SPELLBOUND

THE HAUNTING OF CASTLE KEYVNOR

CLAIRE DELACROIX     JANE CHARLES     CLAUDIA DAIN

AVA STONE INC

Contents

Copyright

Something Wicked This Way Comes

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

About Deborah Cooke / Claire Delacroix

Also by Deborah Cooke / Claire Delacroix

Her Gypsy Lord

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

About Jane Charles

Also by Jane Charles

Lady Ghost & Lord Death: A Love Story

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

About Claudia Dain

The Earl of Banfield’s Last Will & Testament

MORE - The Haunting of Castle Keyvnor

Copyright © 2016 by Claire Delacroix, Jane Charles, and Claudia Dain

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

ISBN: 978-1-311-33989-8

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SOMETHING WICKED THIS WAY COMES

CLAIRE DELACROIX

PROLOGUE

A solitary park in London—October 1811

It was the kind of wager Lucien had come to like best.

A dangerous one.

With very long odds against him.

Which was precisely why he had proposed it.

On this misty morning, he stood not a dozen paces away from Eugene Tremblay, Marquess of Lyndenhurst, the man he despised most in all the world. It was just dawn, and the first touch of the red sun could be seen on the horizon. Lyndenhurst lifted his dueling pistol, one of a fine pair brought by Lucien, and took his aim. Lucien let his weapon hang at his side and waited. Lyndenhurst squinted down the barrel. Lucien took a breath, and his opponent fired.

A flock of ducks quacked with indignation at the sound and noisily took flight from the river.

The blow struck Lucien so hard that he thought his luck had turned, at the worst possible moment.

He was thrown back onto the turf from the force of impact, and the breath was hammered out of him. His chest burned long enough for him to fear terror, then he felt the ball shift and slide through his body. It emerged from his back like a bubble piercing the surface of a pond, and as a warm glow replaced the pain.

His luck hadn’t turned. Lucien fought his smile of satisfaction.

He’d won.

Lyndenhurst swore and his footsteps could be heard trudging closer.

Lucien couldn’t resist the temptation. He waited, lying utterly still, until he felt Lyndenhurst leaning over him. The older man was breathing heavily, though whether it was fear that he had killed a man or the exertion of haste was unclear. Lucien enjoyed the notion that his enemy might be having second thoughts—or fears of retribution. Lucien felt a shadow as Lyndenhurst reached over him to touch the front of his dark tailcoat. He smelled the brandy on Lyndenhurst’s breath. He held his breath and waited.

“Fool!” the older man declared with disgust. “His life sacrificed in exchange for a piece of property so worthless that no one in London will purchase.” Lucien felt the cloth of his tailcoat reweaving itself to close the hole, a soft whisper of threads pulling against each other. Lyndenhurst’s tone turned scornful. “I pray I do not die as foolish as you did, Lucien de Roye. The dogs will find you here.”

Lucien chose that moment to open his eyes. “I think that unlikely,” he said. “Although I am glad to learn that you would not have summoned any to my aid.”

Lyndenhurst turned as white as a ghost and stepped back in astonishment. Lucien had never seen his opponent reveal his emotions so clearly, and he was sufficiently wicked to savor the view.

“Upon my word!” Lyndenhurst declared. He was quick to recover from his surprise, though, and his eyes narrowed in speculation. He looked left and right, but there were no witnesses of their endeavor, by Lucien’s design.

Then Lyndenhurst bent closer, peering through his quizzing glass, seeking a flaw or a trick. “The hole is gone,” he whispered. His eyes glinted as he watched the blood disappear from Lucien’s tailcoat, vanishing as if it had never been. That familiar cool smile, the one that made Lucien think of hungry wolves, curved Lyndenhurst’s lips, his usual assurance restored. “By all rights, you should be dead.”

“Yet I am not, exactly as I foretold.” Lucien sat up and brushed off his sleeves before rising to his feet.

“How did you do it?” The interest in Lyndenhurst’s tone could not be mistaken. “How did you cheat death?” He walked around Lucien, shaking his head. “It must be a trick, an illusion...”

Lucien bent leisurely and plucked the ball from the ground where he had fallen. It had passed directly through him and now rested in the turf. He held it between gloved finger and thumb to display it to Lyndenhurst. “Yours, I believe?”

Lyndenhurst blinked, surprised again for the barest of moments. “And yours,” he said, offering the pistol. He then seized the ball and pinched it tightly. “Is this genuine? Or is it a substitution?”

“You loaded the pistol with your own shot.”

“But still, it defies belief.” Lyndenhurst lifted his glass to examine the ball, shaking his head as he marveled. “I must have this ability. What price?”

“My winnings first, if you please.”

Lyndenhurst reached into his pocket and removed a document, then impatiently thrust it at Lucien. Lucien unfolded the deed and read it with care, ensuring that all of the properties were included that they had wagered upon.

“Well?” Lyndenhurst demanded. “What price?”

Lucien smiled. “Another game, of course, with stakes we agree upon.”

“What stakes?”

“You have only one thing I desire enough to wager such a secret.”

“St. Maurice!” Lyndenhurst exhaled and surveyed the river. It was clear that he was calculating. He nodded quickly when his decision was made. “Done. When and where?”

Lucien disguised his delight. The bait was taken. Seven years of vengeance would come to its culmination very soon, and Sophia—and Charles, and Mr. Brisbane—would be avenged.

“It will have to be in Bocka Morrow in Cornwall, on the night of the 31st.”

“So far away?”

“I have business in the region.”

Lyndenhurst’s eyes darkened with suspicion. “How many players?”

“You and I. No others.”

Lyndenhurst’s expression turned shrewd. “I shall be there.”

“At the Mermaid’s Kiss. I will secure a private room.”

Lyndenhurst folded his arms across his chest. “Vingt-et-un, winner take all?”

“A long journey for a short game,” Lucien replied easily. “Why not best of three games?”

“Why not?” Lyndenhurst shrugged, but his anticipation was palpable. “Why not sooner? Why not here in town?”

“I find appeal in the notion of playing for immortality on the night of Samhain in a village believed to be haunted.” That wasn’t half of the truth. Lucien met the man’s cold gaze. “Let alone one where there can be no witnesses of what passes between us.”

Lyndenhurst nodded agreement. “It does seem fitting. Ten?”

“Ten for dinner, and then the game,” Lucien agreed and offered his hand. “We shall be done by midnight.”

He would win easily.

Lyndenhurst shook Lucien’s hand and gripped it hard. His gaze lingered on the spot on Lucien’s tailcoat where the bullet hole had been. “How can it be so?” he mused, but Lucien didn’t want him to follow the course of his thoughts.

“Does it matter, if you can cheat death forever?”

Lyndenhurst’s lips set in a hard line. “No. It doesn’t matter.” There was satisfaction in his stride as he marched back to his horse, and Lucien surveyed the park once more to confirm that it was still empty. Victory was finally within reach.

He’d gambled and won, and this time, it would be worth it.

Taking vengeance from Lyndenhurst would be his last living deed.

The only disappointment was that Sophia would never know that he’d kept his word to her. Lucien would die on November 1, his soul forfeit in exchange for seven years of service from the demon who had ensured he could never lose.

He wouldn’t even see his beloved in the afterlife, for he was surely bound for Hell and Sophia had to be in Heaven.

Lucien knew theirs had always been a star-crossed match, but he didn’t have to take pleasure in yet one more reminder of that.

Justice done and a promise kept would have to suffice.

Meanwhile, at North Barrows Dower House, Cumbria

A distinct rap upon the polished floor of the foyer alerted the disguised Sophia Brisbane to the fact that her employer would likely soon join the lesson in the drawing room.

Seven years before, at the insistence of her beloved governess, Sophia had taken Amelia Findlay’s place. Amelia had been ill with pneumonia, and when she died, she was buried under the name Sophia Brisbane. Sophia had exchanged her clothes for those of Amelia, and had begun to powder her hair to make it appear more silver, like that of an older woman. She had donned the spectacles of her former governess—although she had mystified the maker by having the lenses exchanged for plain glass—then taken a post as far away from London and any chance of recognition as possible.

Seven years later, she still feared discovery.

Eugene Tremblay, Marquess of Lyndenhurst had taken everything from her, everything except her life, and Sophia didn’t trust him to have abandoned the hunt for that.

Who interrupted their lessons and why? She couldn’t dismiss her sense of doom. Her heart in her throat, Sophia stood up.

The girls were too engrossed in their lessons for once to notice the tap on the door. They were competing again, Eurydice writing fluidly, while Daphne frowned at her younger sister’s rapid progress. The envy would be reversed when it was time for a dance lesson.

Daphne was the taller of the two, as well as the older. She was exquisitely lovely and even at sixteen, possessed of the kind of rare beauty that made people turn to stare. Her hair was as golden as sunlight and her skin was as fair as ivory. She was as slender and supple as a willow, and the joy of every dressmaker who had ever fitted her.

Eurydice was smaller and more stocky, although that might yet change as she was just fourteen. Her hair was closer to the hue of wildflower honey and nowhere near as fastidiously arranged for she was impatient with such fussing. There was a solemnity about her that her sister did not share, and no one was ever surprised to learn that she was an avid reader who wished to become a writer herself. Sophia hoped the girl married a man who was tolerant of her aspirations, for Eurydice had talent. She had a mole upon her cheek, which Amelia thought quite attractive but which Eurydice called the bane of her existence.

“I hate German!” Daphne declared, pushing her page of exercises to the floor just as her grandmother entered the room.

Octavia Goodenham, Viscountess of North Barrows, halted in her steps and arched a silver brow. “And how do you imagine that you will secure a husband of merit if you have no education?” that lady demanded crisply. “Only peasants prefer stupid women, no matter how pretty they are.”

The girls leaped to their feet and curtsied. “Good afternoon, Grandmaman,” said Eurydice and Daphne in unison.

“Your ladyship, how delightful,” Sophia said, offering a much deeper curtsy.

Lady North Barrows ignored these greetings. She was an older lady of considerable poise and some eccentricity. The stark black she favored made her look more slender than she was, although she was as lean as a whip. She carried a black umbrella by habit, one with an ebony handle shaped like a bird’s head, and used it both as a cane and a weapon. Her lady’s maid, Nelson, had shared her mistress’s conviction that only elderly women required canes, while an umbrella, they both agreed, was always a prudent accessory in the north of England. The viscountess’ features were angular, her gaze sufficiently sharp to draw blood. She fixed a look upon her oldest granddaughter that might have struck terror into one less accustomed to her manner.

Or one unfamiliar with the softness of her heart, particularly with regard to these two orphaned girls. Sophia had come to recognize that Lady North Barrows would fight lions for her granddaughters. Fortunately, the need for such heroics was unlikely at the dower house in North Barrows.

Daphne lifted her chin proudly. “I will captivate a duke with my beauty, Grandmaman,” she said, with no small measure of confidence. “You need not fear for my future. It is Eurydice who will be a spinster.”

Sophia noticed the poisonous glance the younger sister spared the elder.

Lady North Barrows looked Daphne up and down. “It is true that you are more than pretty, Daphne, but that is a fleeting virtue. You have an increment of charm, but are utterly lacking in decorum. This is a serious liability.”

“I shall have to steal the duke’s heart then, and persuade him to propose quickly.”

Lady North Barrows looked skeptical. “And when you have had four children, your blossom has faded and he has no interest in your charms? What then?”

“Then I will be rich, for I will have married a duke and provided him with at least one heir. I will have hats and gowns and gloves and parasols, at least one fine carriage and a pair of footmen to carry my parcels. I will have parties at his country manor, or at his London townhouse, and I will drink champagne whenever I desire.” She shrugged. “He might be bald and fat by then, and of no interest to me. Let him have a mistress and leave me to amuse myself.”

Lady North Barrows removed her spectacles and gave them a determined polish before donning them once again. Apparently, the view of her defiant granddaughter was not much improved, for her grim expression didn’t change. “The question of decorum remains.” She rapped her umbrella tip on the floor and turned her attention to Sophia. “Miss Findlay, I come to inform you that we will depart on the morrow, immediately after breakfast.”

Sophia bowed her head, assuming this departure did not include her.

But she was mistaken.

“You will ensure that sufficient material is taken with us for the girls’ lessons to continue in Cornwall, where we shall linger for about a week.”

“Cornwall?” Daphne declared with some horror.

“Cornwall?” Eurydice echoed with delight of equal magnitude.

I will have you and your inheritance, at any price.

Sophia’s head snapped up, Lyndenhurst’s long-ago threat echoing in her thoughts. “It will be an arduous journey for a week’s stay, my lady.”

“And so it must be.” Lady North Barrows braced her hands upon her umbrella and surveyed her granddaughters. “We must consider that Daphne will need a season soon.”

“A season!” Daphne squealed in delight and seized her sister’s hands. Eurydice permitted herself to be spun around but she was trying desperately to attend her grandmother’s words.

“And it is most clear that she has learned nothing at all of how to conduct herself in society. I propose this journey that she might have some practice before we descend upon London and she makes a mockery of all of us.”

“London!” Daphne flung herself at her grandmother. “Balls and parties every night. Dressmakers and milliners and darling little kid gloves.”

“Museums,” Eurydice said with awe. “Galleries and concerts.”

“Decorum,” Lady North Barrows concluded. “And with any luck, the son of a man with a respectable title.”

“A duke!”

“We shall see. Miss Findlay, I shall need every possible measure of your assistance.”

“It is yours, my lady.” A quiver began deep within Sophia, for she had no desire to abandon her safe haven, even for Cornwall. She had sought out this employment deliberately and couldn’t conceive of a better place to keep her disguise intact.

But she could not defy her employer and risk losing her place.

She tried not to think about the fact that she had deceived that employer, who had only been good to her thus far.

I will have you and your inheritance, at any price.

She clasped her hands together and tried to appear more calm than she felt. Surely having no inheritance meant that she was safe from his avarice?

But Sophia did not wish to risk discovering otherwise.

Daphne showed no such restraint. She hugged herself with delight at the prospect of both a journey and a London season, then spun in place. Sophia bit back a smile at her charge’s pleasure, for it made her recall her own anticipation of her first arrival in London. Daphne’s was unlikely to end as poorly.

Lady North Barrows sighed with apparent exasperation. Her indulgence was evident in the twinkle in her eyes, though, which even she could not quell. Sophia met her gaze and smiled, for it was true that Daphne’s delight with life and its pleasures had a way of winning favor from even those most reluctant to admire her.

“And so, to details.” Lady North Barrows seated herself upon a settee with a swish of dark taffeta. Her hands remained braced upon the umbrella handle, and Sophia knew she would issue detailed instructions. “I have had a letter this morning, Miss Findlay, from the solicitor Mr. Timothy Hunt to inform me of the passing of my brother, Jonathan Hambly, the Earl of Banfield.”

“My condolences, my lady.” This death must have somehow influenced Lady North Barrows’ decision to see Daphne come out.

“I thank you, Miss Findlay.” Lady North Barrows cleared her throat. “Mr. Hunt also noted that the reading of Jonathan’s last will and testament will occur on November 1. It will be done at Jonathan’s estate, Castle Keyvnor, in Cornwall, where I lived as a girl, and undoubtedly the lion’s share of his wealth will pass to our second cousin, Allan.”

“Cornwall,” Eurydice said again with no less wonder than before. She perched on a stool before her grandmother. “There must be pirates and ghosts.”

“Of course, there are,” her grandmother agreed with a dismissive gesture. “The castle has been haunted for at least two hundred years.” She rapped her umbrella on the floor when Eurydice might have asked for more detail. “The point is that much of the extended family will gather for this ceremony. While it is true that any token Jonathan might have bequeathed to me—and truly, I expect little—can be managed by solicitors.” She paused and raised a hand to her throat. “Although my mother possessed a very fine cameo...” She shook her head and continued in her usual crisp tones. “It has occurred to me that this event offers an opportunity for the practice of decorum, and the cultivation of manners within society.” She nodded once with satisfaction at her own plan. “And that within the confines of family, any serious faux pas might be overlooked.”

Eurydice laughed and Daphne looked daggers at her.

Lady North Barrows nodded. “We shall visit Cornwall first, then perhaps—if a certain miss shows improvement—London next year for the season.”

Surely no one would recognize Sophia in Cornwall. She had never been there. And even the inns between North Barrows and Castle Keyvnor were unlikely to play host to anyone she had met seven years before.

And perhaps by the time Lady North Barrows went to London, Sophia could find another post in an equally remote location. The girls would have less need for her by then.

“Oh, Grandmaman, I shall be a marvel, just for you,” Daphne declared, flinging herself down beside her grandmother and kissing the jet ring on that lady’s hand.

“You need not be a marvel, child, simply more like a lady.”

“I will!”

“Until you forget,” Eurydice noted, with some truth.

Lady North Barrows stood. “We shall depart in the morning. We shall take the large carriage, for there will be ourselves, plus Nelson and Sara, and we shall hope for good roads that we arrive in time.” She inclined her head. “We will have many long days in the carriage. I trust you will be prepared, Miss Findlay.”

“You may be certain of that, my lady.”

The older woman surveyed the girls with a slight smile. “I expect there will be little German mastered in what remains of this afternoon. I have sent Sara to pack for the girls. Perhaps they might assist her with their choices.” Lady North Barrows strode to the door. “They will join the party for one dinner, two if their manners are sufficiently improved.” Daphne squealed at this. “They will take lunch with the ladies, undoubtedly will walk into the village of Bocka Morrow at least once, and may be invited to ride. Please remind Sara that they will need sturdy cloaks and boots. The weather can be most foul in that corner of the world.”

“And what shall we pack to fend against the ghosts?” Eurydice demanded.

Her grandmother paused on the threshold and turned back. “Your wits, of course. You have need of nothing more when it comes to ghosts.” With a final rap of her umbrella upon the floor, Lady North Barrows departed.

Leaving Sophia with much to plan and more than a little trepidation.

It was almost midnight when Philip removed Lucien’s tailcoat and Lucien checked the fabric over his heart. There was no sign of the hole that had briefly graced the tailcoat, and none of the one that must have been in the tailcoat’s back. His shirt was perfect, unmarred by blood or gunshot, if a little wrinkled from the day. Even after all this time, he still had to check. The bullet should have pierced his heart and killed him.

But it hadn’t, because of the baron.

“So, he did shoot you,” Philip said, his manner grim. “And you let him. You rely too much on that demon.”

“The baron will be gone soon enough,” Lucien said and his friend shuddered that he named the demon aloud. “Seven years is almost over, Philip.”

The other man gave him a look that spoke volumes. “You’re a fool to trust him. He’s a trickster and a cheat. He won’t go easily.”

“He’ll take what he was promised.”

“He’ll take more. It’s his way.”

“We have an agreement.”

“He’s never satisfied with the terms, not at the end.”

“He will be this time.” Philip’s eyes narrowed but Lucien didn’t elaborate. He’d dragged his old friend through enough trouble these past seven years. It was time for all of it to end—but he knew that if he confided in Philip, Philip would try to save him. It couldn’t be done. The baron’s tithe had to be paid.

In a strange way, Lucien was ready to pay it.

“And then what?” Philip demanded.

“And then you will take the money I give you and go home, find a beautiful woman to marry and live out your life in prosperity and joy.”

Philip sniffed. “I won’t leave you,” he insisted and hung up Lucien’s clothes. “I suppose you will spend the night in the drawing room.”

“I’ve never shirked from paying the baron’s due, and I won’t start now.” Lucien smiled. “That’s why we get along so well.”

“I would never have imagined he could corrupt you so completely.” Philip eyed Lucien. “What did you promise him? It must have been a lot for a seven year run of luck.”

Lucien only smiled. He changed to his dressing robe, retrieved the token from the pocket of his tailcoat—to Philip’s visible disgust—and left the bed chamber. He carried a candle in one hand as he descended to the drawing room, the charm in the other.

He could feel his companion waiting for him.

Expectant.

Hungry. The baron was becoming stronger as they neared the end of their seven-year agreement. More watchful, as if he suspected a trick.

But Lucien wouldn’t flinch from what had to be done.

He had nothing to live for once Sophia’s inheritance was regained, after all.

The room was chilly, colder than it should have been, and the candle flame danced wildly in a wind Lucien couldn’t detect.

To think Lucien hadn’t truly believed that a wager with this demon would make him invincible. Yet he had tested the baron repeatedly, and the baron had saved him every time. Lucien had ridden into seven battles, he had set foot on no less than five ships said to be doomed, he had bedded the wives of nineteen peers of the realm rumored to be jealous beyond all expectation, and then the mistresses of seven of them just for good measure, and he had fought—and won—thirty-two duels. Thirty-three. He had been shot through the heart repeatedly and stood up to duel again moments later, not suffering so much as a scratch.

Every time.

His run of luck was unquestionable.

It was unholy, and it was unshakable. The baron couldn’t be beaten, and Lucien couldn’t die because he was in the baron’s care. He couldn’t lose at cards or any other game of chance. He couldn’t stop gambling, and he couldn’t keep from winning.

There had been a time when he would have called such a situation paradise.

Now Lucien knew better. He had lived enough in seven years to exhaust him.

But he was almost done. There was just St. Maurice, the gem in the crown, the last property to fulfill the oath he’d sworn. By November 1, it would be done.

On November 1, the baron would demand payment.

And Lucien would be at peace.

In the drawing room, he strode to the mirror over the hearth to examine his own reflection. He put the candle down on the mantel, where the flame continued to flicker. He heard a chuckle and wasn’t surprised to see the familiar specter take the place of his reflection. The baron was an old black man, with white at his temples and merriment in his bloodshot eyes. He was both ancient and ageless, a familiar and not always welcome companion. He was impeccably dressed, as always, his cravat perfectly tied and a blood red rose in his buttonhole. He posed as if he were Lucien’s reflection, straightened his cravat and bowed a little.

He winked and Lucien looked away.

“Seven years,” the baron said, speaking as always in the French patois of Saint Domingue. “The debt comes due soon, mon petit.”

“I know. I will pay it.”

“I know, mon petit.”

Lucien lit the larger candle on the mantelpiece and placed the shade around it so the flame couldn’t blow out. He filled a glass almost to the rim with dark rum and placed it beside the candle. The small vivid painting of Saint Martin de Porres kept on the mantelpiece was moved closer to the candle. Lucien added the strange little tied bundle that he’d carried for almost seven years between picture and candle.

He bowed and retreated, feeling the baron’s satisfaction with the offering.

By the morning, the candle would have burned itself out. The rum would be gone. The picture would be face down, and the cloth bundle would be warm, as if it had been held tightly all the night long.

Lucien locked the door to the drawing room, so none of the servants would discover the makeshift altar, and stretched out on the settee to sleep. Music emitted from his grandmother’s pianoforte as soon as his eyes closed, and he knew the servants would assume—as always—that he was the restless musician. Philip could have told them otherwise, but he never would.

Not even when it was over.

Philip would have preferred that the baron didn’t exist, or at least that he hadn’t been invoked—much less welcomed. On November 1, Philip would get his wish.

The music rapidly grew in volume. It was feverish, wild, chaotic, both thrilling and disturbing. If Lucien squinted, he could almost make out the silhouette of the baron, his fingers dancing over the keys. The candle flame flickered, as if it would dance to the music. Some of the rum was already gone.

