the same as it was then in Captain Jared Vail’s time,” Sarimund said, then leaned forward and kissed her forehead.

48

Sarimund gave her a graceful bow. “Yes, your birth was greeted with great celebration, Isabella. You already had an older brother, you see, so the heir to the duchy was secure.”

“Duchy?” Nicholas asked, an eyebrow raised.

Rosalind grinned up at her husband. “Oh, dear, Nicholas, I fear you’re not of high enough rank to have married me.”

“Tell him who you are, my dear,” Sarimund said.

“I was born to Duca Gabriele and Duchessa Elizabeth Contadini. My mother is English, daughter of the Duke of Wrothbridge, and she married my father when she was seventeen years old—my father was visiting London as a young man, saw her riding in Hyde Park, and wanted to marry her, and so they married two months later. I loved hearing that story, nearly every night I asked my mother to tell me of it after she had shooed away my nanny to kiss me good night.” She paused a moment, and a spasm of pain crossed her face. “My mother,” she said again, and pictured her glossy red hair, the way she’d felt her heartbeat when she held her close against her, how she smelled, of violets, she remembered now. My mother. Over the past ten years, she’d wondered, usually in the deep of night, if she had a mother, if she was alive and thinking of her, wondering where she was, and Rosalind would cry at the pain of both of them.

She whispered, terrified of the answer, “Are my parents still alive?”

Sarimund nodded. “Yes, both of them are in fine health.”

“And my brother?”

“Raffaello as well.”

She wanted to shout, to leap about. She had a mother who had loved her, petted her, who wasn’t afraid of her because she was magic. Magic? But it was true, she remembered it well. And her father, standing beside her mother, tall, his thick black hair brushed back from his face, a perfect man who’d once let her sit beneath his chair while he conferred with an ambassador from Austria. She’d been so excited she’d vomited on the ambassador’s boots. Her father, she remembered now, had laughed—once the ambassador had left. She frowned. Her father’s eyes, had she seen them somewhere? She said slowly, “My grandfather died while my father was visiting England and so he became the Duke of San Savaro after his return to Italy.”

She grabbed Nicholas’s arms, shook him. “I have parents, Nicholas, and I remember them! They loved me, very much. I have a family!” She began to dance around in her excitement. Nicholas grabbed her and held her tight. He kissed her lightly on her mouth, kissed the tip of her nose, smoothed his fingertips over her eyebrows. He said, “Where is San Savaro?”

Rosalind grinned up at him, so excited her feet still danced. “It is on the spur of Italy’s boot. San Savaro is also the capital city of the duchy. It is near Nardò, only five or so miles from the Ionian Sea. We had a summer palace overlooking the sea. I swam there with my brother. I remember one night I went down to the beach to swim under a full moon, not something I should have done, naturally. I heard my parents laughing. They were swimming in the sea, just like my brother and I did.” She paused a moment, tapped her foot. “Do you know, I’m wondering now if they were simply swimming.”

Nicholas laughed. “A woman is married for less than a week and she knows everything.”

Sarimund ahemmed. “Isabella, it’s time to tell my lord what happened.”

Nicholas frowned at him. “How do you know she can remember what happened to her?”

Sarimund shrugged. “She could not be allowed to remember before, it would have been too dangerous. Mr. Sherbrooke would have felt compelled to contact her family in San Savaro, despite his own misgivings. But now the time is right. Tell him, Isabella, what happened to you.”

Suddenly the knowledge was there, alive and terrifying in her mind, and she trembled. “He was my father’s cousin—his name was Vittorio. He knew I’d seen what he’d done because he was magic, you see, and he knew I was magic as well. He sensed me, he knew I saw him smother the small babe then lay it back in its dead mother’s arms.”

Nicholas said, “There was no one else there to see this?”

Rosalind didn’t want to but she pictured that horrible scene in her mind. The dead babe and its dead mother and Vittorio standing there, staring down at them, a bitter smile on his mouth. She would never forget that, never. “No, only I saw him kill them.”

Nicholas was frowning. “You were a child. Few people believe a child. Why would Vittorio take action against you?”

“If I’d told my father, he would have had the bodies of Ilaria and the babe examined. They would have seen the marks of Vittorio’s fingers on her neck. Perhaps the physician would know the babe had been smothered.”

Sarimund said, “Isabella, do you know why Vittorio murdered his wife and babe?”

She shook her head.

Sarimund said, “Theirs was an arranged marriage, naturally, but Vittorio was vicious and unnatural in his sexual demands. Mixed with the magic was madness, only his father Ignazio did not want to face it, he never had.

“There came a time, however, when Ilaria hated her husband more than she feared him. She took a lover, a young man who sang beautifully, a wandering young man who left soon after he’d made love to her. He never knew she bore him a son and Vittorio killed them both.”

Nicholas asked her, “What did Vittorio do to you?”

“Tell him, Isabella. You remember.”

“Vittorio caught me before I could get to my father.” She fell silent a moment, looked over the barren plain, then shrugged. “I’m sorry, but I don’t remember anything else.”

Sarimund continued. “Vittorio didn’t want to kill you. Even in his madness, in his fear that he would be found out, he still loved you, and he loved your father like a brother. But he knew you could not remain in Italy or you would tell your parents, and he knew your father would believe you. Vittorio knew your father was a very powerful wizard from a long line of powerful wizards. As far back as any could remember, there was magic in the Contadini line. In both your lines, there has always been powerful magic.

“Vittorio knew if he didn’t do something quickly he would be executed for his crime, that or thrown into a mad-house. So he immediately caught you and gave you over to one of his trusted men to take you to England. I found this destination rather curious since your mother’s family is English, but no matter, he must have had a plan, though I never learned what it was.

“It seems Erasmo—the man Vittorio put in charge of you—witnessed you go into a trance. He was very superstitious, and it scared him badly. He believed you a witch and evil.” Sarimund shrugged. “So he tried to beat you to death. Indeed, he left you for dead in that alley.

“Ryder Sherbrooke found you and nursed you back to health. Ah, dearest Isabella, I am sorry your memory was closed behind the stoutest of doors, but it was for the best, for everyone. Erasmo told Vittorio you had died of a sweating sickness on the journey. He said there was nothing to be done to save you, and Vittorio believed him.

“Ryder Sherbrooke decided, rightfully so, that no search should be made for your family. He wasn’t willing to take the chance that someone would try to kidnap you again.” Sarimund lightly touched his fingertips to her brow, touched his thumbs to her temples. “Do you remember now?”

She nodded slowly, never looking away from him.

She said in a child’s voice, broken and sad, “I’m sitting cross-legged in a small cabin on one of Vittorio’s trading ships, the Zacarria, and my hands are folded just so on my legs. I’m concentrating on my father. I know he and my mother are frantic because I was suddenly just gone, disappeared. Even though I know I’m at sea, far away from Italy, I still believe he can save me. My father is so strong, you see, so very good, and he knows me, knows what I think and how I think. He tells me I am his magic princess and he will make very certain my future husband is a powerful wizard so I will always be safe. He tells me that nearly every night before I sleep, right after Mother kisses me good night. He always smoothes my eyebrows with his finger, just like he does Mother’s.” Rosalind broke off, lowered her head, and the tears came, hot and thick. A child’s tears, she realized, not really her tears, not a woman’s tears, but remembered tears and perhaps they were the most painful.

Sarimund touched her cheek. “Tell him, Isabella.”

After a moment, she said in that same sad child’s voice, “I’m focusing with all my strength on my father, and I see him. He is striding back and forth in front of Mother, and he is very angry, and scared. She’s trying not to cry. My brother, Raffaello, is there and he looks very angry as well. He is striking one fist against his open palm, cursing. I call to my father, once, twice, then I scream at him in my mind. I see him turn quickly to face me.

“But at that moment Erasmo came into the cabin to tell me we had finally reached England, that we’d docked at Eastbourne, and he was taking me ashore. I suppose when he saw me, he at first believed I was sleeping, but I wasn’t. I stared up at him, through him really, and cursed him in another’s voice, and in another language, yet he understood. It frightened him very badly. He screamed at me that he’d heard I was a witch and thus vile and evil, and so he dragged me off the brigantine and into an alley to beat me to death. A cabin boy tried to stop him. Erasmo clouted him and tossed him into the harbor. None of the other sailors tried to stop him.

“I awoke at Brandon House, and remembered nothing of what had happened. After six months, I sang my song and spoke. After I’d been at Brandon House for several years, Uncle Ryder told me why they hadn’t tried to search for my family—he feared someone would try to kill me again. His son, Grayson, was my best friend. I think he feared for me and thus he stayed very close for many years, though he never said anything about it.” She shrugged. “When Nicholas came back to England, I suppose he set everything into motion. And here we are now, in the Pale. Am I really magic, Sarimund?”

He smiled at her. “Oh, yes. Your line is long and powerful, as I told you, as is the Vail line. However, unlike the Vail line, who forgot their magic”—he smiled now at Nicholas—“that is not exactly true. Galardi Vail, your grandfather, liked to toy with wizardry, but he never imagined that it was actually inside him, waiting to be freed. Your line, Isabella, the Contadini line, never forgot, which is why you were so strong. It is only when you lost your memory that you lost your magic.”

She nodded slowly. She said, “Erasmo was right. I was a witch, a powerful witch, and I knew it, but—”

“You still are. You are here and that makes you even stronger. Don’t forget it.”

She said in some wonder, “I remember now when I was a child in San Savaro, I knew my father was spoken of behind hands, and with awe and pride, mostly, when the rain fell and none had been expected, or when a woman birthed twins unexpectedly, or when disease struck the fields and yet the barley and wheat still grew tall. All believed it was my father’s doing. He was magic and all knew it. He was also deeply good. He said I was just like him. I was his magic princess.”

She turned to Sarimund. “My parents—do they still remember me?”

He nodded. “Oh, yes. Every day they think of you, mourn your loss. As for Vittorio, he is wedded to another lady and abuses her endlessly. She has borne him no children. His seed is lifeless, you see. When your father realized this, he knew Ilaria could not have borne Vittorio’s child. And he wonders who the real father was, and wonders about those deaths and how you, Isabella, disappeared so quickly afterward. He remembers perhaps seeing you in that ship’s cabin, but he can’t be certain since he never saw you again through his magic, because the link was broken, you see. You no longer remembered him. Nor could your elder brother, Raffaello, ever find you and he carries his father’s strong magic blood. Your mother grieves, Isabella, she still grieves. You have four brothers now, the youngest only four years old. It would seem that there will be yet a fifth brother born very soon.”

“I have four brothers? Almost five?” She couldn’t comprehend it, simply couldn’t take it all in. But she did comprehend one thing very well: Vittorio had never been punished.

Nicholas said, “Sarimund, you said it was better she didn’t remember because Ryder Sherbrooke would have contacted her family, she’d have gone home to San Savaro and still been in danger. My question is why in the name of Heaven didn’t you simply strike down Vittorio? Then she could have gone home without risk.”

Sarimund said slowly, “I know so many things, see so many things, but I am not of the physical world now, my lord. I could no more call down a plague on Vittorio’s head than a Tiber could trap a red Lasis. Do you understand?”

“You mean you cannot cross from here to England?”

He smiled at that and shook his head. “No, I cannot even cross into England. Nowhere on earth, for that matter.”

“But—”

Sarimund closed his hand around Nicholas’s wrist. “If I’d been able, I would have blighted that evil monster to the pit of Hell. Ah, there is so much evil everywhere. Here in the Pale, evil flourishes madly.”

Rosalind looked squarely at Sarimund. “After I have saved Prince Egan, after Nicholas has paid his debt to me, I will go home and see that Vittorio is punished. Now, Sarimund, what are Nicholas and I to do now that we are here in the Pale?”

49

Sarimund lightly touched white fingers to her cheek. “Once you have saved the little boy, the earthly wizard who stands beside us will pay his debt to you.”

Nicholas said, “Very well. I will accept that here in this strange land, I am a small boy, who is also a prince. She will save the boy, and thus save me. So, tell me, Sarimund, does this mean that you are my father as well, back when all this began? Are you a Vail?”

Sarimund laughed. “My line is long and noble, perhaps more powerful than either of yours, but my line is not of your line, my lord. Your father is your father, the Earl of Mountjoy, descendant of Captain Jared Vail. You are English through and through.

“You have come into the Pale as you were meant to do. You have become who you were meant to be. Time grows short now and it is time for you to act.”

“Will Nicholas survive when he pays his debt to me?”

Sarimund was silent for a very long time. He turned to look up at the three bloodred moons. “When Taranis approved my spell, he dreamed to me that if I interfered in any way at all, then the spell would cease and all would be lost. I demanded then to know why he couldn’t interfere; after all, he was a god, he lived in the Pale. He sang to me: I do not meddle in the affairs of witches and wizards and they do not meddle in the affairs of dragons.

“Therefore, since I promised not to meddle, I cannot cast my eyes to what came to pass, and thus I cannot know.”

Rosalind grabbed Sarimund’s beautifully stitched collar and shook him. “Damn you, wizard, that lame bit of reasoning is not good enough.”