Lucien closed his eyes, knowing the baron would be amused all the night long, and that he would not sleep until dawn. He was enough of his father’s son to recognize that when you make a deal with a devil, it’s clever to keep the demon close at hand.

CHAPTER 1

London—September 1804

A fter weeks at sea, Sophia Brisbane was more than ready to have her feet on dry ground again. She had become progressively more chilled the farther they sailed from St. Maurice, home and haven, and she began to fear she would never be truly warm again. The ship had to be towed into the port, given the density of the fog. She stood at the rail in her thick cloak and shivered within it, watching. The prison hulks loomed out of the mist on one side, the raucous sounds of the prisoners secured there reminding her of crows.

“Will Mr. Brisbane greet us?” Miss Findlay asked, her manner a little less resolute than usual. Sophia’s governess and companion had felt the cold particularly.

“I would expect as much.”

“Or perhaps that Mr. Lucien he always writes about. He does seem to be entrusting that young friend of Master Charles with a good deal of responsibility.”

Sophia nodded. “I think Father likes him, but I wouldn’t know him to see. I hope Charles comes.”

Miss Findlay nodded but didn’t respond.

It took an eternity to be hauled into port, but the fog was thinner there. Sophia was relieved to see her father, hands braced on his hips as he surveyed the mooring of his ship with satisfaction. Charles was behind their father, more richly dressed than she could have expected. He had become quite dashing since she had last seen him. As she watched, her older brother fastidiously took a pinch of snuff.

Sophia laughed that he should pretend to be a dandy for her entertainment. Perhaps Charles did not notice her reaction, for he didn’t smile.

There was another young man with her father, one with ebony hair and an intent gaze. He was tall and broad, of an age with Charles but not as stocky. He was dressed more simply, in black and white, his garb so plain as to be austere. He scanned the ship, then her father pointed to her, and his gaze locked upon her. Even at a distance, Sophia felt a strange heat at his steady perusal. She dropped her gaze and felt herself flush.

He had to be Lucien de Roye, and Sophia felt new interest in her brother’s friend.

The gangplank was lowered and the captain escorted Sophia to her father himself. Many compliments were exchanged, then her trunks were retrieved as her father made introductions. “You’ve read about Lucien in my letters, of course,” he said, gesturing to the younger man.

“At your service, Miss Brisbane,” Lucien said and bowed for Sophia. He was more handsome than she had realized, and his attention flustered her. Sophia was accustomed to the company of women and older male servants, her father’s bluster, but not the charm of a handsome man almost of an age with herself. She felt very much out of her element when she offered her gloved hand.

“I thank you,” she said and he smiled, the gleam in his eyes making her heart leap.

“You’ll not make a conquest here,” Charles complained, catching Sophia in a tight hug and giving her a buss on each cheek. “Sophia is doomed to make a brilliant marriage.”

Sophia saw a shadow appear in Lucien’s eyes before he turned away.

“I say, Father, must we linger about this hideous place?”

“Hideous? This is where money is made, Charles.” Their father’s voice boomed in his enthusiasm. “As I’ve told you a hundred times, a man must greet his shipment at the docks, even when it arrives on his own ships, tally it and count it and ensure he isn’t cheated.”

“But I want to show Sophia my new gelding. And she needs to be driven around the park, so everyone can see her.” Charles granted her an engaging smile.

“Can I not possibly go to the house first?”

“Pshaw!” Charles dismissed the notion. “She can’t possibly want to remain here.”

“I’ll help with the tallying, Mr. Brisbane,” Lucien offered.

“Of course, you will, boy. I can always rely upon you.” Sophia’s father slanted a glance at Charles. “You will have to learn one day, Charles, particularly if you continue to show such a taste for spending.”

“But it will not be today, Father!” Charles offered Sophia his elbow. “Come along, Sophia, and Miss Findlay, as well. I will take you to the new house.”

“A new house?”

Her father’s chest puffed with pride. “I am to be knighted, Sophia. We could scarce remain in Kensington.”

“Dear God, how much has he spent?” Sophia asked Charles in an undertone.

“Not nearly enough,” her brother replied tartly. “There was a fine townhouse to be had in Mayfair, but he would not dispense the coin.” Charles grimaced. “Instead, we are to make due with Chelsea.” He shook his head. “Chelsea! Even Lucien has a house in Belgrave Square.”

“He does?” Sophia found herself glancing back at her brother’s friend from Eton and Oxford, only to find Lucien still watching her. “I thought he had no fortune.”

“Well, he hasn’t a fortune and he hasn’t a title, not anymore, but he has his grandmother’s house. I thought he should sell it to Father but he wouldn’t. I don’t know why he keeps it, for it is in need of much repair.”

“Does he have other family?”

Charles shook his head, and Sophia found herself liking that Lucien kept his grandmother’s house, though he didn’t need it. “Perhaps it has fine memories for him,” she said warmly.

“Memories, Sophia, are worthless. What you want are connections with the right people.”

“I thought you were learning Father’s trade.”

Charles scoffed. “Father has social ambitions. I am pursuing them. Let Lucien inventory the stock. I have better things to do.”

And so it proved he did, for no sooner had Charles deposited Sophia and Miss Findlay at the new house—which proved to be sumptuously furnished—than he abandoned them.

Presumably for better social connections.

It was Lucien who called later to ensure that they were settled, Lucien who instructed the housekeeper to build up the fires as the new arrivals would feel the dampness particularly, and Lucien who offered to show the two women the charms of London.

It was Lucien who, one month later, gave Sophia her first kiss. An awakening kiss. A kiss that had been tentative, then had heated and become a force of its own.

A kiss that had been both an end and a beginning.

Castle Keyvnor—Tuesday, October 29, 1811

Sophia awakened, her lips burning in memory of the kiss that had set her soul afire.

She sat up abruptly, heart thumping, halfway convinced that it had been more than a dream. But she was in the small room under the eaves at Castle Keyvnor, and she was alone. Her dream of Lucien had been so vivid that it was difficult to dismiss.

It was even more difficult to dismiss the yearning she felt for his touch.

What she should remember was his rejection.

Seven years and Lucien still haunted her.

It was more than long enough. The past was over and done, and the present was all that mattered. Sophia swung her legs out of bed, determined to banish him from her memory. Lucien had been her brother’s best friend, the first man who had looked at her with appreciation, the first man who had kissed her.

And he had rejected her. Who knew what had become of him? Sophia did not care.

Well, she cared very little.

It would be clever to not care at all.

Why would she dream of him now? That music must have been responsible for her unsettling dreams. What kind of guest was so rude as to play the harpsichord in the middle of the night? Even if he or she were unable to sleep, it was scarcely fitting to awaken the entire house.

Or maybe it was guilt that had given her a restless night. Sophia had been sick at heart for the entire journey south, convinced that some maid or chance traveler would call her by name and her ruse would be revealed.

She’d even planned a dozen responses, each an improvement on the last, all of which professed her ignorance of Sophia Brisbane.

The fact remained that she had lied to Lady North Barrows. She had deceived people who had been good to her, and the fact that she had done so out of fear seemed a paltry excuse.

I will have you and your inheritance, at any price.

Sophia shivered and got out of bed. It had been pouring rain when they arrived the day before, and even Lady North Barrows had appeared to be exhausted. She’d waved them all to their rooms and commanded that their dinners be served there, and Sophia had been grateful.

This day, though, she would be subject to greater scrutiny.

Her disguise would have to suffice. Sophia pulled her hair back tighter than ever. She powdered it a little more liberally to make it look more gray. She donned her spectacles and her plainest dress, hoping she could disappear into the woodwork of the castle.

No one really looked at governesses, did they?

No one here could possibly recognize her or realize who she really was.

No one.

Everyone she truly knew in England other than Lucien and Lyndenhurst was dead, after all. Neither of them could possibly be here in Cornwall.

Amelia would have told her that she was foolish to be agitated, and looking for trouble where there could be none.

Morning always came too early when there were guests in the house. That was Mrs. Bray’s thinking and each day since the earl’s death only reaffirmed it. She would sleep for a week when this ruckus was through.

She had been through the house, ensuring that every maid was quick about her tasks and that every fire was lit when she found Morris in his pantry, frowning at the inventory. His stillness caught her eye and prompted her impatience. If the butler had nothing to do or oversee on a morning such as this, she could be of help in that!

“Are they more fond of the wine than you anticipated?” she asked.

He waved off the very suggestion. “There’s more than sufficient in the cellar.” He lifted a bottle. “It’s the rum. No one favors it, but the earl believed we should have some, in case there was a guest desiring it.”

“And so last night there was,” Mrs. Bray said, nodding at the half-empty bottle.

He spared her a glance. “But none of the gentlemen indulged in it last night. The bottle was yet sealed when I retired.” He swirled its contents. “It is a veritable antique, this one. I don’t even recall when we acquired it.”

“And someone drank of it in the night? Just helped himself?” Mrs. Bray’s lips thinned. “That smacks of theft. One of the visiting valets, then? As if a good room and hearty fare aren’t enough generosity!”

“Did you hear anyone about the house?”

“After the day I had? I slept like the dead last night, to be sure—or I would have if that Mr. de Roye hadn’t arrived at all hours. Time was that a young gentleman like that would remember his manners and arrive in the afternoon, like decent people, instead of rousing the house after midnight.” She took a deep breath of indignation. “And bringing that Negro valet besides. Black as the bottoms of Cook’s pots, he is, and in this house! The earl would have been dismayed, to be sure.”

“I suspect not,” Morris said. “That valet’s manners are impeccable, and that is all that would have mattered to the earl.”

Mrs. Bray sniffed with sufficient indignation to communicate her thoughts on that matter.

“Perhaps it was Mr. de Roye,” Morris mused.

“Perhaps it was his fine valet.”

“Someone was playing the harpsichord last night, and it was after Mr. de Roye’s late arrival.”

“The harpsichord? Is it still in tune?” Mrs. Bray couldn’t recall the last time anyone had shown an interest in the instrument. If a guest were inclined to play, she should call old Fitzwilliam up from the village to ensure the notes were true.

Even if it was played in the middle of the night.

“I didn’t get back to sleep quickly after Mr. de Roye was settled in his room and I heard the music. I didn’t recognize the melody, but it was played very fast. I found this empty glass there this morning.” Morris sniffed it. “Rum. Fortunately, the glass didn’t leave a ring on the veneer.”

“I suppose it is better if it was Mr. de Roye helping himself than any of the visiting valets.”

“And far better than one of the maids doing so,” Morris agreed. He squinted at the bottle, as if to remember the level of the rum within it. “I shall keep an eye on it, just the same.”

“And then the governess dies.”

Sophia halted at the emphatic comment that carried clearly from the castle’s library. Of course, it was Daphne.

Although ordering an execution did seem to be an excessive means of avoiding a German lesson.

It was five minutes to nine, and they were scheduled to continue their regular lessons at the stroke of the hour, per Lady North Barrows’ instruction.

“No!” Eurydice replied, her outrage clear. “She’s the princess of a distant realm, hidden for her own safety, who claims the heart of the duke. There’s no happy ending if she dies.” Her tone turned disparaging. “Have you failed to note anything about stories in your life?”

Ah. Eurydice was writing her story again, and had made the mistake of asking her sister for advice. Sophia fought against her smile.

“I know what I like.” Daphne was pouting.

“How can you like it if the princess dies?” Eurydice was exasperated.

“I could if she spoke perfect German.”

“Of course, she does. She couldn’t be a princess otherwise.”

Daphne snorted in a very unladylike fashion.

“And flawless French, and Spanish,” Eurydice taunted. “I think she might excel at mathematics, too.”

“That’s the best kind of person to die in a book. No one likes heroines like that.”

“I’m a heroine like that!”

“You’re not in a book.”

“I mean to see that repaired.”

“Then no one will read the book, because everyone will think the heroine should die!”

Their voices rose in dispute as Sophia stepped briskly into the library to intervene.

They didn’t even notice her arrival.

Sophia dropped the German grammar book on a desk. It was a volume of considerable heft and made a satisfying thump on impact.

It also loosed a cloud of fine dust.

Both girls fell silent and pivoted at the sound, their eyes wide.

“Good morning,” Sophia said. “Guten morgen.”

Eurydice tucked her work away, her face alight with anticipation. Daphne pouted—she even did that prettily—and took her seat. There was boredom in every line of her figure and mutiny in her eyes.

“Guten morgen,” the girls repeated in unison but in vastly different tones.

“Fräulein Findlay,” Eurydice added.

“The past perfect of ‘to read,’ if you please, Daphne. I had been reading Eurydice’s book...”

“We should learn French,” that student declared. “It sounds nicer.”

“We did learn French,” Eurydice corrected. “Except that you didn’t like it either.”

Daphne stuck out her tongue at her sister.

Sophia cleared her throat.

“Ich habe gelesen; du hast gelesen; er hat gelesen,” Eurydice said. “Wir haben gelesen; ihr habt gelesen; sie haben gelesen.”

“Very good. How about the future, Daphne? As in I will read Eurydice’s book when it’s finished.”

Daphne blinked.

“Ich werde lesen,” Eurydice hissed.

“Du wirst lesen,” Daphne added, then fell silent.

“Er wird lesen; wir werden lesen, ihr werdet lesen; sie werden lesen,” Eurydice continued.

“Very good. Did you study last night?”

“I did some of the exercises.” Eurydice took a superior tone. “Daphne was too busy deciding what to wear today and looking out the window.”

“I suppose you have a fine view of the sea.” Sophia gave Eurydice a look.

The younger girl narrowed her eyes for a moment, then smiled with triumph. “Ich nehme an, Sie haben einen schönen Blick auf das Meer.”

“Very good. But if you were speaking to Daphne...”

“I’d say du hast instead of Sie haben because she’s just my sister.”

Daphne ignored this jibe and sighed. “Our room has a view of the gates.”

“Unser Zimmer hat einen Blick auf die Tore,” provided Eurydice. “But it wasn’t the gates you were looking at last night.

A sparkle lit in Daphne’s eyes. “No, I saw something much better.”

“You might as well tell us,” Sophia said, pretending to be less curious than she was.

“A carriage arrived at midnight.”

Eurydice leaned forward. “It raced through the gates, at reckless speed. It was black, and pulled by a perfectly matched team of four blacks...”

“At midnight, you could see this?” Sophia had to ask.

“The moon is almost full,” Eurydice said. “They halted at the portal, the horses stamping and breathing fire.”

Sophia arched a brow. “I thought Daphne was telling us.”

Eurydice grimaced. “I would tell it better.”

“And the most handsome man in the world leaped out of the carriage,” Daphne added. “He was dressed all in black, except for his white cravat.”

“Which was adorned with a gem of uncommon brilliance,” Eurydice said. “It glittered in the moonlight and had to have been worth a king’s ransom. It was probably stolen, or an heirloom, or won in a gaming hell in London.”

Daphne sighed with rapture. “He must be a duke or the son of a duke. He’s wealthy beyond compare, I’m sure, and gallant...”

“I would stop short of gallant,” a rich male voice contributed from behind Sophia. Her heart stopped cold, so certain was she that she recognized that voice. She felt a shiver run from her scalp to her toes.

No. It couldn’t be Lucien de Roye. Not after all this time. It would be against every conceivable possibility.

He was in her thoughts because of her dream.

She probably wouldn’t even recognize his voice. It had been seven years, after all.

But it was suddenly cold in the library, the air turning frigid just as it had the last time she’d seen him.

Sophia pivoted, her expression properly prim, and caught her breath at the sight of the man leaning in the doorway.

It was Lucien de Roye.

And he was every bit as handsome as he had been seven years before.

But terrifying. Once he had been serious but with humor in his smile, with a manner that invited her trust. Now, his eyes glittered, like faceted gems. The line of his mouth was harsher, almost cruel. He looked even colder than he had when he rejected her. She had the sense that he was reckless, assessing, dangerous, heartless.

And as unlike the man she had loved as was possible. Lucien might have had a wicked twin. Sophia barely kept herself from taking a step back.

She should have been relieved that he barely noted her presence. Her disappointment had to be because his gaze lingered on Daphne, a girl he would have found predictable seven years before. What more proof did she need that the man she loved was gone?

If he had ever existed.

Had Lucien changed or had his hidden truth simply been revealed? Sophia could not say.

“You interrupt our lesson, sir,” she said with authority. “Is there good cause for this?”

“Curiosity is always good cause,” he said with a cool smile. He sauntered into the library with that lithe grace she remembered so well. “It has been a long time since I’ve been accused of gallantry,” he said to Daphne, who stared at him with awe. “Much less chivalry. In league with the Devil is a more common attribute, or wicked to my very marrow.”

Daphne blinked. Sophia was quite certain that the girl had never had a man like this speak to her before. She took advantage of Lucien’s diverted attention to survey him, seeking some hint of his past self.

He was dressed in black, from his trim jacket to his breeches to his polished boots. That was consistent. His taste in clothing had always been austere. The cloth was fine, and the tailoring, exquisite. His cravat was starkly white in contrast, his waistcoat made of a brocade that only revealed a hint of blue because of the splendor of that sapphire. His hair and brows were as black as ever, his eyes as vivid a blue, his chiseled features as handsome as that of any Greek god.

If anything, he was more confident. He still emanated an impression of power just barely contained. He was intense and watchful in a way that was utterly different from the man she remembered. She was put in mind of a predator, and stifled a shudder.

Once he had won her heart: now he frightened her.

It was a poor moment to recall that Lucien had always been particularly perceptive.

Sophia dropped her gaze to the floor. She reminded herself that they would only be at Castle Keyvnor until the end of the week and that she could surely evade the attention of a man like this for that long.

“Lucien de Roye, at your service,” he said to Daphne.

“Miss Goodenham,” Sophia supplied and her charge recovered herself well enough to curtsy.

“Delighted to meet you, sir.” Daphne smiled and fluttered her lashes, dipping her chin to show her charms to best advantage. Sophia realized that the girl had probably chosen her new sprigged muslin specifically because she had seen Lucien arrive.

Lucien granted her an appraising survey. Daphne, for her part, had a good look at him through her lashes. “This is my sister, Miss Eurydice Goodenham,” she said, but only after Sophia cleared her throat.

“Delighted, sir.” Eurydice bobbed a quick curtsy.

“Delighted,” he replied. “But I regret that I must disappoint you both yet again. I am not, regrettably, the son of a duke either.” Lucien turned a smile upon to Eurydice that made the girl blink. “Thus no inherited gem.” He fingered the sapphire in his cravat. It was as big as Eurydice’s thumb and glittered deep blue.

“Stolen or won, then, sir?” the girl had the audacity to ask.

Lucien chuckled and the dark sound awakened a flutter in Sophia’s stomach. “Won, of course. And might well be lost before the moon is full again.” He bowed to the girls, then paused beside Sophia. She kept her gaze fixed on her boots, fighting to ignore the blush that rose from her breasts. “I do apologize for the interruption, Miss...?”

“Miss Findlay,” she replied firmly, summoning the spirit of her former tutor. “If you would excuse us, sir, we have a great many lessons to complete this morning.”

“Of course. I would not hope to compete with the pleasures of conjugating German verbs.” There was something in his tone that made Sophia think he was teasing her and her gaze flew to his. He held her gaze without blinking and her heart clenched that she had been recognized. Then he arched a brow. “German has never been my strength.”

Daphne was delighted by this confession and smiled at him radiantly.

He bowed again then strolled to the door. Sophia was almost ready to take a breath of relief but he halted on the threshold to glance back. “Je serais ravi de vous aider dans vos leçons dans cette langue.”

Daphne looked confused.

“He says he’ll tutor you,” Eurydice whispered.

Daphne’s eyes lit. “Oh! Merci, Mr. de Roye.”

Lucien inclined his head, his gaze flicking to Sophia.

No. He was baiting her.

“That will not be necessary, sir,” Sophia interjected crisply. “Although your offer is most generous.”

“I doubt you believe that, Miss Findlay,” he purred, punctuated the address with a piercing look that made Sophia quiver to her marrow. He made to leave the library then hesitated again. “And Miss Eurydice, you are right. They are perfectly matched blacks. If you come to the stables after luncheon, I will prove it to you.”

Sophia kept her irritation from her voice with an effort. Why was he so determined to tempt the girls to folly? “I regret that she will be occupied with her studies,” she said with force. “If you will excuse us. Good day, Mr. de Roye.”

Lucien’s smile flashed. “Such a taskmaster you have, ladies,” he drawled, his gaze lingering on Sophia. She thought he might say more, but he was gone as suddenly as he had appeared.

He couldn’t know.

Could he?

Even if he had recognized her, why would he care? Sophia took a steadying breath, glad the library was their own again. Her hands were shaking, to her dismay. Eurydice was peering at her, her curiosity evident, but Sophia straightened and returned the girl’s gaze sternly. The library warmed to its former temperature.

Five days. A veritable eternity.

“Lady North Barrows!” Lucien’s words floated back to the library. Daphne was immediately as alert as a hound that had caught a scent. “What an unanticipated delight.”

“Is it? Then you’ve forgotten your relations, too,” Lady North Barrows said with an acidity that gave Sophia great pleasure. “I thought it was the Devil himself arrived last night, but I see it was only you, Lucien. Is it true what they whisper, that you are in league with the dark fiend?”

In league with the Devil? Sophia had not heard that rumor.

Daphne abandoned her lessons and hastened to the door, unable to disguise her curiosity. Eurydice hesitated only a moment before following to do the same. Sophia could have commanded them back to their seats, but truth be told, she was curious as well.

The more she knew of Lucien’s activities over the past seven years, the better she could avoid him. It was an excuse and Sophia knew it, but she listened all the same.

Sophia Brisbane wasn’t dead.

And Lucien had almost said too much in his relief.

Her survival was a marvel. It meant that keeping his word wasn’t just a quixotic quest, but that he would actually set matters to rights.

Sophia was alive!

And he was not quite as sanguine about dying in three days.

Lucien had been devastated when he found the notation of her death in the register of that woe-be-gone parish church. All the same, he’d been surprised that he hadn’t known of it sooner. It seemed he should have felt a stabbing pain when she breathed her last, or felt an ache that couldn’t be dismissed because she was no longer in the world.

He’d blamed the baron for that. He didn’t feel much of anything anymore, not since the charm had been created and tied, binding demon and mortal together for seven years. He felt much of the time as if he was dead already and the world around him was a dream.

But Sophia hadn’t died.

Lucien felt a flicker of warmth where his heart used to be, a glow that could only be joy, that it was so.

To be sure, she was paler than he recalled and thinner. She looked taut, as her governess often had, and that she was in service told him all he needed to know about her financial situation. Did she pretend to be Amelia Findlay solely for that reason, or did she hide from someone?

He wouldn’t blame her for hiding from him, not after the way they had parted.

But Sophia was alive!

The rap of an umbrella on the floor made Lucien look up. Lady North Barrows stood before him, her hair a little whiter than he recalled, but no less sharp and shrewd than she’d been the last time they crossed paths. He’d been wary of her before the baron, and even now recognized a formidable will.

He admired fearless and outspoken women. The baron hadn’t changed that.