Sarimund eyed her, a gleam of pride in his beautiful eyes. “It is the best I can do. If only you had come to the Pale when I first selected you, Isabella, the bright child so filled with magic light—then all would have come to pass as I foresaw it. Jared Vail would have been here to protect you.

“But the time was still far into the future. Actually, I have wondered if Taranis meddled and knocked time awry. He is occasionally bored, you know, and it would perk him up to create some mayhem.”

Rosalind began shaking Sarimund, so frustrated she wanted to clout him. “You listen to me, Sarimund. I do not care if the magician Merlin himself knocked time awry, I don’t want Nicholas in danger, do you understand me?”

“Since you are yelling,” Nicholas said, grinning at her, taking her hand in his, “he certainly hears you.”

He turned to Sarimund. His voice was emotionless when he said, “You believe I will die, don’t you?”

Sarimund said, “I cannot know, I told you. But now that I have seen you, my lord, I realize you are formidable, that you will not be easily vanquished, but your powers are still crude because you do not want to accept your magic. You must forget your hidebound earth rules with all their constraints. You must allow yourself to believe and accept what you are and you will grow stronger here, stronger than the three bloodred moons. You will be invincible.

“Here in the Pale, magic is sharp and clear and embedded in the very air itself. Here, there is nothing to impede your ability—if only you will let your magic have its full rein. Here, you will find it obeys you, mayhap with some elegance. Elegance and grace of action is a very fine thing in a trained wizard.”

Rosalind said, “The lines I sang when I first began to speak again—I know of his death and her grievous sin. Who are they? What does it mean?”

“The he is Prince Egan, you know that his death is very possible indeed. Naturally, Epona’s is the grievous sin, which could come to pass if you fail. I planted the lines deep in your mind, so they would always be with you, a reminder, a trigger, I suppose you would say in your modern day, to make you see, to understand.”

“But I did not understand.”

“Perhaps my elegant lines were a bit too subtle, but no matter, you are here. Ah, look yon, there is Taranis. He is the leader of the Dragons of the Sallas Pond.

“Listen to me, both of you. The balance in the Pale is always precarious. Taranis knows this very well. He made certain I knew it when he dreamed the danger to me so long ago.”

Taranis, Rosalind thought as she and Nicholas turned to look at the magnificent dragon who was soaring through the night sky, silhouetted against the bloodred moons, coming closer and closer. The very air around him seemed to part with his passage. He flapped his huge wings lazily, remaining perhaps a dozen feet above them. His emerald eyes whirled in his great head as he studied them. He was much larger than his son, and he was elegant, all his movements lithe and supple, as if practiced for a very long time.

Taranis smiled, pleasure flowed through him, although no one could tell that. He opened his great mouth and sang, “I am Taranis, Dragon of the Sallas Pond. I am glad you are here. Time grows short. Come, my lord, Isabella, it is time to end this. Blood Rock awaits.” He turned his great head toward Sarimund and sang, “You have kept faith with me. A wizard with a dragon’s honesty.”

Rosalind said, “Do none of you speak simply here in the Pale?”

Taranis sang, “The cadence of simple words is boring. The air lies flat when simple words spill out of a mouth. Singing the words gives them life and interest, and relieves tedium. I have waited for you for a very long time, as has Sarimund. We will see how well he casts his wizard’s spells, though this one is beyond old and perhaps unravels. Welcome, Isabella.” Then there was laughter, deep rolling laughter that seemed to come from the belly of that huge creature.

“Go with him,” Sarimund said. “Taranis is pleased, he knows it is all about to come to an end. The Pale has been teetering as would a man on a stretched rope. What would have happened had you not come now? I do not know, but the possibilities curdle my innards.” He smiled at them. “Yes, I have innards.” He shrugged and patted his belly. “Go with him,” he said again, “be cautious, trust no one, and never forget, Isabella, no evil can touch you.” And then he simply wasn’t there anymore. Nicholas found he was only mildly curious. He knew Sarimund had simply vanished, impossible, yet it was so. I can do the same thing, he thought. Here in the Pale I can do the same thing. Here in the Pale I can do anything.

He said to the spot where Sarimund had stood but a moment before, “Captain Jared is at Wyverly Chase.”

They heard Sarimund’s voice as a sigh in the still air. “What a grand man he was. He was so very sorry he could not pay the debt, but it was not to be; time had shifted on itself. And so the dreams came to many firstborn sons, and generations passed, all waited for the right time. When the two of you were finally united, Captain Jared wanted to see both of you, learn what you were about. He tells me you will succeed. But his magic is now as weak as a flicking flame in a high wind. Alas, he cannot even sing as he used to.”

The great dragon bowed his head to them and sang in a sweet high voice, “My son would like to burn you to your toes, my lord, but he swallowed his flame since it is forbidden that he expel fire until he has reached his maturity. The penalty is grave enough to make even an immature dragon consider carefully. I was pleased he was able to show some restraint. Unfortunately, his mother also believed it would be great sport. It is difficult to chastise her, for she is very quick to violence. I, however, am a god. I have knowledge none other have, dragon or man; I have visions that would blind others. I know what is and what could be. I am an extension of the Great Wizard. I am here and I am now, and will always be here. Let us go.”

Sarcasm rolled out of Nicholas’s mouth as he rolled his eyes. “You know ‘what is and what could be.’ Ah, I wish to take lessons in magic speak.”

Taranis’s eyes whirled madly. The ground shook. “Perhaps first, you should learn to sing properly.”

Rosalind said, “He is right, Taranis. Perhaps when this is over you can give us instruction. But now, what are we to do?”

Taranis landed beside them and the earth shook beneath his weight. He lowered his great head and sang, “Settle yourself between my magnificent scales and hold on tightly.”

After Nicholas and Rosalind managed to climb upon his back, he sang, “That’s right, hold yourselves steady.” He lifted himself effortlessly into the night sky.

I am riding on a dragon’s back, Rosalind thought. I am terrified and I wish to sing with the joy of it. Her soft white woolen skirts billowed, longer it seemed now, billowing behind her. She and Nicholas clung tightly to Taranis’s shining scales. His wings moved rhythmically, and her hair tangled about her head in the wind.

Rosalind tightened her hands together around Nicholas’s waist. “Look at all the snaking rivers and lakes. They appear, at least from up here, to bulge inside their boundaries, like a man’s veins rising on his hands. Isn’t that strange?”

The barren land below them was a vast plain that led to Mount Olyvan, its peaks jagged-toothed, bleak, and desolate. On its highest summit stood the huge fortress of Blood Rock. It was like a Hieronymus Bosch painting—Nicholas could easily picture abundant sin and moral turmoil residing within that fortress, and endless suffering, and endless pain and wailing.