He bowed even as she sniffed with disapproval. “Lady North Barrows! What an unanticipated delight.”

“Is it? Then you’ve forgotten your relations, too,” she replied, looking him up and down. “I thought it was the Devil himself arrived last night, but I see it was only you, Lucien. Is it true what they whisper, that you are in league with the dark fiend?”

Blunt, as well. Lucien had always appreciated the honesty of direct speech. Sophia had charmed him from the first with her inability to keep from expressing her thoughts aloud. He’d believed once that she was the only woman in London who would tell him the truth—although now he didn’t want to hear her view of him. He smiled. “You can’t believe every rumor you hear, Lady North Barrows.”

She glared at him. “Yet you are surprised to encounter me here, at the reception to read my own brother’s will. You thought I wouldn’t attend.”

“The journey is long from North Barrows.” Which made North Barrows a perfect place for Sophia to hide. Lucien realized the wisdom of her scheme. She had always been clever. “I didn’t expect you to undertake it.”

Lady North Barrows’ gaze lingered on the sapphire in his cravat and Lucien would have wagered that she assessed its value within a shilling.

He could have won that wager without the baron’s assistance.

“Then you thought wrongly.” Her eyes narrowed. “I suppose this is an excellent opportunity to confess my disappointment in you, Lucien. I had thought that you might evade your father’s inclination to dissipation and ruin. I regret that you have not been able to avoid temptation.”

“But my father always lost when he gambled, Lady North Barrows,” he said smoothly. “In contrast, I always win.”

She smiled tightly. “No one always wins, unless he is being tricked.”

It was unfortunate that Charles Brisbane had never believed that fact.

“Then I have been tricked for seven years.” It was true, but not in the way she meant it. No dealer lured him in by ensuring he won the hand and bet more in the next. The baron, though, was definitely a trick of the most unholy kind. “And how would you know of my habits, Lady North Barrows? I thought you didn’t go to London anymore.”

“I do not need to be in London to hear news of it, and I have heard a great deal of unwelcome news about you.” She rapped her umbrella on the floor. “I suppose you still have that Negro valet.”

“You suppose rightly.” Lucien hid the way her reference to Philip made him bristle.

But her objection surprised him. “It is outrageous for you to employ such a man simply to disconcert others. You use him poorly and most immorally.”

“On the contrary, I owe Philip a debt and I always pay my debts,” Lucien countered. “He shall have employ with me for as long as he desires it.”

“You pay your father’s debt,” Lady North Barrows accused softly.

“The matter could be viewed that way.”

Her gaze turned assessing then. “And do you anticipate a legacy here?”

“I learned long ago to expect nothing from my family save their censure.” Lucien brushed his coat sleeve. “I come for a meeting in the village, no more and no less.”

“You come to gamble,” she muttered, then sighed. “I suppose we shall have to endure your presence at luncheon.”

“Alas, I must make arrangements in Bocka Morrow for my meeting. I will take refreshment there.”

Lady North Barrows’ gaze darkened in understanding. “In the tavern, with the whores and the witches, instead of at table with your betters. I should have expected no less. You have been many things, Lucien de Roye, but I am saddened to see you become a coward.”

“Not a coward, Lady North Barrows, but a man previously engaged.”

She pointed her umbrella at him and he refrained from taking a step back. “Be warned, Lucien, that if you mean to despoil either of my granddaughters or link their names with yours in some scandalous nonsense, I shall ensure that you regret it through eternity.”

Lucien had regrets enough to occupy him for that duration. “I have no desire to rob the nursery, my lady.”

“No? Then why were you in the library at all?”

“I sought a book, of course.”

“I doubt that.” She glared at him, so intent upon having an answer that Lucien chose to give her one.

He glanced back to the doorway to that room, not doubting that their conversation was being attended by at least two young women. He took a step closer to the older woman and lowered his voice. “Because I find myself intrigued by Miss Findlay.”

“How cruel you are to make such a jest,” Lady North Barrows said with vigor. “Truly, Lucien, you are no more than a shadow of your former self. I am appalled!”

“And so you should be,” he agreed, surprised that she should inadvertently speak the truth. He was a shadow of his former self.

And in three days, he wouldn’t even be that.

“Do not feign remorse.” Lady North Barrows’ eyes snapped. “Your mother was a fool and your father was a wastrel, but you have taken your family name to uncharted depths of depravity. That is no cause for pride.”

“But it has always been my objective to live my life with distinction.”

“You promised Margaret never to gamble!”

“And she is long dead.”

“So you would keep no vows to the dead.”

“On the contrary, I keep whatever vows I must to achieve the ends I desire.”

The umbrella beat a staccato on the floor. “Reprehensible, Lucien!”

“I do have a reputation to protect, Lady North Barrows.” Lucien bowed deeply once again before he took his leave. He felt the weight of her furious gaze follow him, but he didn’t care what she thought of him.

Sophia was alive!

CHAPTER 2

“Utterly scandalous,” Lady North Barrows declared to no one in particular at luncheon. She gestured to the clear soup before her, as yet untasted, and a footman promptly removed it. Sophia knew that Lady North Barrows had strong feelings about the merit—or the lack—of a clear soup. The older woman was nothing if not consistent. “But that line of the family was not always so, to be sure.

As the fish course was served, Sophia watched the girls, ensuring that they chose the proper utensils. It was only to ensure their tutelage that she had been permitted to join the other guests at the meal, and that of Lady North Barrows’ insistence. Sophia had been seated below the girls but close enough that they could glance her way for confirmation on their choices. Eurydice did so, showing her usual care with protocol, but Daphne was too interested in the conversation to bother. She had already used her dessert spoon for the soup, and the only mercy was that Lady North Barrows was seated too far away to have noticed her granddaughter surreptitiously lick it and return it to its place. They would have to review table settings in their lessons before the girls were invited to a dinner.

At least Lucien wasn’t present. Sophia was glad of small mercies.

Even if she was curious about whatever meeting he planned.

“It was considered a decent match at the time, not brilliant, of course, but better than expected for poor Eloise,” Lady North Barrows continued. “She was always rather plain.” This last was confided in the lady seated beside her with a shake of her head. The lady made a sound of commiseration and shot a glance at the other lady seated across the table. They were friends, then, and perhaps allied in their tolerance of Lady North Barrows. One of them was Lady Widcombe.

“And my cousin, Margaret, Eloise’s mother, was absurdly convinced that only a duke would suffice for her sole child.” Lady North Barrows sighed and attacked her salmon with the enthusiasm of a woman starved for a month. “Eloise was twenty-two by the time they settled her, and truly I think they would have taken anyone at that point. Michel de Roye appeared most appealing. He was handsome and charming. Wealthy, to be sure.”

“I believe I have been told that the de Roye lands were abroad,” one lady suggested.

“Indeed!” Lady North Barrows agreed. “Michel’s father owned a large sugar plantation in Saint Domingue. Very affluent. He had been raised there, for they had lost their French title during the terror, you know.” The ladies made sympathetic noises. “They perhaps did not have quite the polish of English gentry, but it seemed as if Eloise had done rather well for herself.” Lady North Barrows nodded. “They said it was a love match.”

“How providential!”

“Until she died in the bearing of his son, less than a year after the wedding,” Lady North Barrows said grimly. “Then Michel took the boy back to Saint Domingue, abandoning all decent society in his grief.”

“The boy was Lucien de Roye?”

“Of course. I believe the shock of it all contributed to the demise the following year of my cousin’s husband, then dear Margaret was left all alone, not just a widow but denied any chance to see her only grandson. She was not so hale as to take to the high seas!” Lady North Barrows shook her head. “A wretched business, to be sure.”

The ladies might have changed the subject, but Lady North Barrows finished her fish and continued her tale with enthusiasm. “And then, if that were not sufficient, there was a revolt in Saint Domingue and the de Roye family lost their sugar plantation. Michel brought the boy back to England—he must have been about ten years of age—and began to gamble heavily. Michel died destitute, as such men often do, in such debt that Lucien’s future seemed to be doomed. Margaret, of course, could not simply stand aside. She took the boy under her wing and paid for his education on the condition that he never gamble. He was learning the trade of a successful merchant, the one who had established Brisbane’s Emporium, when she died.”

Sophia’s heart jumped at the mention of her father.

“Brisbane’s Emporium! Maman always insists they have the best offering of ribbons, but I find their selection disappointing,” said the one lady.

“Never mind the cottons and muslins. They are priced so high there!”

“Maman says Brisbane’s Emporium is not what it used to be, not since Mr. Brisbane died.”

“Was he the one who died within one day of being elevated to the knighthood?”

“Oh, yes! And his son promptly lost his entire inheritance in the gaming hells.”

The ladies clicked their tongues as Sophia felt that old mortification again at Charles’ folly. Fury heated her blood, as well, for she knew that Lyndenhurst had baited her brother and tempted him to risk more, perhaps even cheating to ensure Charles lost. She would not recall the Marquess’ insistence that he would make her regret breaking their betrothal. She couldn’t think of it and retain her composure.

Eurydice was already watching her keenly.

Lady North Barrows cleared her throat. “But when Margaret died, Lucien did take up gambling, abandoning his promise to her. He has been a rake and a wastrel ever since.”

“I hear he has won and cast away fortunes,” said one of the ladies, clearly finding favor with this activity.

“And that he fights duels with some regularity,” contributed the other with enthusiasm.

Daphne’s approval was more than clear.

“Scandalous,” Lady North Barrows concluded, her eyes lighting at the pork roast that was carried into the room next. “You should all ensure the defense of your reputations with such a man in the house.”

Daphne gave a little shiver of delight, and Lady North Barrows fired one of her fearsome glares down the length of the table. Sophia wondered whether Lady North Barrows regretted having increased Lucien’s appeal by sharing his tragic story.

At least the ladies declined to savor the misfortunes of the Brisbane family. Sophia could not have borne to have heard her father and brother discussed by strangers.

Both men were dead and she had loved them dearly, despite their weaknesses.

Arrangements made for the game, Lucien ordered another tankard of ale.

To see Sophia one last time was a hope he had not dared to have, but it begged the question: why now? Was it coincidence that he’d found her on the veritable eve of his own demise? He’d lived with the baron long enough to recognize that fiend’s influence. Was Philip right that the baron would trick and cheat him in the end?

How did Sophia fit into the baron’s scheme?

A fire lit within Lucien, a need to ensure that he protected Sophia this time as he had failed to do before, and he thought he heard the baron chuckle.

Her presence changed everything. Lucien had often been in the presence of greed, but had never felt it himself. As he drank his ale, he felt it fire within him. He wanted to see Sophia alone. He wanted to talk to her. He wanted to brush a fingertip over her freckles. He wanted to make her smile. He wanted to hear her laughter—no, to provoke it. He wanted to confide in her. He wanted one last kiss.

No, he wanted more than a kiss from Sophia.

Mere hours before, there had been no chance of any of these temptations, thus he had no desire for them. Now, he yearned to seek Sophia out and claim as many as possible before his time on earth was done. He wanted to see her expression when she realized what he had done.

He wanted to redeem himself in her eyes.

Could he? Or would doing so put Sophia at risk from the baron? Lucien didn’t know and he didn’t imagine the baron would give him a straight answer.

Best to avoid temptation.

Even if Sophia was the only one that truly tempted him.

If the baron meant to trick him, he had baited his hook well.

Lucien supposed Miss Findlay must have been the one who had died, which was regrettable, although Sophia disguising herself as her governess explained perfectly why he hadn’t been able to find her.

He could still see Sophia on her father’s ship, bonnet clutched in her hand, chestnut curls escaping their bonds, eyes alight with excitement. One look and Lucien had been lost. Her attire was attractive without being at the height of fashion, made of good quality by an excellent dressmaker. It was her attitude that snared his attention. She looked about herself with curiosity, unafraid to show her emotions. She had freckles and her face was tanned, an uncommon attribute and one that would have been vigorously battled with lemon juice by any young women of his acquaintance. She’d been like a breath of air in a crowded room, for her arrival in London gave him a clarity about his own future that had been lacking.

He’d known immediately that he could love her.

He wondered whether he could win her, and build a future with her father’s trade. It was clear to any observer that Charles had no interest in the emporium. Though Mr. Brisbane yearned for aristocratic connections, Lucien had believed Charles would be the one to make the good match.

Unlike his friend, Lucien had enjoyed being under the tutelage of Mr. Brisbane. Charles’ father was open and generous, a patient man who answered every question. He was clever and practical, and his conviction that hard work would be rewarded was a welcome notion to Lucien. He had assured Lucien that a man could become whatever he desired, if he were prepared to work for it.

Lucien had been prepared to work, as Charles had not. His friend routinely abandoned his father’s lessons for more material pleasures, while Lucien remained to attend them. He’d been intrigued by the older man’s ability to anticipate changes in fashion and to ensure that his goods were of the best quality, available at the best price at the right time.

Then Sophia had arrived. She’d greeted her father with affection, then met Lucien’s gaze steadily, like an equal, when introduced. She spoke her mind. She laughed openly. She was as honest and practical as her father, as generous and charming as her brother.

Lucien had been glad to be assigned to escort her to her father’s house. He’d expected to be given the task of making an inventory of the newly arrived stores, but Mr. Brisbane had, for once, been disinclined to indulge his only son. Charles had taken poorly to his father’s insistence that he begin learning more about the business on this very day.

Despite the presence of Miss Findlay, Lucien and Sophia had talked, of all things, about sugar plantations. Once Sophia had learned that he had spent his boyhood in St. Domingue, she had peppered him with questions. Their discussion was so lively that they reached the townhouse more quickly than he might have believed, and he found himself offering to show her the sights of London.

It had been the first of many excursions. He wondered that Mr. Brisbane allowed it, then dared to hope Sophia’s father had discerned his dream. He couldn’t have been more wrong.

Lucien supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised when Mr. Brisbane announced that he had arranged a match for Sophia with Eugene Tremblay, Marquess of Lyndenhurst.

Sophia, in contrast, had been devastated.

No. He wouldn’t remember that day. Lucien drained his ale and set the tankard aside. It didn’t matter, not now. He would be dead within days.

His destiny was with the baron.

A brisk walk was the best solution to any trouble. That had been Amelia Findlay’s conviction, and her former pupil agreed. It had rained earlier and was still drizzling, but Sophia didn’t care. With the girls summoned to attend their grandmother, she had a few hours to herself, which was the last thing she desired. Anything had to be better than lingering in the castle, expecting to be revealed at any moment, thinking about Lucien.

She donned her thickest stockings and her sturdy boots, buttoned up a long jacket and wrapped a scarf around her throat. Her dark bonnet was warm and she had brought a thick pair of gloves. It wouldn’t be enough to keep the damp wind from chilling her, but if she walked with purpose, she should be warm enough.

She walked toward the village, then was enticed by the glitter of the sea. It was a thousand hues of silver on this day, and stretched flawlessly to the horizon. Beyond it, far to the west, was the island of St. Maurice that held the place of honor in her heart.

She would never see it again, but she had her memories.

On impulse, Sophia climbed a rising path, hoping it would take her to a cliff and a view. Her heart was racing when she reached the summit, but it was well worth the effort. She stood, letting the wind snap at her skirts, and drank in the sight.

Six weeks at sea, perhaps four. That was all it would take to be home and barefoot in the sunshine again. To be warm again. To be free of social constraints. To be able to speak her mind once more. Sophia stood and yearned, knowing it was impossible, but wanting to be in the Caribbean again all the same.

A futile wish, like wishing Lucien had been tempted to take what she’d offered.

She frowned and turned to leave. Amelia Findlay would have disapproved of such whimsy. What was done was done.

“Your freckles have faded.” A man’s familiar voice carried from somewhere behind her. Sophia’s heart jumped and she pivoted to find Lucien leaning against a tree, in the shade beyond the path. He looked just as dangerous as he had earlier. She shivered, but couldn’t look away from his steady gaze.

“But I suppose they disappeared with your tan.” He paused, watching her, eyes glinting, and spoke with deliberation. “Sophia.”

Her name on his lips made her heart thunder.

It was tempting to lie, to deny that she was herself, but that was even more foolish than longing for home—or imagining that the man she had known was still within this stranger.

Sophia exhaled and turned her back upon Lucien, trying to stop the race of her pulse. “I suppose you want a boon to refrain from revealing me,” she said, as if annoyed with him, realizing too late as if she sounded like a woman desiring a kiss. She felt unsettled and uneasy, both wishing he would leave and yearning for him to stay.

He came to stand behind her and she closed her eyes, knowing it was smarter not to want anything from Lucien.

“Once you invited me to ruin you,” he murmured, his voice low and close, and she winced at the reminder.

“It turned out to be unnecessary, didn’t it?” she said curtly. “What a relief to both of us that you weren’t tempted.”

“Not tempted?” His surprise was clear in his tone. “Surely you never thought that?”

She couldn’t help herself then, but turned to look at him. His eyes were vivid blue, his gaze boring into hers with familiar intensity. For a heartbeat, she saw the man who had looked at her as if she were a marvel. She smelled the ale upon his breath, though, and turned her back upon him once more.

She was a fool six times over.

His fingertip landed on her shoulder, the weight of it creating a line of fire even through the layers of cloth. She swallowed, closing her eyes against his unholy allure.

“You always tempted me, Sophia,” he said softly and she wished it were true. “From that very first day.”

“Yet you managed to resist that temptation rather well,” she said, hearing the sharpness of her tone.

“Sophia,” he murmured and her heart skipped.

“There’s no need to pretend now, sir,” she said, sounding more like Amelia than she realized. “We know enough of each other that there’s no need for pretense.”

He was silent for a moment, then his next words were harsh. “Of course, you are right. I apologize for any offense.”

Sophia grimaced, knowing he couldn’t see her. She’d provoked the answer she expected, but she felt no triumph in it. No, she felt raw and vulnerable, as she hadn’t in years.

Just because she was alone with Lucien.

“You’ve fared well, evidently,” she said. “Is it true that you’re in league with the Devil?” She repeated Lady North Barrows’ words to provoke him, but in truth, she could not imagine how he had come to be dressed as a wealthy rake, much less have such a reputation as a gambler. The Lucien she had known had refused to gamble, and had been unlucky at cards.

Her heart clenched in recollection of his jest that he might be lucky in love instead.

“You’ve been listening to Lady North Barrows,” he said, his tone unruffled by the accusation. A weight dropped over her shoulders and Sophia realized he’d placed his greatcoat over her jacket. It was smelled of his skin, a scent she thought she’d forgotten. She hadn’t. It made her toes curl and her lips burn all over again, as well as that welcome heat unfurl in her belly. She gripped the lapels without intending to do as much.

“Still cold?” He sounded close and seductive.

She swallowed and stared resolutely at the view. “Always.”

“Me, too.” His hands closed over her shoulders, his grip resolute, and she wanted to lean back against him. Once she had trusted him. Once she had believed she knew him as well as herself. Once she had thought their minds were as one. She savored even this touch, greedy for more of him even though she knew it was foolish.

He had changed.

She had changed, as well.

“Why not go home?” he whispered, and she thought of the serpent tempting Eve in the garden.

Sophia laughed despite herself. “Where is home now?”

“St. Maurice, of course. Where it always was.”

“It can be home no longer,” she said with bitterness. “Charles saw to that. Even if I could pay the passage, why would I cast myself into the marquess’ power?” She shook her head, fighting tears. “He has probably planted it all in sugar, destroyed its beauty for his own financial gain.” Lucien said nothing though his grip tightened a little on her shoulders. Sophia straightened. “No, this is my destiny now. I am not discontent.”

It sounded like a lie, or at least like wishful thinking. She bit her lip as the silence stretched long between them.

“I thought you were dead,” Lucien said finally.

“That was Amelia’s idea.” Sophia shivered in recollection of her companion’s last days, and blinked back tears in memory of the finality of her last breath. The grief she had denied rose within her, tightening her throat and chilling her anew.

They were all gone.

She was all alone.

“But your being in service was hardly your father’s aspiration for your future.”

“His dream came at too high of a price.”

“So, Miss Findlay found a solution. Was it her intent to save you from Lyndenhurst or from me?”

That he could jest about Sophia’s situation meant there was no point in varnishing the truth. “Both,” she snapped.

“Ever direct.” Sophia stole a glance to find him frowning toward the town. He looked forbidding and remote, utterly unlike the Lucien she had loved. He might have been a stranger, which only made his next words more startling. “At least, my Sophia has not become circumspect.”

His Sophia?

Sophia tugged off the coat and offered it to him. “I am not your Sophia!”

But Lucien did not take the garment. He put his hands into his pockets and faced her, his eyes glittering. “Look in my pocket, Sophia, before you cast away my coat,” he said, his tone challenging. “A wise man taught me to use caution with what I would discard, lest something of value be lost.”

Annoyed beyond belief with Lucien for provoking her to forget her father’s advice, Sophia felt her cheeks heat. She found a document in the breast pocket of the garment The seal was broken already.

Only once she held the document did he pluck his greatcoat from her grasp. “Leave service, Sophia,” he said. “You are not so penniless as you imagine.” His eyes blazed, then he pivoted to march away. He strode down the hill as he shrugged into his coat, never sparing a glance back at her. Did Lucien flee from her? It was a remarkable notion, one so strange that Sophia could only dismiss it as absurd.

This Lucien had no heart. He certainly could have no fear of her.

She unfolded the document, and her curiosity was replaced with astonishment. It was the title for Brisbane’s Emporium.

Was this a joke? Her brother Charles had lost everything to Lyndenhurst. She would never forget such a detail—much less how drunk Charles had been when he’d admitted the truth.

Or the fact that Lucien had brought him home.

Sophia read the document three times, unable to dispel her impression that the title was genuine. It included the warehouses and the inventories, such as they were, the building that held the emporium and the living quarters above. She stared at it, amazed that she had a choice.

Because Lucien had given it to her.

Why?

Suddenly, she could see again a younger version of Lucien, determination burning in his sapphire gaze after he had brought Charles home that fateful morning.

“I will retrieve every shilling for you, Miss Brisbane, no matter what the cost.”

Sophia fingered the deed with new wonder. She had never expected him to even try such a feat. That he had retrieved this much of her father’s legacy and simply given it to her meant that the Lucien she had known was not gone. Her heart fluttered and her tears rose.

But how could he have done such a thing? She knew Lyndenhurst well enough to know that he would not surrender any of her father’s fortune willingly. He had vowed to do as much. Lyndenhurst was a gambler, and Lucien had never been fortunate at cards. Lady North Barrows was right that he had promised his grandmother that he would never enter the gaming hells.

What had changed? Lady North Barrows thought him dissolute, but Sophia wondered.

Had Lucien broken the promise to his grandmother to keep his vow to her?

Lucien knew he shouldn’t have been surprised that he and Sophia had ended up at the same place, absorbing the same view. It had been a jest, all those years ago, how their impulses ran in the same direction. They’d frequently encountered each other in the same corner of the park or in town, and quite by accident.

There had been a time when it had seemed to be a sign that they were meant to be together.

Lucien rode hard back to the castle, fighting against the desire that seemed to have redoubled in their years apart. He could see Sophia softening before his very eyes, slipping from her guise of Miss Findlay and becoming herself again. He felt her thaw. He sensed that she reawakened, and he caught her old audacity in her words. He wanted to heal her, to hold her close, to console her as he had no right to do.