Taranis rose higher and they felt moisture on their faces as they passed through clouds the color of eggplant and as wispy as dreams before dawn.

Nicholas said, “Sarimund wrote that you, Taranis, were the Celtic thunder god. The Romans wrote that Taranis was the god to whom human sacrifices were made. Your name is Taranis. Are you indeed he?”

“It is all of a piece,” Taranis sang. “All knits together in this realm and in most other realms as well. There is sin, there is worship, there is some good and more evil, and there is unity and devastation. The ancient Celts knew both, as do you in your modern day. As do we in the Pale. Ah, but the Romans, they were something else entirely.”

Rosalind rolled her eyes at this and said to Nicholas, pointing, “There are so many animals running on the plain. Ah, there are Tiber below running in a herd, at least two dozen of them.”

Taranis sang, “The Tiber believe the meat of the red Lasis will somehow elevate it above other creatures.” There was a snort, then, his voice singing higher, sharper, “But the red Lasis is much too smart. You should see Bifrost throw the fire spears in the pits he builds. It is one of the few things that give him pleasure since the death of his mate.”

But Bifrost has hooves, not hands, Rosalind thought, how could he ever build a pit or hurl a fire spear?

“Existing in your tedious, mind-numbing world has given you such limited imaginations,” Taranis sang into the high wind that had just sprung up near Mount Olyvan. He glided straight up, right at the fortress of Blood Rock. “There, I have distracted you, made you forget what is to come. Endless worry can limit a wizard’s powers, make his magic freeze. Now, however, it is time for you to focus and think and remember. As Sarimund said, be cautious, believe nothing you see.

“Ah, I quite despair of all this, but Sarimund is so very confident. Even though I am a god, all is hidden behind a thick veil. Events are trapped in the folds of time, and since time is bounded by place, my vision is obscured.”

In the next moment, Taranis came to a smooth landing on a wide flat expanse at the top of the black stone fortress that had frozen Sarimund’s blood when he’d first seen it, and now froze theirs as well. They saw the streaks of blood snaking down the black rock, thin as the rivers cut in the land below. It looked fresh, a vivid red. It looked thick and heavy, the droplets rolled slowly, inexorably. Nicholas remembered Sarimund had written that the sight kept all creatures in the Pale away from the fortress because it terrified them. Nicholas suspected all were right to be terrified of this hideous pile of blooded black rock. The fortress rose high above them, impossibly high arches with sharp spikes coming downward a good six feet, towers that speared into the eggplant-colored clouds or passed through them, wide entrances with huge iron portcullises poised halfway down, and so much ugly black stone covering everything. A marvelous illusion, Nicholas thought, and fancied he would alter this damned illusion once he had the time to do it. He smiled. He turned when Taranis sang, his voice deep and smooth, “Go, my children. I shall return when the time is right. Don’t forget that here, in the Pale, you are very powerful, you are ancient magic.” Then he raised his mighty head and trumpeted. It seemed the very fortress trembled and the streaks of blood on the black rocks spiderwebbed, creating new rivulets, a terrifying sight.

Nicholas and Rosalind carefully climbed off Taranis’s back. Suddenly Rosalind cried out, “Oh, dear, I cut my finger on one of the scales.”

“Let me see,” Nicholas said and took her finger. He didn’t think, simply squeezed and more blood shot to the surface. Then he took her finger in his mouth and sucked the wound. He studied the prick for a moment, then looked closely at the drop of blood on the tip of Taranis’s scales.

Taranis rose straight into the air. He hovered there, his great eyes on Rosalind. He sang so loudly Nicholas would swear all the beasts on the far plain could hear him, “I have mixed with your blood. A Dragon of the Sallas Pond mixed with a witch. Now, what will come of that? I wonder.” And he glided upward, wheeled to the right, and was away. They watched him fly back across the barren plain, where from their vantage point atop Mount Olyvan, the herds of creatures below looked very tiny indeed.

“What did he mean mixing his blood with—”

Rosalind got no further.

50

A young man stood directly in front of them, paying them no attention, as he shaded his eyes with his hand, watching Taranis fly away.

“He did not speak to me,” the young man said as he turned to Nicholas and Rosalind. “Surely he did not see me, else he would have spoken to me. My lord, mistress, my name is Belenus. I am vastly important in your history, a god—of agriculture, the giver of the life force.”

Rosalind eyed the brightest red hair she’d ever seen. Only his incredible blue eyes were brighter. She felt like a faded copy standing next to him. He had big, very white square teeth. She said, “The Romans called you Apollo Belenus and named the great May first festival after you, Beltane. In this modern age, we still celebrate Beltane. Did you know that?”

“Modern age? An age is an age, nothing more.”

Belenus bowed to Nicholas, deep and graceful. “I am relieved you are finally here. There is only a sliver of time. I feel it; all do. We must open the door and step into the seam that divides what Epona wished to happen from what actually will come to pass. You wonder how I know this. Taranis had no choice but to think it to me so I would not stand here like a dolt, questioning you but not understanding. I have no time to give you a nice cup of witmas tea.” He grinned, showing every one of those big square teeth. “It is Epona’s favorite drink. She tries to hide it from the other witches. Witmas changes its taste, you know. I prefer it when it tastes of the juice of the newly killed Tiber. Now, follow me.”

Nicholas and Rosalind fell in behind the young man with his pale white skin, and his burning blue eyes, and that violent red hair. It seemed even redder now. Nicholas felt the power in him, felt it drawing him, though he walked in front of them, saying nothing, simply walking.

They passed through impossibly wide corridors, like rooms really, some lined with Roman swords and helmets, others with skeletons, all standing erect against the corridor walls, like soldiers standing at attention. They walked through chambers, all painted in vivid colors, from the deepest purple to a pale, pale yellow, filled with precious Greek statues standing immediately next to crude wooden statuary, carved by ancient hands.

“All of this is much too large, too vast,” Nicholas whispered to her. “It is an illusion meant to impress us.”

“Of course it is an illusion,” she said matter-of-factly, “and it is well done.” Rosalind called out, “Belenus, perhaps you have created too many rooms and corridors to impress us with your power. However, you said we must hurry. Why are you delaying us?”

Belenus stopped at the next chamber, one whose walls were painted vivid bright blue, the color of his eyes, Rosalind saw. There were velvet-covered benches against all the walls, a sultan’s large jeweled pillows stacked everywhere, and on the walls were niches where statues of the Celtic gods stood. How he knew this, Nicholas didn’t know, but he was sure.