He had no right to even think of her.

Worse, he felt his own resolve softening. If it were not for the baron, he could offer for her. He had more than sufficient fortune. But he had only three days until the baron claimed his due, and Lucien knew all too well the price he would pay.

He couldn’t lose his resolve now. He couldn’t falter now. He had to give Sophia what he could—and that didn’t include a future he didn’t have.

He had to make sure she was safe from the baron, too.

One last game. One last victory.

Then his labor on this earth would be done.

Funny how it no longer felt like a triumph.

It was remarkable to Lucien that Mr. Brisbane, a man of such splendid good sense, could not see how his decision to betroth his only daughter to the Marquess of Lyndenhurst would only make her miserable. He had ignored Lyndenhurst’s reputation and Sophia’s fear of that man, seeing only the splendor of his title.

“Your son will be a marquess!” he exclaimed in the office of the emporium when Sophia protested her lack of affection for Lyndenhurst. “Think of it, Sophia! Aristocrats! Your mother would be so proud.” He patted her hand, as if she were a pet, and only Lucien had glimpsed the fullness of Sophia’s dismay. “It is not uncommon for a maiden to be shy, but you will come to care for him and be glad I saw you so advantageously married. You will thank me, Sophia, when your first son is born.” Then he had hastened back to his warehouses, giddy to share the good news with all and sundry.

Sophia turned and saw Lucien, frozen in his steps, in the act of returning from an errand when he overheard the news.

“You heard,” she whispered.

Lucien nodded.

“What am I to do?”

He had retreated to the office, sickened by his lack of prospects, knowing he would have to watch her be married to a man they both disliked. “Prepare your wedding clothes,” he said gruffly, ignoring how she stared at him.

Sophia entered the office in a rustle of skirts and a cloud of the scent that was hers alone. She shut the door and his heart leaped. The weight of her hand landed on his shoulder, and he turned to see the resolve in her gaze. “I cannot do it, Lucien. I cannot marry that man.”

“You have no choice. Your father has made the arrangements.”

Her lips set and a determined glitter had dawned in her eyes. “I’ll change his mind.”

“I doubt you can...” Lucien began, then was silenced by her finger landing upon his lips.

“I will and I know how.”

“Sophia...”

“Ruin me, Lucien. Lyndenhurst will not take me then.”

Lucien feared the other man would. He wanted the fortune, not the bride, but Sophia gave him no chance to argue.

She replaced her fingertip with her lips and he was lost. Sophia was soft and willing, her kiss enough to set his blood on fire. Lucien turned, like a man in a dream, and gathered her into his embrace. He savored the sweet weight of her in his arms, the press of her against him, the feeling of completion when he held her close.

The surety that he betrayed his employer’s trust.

He set her aside, abandoned her there, her glorious eyes filling with tears at what she saw as his rejection. He’d walked away. He hadn’t said a word in his own defense, hadn’t dared to utter one with his heart so full of yearning.

Lucien dismounted before the stables, restless with his newfound desire. Was it so wrong for a condemned man to desire one last kiss from his beloved?

Sophia passed Philip on the stairs when all were hastening to dress their lords and ladies for dinner and halted in delight. She was going down to the kitchens, for she had no one to assist, and their gazes clung for a moment.

He was still with Lucien. Sophia was relieved.

Whatever Lucien had done, his oldest and best friend hadn’t despaired of him.

Philip would know the truth, too, whatever it was.

But Philip averted his gaze and continued up the stairs without speaking to her. Did he spurn her on purpose, or did he maintain the ruse that she was Amelia Findlay?

Despite herself, Sophia turned to watch him depart, but Philip didn’t glance back.

It was only when she continued her course that Sophia realized that Mrs. Bray had noticed her reaction. “Mr. de Roye’s valet, that’s who he is. Never thought I’d see the day to have his like in the castle, to be sure.”

“He looks like a most elegant man,” Sophia said.

Morris, who was ahead of her on the stairs, made a sound suspiciously like a chuckle. His eyes twinkled when he turned to confront Sophia. “I suppose you are wanting a cup of tea, Miss Findlay?”

“It would be most welcome. I walked to the village and am a bit chilled.”

“As if there is not enough to manage before the dinner,” Mrs. Bray complained, but Morris indicated the chamber that the servants used.

“Tea,” Mr. Morris said firmly. “Is seldom any trouble to prepare and is often quite welcome.” He gave Mrs. Bray a look that sent her scurrying and Sophia couldn’t completely suppress her smile.

CHAPTER 3

“She’s here,” Philip said as he laid out a freshly pressed shirt.

“She is,” Lucien agreed, having no doubt who his friend and valet meant. He was seated at the small writing desk in his bedroom and composing a letter. He felt Philip study him but offered no more detail.

“You told me she was dead.”

“I thought she was, on account of her death having been recorded in the parish register.” Lucien signed the missive and folded it.

“So, they traded places.”

“Evidently.” Lucien sealed the letter and rose to his feet.

“And what do you mean to do now?”

Lucien offered the letter to a wary Philip. “The same as I planned before. You will depart here on the second, with or without me, and deliver this to my solicitor in London.”

Philip regarded the letter with suspicion, as if it might bite. “What does it say?”

“I gave her the title to the Emporium. This authorizes its transfer to her.”

The valet took the letter then, and fingered it before he tucked it into his jacket.

“Escort her to London, if she intends to go. It will be safer for her in my carriage than to travel alone.”

“You could go with her.”

Lucien did not reply. He concentrated upon his cravat, because it allowed him to avoid Philip’s gaze.

“She looks sad. Lonely.”

“I expect that is the plight of all those who are alone in the world.”

“Like you?”

“I’m not alone. I have you.”

Philip snorted. “She doesn’t need to be alone. Neither do you.”

Lucien met his old friend’s gaze steadily. “No one needs to be alone, but there are those who choose comparative solitude because it is safer for everyone else.”

“Or because they are afraid.”

Lucien’s fingers froze, then he completed the knot.

Philip exhaled. “She might be able to help you.”

“I don’t need any assistance.” Lucien was dismissive of the very notion. “Take her to London and let the past be forgotten.”

Let him be forgotten.

“If only it were so easy to forget,” Philip muttered, then brushed the shoulders of Lucien’s coat. He looked at Lucien in the mirror. “You’re wrong. You’re wrong to trust the baron to keep to your wager, whatever it is. The fact that she’s here at this moment is proof of that. Only love can defeat him and his tricks. She can help you.”

“No.” Lucien turned away from the mirror and met Philip’s gaze. “She will not become involved. I forbid it.”

Philip’s lips set. “And I remind you that my service as your valet is a convenient ruse. I am a free man, Lucien.”

“She must remain safe.”

“But...”

“I need to know that she’s safe,” Lucien insisted. “I can endure anything if that’s the case.”

Philip exhaled. “What did you offer in exchange for your seven years of luck?”

“That is not for you to know.”

“You’re protecting me, just as you’re protecting her.”

“Whether I am or not is irrelevant.” Lucien couldn’t quell his concern, but he hid it from Philip. “I will not need you again tonight,” he said, then pivoted to cross the room.

Two more days and the deception would be done.

Sophia believed he had never been tempted by her.

Maybe there was one more legacy he could leave her.

It might have been a lesson that Sophia’s father died the very night after his much-anticipated elevation to the knighthood. He’d had no opportunity to enjoy what he had earned. He broke his own rule and imbibed a little too much, tripped when alighting from the carriage and hit his head on the cobblestones before the new house. He had only lived in it for a month. He was dead by the time the doctor arrived.

His passing sent new resolve through his daughter. She would not accept a match she could not endure. She would not accept a half-measure. She would pursue her desires and her dreams, and not care what any person in London thought of her choices. She broke her engagement with the Marquess of Lyndenhurst.

The marquess did not accept the news well.

Charles, meanwhile, descended into madness.

Sophia knew her brother was gambling. She knew he was unchecked without their father to control the purse strings. She knew he was deaf to her entreaties. Lucien had vanished, so she could not appeal to him and his influence over her brother. She feared the result of Charles’ recklessness.

When she heard the commotion in the foyer that October morning, Sophia expected little good. The bell had rung and Fawcett had answered, but clearly something unusual transpired. There were murmurs and the scuffle of boots, then a moan that was evocative of Charles’ voice.

Sophia abandoned her tea and stood. Miss Findlay had gone to visit a cousin in Northumberland, so Sophia was alone.

The front door was open, offering a view of the rain falling steadily beyond. A damp breeze wafted into the house. Lucien carried Charles into the foyer and she was fiercely glad to see that he was yet loyal to her brother. Charles was unconscious, but not apparently injured. Sophia could smell the brandy upon him. He was drunk but not otherwise injured, much to her relief.

She took a moment to savor the sight of her beloved. Lucien’s boots were wet and raindrops glistened in his dark hair. His cravat was yet perfectly tied and his expression was slightly impatient. Her brother, taller and broader than most, was cast over his shoulder, limp as a sack of flour. Lucien was so handsome—black hair and blue eyes, chiseled features and a perfect aquiline nose—that Sophia’s heart clenched with the awareness that their single kiss would be their last.

His gaze swept over her coolly, as if she were no more interesting than a shop girl, then returned to Fawcett, the butler. He arched a brow, his impatience growing.

And no wonder. Fawcett was fluttering, as he was wont to do when things went deeply awry. Fawcett called for Charles’ valet and tried, unsuccessfully to take the burden of his lord and master.

Lucien, to his credit, didn’t facilitate this transfer. He eyed the stairs, looking for all the world ready to carry Charles wherever he needed to be.

Sophia knew she should retreat into the dining room. She knew she should pretend not to have seen her brother so indisposed.

She also knew that she was even less inclined to do as she should than ever.

“You had best put him in the drawing room,” she said, her voice crisp with command.

Fawcett jumped and his mouth worked in silence that she should witness this unfortunate incident. “But Miss Sophia, surely his lordship should be taken to his bedchamber.”

“I doubt you will get him up those stairs,” Sophia replied. “The drawing room will be infinitely easier.”

“Thank God for practical women,” Lucien muttered and their gazes met for a moment that sent heat surging through Sophia. She felt again that seductive sense that they could be as one.

If Lucien had wanted her.

Before Fawcett could protest, Sophia opened the door to the drawing room, and Lucien carried Charles there. Fawcett sputtered until Sophia directed him to fetch a tonic for Charles, then he disappeared. At her gesture, Lucien settled Charles on a settee. Sophia unfastened her brother’s cravat and loosed his jacket, keenly aware that this was the first time she had been with Lucien since he had rejected her.

“What has happened?” she asked him.

His eyes flashed and his lips tightened. “The tale is his to tell.”

Sophia might have been irritated that he wouldn’t even speak to her any more, but his grim tone sent terror through her. “Charles?” She patted his cheek. “Charles, what have you done?”

Her brother groaned and his ginger lashes fluttered. “Oh, Soph,” he murmured when he saw her, his words sluggish. “I lost.”

Her heart clenched, but she forced a smile for him. “Papa always advised you to choose your vice. Drink or gamble, but not both together.”

“To be fair, he began drinking only after he had gambled,” Lucien contributed.

“Because he lost?” Sophia guessed.

“Lost.” Charles winced. “Lost all of it,” he murmured, shaking his head.

“All of it?” Sophia echoed, feeling a little dizzy.

“It took him a fortnight.”

Sophia stood up, her legs unsteady. “Since our father’s death,” she whispered then gave Charles a shake.

“No,” Lucien said, his voice hard. “Since you broke your engagement with Lyndenhurst.”

She turned to face him, not understanding. “What has one to do with the other? He only wished to wed me for Father’s fortune. Charles’ choice is not my fault!”

“But now Lyndenhurst has claimed your father’s fortune in another way.”

Sophia caught her breath. “Charles lost it all to Lyndenhurst?”

Lucien nodded, his eyes narrowed. “Every shilling.”

Sophia could not believe it. “But how could one man be so lucky as to win it all?”

“No,” Lucien corrected, his voice harsh. “The question is how one man could be unlucky enough to lose it all.”

She met his gaze, seeing her own dislike for Lyndenhurst mirrored there. “Lyndenhurst cheated?”

Lucien shrugged. “It cannot be proven, and to be sure, Charles could have halted the game at any moment. Instead, he was seduced by his victories and wagered more each time.”

“Until it all hung in the balance.”

Lucien nodded grimly.

Sophia sat down hard. “He lost it all to Lyndenhurst.” She poked Charles, more than a little frustrated with his irresponsibility. “Were you so determined to be rid of your legacy as that?”

“I wanted more, more for you and for Elizabeth.” Charles closed his eyes then, as if there was no reason why he shouldn’t indulge in sleep.

But Father was not alive to set Charles’ errors to rights.

Sophia clenched her fists. She would have no dowry. They would have no home. Charles had no fortune and he would not be able to wed his beloved. And St. Maurice, her sanctuary, was lost to a man who would plant it in sugar and ruin it utterly.

Lyndenhurst had won.

And the Brisbanes were ruined.

What would she do?

To her surprise, Lucien dropped to one knee before her and took her hand in his. When he met her gaze, his own eyes blazed sapphire. “He was cheated, and I will see justice done. I will retrieve every shilling for you, Sophia, no matter what the cost.”

He gave Sophia no opportunity to ask what he would do, much less to remind him of his promise to his grandmother.

He was gone, and she was alone as she had never been before.

The music awakened Sophia again.

Her room was illuminated by the moonlight that slanted through the window. It was a harpsichord she heard, for the sound of the instrument was unmistakable. Although the tune was being played very quickly, it was vaguely familiar.

Who was the inconsiderate—if talented—guest?

The music had first echoed through the castle after Lucien’s arrival the night before. She remembered the pianoforte in the house he had inherited from his grandmother. Did he play? She had never heard him do so, but something about the music reminded her of the strange glitter that was now in his eyes.

It made her shiver.

She wouldn’t sleep again, not with the recollection of Charles’ loss so fresh in her thoughts. She fingered the deed again, still amazed that Lucien had given it to her. She fought a persistent sense that there was more to the tale than he had confessed to her.

As well as a dawning conviction that he had not changed, much less that she had misjudged him. He had kept his word, which meant that the Lucien she had loved was alive and well.

If disguised.

Sophia could have no quibble with that, given her own disguise.

The music grew in volume and tempo. Who played with such abandon? She rose on impulse and donned a robe, then left her room. The servants’ quarters were quiet. She passed like a wraith along the empty corridor and down the stairs, following the sound of the music. It grew steadily louder until she stood outside a door near the library where she taught the girls. Even this corridor was in darkness, though there was a glow within the room from which the music emanated.

She touched the door with her fingertips and it swung open to reveal a lit candle on the mantel. Its golden light only partly illuminated the room and Sophia entered cautiously. The room was as cold as midwinter.

There was no one seated at the harpsichord, although there was an empty glass on top of it. She smelled rum. There was something else beside the glass, a cloth bundle bound with cord. Sophia stared in astonishment when she came around the instrument. The keys moved with no fingers upon them.

The music grew impossibly louder. Sophia leaned closer and reached for the cloth bundle.

As soon as her fingers closed around it, the music stopped.

The candle burned out.

The cold faded and she was left, standing in darkness beside the silent instrument, a bundle of cloth in her hand. It was warm.

As if she had taken it from another.

Sophia shivered involuntarily and straightened. Then she felt it in the darkness, confirming her suspicions of what she held. She knew the charm for what it, as much from the cord wrapped around it as the heat it shouldn’t have had. She hadn’t seen such a charm since leaving the islands, and had only glimpsed one there once, but the cold dread it awakened in her told her all she needed to know.

In that moment, she knew what Lucien had done.

To keep his word to her.

“C. P. E. Bach,” Lucien murmured and she spun to find him leaning in the doorway. He had shed his jacket and his cravat was loosened. His dark hair was tousled, as if he had shoved his fingers through it, and he looked less forbidding than he had before. His eyes didn’t seem as icy and there was a familiar curve to his wry smile. “His favorite.” He shrugged and cast his jacket over a chair. “I’m sure he’s delighted to have found a harpsichord here. The pianoforte is always a compromise.”

“Who is your loa?” Sophia asked bluntly. She saw that Lucien meant to pretend he didn’t understand, but she deliberately placed the charm on the instrument. Lucien’s gaze lingered on it and his lips tightened. She didn’t know all the spirits the slaves invoked, but she knew enough of Vodou to recognize its presence.

And its tools. Charms like this one bound the spirit to the man, and were made during the ritual of invocation. Its presence told her much of what she needed to know.

That Lucien had made such a wager to keep his word to her was something she’d have to think about later.

When his presence wasn’t making her heart flutter.

He heaved a sigh and looked suddenly very tired. “Baron Samedi, of course.”

Sophia looked to the seat then back to Lucien as she fought her horror. Even she knew that Baron Samedi was one of the most powerful loas. “Not him,” she whispered.

“Who else?” Lucien raised his brows. “The loa of death and resurrection, lover of rum and debauchery. No one else could have given me such luck at gambling.” He pushed a hand through his hair again. “I quickly learned that I was my father’s son.”

He had done this for her.

And he had known what he was doing. This was the man she remembered, the man whose honor was unshakable, the man who protected those he loved.

Sophia gripped the edge of the harpsichord, feeling Lucien’s survey as surely as a touch. “Did you see him?”

She shook her head. “Just the keys moving.”

Lucien sauntered closer. “He means to intrigue you, Sophia,” he murmured, apparently unaware that he was the one who succeeded in that endeavor. His voice was so low and seductive, the sound of her name like an incantation. “He means to fascinate you and draw you close, so that he might take a toll from you, as well.” He paused in front of her, his gaze searching. “Do not be deceived, my Sophia.”

She was keenly aware that she wore only a chemise and a robe, and that Lucien was so close, so potent, so male. His gaze was fixed upon her and she had to drop her own, even as she felt herself flush in awareness. Her lips burned in recollection of that kiss and she thought she heard him catch his breath. The moonlight fell through the window, making the room look silvery.

She could have been in a dream.

Her dream.

“Were you deceived by him?” she asked.

His tone turned harsh. “I knew what I was doing.”

“What did you offer him?”

Lucien’s eyes narrowed and he was forbidding once more. “Go to bed, Sophia.”

Sophia knew that he was trying to protect her. She picked up the charm again, sensing how he disliked her touching it. She didn’t like touching it either, but she knew that her doing so diminished its power.

She held it before him. “You’re bound together,” she whispered, knowing there would be items inside the charm to secure the bond. Earthy tokens to bind soul to spirit. Some of Lucien’s hair might be included, or even his blood, soil from the place the ritual had been performed, feathers from the chicken, maybe the blood of the chicken or some of the rum spilled on the ground. “I want to break the bond.”

“Don’t try.”

“I owe you thanks for the Emporium. This would be my gratitude.”

“No!” His eyes glimmered. “Put it down, Sophia.”

She played with it more deliberately instead, understanding why he had changed. “It wasn’t your responsibility to undo Charles’ folly...”

Lucien’s lips set. “I made a promise and I will keep it.”

“What was the wager? Good luck until you won it all back?”

“Seven years good luck and invincibility.”

Sophia caught her breath. Charles had lost his inheritance at the end of October, seven years before. “What did you offer the baron in exchange?”

“The only possession I could call my own.” Lucien’s gaze was locked with hers, as if he would dare her to believe his words. “My soul.”

“Lucien! No!”

He plucked the charm from her hand and put it back on the harpsichord. “It was the only way I could win.” Lucien held her gaze, as if challenging her to ask.

“And then what?” she asked.

“Then the wager is over,” he said, his manner so evasive that she knew the truth was dire. He turned away, but she seized his sleeve to halt him.

“Then what, Lucien?”

“The deal is done, Sophia,” he said with resolve. “It cannot be undone, so I must accept its repercussions.”

“Even if the fault is partly mine?”

He met her gaze then, his surprise clear.

“If I hadn’t spurned Lyndenhurst, he wouldn’t have cheated Charles of his inheritance.”

“This isn’t about Lyndenhurst...”

“No, it’s about your promise to me. How did you even win back the emporium? I cannot believe Lyndenhurst risked it willingly.”

“I convinced him.”

“How?”

“He couldn’t manage it. He couldn’t hire anyone to do as much. He couldn’t sell it.” Lucien smiled. “I did him a favor by accepting it as a wager.”

“What about St. Maurice? Has he destroyed it?”

“He hasn’t had the funds to so much as visit it.”

Sophia caught her breath, almost overwhelmed by her relief. “Lucien!” she whispered and would have flung herself at him, but he turned away, putting distance between them. “You can’t just do this,” she said, her words falling in a rush. “You can’t have defended St. Maurice and given me the emporium for nothing.”

“Can’t I?”

“What can I do, Lucien? What can I do for you?”

Lucien’s gaze clung to hers for a moment, then he turned away. He strolled around the instrument, and she feared that he would evade her question. “I remember that you always yearned to travel, Sophia.”

“I did,” she agreed, wondering what he intended to tell her. She couldn’t begin to guess his thoughts.

“And yet you have spent these years disguised as Amelia Findlay, tutoring young girls at distant North Barrows.” He flicked a glance at her. “It must be cold there.”

“It most certainly is.”

“Penance, then?”

Sophia shrugged. “Maybe just safety.”

He nodded understanding. “In contrast, I have spent these years winning every bet I take.” Lucien halted before her. She still had to tip her head back to meet his gaze. He was serious, watchful, just as she remembered him. “It causes some complications.”

“Too many funds?”

He took her hand in his and Sophia welcomed his touch. “One cannot win all the time at the same establishment. I have been compelled to journey in Europe.” He laced their fingers together, watching his own motions with curious intensity. Sophia was enthralled. “You ask what you can do,” he murmured, then touched his lips to her fingertips. His gaze lifted to hers. “Indulge me, Sophia, one last time.”

“Of course.”

He smiled as if she were a marvel. “You agree without hesitation.”

“I trust you.” The second sweeter confession caught in her throat, but Lucien didn’t seem to notice.

“In Vienna, they dance a most beguiling dance,” he continued, then his eyes filled with challenge. “You might like it.”

“Then teach me,” she said on impulse, the moonlight and his presence making it impossible for her to do otherwise.

Lucien’s voice dropped low. “I warn you, Miss Findlay, it is scandalous.”

Sophia smiled because she knew he was teasing her. “Miss Findlay is asleep, Mr. de Roye.”

His smile flashed and Sophia’s heart skipped. “I am glad to hear it. A chaperone of any merit would most thoroughly disapprove of what we are about to do.”

Sophia smiled in return, and felt her anticipation rise. Her heart leaped when Lucien pulled her close. His arm locked around her waist so tightly that her breasts were close to his chest. She was keenly aware that there was only thin fabric between them, and the intensity of Lucien’s expression revealed that he knew it, too.

She thought of her father’s sudden demise, and the surety she’d once had that no opportunity should be wasted.

Sophia wouldn’t waste this one.

She took a step closer, ensuring that her breasts were crushed against Lucien’s strength. He inhaled sharply, his gaze brightening, and she feared that he might push her away. But then his fingers spread out to span the back of her waist.

“How could you believe that you didn’t tempt me, my Sophia?” he asked quietly. “How could you have imagined that I didn’t want everything you offered and more?”

“But...”

He silenced her with the barest brush of his lips across hers. “But I knew what was mine to take and what was not. Your father had spoken often of his plans for your future.”

Sophia’s heart soared. Lucien did desire her.

He had been tempted.

But he had done what was right.

Sophia smiled up at him in delight. Lucien held her other hand fast and turned her in place, murmuring the steps to the dance in her ear. His face was close enough that she could turn and kiss him, and she swore she could feel the beat of his heart so near her own. It was hard to concentrate on his instructions, but she didn’t want this moment to end.

Ever.

The music began again and the candle flickered to life. It made no sense, but Sophia didn’t care. They danced, their speed increasing as Sophia learned the steps. In no time, they were whirling around the floor of the room.

The music sped faster and faster, and Lucien’s sapphire gaze bored into her own, his satisfaction more than clear. She smiled up at him, loving him anew, trusting him, wanting him as she had once before.

There was only Lucien, only Lucien and the spellbinding dance, only Lucien and the future that had been stolen from them both.

When the music came to an end with a flourish, he halted but didn’t release her from his embrace. Sophia whispered his name, hearing the entreaty in her voice.

And her heart soared when he bent and captured her lips beneath his own.

Sophia’s kiss was a taste of Heaven, when Lucien was consigned to Hell.

Yet she was so irresistible that he couldn’t end it, even knowing he should.

It was just a kiss, just unbearably sweet and hot, just a reminder of everything that would never be his. It warmed him to his marrow, compelled him to draw her closer, to partake of the feast she offered, to imagine what might have been. He might have taken more from her and surrendered to temptation, but the baron whispered in his ear.

“I like women with daring,” he said in that familiar patois, and Lucien’s blood turned to ice. “You can bring her with you.”

Lucien tore his lips from Sophia’s and held her at arm’s length, appalled by the suggestion. The sight of her surprise made his heart clench. Her lips were swollen, her cheeks were flushed and her nipples were pert beneath her shift. Her gaze was filled with a confusion that was too familiar to be borne.

He shouldn’t have confessed so much to her.

He shouldn’t have confided in her.

He shouldn’t have let her touch the charm.

He felt the baron’s interest and knew he had put her at risk.

“Go to bed, Miss Findlay,” he snapped, speaking so harshly that her eyes flashed a beguiling fire.

The baron chuckled as Lucien marched to the harpsichord and snatched up the charm. He strode to the door, snatching his coat on the way, and jamming the charm into the pocket.

“Then go to London,” he ordered. “Take Philip with you.”

He saw Sophia part her lips to argue, but pivoted and left the room.

Distance was the only way to ensure he didn’t take more from her than he had any right to claim.

He had to keep away from her for just two more days.

Even if his heart yearned to spend every moment with his beloved.

Sophia did not sleep.

Not after Lucien’s kiss had made her blood simmer. She was restless, her thoughts churning, her fears multiplying in the moonlight. There had to be a solution, even if Lucien wouldn’t share it or didn’t know it.

She dressed with haste in the morning and went in search of Philip.

She found him on the stairs, carrying a pair of black boots polished to a gleam. “Were you there when the baron was invoked?” she demanded, knowing they wouldn’t have much time.

Philip, to his credit, didn’t pretend ignorance. “Are you mad? I would never have let him do it.”

“When he loses his soul to—”

Philip held up a finger to keep her from saying the name aloud.

Sophia corrected herself. “To the wager, he must also lose his life.”

“I cannot imagine it would be otherwise.” Philip shook his head, then made to continue.

“And the seven years ends when?”

“Tomorrow night.”

Sophia was horrified. “He shouldn’t have done it.”

“He gave his word to you.”

“I never expected him to keep it, certainly not at such a price.”

“But it is done. A loa does not negotiate once the deal is made”

“What can I do?” Sophia made a sound of frustration when Philip didn’t answer. “What do you know of his plans? What does he mean to do?”

Philip sighed, glanced up the stairs, then leaned closer to whisper. “He almost has all of your father’s legacy. There is one last piece. There will be one last game.”

“St. Maurice,” Sophia whispered.

Philip nodded. “He kept his word on principle, but now that he knows you’re alive, it will all be left to you. I already have one letter to his solicitor. You will have the freedom to do as you desire, Miss Brisbane. He has bought you this.”

Sophia’s heart clenched. “The price is too high if it means losing Lucien forever. You have to tell me when and where the game is. I have to stop him!”

“They meet at ten tomorrow night,” Philip replied. “At the tavern in Bocka Morrow, the Mermaid’s Kiss. He’s booked a private room, dinner first, the game later.”

“So late?” Sophia asked and Philip nodded.

“On November 1, all the baron’s debts come due. The game must be done by midnight.”

Less than two days away. Sophia seized Philip’s sleeve when he would have turned away. “I want to be there. I need your assistance!”

Philip shook his head. “He will never allow it.”

“I beg of you!”

“You know that only one thing heals all wounds.” When she shook her head because she didn’t understand, Philip leaned down and whispered something in French. His accent was such that Sophia couldn’t understand him clearly.

“What do you mean?” she demanded.

Nelson came into view at the foot of the stairs, carrying the breakfast tray for Lady North Barrows, and surveyed them both. “Well, well,” she said, her tone knowing.

Sophia realized she had her hand upon Philip’s sleeve and that they were bent together like lovers.

Or conspirators.

Philip inclined his head to the lady’s maid and continued up the stairs with purpose.

“Strange place to find affection, Miss Findlay,” Nelson said on her way past. “But I always thought there was more to you than met the eye.”

Sophia felt her cheeks burn as she descended to the kitchens, hearing the whispers begin to follow her. She had more important matters to consider, though. How could she save Lucien?

What had Philip said?

There was something distinctly odd about Miss Findlay’s manner.

Eurydice had noticed the change as soon as Grandmaman had announced their journey to Castle Keyvnor. She had assumed at first that their governess didn’t like to travel, but that woman’s manner had become progressively more unusual with each passing day.

Eurydice was certain that Miss Findlay had blushed when Lucien de Roye had invaded the library the day before. Blushed. At her age. She must be over forty!

And why had Lucien de Roye come into the library at all? Eurydice had not been fooled by his survey of Daphne. No, he wasn’t intrigued by her older sister—which was to his credit in Eurydice’s view. She had heard him simply listen to Grandmaman’s comments in the corridor, as if such scathing conclusions about his character were irrelevant.

Did he truly not care?

Or was he in disguise? Eurydice liked that notion. He could be a spy, on a mission for the crown. He was French, after all. Maybe he spied upon Napoleon. She was sure that would suit his daring nature. Her cousins said he was an excellent shot, always dueling and winning. Always gambling and winning. He was a rogue, to be sure, but Eurydice decided it would be much better if he had a heart of gold.

Miss Findlay was late this morning, and looked flustered when she arrived. She even appeared to be younger, as if her hair had turned less gray overnight. She seemed to be distracted, too, as if she considered a problem beyond awakening a fascination with German grammar in Daphne. Eurydice noted those inconsistencies and wondered at them.

It was a mystery, and she was going to solve it.

There had never been a day when Sophia had less patience with her charges. They had met various cousins and second cousins the afternoon before and were filled with new information and excitement.

“There’s a ghost in this castle,” Daphne pronounced as soon as Sophia entered the library.

She was late, and to her amazement, the girls were already seated with their German textbooks open.

“There are two ghosts,” Eurydice corrected. “One in the attic and one under the stairs.” She nodded with the surety of someone who had done her research. “The woman is in the attic and the man is under the stairs. There may be even more.”

Daphne waved off this clarification as irrelevant.

“The woman is the one who screamed last night,” Eurydice said, but Sophia hadn’t heard a scream. Just the music. She felt hot in recollection of her dance with Lucien and irritated anew that she had no scheme to save him.

Daphne continued. “There are witches in the village, who sell love spells.”

“What do you care about love spells?”

“I will buy one to make Lucien de Roye fall in love with me!”

Sophia cleared her throat, noticing how keenly Eurydice was watching her. “Your grandmother would scarcely approve of that course,” she said crisply.

“I’ll bet he is a man who knows how to kiss,” Daphne said, propping her chin upon her hand. Sophia felt her cheeks heat. “I’ve decided that I will only marry a man who knows how to kiss.”

“Who is the son of a duke, and handsome, and rich,” Eurydice said with scorn. “I’m sure there are thousands of them to be had.”

Daphne grimaced at her sister. “All I need is one.”

“Then why do you care about Lucien de Roye?” Eurydice asked. “He isn’t a duke and will never be one.”

“He will be my lover,” Daphne said smoothly. “I will marry the duke who knows how to kiss, bear him sons, then take Mr. de Roye as my lover.”

“I doubt he will wait that long for you.”

“You are just jealous, because he looked longest at me!”

“I thought he was most interested in Miss Findlay.”

Sophia glanced up in shock, only to find both girls staring at her. She opened her grammar book with purpose. “We will walk to the village this afternoon to see the witches,” she said, making no effort to simplify the phrase.

There was silence for a long moment. Daphne folded her arms across her chest and glared at Sophia.

“Wir werden zu Fuß das Dorf an diesem Nachmittag zu sehen, die Hexen,” Eurydice finally said with triumph in her tone.

“Je vais prendre un amant français après j'épouser un duc,” Daphne said smoothly and with conviction.

Sophia blinked in surprise.

“I thought you hated French,” Eurydice said.

Daphne smiled. “I just needed the right incentive.” Her smile broadened. “Perhaps I need a better tutor.”

Sophia raised her hand to her brow. The last thing she needed was Daphne seeking out Lucien when the baron was preparing to take his toll. Then she blinked, realizing that Philip had spoken in French.

L'amour vainc toutes choses.

That was what Philip had said. Love conquers all.

What if she seduced Lucien?

Would that expression of her love save him from the baron?

He had refused to ruin her before, but Sophia wasn’t inclined to take a refusal from him this time. Even if her choice failed to save him, didn’t she want to be with him one time before he was lost forever? Even if his soul was sacrificed, Sophia realized she couldn’t lose Lucien without one last kiss.

Or more.

Sophia’s pulse was fluttering when the harpsichord music began to echo through the halls once more. The moon was almost full, its light shining brightly through her window.

She hadn’t even made a pretense of retiring. She’d been sitting on the side of her bed, in the dark, for hours. She would have loved to have had a bath, but there was no question of her requesting such a luxury as a governess. She’d fetched her own hot water and made do. She wore her shift, her dress without stays, and her shoes without stockings. She had no notion of whether she might be able to seduce Lucien, much less whether it would matter to his fate.

The one thing she knew was that the man she loved was doomed, and she would do whatever she could to save him.

She doubted Lucien would make it easy for her.

She didn’t intend to be turned aside.

Not this time. She’d start with a kiss. Maybe another dance. Maybe she’d touch him. When his life was at risk, she didn’t think she could go too far. Sophia swallowed at her own audacity and resolve.

The first bar hadn’t even finished when she rose to her feet. Her hair was brushed out, and there was no powder in it to disguise its color. Miss Findlay’s glasses were abandoned on the small night table.

Sophia Brisbane meant to claim her one desire this very night.

Lucien tried to hide his impatience with the baron’s restless fingers. He supposed this would be the last night he would have to be troubled by the wild music. There was no instrument at the tavern—maybe the baron would hum his favored melodies. Lucien knew he would have little opportunity to miss the sound of it. He paced the length of the music room and back, ignoring how the candle flames danced in time to the baron’s raucous playing.

Just after the stroke of midnight on Samhain, he’d be dead.

Before that, he reminded himself, he would have won back Sophia’s inheritance, written to the solicitor to make it hers, and ensured that her life was as filled with opportunity as could be. Before he died, Lucien would have kept his promise to her, and no matter what else he had done in his life, that would be his measure.

The music made him feel the power of the baron surging within him. Would he miss that?

No, he would miss Sophia.

He would regret the pleasure they hadn’t shared.

He’d avoided her all day long and into the evening, and missed her already. Would she come when she heard the baron’s music on this night? The baron grinned and did a little trill with his fingers, then attacked the keyboard again.

It gave Lucien a bad feeling.

Then there was a light tap at the door.

Lucien spun to look across the room, wondering whether he had imagined the sound. Certainly, he had imagined his conviction that it had to be Sophia. The baron shook his head and winked, even as his fingers fell on the keys with new enthusiasm.

It must be Philip, come to chastise him about the music.

If that man meant to lecture him again, Lucien wouldn’t listen. He crossed the floor and flung open the door, a stern word dying on his lips when he found Sophia there.

Sophia, as she filled his dreams.

There was no pretense of her being Miss Findlay, not this time. Her hair was brushed out in gleaming waves that fell over her shoulders to her elbows. The lantern light picked out its golden glints and made her eyes look wide and dark. She appeared to be both uncertain but resolute, a combination he remembered so well that his heart clenched.

His Sophia would face dragons when she believed herself to be right.

She was even facing him.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Lucien said, trying to sound stern, but her fingertips landed upon his mouth. She studied him, leaning closer, and he took a step back. Too late, he realized that she would only follow him into the room. She kept her hand upon his lips, doing just as anticipated, then shut the door behind them. She studied him for a moment so long that he thought his heart would burst, then stretched to her toes to replace her fingers with her lips.

Lucien should have retreated. He should have turned away. But once her mouth was upon his, her breasts against his chest, her hands in his hair, Lucien was lost.

He didn’t want to be found.

It was his last chance to taste Sophia, and he wasn’t nearly strong enough to deny temptation this time. Their kiss was feverish, hungry, filled with a desperation that told him she understood his fate. Once again, their thoughts were as one. Once again, they sought the same goal. His fingers were in her hair, her hands framed his face, her kiss demanded more. He smelled her scent and caught her closer as he deepened his kiss.

When he broke their kiss, she smiled at him.

“Ruin me,” she invited in a whisper, just as she had once before.

The ardor shining in her eyes undid him completely. She loved him, despite what he had done, and this time, Lucien wouldn’t refuse her invitation.

He captured her mouth beneath his own once more, and swept Sophia into his arms. He carried her to a settee in triumph, barely noticing the baron’s departure as he began a long-overdue seduction.

CHAPTER 4

Sophia awakened to the distinctive sound of an umbrella rapped upon a hardwood floor. She tried to sit up but it was too late. Her shift was untied, her hair in disarray. She was yet on the settee in the music room. The candles had guttered themselves and Lucien dozed beside her, his hand locked possessively over her bare breast.

Lady North Barrows, dressed in full black splendor, stood in the doorway of the music room. Her expression was more than disapproving, her sharp gaze unlikely to have missed a single detail.

Even Sophia’s nipple caught between Lucien’s nimble fingers.

“Well, well,” Lady North Barrows said. “I now see, Miss Findlay, that you are a poor choice to teach my granddaughters about decorum.” She scowled. “I had disregarded Nelson’s tidings of your conduct, but clearly, in granting you the benefit of the doubt, I erred.”

Sophia could not find it within herself to apologize, much less to ask forgiveness. She was sorry that Lady North Barrows was disappointed in her, and couldn’t blame that lady since she regretted the deception herself, but she was also filled with a burgeoning sense of relief.

No more lies.

Her life could be her own again.

Lady North Barrows sniffed. “Consider yourself dismissed from my service. I will give you no letters. If you send word to the dower house of your address, I will have your belongings forwarded, otherwise, they will be burned.” She rapped the umbrella twice on the floor for emphasis, then marched away.

“A complication,” Lucien drawled from beside Sophia, but the twinkle in his eyes prompted her smile. He looked like his former self, and his hand was warm upon her skin. Sophia dared to hope that she might be saving him.

“You are wicked.”

“Au contraire. You are the one who engineered this seduction, Miss Findlay. I profess myself shocked by your disregard for social convention.” He stretched, yawned, and drew her back into his arms. He traced a lazy circle around her nipple with a fingertip and kissed her neck. Sophia thought she felt him purr. She felt like purring herself. “Even if I was powerless to resist your charms.”

The harpsichord began to play abruptly, a little trill that might have been celebratory if not for the change that came over Lucien. He got to his feet in one fluid movement and that glitter reclaimed his eyes. The room chilled. His eyes narrowed as he stared at the instrument, and he paled so that Sophia wondered what his loa looked like.

“Go,” he said, his tone so dismissive that he might have slapped her. “We have done what you wished to see done.”

“What I wished to see done?” Sophia echoed. She got to her feet and pointed at the settee. “I was not alone last night, Lucien de Roye, and you were not seduced against your will.”

He stood back, so wary that her hope faded. “Yet you are ruined, just the same, and I have a wager to keep. Farewell.” He paused at the threshold and glanced back, as if he couldn’t keep himself from doing so.

As if he didn’t trust himself to leave. “Be happy, Sophia.” His words were softer, heartfelt.

“Not without you.”

“You must be.”

Sophia watched him go, her frustration rising. The harpsichord played with wild abandon, as if the player were triumphant. Surely she hadn’t risked everything to gain nothing in return?

Why hadn’t her love saved Lucien?

She marched back across the room and swept a hand across the keys of the instrument, as if to push away those ghostly fingers. It fell silent. “I won’t let you have him,” she declared to the room, which appeared to be empty.

“You don’t have a choice, ma chère,” a man said, his shadowy figure visible on the far side of the harpsichord. He spoke in French, in a patois that Sophia hadn’t heard for a long time. “The wager must be paid.”

“In blood?”

“As the best ones always are.” There was another trill of notes, and Sophia stepped back, shivering as a new chill swept through the room.

“There has to be a way,” she murmured, almost to herself.

“Absolument, ma chère. You and I could come to an agreement, to be sure,” a man whispered in her ear. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see him with sudden clarity, an older Negro man attired as if for a ball, a red rose in his buttonhole. There was laughter in his eyes and hunger in his smile. He blew her a kiss, then disappeared into nothing at all.

Sophia shuddered, revulsion feeding her determination.

She had to save Lucien. Somehow.

Lucien could have remained in his bedchamber on his last day of life, but he wasn’t one to hide from confrontation. He could have gone to the tavern and met with Lyndenhurst, but that pleasure could wait. He could have gone for a ride, or joined the other men to hunt, but his thoughts were locked upon the sweet passion he had shared with Sophia.

She was ruined and without a position. He knew she would be wealthy, but she didn’t, not as yet.

And he knew she was fond of her charges.

He had an unassailable urge to defend her.

The two girls were in the library, enduring a lecture from their grandmother. “And so, in the face of considerable impropriety, Miss Findlay has left our service.”

“What kind of impropriety?” demanded the younger and certainly more clever of the pair.

“I don’t care,” the older declared. “I hate German lessons.”

“Your German lessons will continue, with or without Miss Findlay’s instruction,” Lady North Barrows said firmly, rapping her umbrella once on the floor for emphasis. “However, that will have to wait until I find a new tutor for you.”

“Then we can abandon our lessons today,” the older one said with evident delight. “The others are going to the village, and...”

“And we shall review proper etiquette for dining,” Lady North Barrows interrupted. “I would wish for you to take at least one meal with the other guests on this visit, but your conduct at luncheon yesterday was utterly unacceptable.”

“Spoons and forks,” the younger one complained. “I much prefer German.”

“Perhaps an instructor could be found,” Lucien said, revealing his presence by stepping into the doorway. The older girl’s features lit with pleasure, Lady North Barrows looked grim and the younger girl smiled at him in welcome. He nodded to her. “Fräulein Findlay ist ein Betrüger,” he said in a whisper, confessing that their governess had been in disguise.

“I knew it!” that girl said. “And she’s an heiress in hiding.”

“Sie ist in der Tat eine Erbin in der Verkleidung,” he confirmed.

“What are you talking about?” the older girl cried, rising to her feet in exasperation. “What is he saying?”

Lady North Barrows tapped her umbrella, gesturing for her granddaughter to be silent. “What heiress?” Her eyes gleamed. “And how much of a fortune?”

“Sie ist die Tochter von Sir William Brisbane.”

“The daughter of Sir William Brisbane!” Lady North Barrows repeated. “Not that Brisbane, of Brisbane’s Emporium?”

“The very one,” Lucien confirmed.

“Well, then.” Lady North Barrows took only a moment to absorb these tidings. “How much?”

“Am Morgen geht es dreißig tausend Pfund, sowie einige Eigenschaften.”

“Thirty thousand pounds!” the younger girl exclaimed. “And property?”

When Lucien nodded, Lady North Barrows sat down heavily.

“Why will it change by morning?” the younger girl demanded.

“Because I have yet to win the rest of it. It was lost by her brother in a gaming hell, and I have recovered almost every shilling.”

“Why would you undertake such a thing?” Lady North Barrows demanded. It was clear she expected him to confess at least admiration for Sophia, but Lucien would not give Sophia any reason to mourn his loss.

Lucien held the older woman’s gaze steadily. “Because I promised her I would do so, no matter what the cost to myself.” He smiled. “And so, it shall be done.” He bowed to the trio, taking advantage of Lady North Barrows’ rare silence. “Au revoir, mes petites,” he said, then left them with much to consider.

He had only taken a few steps before the younger girl exclaimed. “I knew she was an heiress in disguise, and now she’ll be rescued by the prince who everyone thinks to be a scoundrel!”

“I never thought he was a scoundrel,” insisted the older girl.

The distinct rap of an umbrella silenced both girls, and Lady North Barrows’ declaration was the last thing Lucien heard. “Thirty thousand pounds. I think we shall have to ensure that Miss Brisbane is safely escorted to London.”

“London!” the older girl cried with abandon.

But Sophia, he knew, would not be in need of such an escort. Philip could take her wherever she desired in Lucien’s own carriage.

It would all be hers by morning.

For he would be dead.

Not, alas, a scoundrel revealed to be a prince intent upon marrying her.

He returned to his chamber and ensured that his belongings were packed. He took the stuffed charm that he had carried for seven years and put it into his pocket, for it was bound to his destiny as well.

The last person Sophia ever wanted to see again was Eugene Tremblay, the Marquess of Lyndenhurst. The sight of him, dismounting from a carriage outside the tavern in Bocka Morrow, sent fear surging through her and brought her steps to an abrupt halt.

She stepped into the shadow of a tree to verify that it was him. Oh yes. It couldn’t be anyone else. Lyndenhurst was still tall and lean, his nose was still hooked like a beak. He looked like the predator she knew he was.

I will have it all, Miss Brisbane, without regards to your ambitions. You will soon realize that it would have been much more comfortable for you to have become my wife.

Sophia caught her breath, pushing the memory of that exchange from her mind.

Truth be told, she shouldn’t have been surprised by the sight of Lyndenhurst. Lucien meant to gamble for St. Maurice, and she knew that Lyndenhurst had taken every crumb of her father’s estate from Charles.

Charles. Dear impetuous Charles. It was too easy to recall her brother’s despair at the loss of his inheritance and his subsequent flight north with his beloved Elizabeth. Her parents had never been enamored of the match, but once Charles had lost his fortune, they had forbidden it. Charles and Elizabeth had taken matters into their own hands and fled for Gretna Green, but they had never reached their destination. Dead in a carriage accident, both of them lost.