Rosalind looked toward Nicholas, at his long thick black hair, clubbed now at the nape of his neck, and that hardness about his mouth, the promise of infinite violence and cruelty. She felt also the promise of wholeness, perhaps of a long-missing justice. He was now of the Pale, he was now of Blood Rock. This wizard was unfettered; he was at home.

She said to Belenus, her voice imperious, the air shimmering around her, hot and alive, her red hair a fiery nimbus around her head, “You will lead me to Epona right now. I know that I must proceed alone and that my lord must remain here. There is not much time left. What must be done must happen now or else times can overlap and there would be confusion even I cannot fix.”

Rosalind felt incredible power flow through her. She embraced it, felt it grow stronger, felt herself one with it. She said to Nicholas, her voice calm, remote, “I am more powerful than the three blood moons. I could lift them out of the black sky and juggle them. Perhaps I could even sing to you as I juggled the moons.”

In the next moment, Rosalind stood in the center of a vast stark white chamber. It was as blinding a white as she and Nicholas had experienced at Wyverly Chase—had that happened only the night before? Or a hundred eons ago? There were many windows with white gauzy curtains blowing into the chamber. The windows were not open.

On the far side of the room stood a narrow bed draped in white gauze hangings. The hangings, like the draperies, billowed over it.

She called out, her voice sharp, impatient, “Epona! Come here immediately. I want Prince Egan!”

Time passed.

“Epona!”

There was only the dead white and silence.

Rosalind wasn’t alone. She was standing tall, smiling, atop a large flat platform. Beside her was a smooth flat stone, an altar. On top of it lay a man, his arms and legs chained down. He was naked, unconscious, and it was Nicholas.

His eyes flew open, dark, nearly black. He smiled. “I will kill you,” he said. “I will kill you.”

“No, you will not.” She raised the knife in her hand and brought it down in a firm clean line, and stabbed it deep into his heart. She jerked out the knife, then cut away the flesh. She reached into his chest and cut out his still-beating heart. She raised her head to the heavens and chanted words that had no meaning to her, and then she flung the heart away from her. A great wind came up and blew her hair away from her face, plastered her flowing white gown against her.

She looked down at the man, dead by her hand. And she saw that it was indeed Nicholas. She had killed him just as Richard had seen her do in his dream. She sank to her knees, blind with hollowed pain. She felt her own life seeping out of her, and welcomed it.

Silence fell around her, into her, pain roared through her head. Then she felt something move inside her, and it was awareness, and it was knowledge.

And she knew.

She stood and yelled, “A lie, it was all a lie! You will not fool me again, Epona! Show yourself, you bloody witch!”

Epona seemed to fly in through one of the large windows, though it appeared to remain closed, and the white draperies flowed about her until she was standing directly in front of Rosalind. She was gowned all in white. The material welled up, then settled around her, leaving one very white shoulder bare. Her hair was black as a moonless sky. She looked very young and very beautiful, her mouth as red as the blood tracking down the fortress stones.

Epona looked her up and down, sneered. “You are too late, witch. I had told Belenus to delay you and so he did, because he, like all the others, fears me. Yes, it is too late and you have failed. Sarimund has failed.”

“Of course I am not too late, you witless creature,” Rosalind said. “That illusion—you plucked it right out of my head, didn’t you? You also gave it to Richard Vail in a dream to terrify him.”

Epona laughed.

Rosalind said, “Well, no matter now. At last I realized the truth and you will not fool me again. I heard you represented beauty, speed, and sexual vigor.”

“And bravery!”

“As you wish. Perhaps some of that could be true. However, you strongly resemble your mother. You look like a horse, albeit a beautiful horse, perhaps an Arabian.”

Epona flew at her, her nails sharp as daggers. “You bitch! I am a beautiful woman, all say so.”

Rosalind laughed as she held up her hand. Epona’s nose smashed against her palm. Epona tried to draw back, but Rosalind’s palm remained stuck to her nose. She laughed again. “Not only do you look like a horse, your power is pitiful. Where is Prince Egan?”

“Let me go or I will say nothing!”

“Ah, is that a neigh I heard? By all the gods, I pray Egan does not look like you, Epona.” Rosalind drew back her hand from Epona’s nose and wiped her palm on her cloak.

“Bring him to me now.”

Epona cursed under her breath, a strange mixture of ancient Celtic and Latin words, all of them crude and graphic. Rosalind gave her a very cold smile. She felt viciousness sing through her blood. “I will not ask you again, Epona. I will reverse the spell of the witmas tea if you do not obey me. Ah, I wonder what you really look like?”

Epona vanished. Rosalind remained standing in the middle of the room. The air was silent and still. The curtains were no longer blowing inward from those closed windows. She heard a child’s voice, coming closer. A boy child, and he was speaking. “Who am I to meet? There isn’t anyone left that I have not met.”

51

Rosalind listened, and waited. Suddenly he was in front of her, arms crossed over his chest, and he looked her up and down. He was perhaps eight, a finely knit boy, dark eyes, handsome. “Who are you, woman? What do you want with me? She said only that you were another stupid witch, not even from the Pale, and she would dig out your ugly eyes with her nails. She said she would drown you into eternity. She is very powerful. I would believe her.”

“I am Isabella. You are Prince Egan, Sarimund’s son?”

“Yes, who else would I be?”

She smiled down at the handsome little boy. “No, you are yourself, of course.” Rosalind studied the boy. Did Nicholas look like him when he’d been a boy? They didn’t look alike, precisely, but there were similarities, the olive tone of their skin, the dark, dark hair and eyes.

“I do not recognize you. Why do you wish to see me?”

I am in time to save him, to save Nicholas, and she wanted to shout with the relief of it. She whispered, “Nicholas.”

“No, I am not this Nicholas. I am Egan. Why are you here, Isabella?”

“I am here to save you from Epona.”

“How can you possibly save me when I can outrun you, I can blight you into a white bug?”

Ah, the arrogance in his young voice. But it was Nicholas, she knew to her soul that it was, at least here in the Pale it was. She smiled. “Did Epona not tell you?” She could not bring herself to call the witch his mother, not when Epona wanted to murder him.

Egan said, “No, she never tells me anything of use. I wish to become a man. Sometimes I think that I have been this small size for far too long a time. But who can be certain of anything?”

“You will become a man, I swear it.” And soon, she thought, soon now.

Suddenly, Epona was standing beside him, shaking her fist at him. “I am Epona. I am your mother.”

“More’s the pity,” said the little boy.

“You will never be a man, you will never displace me!” In the next instant, Epona drew a knife and lunged toward the boy.