Sophia swallowed, reminding herself that they were together forever.

The loss of their lives was even more horrific if Lucien was right and Lyndenhurst had cheated to seduce Charles into risking everything he owned.

Sophia took a steadying breath and looked again. The carriage had no insignia, though she doubted Lyndenhurst had given up either of his teams. She supposed he hadn’t wanted anyone to know his destination. He shook out his coat, sparing a disapproving glance to the village as he donned his hat. He paid the driver and made a sharp comment, then strode toward the Mermaid’s Kiss before the driver had urged the horses onward again.

What had Lucien offered to tempt Lyndenhurst to wager St. Maurice?

Sophia clenched her fists and watched Lyndenhurst enter the tavern. It was wrong beyond all belief that this man should survive and Lucien should die. Philip wouldn’t contrive her entry into the game room, so Sophia had to find a solution. She burrowed in her satchel and retrieved Miss Findlay’s spectacles, which she had declined to wear this day. Fortunately, her warmest bonnet had a wide brim, so her face would be disguised. She doubted that Lyndenhurst would grant her a second glance even if she ran right into him. He had admired her fortune, not her person, after all.

She had to enter the tavern, though, because she had to find the keeper.

Then she had to convince him to accept a barter with her. Sophia knew exactly what she wanted.

It was better that Lucien didn’t see Sophia again.

He told himself that repeatedly throughout the day, although he didn’t believe it for a moment. He wished he could have said one last farewell, even though he knew he would have been tempted to never leave her again. The baron was close behind him all day long, his cold presence a reminder that the grave awaited Lucien this very night.

The skies were clear when he rode to Bocka Morrow in the evening, and the moon was full. He met Lyndenhurst for dinner at the tavern, as arranged, and had the meal served in the private room upstairs that would be the site of the game. Lyndenhurst complained about the rustic nature of the accommodation and the trials of his journey, but Lucien knew the other man would have followed him to Hell and back for the prize of immortality.

His eyes were shining in anticipation of his win.

Lucien also guessed that Lyndenhurst would try to cheat.

The meal was indifferent, but neither of them cared about the fare. The serving maid was old and slow, but that didn’t matter either. She might have listened to their conversation, but they spoke of the weather and little else. The wine was musty, but neither of them would drink much until the game was over. Lucien had brought rum for the baron and offered some to Lyndenhurst who declined.

A clock somewhere in the tavern struck eleven.

Lucien nodded to Philip, who stepped out of the shadows to deal.

Lyndenhurst leaned forward. “I brought cards,” he said, offering a sealed deck.

“We will use mine or none at all,” Lucien said, and Lyndenhurst’s lips tightened. “You are welcome to examine them before we play.”

Philip laid out the cards on the table for examination before the game. They were new and unblemished, every one accounted for and no extras in the deck. Lyndenhurst checked them with care. He wanted the secret, though, and wanted it badly enough to abandon the protest. He nodded once and sat back.

The cold filled Lucien’s mind, the sense of pending death growing ever stronger. He tugged on his gloves, wondering whether his fingers would be too cold to hold the cards. The room seemed to fill with a fog, and he focused his attention on the cards.

This game would be his last living feat.

The letter was written to his solicitor and Philip had instructions to take the deed and ride to London. All would be set to rights.

Lucien thought he felt a draft, as if a door opened. He heard the music of a familiar tune played upon a harpsichord, although that was impossible. Neither of his companions seemed to hear it and he knew that the baron arrived for his due.

Not long now.

Philip acted as dealer, disapproval emanating from him in waves, but Lucien ignored his old friend. He fought the urge to shiver and struggled to draw breath into his lungs. His heart slowed and he felt that he walked in a dream.

He won the first game with a queen and a ten. Lyndenhurst had a jack and a nine.

That man’s expression grew more grim as the cards were dealt again. The baron gripped Lucien’s shoulder then, his bony fingers digging into the flesh as a wave of pure ice coursed through Lucien’s veins.

“I have dug your grave,” the baron whispered in that familiar patois. “Everything is ready, mon petit. The time is near.”

Lucien looked down and could see the baron’s hand on his shoulder. He could feel the cold emanating from that grip to fill his body. He saw a red rose in his buttonhole that hadn’t been there before.

The music was louder, rising and falling in a mad cacophony of sound. The moonlight slanted through the window, making the scene look unreal.

Two more games. Lucien nodded to Philip.

Lyndenhurst was dealt a nine, face up on the table.

Lucien was dealt a king, face up on the table.

Lucien watched Lyndenhurst as he looked at his second card and couldn’t guess what he had been dealt. Lyndenhurst was impassive, as usual. Lucien was dealt a nine. The baron chuckled. Lucien knew that if he took another card, it would be a deuce.

Lyndenhurst took another card.

The baron prodded, but Lucien held. The baron pushed, but Lucien held.

Lyndenhurst held. He then turned over his cards to reveal a nine, a seven and a four. Twenty. Lucien congratulated him and turned over his cards. The baron crowed a protest, his fingers like icicles stabbed into Lucien’s flesh.

“Nineteen!” Lyndenhurst declared with a cold smile. “Then the rumors are false. You can lose!”

“Everyone can lose,” Lucien said mildly. He spoke aloud to remind the baron. “But it’s best of three.” The baron chuckled with glee and Lyndenhurst drummed his fingers on the table in a rare show of impatience.

“My luck has turned just in time,” Lyndenhurst said, eyes shining. His voice could have come from a thousand miles away. Everything glittered to Lucien’s view, like it was coated in frost. His heart slowed and he had a hard time drawing a breath.

The clock struck the half hour, and the chiming made Lucien’s bones rattle.

The tension in the room rose palpably even as the cold increased. Lucien couldn’t feel his feet anymore. They were frigid. He knew he was shivering. Philip stirred up the fire in the grate before he shuffled the cards and Lyndenhurst exhaled in vexation.

“Don’t take all night at it,” he snapped, and Philip returned to the table to deal.

First card to Lucien, face up. It was an eight.

Lyndenhurst’s first card was an ace.

Lucien’s second card was a nine.

Lyndenhurst was pleased with his second card, and Lucien expected it was a ten or a face card.

He indicated that he would have another, his finger shaking with the cold.

A three. He had twenty.

Lyndenhurst took another card, his features implacable. The second card hadn’t been a ten, then.

Philip gave Lucien an expectant look.

The baron’s breath was on Lucien’s ear, his grip tight on Lucien’s shoulders. Lucien could smell the roses in their buttonholes, and the stench of death the blooms failed to disguise. He felt a cold wind in his hair and it took an eternity for his heart to beat again.

Lucien beckoned for another card.

Of course, it was an ace.

Lyndenhurst held.

Lucien held.

Lyndenhurst turned over his cards. The seven was joined by an eight and a five.

Twenty.

He eyed Lucien with expectation and hope.

Lucien turned over his cards, smearing them across the table. “Twenty-one,” he said, his voice no more than a whisper of frost. “St. Maurice is mine.”

Lyndenhurst sat back, his displeasure more than clear. He frowned and seized a satchel, opening it to reveal the documents inside. They were surrendered to Lucien, who gave them to Philip.

His word was kept.

Sophia would have her father’s estate returned to her. It was only a measure of what she had lost, but he had kept his word.

It was over and he should have felt triumphant. Instead, he was so cold that he could feel little at all. He might as well have been dead already. He was shaking to his very marrow.

Lyndenhurst shoved the cards across the table in frustration. “What else do you want?” he demanded. “I haven’t come all this way to go home with an empty purse. I want your secret!”

Lucien parted his lips but couldn’t make a sound. The baron’s arms were closing around him as if he were no more than a child and he didn’t have the strength to fight.

Why should he fight? The price was due.

“How badly do you want it?” a woman demanded.

Lucien looked up to see Sophia by the chamber door. When she remained in the shadows, she might have been no more substantial than a dream. Was he dreaming of her presence? No. He belatedly realized that she wore the dress of the old serving maid, the one they had ignored during their meal. Now that she stood straight and had cast off her cap, he recognized the truth.

When she stepped forward, she seemed to be surrounded by golden light, like an angel come to save him. Lucien knew it couldn’t be so, but his heart skipped at the sight of her, sending heat through his veins.

“Too late, ma chère,” the baron murmured, but Lucien was glad that his dying glance would be of Sophia, resolve shining in her eyes. He drank in the sight of her, then the music rose to a deafening crescendo, the baron’s embrace tightened, and there was only cold and emptiness.

Lucien looked terrible.

He was pale and Sophia could see that he was shaking like an old man. His lips looked slightly blue and she guessed that he was cold.

As cold as the grave.

His eyes were the eyes of a stranger, the blue as frosty as a winter morning.

She could almost see the baron behind him. There was a man’s shadowy silhouette there, and when she averted her gaze, she could see the old Negro man in his fine dinner jacket from the corner of her eye. As she watched, the baron’s arms closed around Lucien, and Lucien sagged against him, as if he had gone to sleep.

Why did Lucien have a red rose in his buttonhole, just like that of his loa?

He could not be lost, not yet!

The clock chimed the third quarter of the hour.

She strode to Lucien’s side and reached into his pocket. She found the charm there and claimed it, even as the loa’s chuckle filled the chamber.

“He is mine, ma chère,” came a whisper that was everywhere and nowhere, but Sophia held fast to the charm.

“No,” she declared. “He is mine.”

“I am owed a soul, ma chère.”

And he would have it.

“What business is it of yours, woman? Get back to your labor and leave us in peace!” Lyndenhurst said, then seized Sophia’s arm, perhaps to hurl her from the room. He caught his breath when Sophia looked up at him and paled. “Sophia Brisbane! I thought you were dead.”

“I am not, sir, and I am once again in possession of my father’s emporium.”

Lyndenhurst’s eyes glittered as he glanced at Lucien. “He gave it to you? He gave it away?”

“And the island,” Philip contributed. “I have the letter to the solicitor.”

Lyndenhurst looked between Sophia and Lucien, his disdain clear. “He won to restore it all to a woman?”

“This one,” Sophia thought with vigor. “I will win this soul for you instead.”

The baron chuckled and she heard the harpsichord music once more. Lucien was pale and still but she could see that he was still breathing.

She had to risk it all to save his life. Sophia leaned closer to Lyndenhurst, her resolve to save Lucien giving her strength. “And I will wager it all, the entire fortune and St. Maurice.”

Lyndenhurst’s eyes lit. “In exchange for what?”

“You don’t seem to have much left,” Sophia observed. “Lucien told me you had lost your fortune.”

Lyndenhurst’s nostrils pinched. “There is no reason to discuss such details, though I suppose the daughter of a tradesman is accustomed to such vulgarity.”

“Even I have heard the extent of your debts,” Philip said.

Sophia pulled up a chair and sat at the table. “Why not wager your soul, sir? Assuming you have one.”

“Such audacity!” Lyndenhurst laughed. “How would you claim it? What would you do with it?” He shook his head, evidently thinking he risked little. “I will take your wager, Miss Brisbane, though do not blame me when you regret it.”

“I will not regret it,” Sophia said and nodded to Philip. “I will see my brother avenged.”

“Charles Brisbane was a fool, who did not understand his own incompetence at cards.”

“Is it incompetent to be cheated?”

Lyndenhurst inhaled sharply. “Do you accuse me?”

“You seduced him at the gaming table. You let him win until he wagered it all. Then you won and he lost his entire inheritance.”

“The follies of indulged young men are not my responsibility.”

“Even though he died, along with his betrothed, as a result of losing his fortune?”

“Every carriage accident is not my concern.” Lyndenhurst glared at Sophia. “I warned you not to break our betrothal, Miss Brisbane. I warned you that I would have it all, with or without you.”

“So you did, but now I have it all once more.” Sophia smiled.

Lyndenhurst’s eyes flashed with annoyance. “Do we play or do we not, Miss Brisbane?”

“We play.” Sophia heard a gleeful chuckle and the faint sound of harpsichord music. Philip crossed himself and dealt the cards.

Lyndenhurst’s first card was a queen.

Sophia’s first card was a ten.

Lyndenhurst looked at his second card and almost smiled.

Sophia looked at her second card and laid her hand over it on the table.

Lyndenhurst beckoned for a third card.

Sophia held.

Lyndenhurst held.

Sophia turned over her cards. She had an ace with her ten. Twenty-one.

Lyndenhurst turned over his cards, his manner wary. He had a queen, a four and a six.

Twenty.

“So you have a beginner’s good fortune.” Lyndenhurst pushed to his feet, scorn curling his lip. “I should like to see you collect your due.”

“Oh, I will,” Sophia said with such conviction that Lyndenhurst paused to study her.

“Not everything can be bought and sold, Miss Brisbane.”

“Not in this world, to be sure.” Sophia flung the charm into the fire and it loosed a cloud of black smoke.

The clock struck midnight.

Sophia heard the baron howl with delight even as an unholy wind rushed through the chamber, like a winter wind bringing a storm. The lanterns were suddenly extinguished and the fire blazed high before it was snuffed out. The curtains whipped, the table was overset, and she closed her eyes against the wind’s chilly fingers. She smelled roses and heard music at a deafening volume.

Lyndenhurst screamed.

The door slammed and the wind stilled as abruptly as it had started.

She opened her eyes to see that Lyndenhurst was gone. There was frost on the inside of the window, on what was left of the glass. Philip ran a hand over his head as he looked about himself in wonder. The moonlight slanted through the broken window to touch Lucien’s face.

Which had lost its pallor.

The rose was gone from his buttonhole and when he opened his eyes, they were the same clear honest blue that Sophia remembered from the first day they had met on the docks. He smiled and opened his arms to her, and she almost fell into his embrace.

“Is he gone?” she whispered, welcoming the warmth of him.

“Both of them are gone,” he replied, his smile as open and admiring as it had ever been. “Because you did what had to be done.”

“Because you gave me a hint.”

“Because we defeated him together.” And Lucien sealed his words with a thorough and most welcome kiss.

Sophia was vaguely aware that Philip cleared his throat. “I shall see you in the morning, my lord, but not too early.”

“No, not too early,” Lucien said, breaking their kiss. He stared down at Sophia. “As much as I would like to make an early start back to London, I was invited to attend the reading of the will.”

“Do you think the earl left you a legacy?” Sophia asked.

Lucien winced. “I can only hope it is not a harpsichord.”

Sophia laughed at his rueful expression.

“So, Philip, we will stay through the second, then depart for London the following morning. It would be best to have legal matters arranged quickly so that we can sail home before the winter seas.”

Home. Sophia smiled up at him. Home with Lucien. It was all she had ever wanted and more.

“Very good, sir.”

“We shall have to restore the inventory of the emporium,” she said.

“Of course. It would be best to oversee it personally.” Lucien held her tightly. “Do you have any objection, Miss Brisbane, with dividing your time between London and St. Maurice?”

Sophia laughed again, more than pleased with the suggestion. “Not the least objection, sir. Our children will have need of English schools and St. Maurice summers.”

Philip cleared his throat again. “I will fetch Miss Brisbane’s belongings for the morning,” he said. “I trust there is nothing else you need this evening?”

“Not one thing. Thank you, Philp.”

Philip retreated, closing the door behind himself. Sophia smiled at the sound of his happy whistle as he left them together.

“A night alone with you in a tavern? I am truly ruined, Mr. de Roye,” she teased.

Lucien slid a fingertip along her cheek. “I don’t think you are totally ruined yet, Miss Brisbane,” he murmured in reply, his eyes glowing. “But we have several nights to remedy that situation.” He brushed his lips across hers. “I mean to leave you no choice but to marry me by special license as soon as we reach London.”

Sophia laughed, unable to resist the opportunity to tease him. “I regret to inform you, sir, that I have no argument with that.”

It was the last thing she said for quite some time, although she did continue to tease him, for that night and many more to come.

ABOUT DEBORAH COOKE / CLAIRE DELACROIX

Deborah Cooke sold her first book in 1992, a medieval romance called The Romance of the Rose published under her pseudonym Claire Delacroix. Since then, she has published over fifty novels in a wide variety of sub-genres, including historical romance, contemporary romance, paranormal romance, fantasy romance, time-travel romance, women’s fiction, paranormal young adult and fantasy with romantic elements. She has published under the names Claire Delacroix, Claire Cross and Deborah Cooke. The Beauty, part of her successful Bride Quest series of historical romances, was her first title to land on the New York Times List of Bestselling Books. Her books routinely appear on other bestseller lists and have won numerous awards. In 2009, she was the writer-in-residence at the Toronto Public Library, the first time the library has hosted a residency focused on the romance genre. In 2012, she was honored to receive the Romance Writers of America’s Mentor of the Year Award.

Currently, she writes historical romances as Claire Delacroix. She also writes paranormal romances and contemporary romances under the name Deborah Cooke. Deborah lives in Canada with her husband and family, as well as far too many unfinished knitting projects.

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Connect with Claire Delacroix

- @Cooke_Delacroix

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ALSO BY DEBORAH COOKE / CLAIRE DELACROIX

Paranormal Romances:

The Dragonfire Series

KISS OF FIRE

KISS OF FURY

KISS OF FATE

Harmonia’s Kiss

WINTER KISS

WHISPER KISS

DARKFIRE KISS

FLASHFIRE

EMBER’S KISS

THE DRAGON LEGION COLLECTION

(including Kiss of Danger, Kiss of Darkness and Kiss of Destiny)

SERPENT’S KISS

FIRESTORM FOREVER

Dragons of Incendium

WYVERN’S MATE

NERO’S DREAM

WYVERN’S PRINCE

ARISTA’S LEGACY (2016)

WYVERN’S WARRIOR (2016)

Urban Fantasy Romance

The Prometheus Project

FALLEN

GUARDIAN

REBEL

ABYSS

Paranormal Young Adult:

The Dragon Diaries

FLYING BLIND

WINGING IT

BLAZING THE TRAIL

Contemporary Romance:

The Coxwells

THIRD TIME LUCKY

DOUBLE TROUBLE

ONE MORE TIME

ALL OR NOTHING

Flatiron Five

SIMPLY IRRESISTIBLE (2016)

Books by Claire Delacroix

Time Travel Romances

ONCE UPON A KISS

THE LAST HIGHLANDER

THE MOONSTONE

LOVE POTION #9

Historical Romances

THE ROMANCE OF THE ROSE

HONEYED LIES

UNICORN BRIDE

THE SORCERESS

ROARKE’S FOLLY

PEARL BEYOND PRICE

THE MAGICIAN’S QUEST

UNICORN VENGEANCE

MY LADY’S CHAMPION

ENCHANTED

MY LADY’S DESIRE

The Bride Quest

THE PRINCESS

THE DAMSEL

THE HEIRESS

THE COUNTESS

THE BEAUTY

THE TEMPTRESS

The Rogues of Ravensmuir

THE ROGUE

THE SCOUNDREL

THE WARRIOR

The Jewels of Kinfairlie

THE BEAUTY BRIDE

THE ROSE RED BRIDE

THE SNOW WHITE BRIDE

The Ballad of Rosamunde

The True Love Brides

THE RENEGADE’S KISS

THE HIGHLANDER’S CURSE

THE FROST MAIDEN’S KISS

THE WARRIOR’S PRIZE

The Champions of St. Euphemia

THE CRUSADER’S BRIDE

THE CRUSADER’S HEART

THE CRUSADER’S KISS

THE CRUSADER’S VOW (2016)

THE CRUSADER’S HANDFAST (2016)

Short Stories and Novellas

BEGUILED

Something Wicked This Way Comes

HER GYPSY LORD

JANE CHARLES

DEDICATION

For my sister, Trudy Jennings, who would love to stay in a place like Castle Keyvnor. She’d also be very disappointed if she did not encounter a ghost.

CHAPTER 1

Castle Keyvnor, Cornwall ~ October, 1811

L ady Charlotte Beck took a step back and glanced at the door. She could make her escape and nobody would notice. Certainly not her father, who often forgot he even had a daughter when her older brothers were in the room.

The oldest, Anthony, Viscount Redgrave, lounged against a settee, a smirk upon his lips. Anthony enjoyed whenever Michael, the third born, was called on the carpet by their father.

The two brothers were as different as night and day, and had been since the moment of birth. Or so she suspected since she was seven years younger than her eldest brother. Anthony had always been the perfect son. He probably hadn’t ever cried as an infant and, more than likely, slept through the night from the start. Michael, on the other hand, probably started flirting with the nursery maid when he was only an hour old. And then there was Harry, the second born, who had recently returned from the Navy. He sat upright in his chair, watching the scene with great curiosity.

Or perhaps it was boredom. Harry left when Charlotte was only seven years old, and she didn’t really know him. She still was not certain if he was friend or foe.

Anthony and Michael were certainly foes. But for all of their differences, there was one topic in which they were in full agreement—any gentleman who might even glance in Charlotte’s direction was to be discouraged, then investigated. With those two always near, and glaring, it was a wonder any gentleman even bothered to sign her dance cards last season.

“Explain to me why St. Giles, Blackwater, and Ashbrook are at Castle Keyvnor,” her father, Marquess of Halesworth, demanded of Michael. The gentlemen were some of Michael’s closest friends, and it really hadn’t surprised Charlotte that the trio had traveled to Cornwall with her brother.

“They were with me in Newmarket when you ordered me here.”

“So you invited them?” His irate tone prompted Charlotte to edge closer to the exit. She caught Harry’s eye, and if she wasn’t mistaken, his lips quirked ever so slightly.

“Not so much invited,” Michael hedged. “Devon Lancaster is here too, and he wasn’t invited either.”

“You do realize this gathering is for the reading of a will. Not a house party!” their father roared.

“I don’t even understand why it’s necessary for all of us to be present,” Michael complained. “Banfield was Mother’s uncle, surely whatever was left to her is but a token and does not require the entire family to be present.”

If Father could breathe fire, it would surely be coming from his mouth and nose this very instant. At the very least, as red as his face had suddenly become, smoke should be coming from his ears.

Anthony’s smile broadened, Harry came to his feet and reached for his cane, and Charlotte slipped out of the room. Father’s temper was only going to get hotter, and she preferred to be far away.

A sigh escaped as she exited into the corridor, glad to be rid of her family and excited to be at Castle Keyvnor for the next sennight. Here she wouldn’t be watched nearly as closely as she had been anywhere else. Other than the four uninvited gentlemen, everyone else in attendance was some form of relation, no matter how distant. Not that she had cause to be worried about Lords St. Giles, Blackwater, Ashbrook, or Mr. Lancaster. Other than standing up with her on occasion at balls, none had ever showed her any interest, and she certainly had none in them.

“One would think those two would have grown up, at least somewhat, during my absence.”

A smile blossomed as Charlotte turned to find Harry behind her. Finally, someone who found Anthony and Michael as irritating and obnoxious as she did.

“Tell me, do either of them ever approach anything with any respect or seriousness?”

He planted his feet and put his hands behind his back--the stance of an officer used to being on the deck of a ship and ordering others about. Oh, she hoped he’d share stories of daring and danger with her one day, but they’d barely spoken since his return.

“Anthony can be very serious, downright stuffy even. However, when Michael is in trouble, he quickly reverts to a child.”

Harry’s frown deepened. “I’d heard Michael had a certain reputation. I’d hoped I had heard wrong.”