“No!” No time, no time. Rosalind hurled herself in front of the child, and felt the knife sink swift and smooth into her chest. She felt it sink into her heart, rend it clear in two, and settle deep inside her. She felt a great lassitude, a sense that time had somehow stopped, and she was trapped within it. She dropped slowly to the floor. She looked up at Prince Egan, who had fallen to his knees beside her, his small fingers hovering over the knife, but he did not touch it. A smile came out from deep inside her. “I have succeeded. You will be a man.”

He said over and over, his hands fluttering over the knife, afraid to touch it, “No, you cannot die.” His voice broke into a sob. He looked up at his mother. “You wanted to kill me, but she saved me. She gave her life to save me. You are more evil than even I believed.”

“Now it is your turn, whelp,” Epona said, and suddenly another knife appeared in her hand. “Your turn and then I shall rule and all will be as it was supposed to be. I always told Sarimund his spells were worth spit.”

She raised the knife, but Egan didn’t run. He jumped to his feet and faced her. He said, “You cannot kill me, you cannot. I am a wizard. I will not let you,” and he pointed his finger at her and began to chant.

“You are a little nothing!” She raised the knife to plunge it into his heart, but the sound of running feet made her jerk up.

Nicholas ran into the white room, an ancient sword in his hand. He saw Rosalind lying on her back, so still, lifeless, a knife sticking from her heart. A small boy was leaning over her, his hand pressed against her shoulder.

“No!” He threw back his head and howled.

“Get out of here! She failed, you have no business here. He dies now, and there is nothing you can do about it, nothing!”

Nicholas felt pain so great fill him, choke him, he thought he would die with it. But he forced himself to look away from Rosalind, to look at the mad witch, at Epona, holding her knife poised and ready, knowing she’d killed Rosalind, knowing she would kill Egan as well if he did not stop her. It made the pain freeze. Now all he knew was wild rage. He wanted her blood on his hands, the smell of it in his nostrils.

Nicholas saw the witch rise off the floor, her white gown billowing around her, and fly directly at him, snarling, white teeth glistening. But now there wasn’t a knife in her hand. Instead she held, in one thin white hand, a short ink-black spear, its tip so sharp it seemed to split the air.

Nicholas shouted, “Black witch, your demon lover gave you the sword, didn’t he? Sent it up to you from Hell. What did he expect you to do with it—eat it with your hay?”

Epona hesitated a moment, screamed curses, and aimed the demon sword at him. Bright orange light shot from the end of it, lighting the still air, forming terrifying shapes.

He looked at his own sword, a very old sword, perhaps older than Captain Jared Vail, its handle bejeweled.

He then stared up at the creature who had killed his wife, his wife who’d willingly given her life for the boy. “You are a monstrous evil,” he said, voice as soft as the night air. “It ends here, and I am the one to end it.” And he leapt upward, slashing with his sword.

But Epona leapt up another five feet into the air, out of reach.

He was in the Pale. He could do anything at all. He rose straight up, his sword aimed at her. “Come fight me, witch, or perhaps you wish to gallop away from me?”

She hurled curses at his head and Nicholas flew nearer to her, only about six feet away from her, and he taunted her, laughed at her—“Your face is the color of fresh dead snow, and all those billowing white skirts—you are ridiculous, witch.”

Epona howled at him. “You are nothing more than a mortal loosed upon us who believes himself powerful, but you are so new I can see the wet on your flanks!” She froze, moved farther away from him, hovered, then landed gracefully on the white floor.

He looked down at her, bored as a man six feet in the air could look. She yelled, “I did not mean to say flanks! A new colt has wet flanks, not a human.”

Nicholas neighed down at her.

Epona suddenly wore bright red, the skirts still billowing out in an unfelt wind. She rose straight up again, pointed the demon spear at him, mumbled something very, very old, and hurled it at him.

His hurled his own sword. It clashed hard against the demon spear in midair, both hitting their tips together; then as one, they exploded, filling the room with a rainbow of lights. Then Nicholas dove for her, his hands outstretched.

She screamed, “No!” and in her hand was a knife. “You damnable wizard! You’re dead!”

Nicholas simply thought it and the ancient sword was once again in his hand. He knocked her knife aside and plunged the sword through her, its point sticking out of her back a good foot.

She hung there in the air, staring down at the sword thrust through her chest. Her surprise was plain on her face. She looked up at him. “This cannot happen, it cannot. My demon chant, none can overcome it, but you have killed me.”

“Yes,” he said. “It is a very old, very powerful sword.”

“But my demon spear—”

“Naught but weak and pitiful evil,” Nicholas said, and reached out. He pulled the sword out of her body. She hung, as if suspended by unseen strings, until finally she fell onto the floor, on her back. He hovered over her and watched her eyes slowly go blank into death. He watched white drops of blood pool out around her body, seep into her gown, not red now, but white again. And the white mixed together. Her face began to lose its beauty, its youth. She began to change, her flesh growing slack, wrinkles digging into her cheeks, her forehead. She continued to wither until nothing but a skeleton lay on the floor, swathed in white. Then there was nothing save a small pool of white blood where her back had once lain.

Nicholas dropped to the floor and raced to Rosalind. The boy was gone. The knife was still in her chest. “No,” he whispered and pressed his face against hers. “No, this was not to happen. You cannot die. You give your own life for the boy’s? No, surely that was not to happen!”

“Nicholas, could you please pull out the knife? It is very cold inside me.”

He jerked back, stared down at her. He was shaking his head, then suddenly—

“Yes, you remember what Sarimund told me. No evil can touch me. And so it didn’t, just blotted out the world for a moment and sent me into darkness. But I am here again and I am all right. Please, pull out the knife. I tried to order it out of me, but I couldn’t, and my hands don’t want to move. I don’t think I yet have the strength.”

He couldn’t, couldn’t—he grasped the hilt and jerked it out of her. He stared down. There was no blood, only the rent in her white wool gown.

“Ah,” she said, still not moving, “that feels much better.”

He went back onto his knees. “I believed that monster had killed you.”

“No, no. You killed her, just as you were supposed to, just as I knew you would. I was conscious, I simply couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. Where is Egan?”

“I saw the boy leaning over you when I came in, but then he was gone.”

“Well, now, that makes sense, doesn’t it?”

“Nothing makes sense in this accursed place.”

Rosalind lightly touched her fingers to her chest. The gown was whole once again. “Ah, I am coming back to myself.” Slowly, she sat upright, smiled at his hand cupping her elbow.

“You swear to me you are all right?”

“Oh, yes. Egan is gone, Nicholas, because you cannot meet yourself, even here in the Pale. You know that.”

Suddenly they heard Taranis trumpet.