“Oh, he does.” She laughed. “A rake of the first order. Or, at least when I’m not around. If he’s tasked with escorting me, then he becomes the most protective chaperone to ever grace London.”

Harry gestured ahead and they moved further down the corridor, away from the parlor where the argument between Michael and their father was getting louder by the moment. There were times Harry leaned heavily on his cane, and at other times, like now, it was nothing more than an accessory, yet it was always with him.

Charlotte hated that he was in pain but was so grateful he was home with said leg intact. From what she understood, it had been a close as to whether the surgeon would allow him to keep it.

A shiver ran down her spine at the danger her brother put himself in for King and Country. She’d been too young to really understand where he went, but after Father showed her his name in the newssheets, Charlotte had saved every article where he’d been mentioned and wasn’t above bragging about him when she could.

Oh, if only she could experience just an ounce of the adventure Harry had. Charlotte nearly sighed. Adventure was well and good and something she craved, though she didn’t exactly wish to put herself in danger either. Unlike Harry, who faced it head on even when the odds were against him.

“You are one and twenty, correct?”

“Yes and directly on a path to spinsterhood if those two have their way.”

“You know, my first night back the three of us spoke—actually they spoke, and I listened—about all the things they felt I needed to understand. One of those ‘things’ was you.”

Oh dear. Maybe Harry was a foe after all.

“They warned me that you are much too curious for your own good, that you need to be watched, and that left to your own devices, you might go off somewhere and find yourself in all kinds of trouble.”

I’m going to kill them both the first chance I have.

“I feared that perhaps you were the one who hadn’t grown up and were still very much the seven-year-old that I left behind.”

“Please, Harry,” she begged. “I’ve enough of our family treating me as a child.”

“As well you should.” He stood back and took a good look at Charlotte. Admiration shone in his deep brown eyes. “What I see is a woman who knows her own mind, intelligent, and sensible.”

Relief flowed through her. Finally, a family member who wouldn’t hover. “Why can’t you stay here and send Anthony and Michael off to the Navy?”

He chuckled and shook his head. “My dear Charlotte. They’d not last a fortnight, which would result in me becoming the heir and that would never do.”

Charlotte reached out and took his hands in hers. “I hope you’re home for a while and that we can spend more time together.”

His smile softened. “Perhaps. We shall have to see how this leg of mine progresses.”

Michael stormed out of the parlor and headed towards them.

Harry pulled away from Charlotte. “Well, I’m off to explore the grounds of this supposedly haunted castle.”

She intended to disappear just as quickly. That last thing Charlotte wanted to do was hear Michael complain about their father. “Do warn me if you come across any ghosts.”

Harry chuckled. “You and I both know that is not likely to happen,” he called back as he headed toward the large castle door and Charlotte ducked into the sitting room.

“Oh, Harry, why couldn’t you have come back sooner?”

However, she was happy he was here now. If anything, it would make being with her other brothers immensely more bearable.

With a grin, Charlotte twirled around in the center of the room. The history of this gothic castle fascinated her, even if the stories were a bit embellished. She certainly believed people had been executed and witches burned, not that they were really witches of course. Gruesome events had transpired all throughout history, so it wasn’t surprising that some horrific things happened here. But, what was truly entertaining was that people actually believed there were still ghosts, fairies, and witches about. And, even better, apparently a band of gypsies actually lived on Banfield land.

There was so much to explore, and she couldn’t wait. But first, she must know where to find the gypsies. She could have asked Harry to keep an eye out for them while he was exploring, but she wanted to keep his good opinion of her and not make him question if Anthony and Michael were correct and that she lacked sensibilities.

Not that she believed in curses or fortune telling or any of that nonsense, but it would be delightfully fun to have her fortune told just the same. Would they use a crystal ball? Cards? Read the lines on her hands?

“Why in the world is Lord St. Giles here?” Lady Cassandra Priske, her cousin, entered the room and dropped onto a settee across from Charlotte. Oscar, her cousin’s bothersome black poodle, hopped up beside his owner. Had she known Cassy was bringing Oscar, Charlotte might have brought Princess, her black cat, who thoroughly enjoyed chasing the yappy dog.

“Michael said he invited himself. No idea why he’d want to be here if he didn’t have to be.” However, she couldn’t complain of his presence or that of any of Michael’s friends since they would keep her brother occupied. It was a shame Anthony hadn’t brought a friend as well, then she’d have all the freedom she needed.

A breeze swept through the room and goose pimples popped out on Charlotte’s arms just as Oscar barked and stood at attention. She may adore old castles, but they could be downright chilly at times.

“Heavens!” Cassy exclaimed.

One would have thought Princess just sauntered into the room by the way that dog was behaving. “What’s wrong with Oscar?”

Cassy blinked at her cousin. “Didn’t you feel that?”

Charlotte frowned slightly. “Feel what?”

“Like a breeze or a wind blow through the sitting room?”

Charlotte shook her head. “It’s an old castle. All the rooms are drafty.”

Oscar barked again, much to Charlotte’s irritation. If she could figure out a way to muzzle that dog, she would.

“Ahem!” Someone cleared her throat in the threshold and Charlotte glanced up to find the stern housekeeper frowning at them. “We do not have animals on the furniture at Castle Keyvnor.”

“Oh!” Cassy snatched Oscar up in her arms and he nestled against her chest.

“Sorry, Mrs. Bray,” Charlotte said. “We didn’t know.”

The woman narrowed her eyes on Cassy. “Well, now you do.”

Now was not the time to upset the housekeeper since there was still so much Charlotte needed to learn. She pushed out of her seat and gave the woman what she hoped was a kind and apologetic smile. “Um, Mrs. Bray, I wonder if you could answer a question for me.”

“Yes, Lady Charlotte?” she asked with suspicion.

“Well, I heard tale that there were gypsies on Keyvnor land. Is there any truth to that?”

“The Earls of Banfield have always welcomed their lot,” Mrs. Bray replied. “They have a camp near Hollybrook Park.”

“That is delightful.” Charlotte grinned at the news.

“You best not be disturbing them,” Mrs. Bray warned. “We stay away from them, and they stay away from us, even if his lordship welcomed them.”

“Yes, of course.” Charlotte schooled her features. “I was simply curious. I would never dream of visiting gypsies.”

The older woman shrugged and then departed as Charlotte fell back onto the settee. “I can’t wait to have my fortune told.”

“I think you’ve lost your mind.” Cassy shook her head, and that nasty little dog barked.

As much as she wanted to go, it wouldn’t be nearly as much fun if she were alone; and with that thought, Charlotte slid forward in her seat. “It’ll be a grand adventure, Cassy, just think! A band of marauding gypsies telling tales by the fire. It’s just a lark, of course. Something to pass the time while we’re here.”

“It sounds perfectly horrid.”

Charlotte rolled her eyes. “You are too stuffy by half, did you know?” She should have known Cassy wouldn’t go with her. After all, her cousin never did anything daring.

“You think I’m stuffy? I can’t wait to hear you tell Anthony, Harry, and Michael that you mean to visit a band of gypsies.”

She wouldn’t tell them, would she? Cassy and she may not enjoy the same pastimes, but they’d always held each other’s confidences. “You can’t tell them!” Charlotte insisted. “They’ll ruin any bit of enjoyment there is to be had here.”

“We’re here for the reading of a will, not enjoyment.”

She sounded like Papa. “You can find enjoyment anywhere,” Charlotte claimed. “Or at least you can if your overbearing brothers don’t know what you’re about.” Even though Harry didn’t appear to be overbearing, she wasn’t about to chance this either. “You must promise me not to tell them.”

“I’m not going to tell them,” Cassy vowed. “But I don’t think you should visit the gypsies. It could be dangerous, and I have an awful feeling about Keyvnor. Don’t you feel it too?”

Where Charlotte craved adventure, Cassy’s imagination was as adventurous as she got. “I think your imagination is running wild again.”

Oscar barked, hopped off Cassy’s lap and bolted towards the doorway. Charlotte glanced up, hoping Mrs. Bray hadn’t returned, but found Lord St. Giles leaning against the doorjamb instead. Dear Lord, she hoped Michael wasn’t nearby. He’d ruin everything.

The poodle sat before the baron and panted up at him as though waiting for a treat.

Nasty little beggar.

Then, St. Giles winked at Cassy, completely taking Charlotte by surprise, before he gave a small bite of something to the dog. Had St. Giles taken an interest in her cousin? Charlotte wasn’t sure if she should warn him away or be delighted and watch how the situation progressed. St. Giles did have a certain reputation, not much better or worse than Michael’s, and they both left broken hearts in their wake.

“What did you give him?” Cassy pushed off the settee.

“Charmed a scullery maid for a bit of pheasant.”

Charlotte nearly snorted. Charm should be St Giles’s middle name, and the same could be said of Michael.

“Are you attempting to bribe my dog?” Cassy demanded.

“Bribe? What an ugly word.” St. Giles gave her cousin an unrepentant grin. “Simply making a new friend. You can never have too many, after all.” Then he glanced towards Charlotte. “And your secret is safe with me, my dear. None of your brothers will hear of your expedition into gypsy territory from my lips.”

Blast, he had heard and her face heated with embarrassment. “Lord St. Giles,” she greeted him.

The baron stepped further into the sitting room. “I am a firm believer in having a bit of fun every now and then, so I certainly wouldn’t stand in the way of you having yours.”

Perhaps St. Giles had more substance than she’d given him credit for. Just because he was a good friend of Michael’s didn’t mean there wasn’t some worth to him. Besides, she could do far worse in having someone to take her side should her brothers learn of her plans. As he said, you could never have too many friends. She just never thought to consider him as such. “Thank you.”

“You sent for me, Puri daj?” Adam Vail asked his grandmother as he stepped into the gypsy camp.

“It’s going to rain,” she announced. Her back was permanently hunched from age and years of bending over palms and telling fortunes. Her once black hair was more grey and white, though she tried to smooth her frazzled mane back into a knot behind her head.

“You summoned me to tell me it’s going to rain?” She was getting on in years, ancient even, though Adam could only guess at her age. Grandmother had never summoned him for something as trivial as the weather.

“You’ll be needed.”

He glanced around. The brightly painted wagons were pulled into a half circle and the small cottages along the tree line were lit from within, except for one. It belonged to his grandmother. Adam had had it built, but she refused to live in something so permanent. This was where the gypsies, his mother’s family, would spend their winter. It had been this way since his father married Lela Boswell, daughter of the woman who had sent for him.

A large fire burned at the center of the camp, and many of his relatives moved about preparing food and settling in. They’d only arrived a few days earlier, and he was glad they were once again where they belonged. Or at least near where they belonged.

“Exactly how will I be needed?” he asked.

“You shall see.” His grandmother was often cryptic, and many times it irritated him to no end. But Adam still did as she asked.

He glanced to the sky. It had been overcast all day, but not a drop of rain had fallen. He wasn’t about to argue with his grandmother, however. If she said it was going to rain, then it was going to rain and he’d be needed here. He’d long ago stopped questioning her premonitions because she was never wrong. The gift of second sight, his mother had claimed. One he had not inherited.

“What are you working on?” His grandmother sifted through beads, feathers, shells and gems. Selecting some, discarding others, and pushing the ones she approved into a small leather pouch.

“Making a talisman.”

“Why?”

“A young lady will need it to protect her at Castle Keyvnor.” His grandmother sighed. “The vision is not yet clear. I’ll know more when we meet.” She dropped a feather into the putsi.

“Just because Banfield allowed you to live on his land does not mean you can go about handing out talismans to the castle’s guests.” Several of Banfield’s relatives had recently arrived to attend the reading of the late earl’s will. Adam couldn’t remember the last time so many had been at the castle at one time, if ever.

“She will come to me,” his grandmother insisted, not bothering to look at Adam as she continued sifting through charms. “You know we never venture inside the walls, and I don’t like it when you do either.”

Though how a putsi could protect anyone from anything was beyond Adam, yet he was never without his, the one Grandmother and his mother had made upon his birth. Too often she was correct about the unexplained, and at a young age, he learned to trust in her counsel when it often had no meaning and was beyond his understanding. There were simply things in the world, and particularly at Castle Keyvnor and in this corner of Cornwall, that could not be explained away with reason. If his grandmother believed that evil dwelled within the walls, Adam believed her. Not that he’d experienced anything evil on his visits, but the place was certainly haunted.

“Aren’t you concerned that once the will is read you’ll be without a winter home?” The Earl of Banfield was now dead, and Adam knew nothing about the heir.

“There is no reason to worry about things that cannot be changed.” This was often his grandmother’s approach about anything. But in his twenty-seven years, she’d also not had to worry about where her family would spend the winter.

“What if he has you removed?”

She finally glanced up at him, her dark eyes clouded with age. “Dear boy, all things will be as they should be, as it always is.” His grandmother patted his hand.

If things were as they were supposed to be, his gypsy relatives would be living at Hollybrook Park, but his cantankerous grandfather refused to allow them safe harbor. His mother’s people should be on his father’s land, not just on the other side of the border, living off the generosity of a neighbor.

“You have not shaved,” she nodded in approval.

“As is custom.” Adam hadn’t followed all the Gypsy customs upon the death of his older brother, but he’d not taken a razor to his face and would not until after Thomas was placed in the ground. On second thought, he might not shave until next spring, when he returned to London, only to further irritate his grandfather.

“You will wear white!”

“I will wear black,” Adam corrected. There would be mourners at the cemetery, and they might believe he’d lost his mind.

“Red handkerchief and waistcoat,” she proclaimed.

Mourners were to wear white for purity or red for vitality. As there was nothing even remotely pure when it came to Thomas, or Adam for that matter, he’d wear red.

“Your stepmother, sisters, and brother? Have they returned?”

His stepmother had taken her children, four daughters and a son, from Hollybrook Park as soon as Thomas returned home. She feared them becoming infected somehow. That was nearly two years ago and he hadn’t seen them since. “No.”

If something happened to his grandfather, his five younger half-siblings would become his responsibility. Adam’s stomach churned at the very thought, though they apparently were doing well without him or their grandfather.

Grandmother pursed her lips in disapproval and shook her head. “You asked for forgiveness?”

“Yes, Puri daj, as you instructed.” Not that his older brother had been in a state of mind to accept any apologies, and Adam had been hard pressed to find something he was sorry for. It was his brother who should have been seeking compassion, but his mind was already gone.

She nodded. “It is good. You will make a better viscount.”

“I never wanted to be a viscount.” His life was simpler before Thomas became ill. Hopefully his grandfather was too stubborn to die, and Adam wouldn’t have to assume the title, or responsibility to the estate, town and smugglers for many, many years.

“A man like Thomas did not deserve to be viscount.” Her dark eyes looked into Adam’s. “He was one of them.” She practically spit out the word. “You, my dear boy, are one of us. A Rom.”

If anyone else referred to him as a dear boy, Adam would take issue. But, this was his grandmother.

And, he was Rom. It was in his bones. He much preferred the life of a gypsy, though that wasn’t his lot in life. He was destined to be the next Viscount Lynwood.

CHAPTER 2

“C ome along, Martha, we haven’t much time.” Charlotte practically pulled her maid through the castle gates and across the drawbridge.

“Oh, Lady Charlotte, we mustn’t.”

“Yes, we must.” Was there no one in her life who wished for a bit of fun?

“Your father will have my head and then dismiss me without a reference.”

Charlotte rolled her eyes. Martha had been her maid for years. “If he hasn’t sacked you by now, he isn’t going to.” She tugged on the maid’s arm once again. “Now come along.”

“Oh, Lady Charlotte, I have a very bad feeling about this.”

“You’ve had a bad feeling since we arrived.” Normally her maid tried to discourage Charlotte when she put her mind to something others would believe ill-advised, but she’d never been this difficult. Charlotte had a mind to go off and visit the gypsies on her own, but that would never do. A lady simply didn’t walk around the countryside alone.

“Something about that castle isn’t right. Don’t you feel it?”

“All I feel are drafts.” Seriously, one would think the castle was actually filled to the brim with ghosts after all the talk Charlotte had overheard. What utter nonsense.

“But there was a shadow shifting about in your chamber while I was unpacking your things.”

“Shadows tend to do that with the movement of the sun.”

“Oh, no, Lady Charlotte. Not a slow movement, but flitting about.”

“Flitting about?” Charlotte nearly laughed. She had a ghost, or a shadow, that flitted about her room? She must certainly pay closer attention when she returned to her chambers this evening, as it would be quite a sight to see.

At the end of the gravel drive, Charlotte stopped and glanced down the road one way and then the other. The gypsies lived on Banfield land just east of the road and right before arrival at Hollybrook Park. In the opposite direction lay Bocka Morrow.

“Miss Charlotte,” Martha cried. “Can’t this wait until tomorrow?”

“We must do today what we can for tomorrow is not a promise.”

“Have you looked at the sky? It’s going to rain any moment.”

“The sky has looked like this all day long,” Charlotte argued and hurried down the road. “It hasn’t rained yet, and I doubt that it will.”

“It wasn’t this dark before,” Martha whined but hurried to follow Charlotte.

They didn’t need to travel far because only a short bit down the road, past a curve, and right after a copse of trees, their leaves of red, gold, and orange canopying the road, Charlotte found the gypsies. They were camped in a clearing with the forest as their backdrop, the wagons bright despite the dreariness of the day. Her heart pounded with excitement, and her pulse raced.

She’d done it. She’d finally escaped her protective brothers and oppressive parents and was about to embark on an adventure.

A dark carriage was parked along the road, and all Charlotte could assume was that she wasn’t the only one out and about seeking to have their fortune told. “Come along, Martha. This is going to be grand. Grand indeed.”

“If you say so, Lady Charlotte,” Martha answered with all the enthusiasm one could muster for having a tooth pulled. Not that Charlotte didn’t possess all of her teeth, but she suspected that it was quite dreadful to have one yanked from one’s mouth. However, Martha would soon learn, nothing dreadful would happen to them today.

She will come to me. His grandmother’s voice echoed in Adam’s head. He wasn’t exactly sure who or what to expect, but certainly not the vision hurrying across the open field. Blonde curls tumbled about her shoulders, and he suspected they were once arranged neatly, but the weight of her tresses had been pulled free of the pins. He could not tell the color of her eyes from this distance, but her rounded cheeks were rosy from her walk, and her full, red lips smiled as if she couldn’t be happier with her circumstances.

The pale green gown hugged her figure as a second skin from the wind pressing against her, and Adam’s mouth went dry. She was not a slight miss—at least, he dearly prayed she was a miss. Full breasts and rounded hips. Perfectly pleasingly plump. A womanly form that Adam wouldn’t mind losing himself in.

Behind the young woman followed a maid in a drab grey gown, an even drabber dark hat, and a frown that was in complete contrast to the young woman’s bright smile.

Their blonde-headed guest was the sun they’d been lacking all day, and he was ready to bask in her warmth.

In that moment, something shifted inside him. Where there’d been darkness, now there was light. A weight lifted that he’d not known he was carrying. Never had he experienced the like.

After leaning the axe against the wooden stump where he’d left his coat, waistcoat, and cravat, Adam approached as she reached the camp.

She stopped, her head tilted back, and her warm hazel eyes met his. Her smile shifted to form an “O”.

“Might I help you?”

“Yes, well you see…”

“You’ve come for your fortune,” Adam provided an answer to her apparent loss for words.

“Yes, I have, if it is possible.”

“Of course.” He smiled down at her, wishing he possessed the gift of fortunes or that he could turn hers to match his. “My Puri daj awaits.”

“Puri daj?”

“Grandmother,” he answered and offered his arm.

Adam didn’t even know her name, but this captivating creature would be his. There was no rhyme or reason for the intensity of his draw to her, but if he had learned nothing from his grandmother, he knew not to question such feelings and to trust premonitions.

CHAPTER 3

Goodness! She’d practically forgotten her purpose in the presence of such a beautiful man. Perhaps beautiful wasn’t the best description but that is what he was to her from his tousled, thick black hair that brushed his neck, to his icy, intense blue eyes, and the short, dark beard along his jawline. He’d been chopping wood as Charlotte and Martha neared the camp, his brown trousers hugging his hips, and the light linen shirt open nearly to his chest, revealing a patch of dark hair. He was nothing like the gentlemen in London. Or, at least none she’d seen in the two years since she’d begun attending the season. It would be a shame to see him dressed in the attire required of a gentleman. So much would be hidden from her appreciative eye.

He offered his arm, and though she didn’t expect such a courtesy from a gypsy, Charlotte happily placed her hand in the crook of his arm. Her fingers nearly ignited in heat and tingling from the touch of this man. Her pulse hitched, and she suddenly struggled to draw a deep breath.

Goodness!

While Charlotte tried to gather her thoughts and composure, the beautiful Gypsy led her to the back of a red, enclosed wagon that looked no different from any other gypsy wagon she’d seen, except perhaps brighter, happier, and Charlotte wondered if in this one moment her life hadn’t just been altered. Something certainly shifted inside her the moment she looked into his clear, blue eyes.

“My grandmother is expecting you.”

She blinked up at him. “How?”

“Second sight,” he grinned, revealing straight white teeth.

Charlotte blinked at him and in that moment, reality crashed into her. Second sight indeed! Of course he’d say such a thing. They were gypsies—a mysterious lot. They excelled at roping the public in with their music and dancing and fortune telling, and this was the first time she’d ever been allowed near one.

Well, she wasn’t exactly allowed as she hadn’t asked and had she, the answer would have been no.

“Go on in. She’s waiting.”

Charlotte took a deep breath, loathe to take her hand from his arm, climbed the two wooden steps, and entered through the draped curtain. The space was roomier than she’d anticipated, and an older woman, her face weathered and lined with age, sat at a small round table covered in a red cloth.

The woman sucked in a breath when her dark eyes met Charlotte’s. Alarm alighted her ancient face.

Why such an expression, unless it was all part of the entertainment?

“Please, child, sit.”

Child? She’d not been a child in many years, but Charlotte slid onto the wooden stool as requested.

The old gypsy took Charlotte’s hand, encasing it between her gnarled fingers. She’d expected the woman to look at her palm. Instead, those dark eyes were focused on Charlotte’s, as if searching, looking deep into her soul. It was all rather disconcerting, but in hindsight, she should have expected this. Gypsies weren’t shrouded in mystery by accident.

“You’ve no questions in which you seek answers!” It was more of a statement than a question.

Charlotte blinked at her. “No.”

“Why are you here?” The speech crackled, that of a very old woman.

“To know my future.”

“I could tell you the truth or a lie, either way, you would not believe me.”

Charlotte gasped. How could the gypsy know she was skeptical of all this business of fortunes and such?

“I see many like you. Girls wanting to know their fortune, who they will marry, whether they will be happy.”

It would be nice to know those things, but nobody knew the future. This was a lark, an adventure, not that Charlotte would confess such thoughts.

“I tolerate them.” The old woman frowned. “You, I will not.”

Charlotte straightened and attempted to pull her hand away, but the gypsy held tight, surprising Charlotte at her strength.

“It is for your own good that I tell you what I do.” The gypsy implored. “My gift is not something I can keep to myself.”

A chill ran down her spine though the heat from the candlelit wagon pressed in on her.