Nicholas and Rosalind walked out of the strange stark white room. But there was no endless corridor with statues of warriors and rooms filled with colorful cushions. No, they were once again standing on the ramparts of Blood Rock.

They raised their faces to see Taranis hovering above them, his wings whipping the rivulets of blood outward on the black rocks, making them splatter to the rampart stones.

Taranis raised his huge head and trumpeted again, the sound echoing off the rocks, making the sky lighten to a pale gray color. The wind died. All was silent, save for the echo of Taranis’s shattering bellow. She knew all could hear it—every Tiber, every Lasis, even the yellow Sillow tree. And the wizards and witches.

He sang to them, “All is well. All is well. You saved Prince Egan, mistress, as you were supposed to. Ah, Sarimund, finally, his spell succeeded.

“To know a modern man can kill a monster, it is gratifying. It is over. The mistress saved the prince, and you, the man, paid your debt to her. It is over and Prince Egan will rule as he was meant to rule.”

Nicholas smiled at her. “I wonder how high I can jump here in the Pale?”

“As high as the eggplant clouds. After all, you can fly.” She couldn’t help herself, she threw back her head and laughed. “Ah, Nicholas,” she shouted, and threw herself against him, her arms locked around his back.

He kissed her once, twice, unable to stop until Taranis cleared his mighty throat in what sounded like a muted roar. Nicholas released her, stepped back, and raised his head to the heavens. He spoke in a voice that shook the very rocks of the fortress. “Sarimund! She saved the boy who is your son. I paid my debt. Epona is dead. You heard Taranis, now Egan will rule over the Pale as it was meant to happen.

“All will be different now, all will proceed now in the Pale on a very fine path indeed.”

He nodded, as if hearing a reply. He looked back at his wife and smiled at her. “Do you hear the rumbling? It is time for us to leave. The boy is now a man. It is time for the change to come.” He gave her a crooked grin. “As much as I would like to, I cannot meet him. What would happen were the two of us to come face-to-face? I do not know and I don’t want to know.”

Nicholas lifted her onto Taranis’s back. The dragon lifted into the sky above Blood Rock and hovered. He sang to them.

A new season for the Pale,

A new life force to leaven the plains,

A calm darkness to bless the nights,

And wisdom to light the spirit.

As they rose higher, they watched as the fortress began to tumble in on itself. Black rocks began to crash down the side of Mount Olyvan, the sound like mad thunder, deafening them. The turrets tumbled, the arches split asunder, the air was thick with rubble and dirt.

They watched until Blood Rock was no more, until the top of Mount Olyvan stood quite bare. Slowly, they saw Mount Olyvan begin to green, wildflowers spring up, bushes with incredible color begin to cover the mountain. There were yellow Sillow trees spouting from the very rock itself, glowing bright.

“Ah, the new kingdom,” Taranis sang, “and a new leader for our land.” And they watched a white fortress build itself, the stones fitting themselves together, rising into the air to great heights, brilliant white turrets springing upward, gleaming beneath a new sun that glistened over all the land.

Banners flew from the ramparts. They were white with three pale yellow moons covering them. They fluttered in a soft wind.

The air smelled different. It smelled whole.

They saw Belenus and Sarimund walk out of the vast white palace, onto the ramparts. They were speaking to each other. Another man appeared, a beautiful man, a young man, and he stood there, until Sarimund held out his arms to him. Prince Egan walked quickly to him and they embraced. Sarimund raised his head to look up at them. He smiled.

Rosalind heard him say clearly in her mind, “I thank you for saving my son, Isabella. Egan rules now. He is good. If ever you need me, you have but to call. My lord, your debt is paid. All thank you. Captain Jared Vail thanks you. Go home, Isabella, go home.”

Taranis bellowed once more and raised himself straight up. “Hold tightly,” he sang to them, and flew straight up directly toward a sun the color of a ripe lemon. They looked down to see the land below become smaller and smaller, then disappear. The air was warm, like swirling silk sliding off their flesh.

All was brilliant and calm, the air so clear they could see through the gems that studded Taranis’s back.

Rosalind heard singing—soft, compelling, a woman’s voice, and it sounded familiar. It was her mother’s voice. She saw a man’s face, her father, and he was nodding at her, smiling, his arms open.

She felt Nicholas’s arms tighten around her waist, felt his warm breath on her neck. She leaned back against his chest. She felt calm, at peace.

Was that Taranis singing to them?

Then neither Nicholas nor Rosalind knew anything more.

EPILOGUE

San Savaro, Italy

They heard cheering.

Their carriage rolled over the cobblestone streets into the sun-baked capital city of San Savaro. Crowds lined the streets, yelling and clapping, waving at them. Behind the crowds were shops and cafes, small parks, horses tethered to posts, carriages next to drays. And flowers everywhere, trellised, in huge pots, in small window boxes, growing out of every spot of green. The colors and the scents were overwhelming.

“What is this?” Nicholas said, staring at all the people obviously welcoming them. “Surely they must believe we are someone else.”

They’d left England a month after they’d awakened in their bed at Wyverly Chase to find Richard pacing the drawing room, his mother on his heels, yelling she wished to leave this house because that wretched ghost ignored her—her!—wouldn’t even sing insults to her, wouldn’t even tilt his chair to acknowledge her presence, and she was tired of her cursed stepson and that hussy of a wife of his lording it over them.

“But he is the earl,” Richard said, “it is his right to lord it over us. He is Lord Mountjoy. The hussy is his wife. Accept it, Mother.”

Rosalind had said from the doorway, “Madam, I imagine that our ghost has finally continued upon his chartered course. You see, there is no longer a reason for him to remain. Richard, everything will be all right now. All of us will be all right now. You may believe that.”

Richard Vail stared at her, then smiled, actually smiled at her, then he smiled at his half brother, a smile so much like Nicholas’s that it nearly made her weep, and he said, “Good. That’s good.”

A sea change? she wondered. She heard Lancelot’s sneering voice from the corridor. Perhaps it would be too much to expect a sea change in Lancelot.

“I cannot get over this,” Nicholas said now, staring at the crowds of people. “They must believe we are visiting dignitaries.”

“Or perhaps they are expecting the Pope,” Rosalind said, and grinned at him. She hadn’t told Nicholas she’d seen her father in the Pale, that her father had turned to look at her, and she’d known he’d seen her and known she was alive, and coming to him.

She looked up at the brilliant sun overhead and thought of the bright yellow sun in the Pale, and how Taranis had flown toward it, and then—simply nothing. How had they returned to Wyverly Chase to wake up in their own bed, still wearing their cloaks, still holding hands?

But they had. They’d also had some bumps and bruises and sore muscles. Rosalind’s chest was a bit tender to the touch. Where Epona’s knife had plunged into her.

The crowds thinned as their carriage, pulled by Grace and Leopold, nearly prancing what with all the attention they were getting, rolled out of the center of San Savaro. The cobblestone road widened and began to wind upward toward a crest upon which stood an immense yellow brick palazzo, the yellow as pale as a watery sun. As they drew closer, they saw that the entire length of the palazzo was showcased by a long row of magnificent Doric columns, surrounded by fountains spraying water high into the air from the mouths of nymphs and grinning satyrs. Ancient statuary stood in groups or alone on the grounds, and more huge pots of tumbling flowers than Nicholas had seen since they’d left their own gardens at Wyverly Chase dotted the green scythed lawn. It was elegant and graceful. Nicholas said, “Do you remember?”

“Yes. It doesn’t seem quite so big now, if you know what I mean.”

“No, not big at all,” he said, and kissed her ear.

Their carriage pulled up with a flourish, executed with great panache by their driver, Lee Po, who could do anything, he’d assured Rosalind. He allowed both Grace and Leopold to stamp their feet and snort.

To Nicholas’s astonishment, standing at the top of the endlessly wide two dozen marble steps stood a line of people—two men, a woman, and three boys, young, all of them, Nicholas suspected, dressed in their finest. They were all waving madly.

He recognized Rosalind’s mother immediately, and knew this was what Rosalind would look like in her older years. A beautiful woman, rounded and soft, with glowing skin, and that glorious red hair glistening beneath the hot Italian sun. She was wearing a green gown of the same style and color Rosalind had worn the previous day. She was holding a babe in her arms.

There was Rosalind’s older brother, Raffaello, a tall, handsome young man who looked very familiar to Nicholas, and surely that was odd. Then he looked at his wife’s father and stilled. No, he thought, it couldn’t be possible.

“No,” he said aloud. “No.”

“They did not want to let you out of their sight. I wondered if they will let me snag you away when it is time to return home to attend Grayson’s wedding in September.” He paused and looked around. “Was this your bedchamber?” He pulled off his boots and began unbuttoning his shirt. He was hot.

“Yes. They didn’t change anything in it.”

Nicholas opened all the windows and leaned out to breathe in the unique scent of Italy. Her bedchamber faced the east gardens and the air was warm and smelled of jasmine. And what? Excitement, he thought. There was so much excitement in the air itself since they’d arrived this afternoon.

Nicholas said, “I like your brothers. And Raffaello is a good man,” he said, turning to look at his wife as she pulled on a lovely peach silk dressing gown. How lovely that the gown beneath it was as sheer.

“Yes, I like them too. The young ones don’t know what to make of us—of me—but they will come to accept me as their sister and you as another brother. I brought a dozen boxes of English sweetmeats. Those candied almonds, in particular, should help them accept us all the more quickly.” She paused a moment, frowned. “How odd that Raffaello is a man grown now. I can see him so clearly as a boy.”

“Your father, Rosalind, he—”

“Yes, I know. I wouldn’t have realized it, though, if I hadn’t seen the portrait.”

“Your father is the bloody image of Captain Jared Vail.” There, it was said aloud.

“Sarimund said our lines crossed somewhere back in medieval times, a very long time ago. Still—Nicholas, it’s not as if my father is the exact likeness of Captain Jared. There are differences, just as there are differences between you and Richard.”

“Yes, but Richard is my half brother, we live now, at the same time, only five years between us, not some three hundred years.”

Wizardry, he thought, he hated how it twisted and turned in on itself and made no sense to a human brain. He said, “Let me see your finger, the one you pricked on Taranis’s scale.”

He took her hand in his and examined her finger. He stilled. “You’ve looked, haven’t you?”

“Oh, yes. It becomes more clear every day. Do you think it is Taranis’s mark?”

He said, “It must be, but why a bolt of lightning, I wonder?”

“I don’t know.”

Nicholas kissed the finger. “I wonder. I wonder,” he repeated, and knew, simply knew, that in the future, in some way, that pale red mark would mean something in their lives.

She said, “Vittorio escaped.”

“Yes, I know. Your father is powerful enough to find him.”

“Yes, he is. He blames himself for telling Vittorio he knew I was alive and that I was coming home. It is a pity his man, Erasmo, died. I would have liked to take him to the Pale and toss him in a fire pit.”

“I’m thinking Vittorio killed him.”

“You are probably right. I daresay my father will kill Vittorio for what he did. He will find him, Nicholas.” And they both knew she was speaking of her father’s magic.

“At least Vittorio’s second wife is free of him.” He walked to her and scooped her up in his arms. “Imagine. My wife, my simple red-haired wife, is a damned princess.”

“Well, I’m only called a damned signora, no fairy tale in that title.”

“You’re still royal, thus a princess. My poor stepmother actually sputtered when I told her—I don’t think I’ve ever really heard a person sputter before. I thought for a moment, once she believed me, she would curtsy to you before she caught herself.”

Rosalind giggled. “Well, you did announce me as an Italian princess. Just before they left, she hissed at me that I was still a strumpet, a foreign strumpet, and we would learn that my father had disowned me. A princess, ha!”

He kissed her ear. “I appreciate that she has remained her malignant self, no change in her at all. Otherwise I might have to like her. Richard now, I begin to believe he and I will rub together very well. That makes me wonder if he will influence Aubrey in my favor.”

“So long as Lancelot and Miranda remain nasty, I’ll be content.” She laughed and held him tight. “All right, I am a princess, a foreign princess. What do you think of that?”

He held her away from him a bit and looked into her eyes. “I’m thinking my foreign princess would enjoy visiting Macau. Actually, Lee Po suggested it. He allowed that you would take the population by storm.”

She fell silent. “Do you think you could teach me Portuguese by the time we arrive?”

“Oh, yes, and Lee Po has already offered to teach you Mandarin Chinese.” He began kissing her, then stopped suddenly, stepped back. “You should have told me your father knew you were alive and coming back.”

“Would you have believed me?”

“No. Yes.” He cursed, plowed his fingers through his hair. “Probably, dammit.”

“Kiss me, Nicholas. We are magic, accept it.”

He muttered under his breath, but not under enough. “A witch, my foreign wife is a damned witch.”

She laughed, stood on her tiptoes, and whispered against his neck, “And you, my lord, are a damned wizard.”

As he nuzzled her neck, Nicholas thought of one of the statues he’d seen, nearly covered with a wildly blooming red bougainvillea. It wasn’t very large, but it was extraordinarily lifelike—a shining marble statue of a dragon with glittering eyes and scales that looked sharp enough to prick a finger.

The dragon’s snout reminded him of Clandus.