“You do not believe in anything you cannot see.”

Charlotte’s mouth popped open in shock.

“Open your mind, not just your eyes,” the gypsy ordered. “Danger surrounds you at Castle Keyvnor. There is evil within.”

Thank goodness Charlotte hadn’t talked Cassy into accompanying her. Her cousin would have been running home by now, and not to the castle but to Widcombe Hall in Somerset.

“Some of the ghosts are harmless, others are not. You are in particular danger.”

“Why me and not others?” Charlotte couldn’t believe she was even asking such a question. All of this talk of ghosts was quite ridiculous.

“You are her?”

“I am who?”

“Lady Helena.”

“I do not know a Lady Helena. I am Lady Charlotte.”

“Of course you don’t know her. She was murdered in her bed nearly two hundred years ago on the eve of her wedding.”

Charlotte leaned forward. “Murdered?” she whispered.

“By Lord Tyrell. A baron who was thought to be in love with Lady Helena. To keep her betrothed from claiming her, Lord Tyrell visited her chambers, strangled her to death, and then threw himself from one of the turrets.”

It was a fanciful tale, one Charlotte would certainly research once she returned to the castle. “And they both haunt the castle?” Was she even asking such a question?

“Only the baron. Lady Helena was pure of heart, soul, and body. Hiss soul is blackened by his deeds and is still seeking Lady Helena, believing that in death they’ll be together.”

“I am not Lady Helena, so he’ll want nothing to do with me,” she insisted.

“You are of her blood. You are her image. Take care, Lady Charlotte.” The old woman leaned forward. “It’s happened before. Others who’ve look liked you have visited Castle Keyvnor and met with death.”

As much as Charlotte knew this was stuff and nonsense, she could not stop the cloak of unease as it settled around her. “Others?”

“The portraits are on the walls, their histories to be told.” The Gypsy let go of her hand and drew a small leather pouch to the center of the table. Her hands shook as she tried to loosen the opening, and Charlotte was about to help when the string gave way. The woman proceeded to empty the contents onto the table. “These will never do,” she muttered to herself. “I must make it stronger.”

“Why?”

“Your protection, child. Have you not been listening to me?”

Adam waited with Lady Charlotte’s maid outside of his grandmother’s wagon, curious as to the fortune she would impart, and was surprised when Grandmother offered none.

Who was Lady Helena? He’d heard many tales of Castle Keyvnor, and it did have a very dark past, but this story was unfamiliar.

“An agate to protect you from harmful spirits,” his grandmother rasped. “The black onyx to prevent your spirit from being drained from your body.”

Lady Charlotte gasped.

“A ghost can do such a thing?” the frightened maid asked in a whisper.

“Yes.” Adam hadn’t witnessed such an occurrence, but he trusted in the possibility.

“An emerald,” his grandmother added.

Adam straightened and frowned. An emerald was for love, romance, and passion. What was his grandmother about? Didn’t she want to keep Lord Tyrell away from Lady Charlotte?

“It’s beautiful,” Lady Charlotte exclaimed before she gasped. “What stone is this? I’ve never seen anything like it. It changes from blue to green depending on how you hold it.”

“Labradorite,” his grandmother answered. “The stone of transformation and magic.”

The maid’s eyes grew rounder as each stone was discussed, and Adam was hard pressed not to laugh at the poor girl.

“For protection and to give you the clarity you desire.”

“Clarity I desire?”

“Questions you have yet to ask. Dreams and hopes you’ve yet to have,” his grandmother answered.

His grandmother was in her element today. He’d heard several readings and witnessed a number of talismans being made, but never had he heard her sound so very grave and serious, almost frightening.

“Black Tourmaline to protect you from evil spirits, and finally a bit of silver.”

“Why silver?” Lady Charlotte asked after a moment when his grandmother offered nothing further.

“On second thought. No silver.”

“Why?” Lady Charlotte’s voice rose with interest. She didn’t sound the least bit frightened, whereas her maid was nearly so pale she could pass for one of the ghosts inhabiting the castle.

“It mirrors the soul and can strengthen the connection between the physical and the spiritual. I fear Tyrell could use this to his advantage.”

“We mustn’t have that,” the maid whispered as she drew her cloak tightly around her shoulders.

Adam peeked into the back of the wagon and watched as his grandmother dropped the last of the gems into the small leather satchel. There was a small fortune in that putsi. His grandmother then placed the pouch into Lady Charlotte’s hands and closed them before covering them with her own.

“You shall be surrounded by a shield of protection. That which you don’t want in cannot enter.” She then took her hands away. “You shall wear this around your neck, against your heart while at Castle Keyvnor.”

“I cannot wear this around my neck,” Lady Charlotte exclaimed.

He might not have been in society for the past few years, but Adam assumed not much had changed and a leather strap around ones neck from which a small pouch was attached was far from fashionable and impossible to hide.

“Then keep it in a pocket, anywhere in your clothing,” his grandmother answered with irritation. “But it must be with you always.”

The one thing Adam learned long ago was never to argue with his grandmother’s instructions.

“This is most important. The putsi must be around your neck when you sleep at night. If it’s not worn, you risk grave danger to not only your body but your soul.”

The maid gasped and met Adam’s eyes. “I’ll make sure she has it at all times and sleeps with it. I swear on my mother’s grave.”

“What of my fortune?” Lady Charlotte asked.

“That, I will tell you in a sennight, if you still live.”

His grandmother had gone beyond her normal readings. Far beyond, and Adam was used to seeing her give her audience what they’d come for. But she’d never sent someone away without giving them what they asked. What had her second sight revealed?

Thunder rumbled overhead in answer to his thoughts. A chill snaked down his spine just as the first drops of rain began to fall.

CHAPTER 4

C harlotte jumped at the boom of thunder, then laughed at herself. It had been years since someone had been able to scare her with a spooky story, and the old Gypsy woman had certainly given her more than she’d hoped. Evil spirits and protection spells. It was nearly laughable, not that she’d laugh in front of the old woman of course. That would simply be rude.

“Adam,” the woman barked and she pulled two umbrellas from beneath the table. “Return them to Castle Keyvnor in your carriage.”

“Of course, Grandmother.”

Adam? His name was Adam? And he owned a carriage? Was it the one she’d spotted by the road?

Before Charlotte could ponder the thought further, Adam - the beautiful man - reached inside, taking the umbrellas, and handed one to Martha, before opening the second one. “Lady Charlotte, if you will accompany me, I will see you safely back.”

One really shouldn’t ride in closed conveyances with handsome strangers. However, Charlotte certainly didn’t wish to walk all the way back to the castle in this downpour. And Martha was with her, so she’d be appropriately chaperoned. Unfortunately.

No, fortunately.

What the devil was she thinking? He was a stranger. A Gypsy! But, oh so very handsome, and being near him warmed Charlotte from her ears to her toes.

Charlotte rose from the table and moved toward the opening.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Adam nodded to the table.

She scooped up the pouch and glanced at the old woman. “The cost?”

“Your payment will come when you return to me.”

Apprehension settled as her chest and throat tightened. The old gypsy shouldn’t scare her, but she did. She was far more frightening than anything at Castle Keyvnor.

Beautiful Adam assisted her from the wagon then offered his arm as he held the open umbrella above them both. The instant her fingers settled upon his sleeve, calming relief swept through her.

There was no explanation of her fear or the relief, but Charlotte assumed there was one. It could be as simple as the weather. Heaven knows that when a storm brewed, there was often tension and energy in the very air. She simply hadn’t noticed because she’d been so focused on her quest to visit the Gypsies and have her fortune told.

As they neared the carriage she’d seen earlier, a young man, dressed in dark blue livery, stepped outside at their approach and held the door for Charlotte, Martha, and then Adam. How very odd. She might be able to reason away a Gypsy having a carriage but certainly not a servant. Charlotte eyed this Adam with suspicion as the conveyance jolted forward.

“My grandmother, on my mother’s side.” He nodded toward the Gypsy camp. “Her family.” He answered with a smile.

“Your father’s?” This was a finely sprung carriage, so he couldn’t be all Gypsy, could he?

“My grandfather is Viscount Lynwood of Hollybrook Park.” He turned, took her hand, and placed a kiss on the back, nearly burning her skin. “Adam Vail, at your service.”

A Gypsy and the grandson of a viscount? How very odd, intriguing, and exciting all rolled into one beautiful man.

Lady Charlotte was a striking miss with hazel eyes full of joy and curiosity. “My grandmother will expect you to return in a sennight.”

“Oh, I will.” She smiled brightly. “I’m still waiting for my fortune.”

“Which you’ll not believe?” he asked as her maid muttered, “If you’re still alive.”

“Oh, hush, Martha. We’ve nothing to fear.”

Usually his grandmother struck fear into people when she put her mind to it. Lady Charlotte should be trembling in her kid boots, but she appeared unfazed by the entire interaction. “You aren’t concerned about Lord Tyrell?”

“The ghost?” she asked with a laugh.

“Yes, the ghost,” Adam answered slowly. “It’s not something to make light of.”

“I do not believe in ghosts, Mr. Vail.”

Then she couldn’t have been at the castle long, or spent any time within the walls, because one couldn’t move about for any period of time without encountering something, whether it was a cold breeze where there shouldn’t be, or the troubadour Adam often glimpsed. “When did you arrive?”

“This morning.”

“And you’ve not experienced anything otherworldly?”

“Oh, do go on, Mr. Vail. You’ll not frighten me.”

She may not be frightened, but Adam was, for her. “Do not take my grandmother’s warnings lightly.”

Her hazel eyes widened, sparkled with humor, but at least she didn’t laugh at him again. “Don’t tell me you believe all that nonsense about ghosts, witches, fairies, and the like.”

“Do you only believe what you can see?” he countered.

“Of course. There is always a reasonable explanation for everything that may not be of a common occurrence, even if it isn’t obvious at first.”

This time he tried not to laugh at her naïveté.

“Such as these cool breezes. My cousin and Martha fear they are ghosts when we all know that the castle is simply old and has odd drafts.”

He studied Lady Charlotte, from her bright smile to her, rosy apple blossom cheeks and sparkling eyes and decided to challenge her. “Do you believe in God?”

Her smile slipped as her golden eyebrows drew together. “Of course.”

“Have you seen him?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Miss Charlotte crossed her hands together on her lap as her spine straightened.

“Yet, you don’t believe in ghosts?”

The carriage rolled to a stop, and Adam glanced out the window, disappointed that they’d arrived back at the castle.

“I shall think on a reasonable explanation as I am sure there is one,” Lady Charlotte assured him as his driver opened the carriage door.

“In the meantime, keep the talisman with you, at all times,” he warned.

“I’ll see that she does,” Martha answered while Lady Charlotte nearly rolled her eyes.

Adam reached out and grasped her hand. “For me, if not for you.”

“You?” she frowned.

“I would hate to lose you to Lord Tyrell before I’ve had a chance to know you better.”

A deep rose hue invaded her cheeks. “I’m not worried about the ghost of Lord Tyrell.”

“Then a bargain.”

Lady Charlotte hitched a brow and waited.

“You will keep the talisman with you at all times until you have a reasonable explanation as to why you believe in God, whom you can’t see, and not ghosts, which you will most likely see the longer you are a guest at Castle Keyvnor.”

The sparkle returned to her eyes as Lady Charlotte smiled. “Very well. I will keep it with me, even sleep with it, though I’m certain my answer will arrive before I retire this evening.”

“Then I shall call on you the day after tomorrow to inquire.”

Lady Charlotte tilted her head. “Why not tomorrow?”

“I bury my brother tomorrow.”

All humor disappeared from her expression, and those brilliant eyes filled with compassion. “I am so sorry, Mr. Vail. Please accept my condolences.”

Adam mustered a smile. “Thank you, though it is a blessing after he’d suffered for so long.”

Lady Charlotte said nothing further but squeezed his hand as if to convey words that wouldn’t come to her.

“I shall see you in two days for your reasonable explanation.” He didn’t want to think of death or funerals or illness. What he wanted was to follow her into Castle Keyvnor and remain there to protect her.

“In two days,” she acknowledged then stepped out of the carriage, followed by her maid.

They were going to be the longest two days of his life.

CHAPTER 5

C harlotte paused at the top of the stairs and glanced around. Still no ghosts. Not even flitting shadows in her room when she retired. No cold breezes during dinner last evening. No flickering candles or lamps while they took tea following dinner. In fact, the only disturbance since she returned from the Gypsy camp was a scream in the middle of the night. That could have been anyone, and probably someone frightened of their own shadow after hearing so many horrid tales about this place.

Further, there was certainly no ghost of Lord Tyrell.

She fully expected not to experience anything between now and tomorrow, and when Adam called on her, she’d gladly report her findings. “Poor Mr. Vail,” she muttered out loud. He was burying his brother today, and as much as Anthony and Michael may irritate her to no end, she couldn’t imagine losing either one. Not even Harry, whom she had spent the least bit of time with, nor William, her sixteen-year-old bothersome brother.

Even if Adam did believe that it was a blessing, it still would not be easy to say goodbye to a sibling. Hopefully, the family would find peace knowing the deceased was now in heaven.

Blast! She still hadn’t come up with a reasonable explanation of why she didn’t believe in ghosts but did in God. Faith was the obvious answer, but it was just about as easy to grasp as air and only supported Adam’s argument, not hers.

She did have another day to think this through; surely something would come to her by then.

Charlotte took a step forward, ready to descend the stairs to breakfast when something jerked her back by pulling at her hair. Her foot skipped down two steps before she was able to catch herself by grasping the banister. Once she found her balance again, Charlotte whipped around to chastise whoever had grabbed her, but nobody was there.

The hair stood up on the back of her neck, and she went back up the stairs and looked both directions down the corridor. Someone had intentionally tried to grab her, and when she learned who it was, she would give them a firm talking to. No doubt it was probably her troublesome cousin, Toby. Playing a prank was one thing, but doing something that could cause serious harm was quite another, and she’d take him to task after she breakfasted.

After taking a deep breath, Charlotte grasped the banister again, keeping close to it, and began to descend the steps once more. It wasn’t that she was afraid of being grabbed, of course. It was simply because her legs were a bit wobbly after her near fall, and she didn’t wish to stumble again.

“Lady Charlotte,” Martha called when she was halfway to the landing. “You forgot this.”

She turned to find Martha rushing after her, dangling the talisman from her fingers.

“I don’t have a pocket to keep it in so I left it on the dresser.”

“You promised Mr. Vail that you’d have it with you at all times.”

Charlotte blew out a breath. “Well, I didn’t appreciate how impractical that would be.”

“You must wear it, Lady Charlotte. I heard that gypsy, and I’ll not leave your side until you put it on.”

She couldn’t wear that thing now. Her neckline was scooped and there’d be no way to hide the leather strings around her neck, and she had no pockets. But, she had promised Adam, and she did not make promises lightly. Charlotte glanced down and smiled as she grabbed the small pouch from Martha and wrapped the strings around it before shoving it down between her breasts, lodging it against the corselet so it couldn’t slip out.

Martha’s eyes went wide with shock. “Lady Charlotte!”

“Oh posh, it isn’t like anyone will ever know it’s there.”

Adam and Thomas once had an abundance of friends. But, that had been two years ago, before his brother became too ill to remain in London. Adam had brought him home and had never left. Not that he hadn’t wanted to leave Hollybrook Park, but his grandfather filled his days with knowledge of management of the estate, his duties to the viscountcy, the people of Bocka Morrow, and frankly, Adam wanted to spend what time he could with Thomas. At least, that was how it’d been before his brother’s mind disappeared. Then he had to remain to see that Thomas was properly taken care of and locked up and tied to the bed when he raged so nobody was injured. The night after his brother passed had been the first full night’s sleep Adam had gotten in well over a year.

He’d expected servants and a few neighbors to attend the services, but Adam had not expected to see Redgrave, Lord Michael, St. Giles, or Chadwick Kendall walk into the church. He knew Redgrave and Lord Michael’s family had been summoned to Castle Keyvnor for the reading of the will, and he had sent a note to Redgrave, but it was still a surprise to see them. Chadwick had said he’d attend when they spoke outside of the castle yesterday, but Adam had assumed he was being polite.

At the final prayer outside the family crypt, Adam turned to his friends. “Brandy?”

They nodded and the four of them made their way back to the manor without speaking a word. They were probably waiting for Adam to say something, but he was numb. Or perhaps, simply tired. There were no words. They could offer the proper condolences and he’d thank them, but what he really wanted was a brandy with his friends.

Upon reaching the library, Adam dismissed the servant and closed the door before pouring and passing glasses to each gentleman. “To my brother, who loved women, perhaps a bit too much.”

Thomas visited his first prostitute at the age of fourteen after discovering an edition of Harris’s List of Covent Garden Ladies. By the time he was eighteen, he’d thought to revive the publication and went about researching each and every fallen dove he found. Said research lead to his brother’s untimely demise.

“To Thomas,” they echoed.

Adam found a chair and sat, then rotated his head to relieve the tension in his neck.

“How are you holding up?” Redgrave asked with concern.

“Better, now that it’s over.”

The four gentlemen shared a concerned look, and Adam couldn’t really blame them. Even to his ears it sounded rather cold when he was simply tired. “Thomas was ill for over two years, it was time.”

Lord Michael and St. Giles nodded and settled onto the settee while Redgrave sat in another matching chair and Kendall leaned against the mantle above the fireplace.

Adam drained his glass of brandy, welcoming the warmth in this stomach and then rose to refill his glass.

“You never mentioned what Thomas suffered from,” Redgrave finally said.

Adam practically snorted when he returned to his chair. The only person in this room he’d kept up a correspondence with was Redgrave, but even he didn’t know the full truth behind Thomas’ illness. “Ah, that was because Grandfather would not have anyone know. Fear of gossips wagging their tongues and all of that rot.” He took a deep drink before answering. “My dear fellows, Thomas died of the pox.”

Their eyes widened for a moment as Lord Michael and St. Giles crossed their legs as if to prevent the same from happening to them.

St. Giles cleared his throat. “Usually that disease doesn’t kill so young.”

“True.” Adam took another drink. “But, add an addiction to the poppy and a deep appreciation for brandy, and one’s fate is sealed.” Adam shook his head and took another drink. “I didn’t realize how bad it was until Thomas was returned home. The restlessness, anxiety, he wasn’t sleeping, stomach cramps, and nausea. I wanted him to break the addiction, but Grandfather couldn’t stand to see him in so much pain.”

“What did he do?” Lord Michael asked.

“Provided an endless supply of laudanum,” Adam answered dryly. “I’m still not certain if it was one thing that brought about the end, or the combination, but at least my brother is now at peace.” He sat up and set his empty brandy glass aside. As much as he wished to get drunk, he would not. Though a bit of brandy and a rare hangover wouldn’t bring about his end, Adam had no desire to start down the path his brother had taken. “Enough of that. You are all here for the reading of the will?”

“They are, I am not,” St. Giles corrected.

Where Michael was, St. Giles was usually close, so Adam was not surprised.

St Giles leaned forward in his seat, staring quite pointedly at Adam. “Have you got a scar or something you’re trying to hide under that beard? Barely recognized you.”

Adam shook his head, but before he could reply, Lord Michael chimed in, “Though you do stand out in the red. Since when did that become fashionable funeral wear?”

Adam couldn’t help but chuckle. “Gypsy custom, my friends.” And as the words left his lips, the captivating image of Lady Charlotte flashed in his mind, with her apple blossom cheeks, delightful hazel eyes, and ample breasts, and the pieces began to fall into place. Redgrave and Lord Michael had a younger sister, Charlotte, whom he’d never met. Or, perhaps he had. “I believe I met your sister yesterday,” he said to Redgrave.

Redgrave frowned. “I don’t believe that’s possible. She’s been at the castle.”

“I’m sure he’s mistaken,” St. Giles rushed to assure them, as if alarmed by the prospect

“Blonde hair?” Redgrave asked. “Hazel eyes?”

Adam looked from the angry Redgrave, to an irritated Lord Michael and finally, the worried St. Giles before he answered slowly. “Yes. My grandmother gave Lady Charlotte a talisman to protect her during her stay at Castle Keyvnor.”

“Talisman?” Redgrave growled. “It won’t protect her from me. I’ll throttle her!”

“Or, at least blister her backside. She’s not too old for that, I believe,” suggested Lord Michael.

Adam couldn’t understand their concern. Lady Charlotte had come with a maid, the Gypsies were on Banfield land. He’d never been secretive about his mother being Rom. Were his friends prejudiced against them, like so many others in England, but he was an exception because of who his father was? Why hadn’t he realized that before now? “I’m surprised my grandmother didn’t foresee the need to add a charm to protect Lady Charlotte from the two of you.”

“You don’t understand. Charlotte needs to be protected,” Redgrave began.

“We know the manner of gentlemen out there and don’t wish for her to be taken advantage of, or worse,” added Lord Michael. “She’s too trusting by half and a bit too adventurous, which is why she is not supposed to go anywhere without one of us or one of our parents.”

She had gotten into his carriage without a proper introduction, not that he’d given it much thought at the time. “Her trip to my grandmother was harmless, and I did see her home. All is well with Lady Charlotte and will remain so.”

Redgrave turned to his younger brother. “I thought here of all places we wouldn’t need to keep an eye on her,” he complained.

“Apparently not,” agreed Lord Michael, “But we will from now on.”

CHAPTER 6

C harlotte breathed a sigh of relief when Martha advised her that Mr. Adam Vail had come to call. Finally, she’d be able to leave her room. Not that anyone had locked her up in here, of course, but when Anthony and Michael returned yesterday, practically bellowing her name and demanding to know why she’d gone to visit Gypsies, she’d ducked into her room and hid under the covers, claiming an illness from being caught in the storm the day before.

They’d come to check on her a few times but finally left her in peace after supper. Hopefully they were calmer and more reasonable now because she was not about to miss a visit with Adam.

As she’d done the day before, Charlotte shoved the pouch between her breasts and reevaluated the prospect of having proper pockets sewn into her dresses. Certainly they couldn’t be so difficult to add because it was ridiculous that she had no means to carry anything about with her.

She found Adam standing by one of the leaded windows, staring out to the drive. Her heartbeat picked up its pace, and her palms broke out in a sweat. Goodness, she’d never been so thrilled to see anyone in her life. It was a shame he was dressed as all the other gentleman now and not as she’d first seen him in just a shirt, open at the neck, and tight-fitting trousers.

As if sensing her presence, Adam turned, a slow smile forming on his lips, his blue eyes capturing hers, darkening with each step he took in her direction.

“So glad to see you’ve recovered, dear sister.”

Charlotte nearly jumped at Anthony’s voice from behind her.

“Harry, Michael, and I were very concerned and hoped you hadn’t caught your death during your little…sojourn.” He said that last with a pointed look toward Adam.

“Where was it you went again?” Michael asked as he followed his brother into the sitting room.

Why did they have to be here now? Why couldn’t they have gone into Bocka Morrow? It seemed as if everyone else was going into town. The only reason Charlotte had remained behind was because she was waiting for Adam to call.

“Oh, yes!” Michael put a finger into the air, as if an idea had just come to him. “To the Gypsy camp, for your fortune, without asking permission or taking a proper chaperone.”

“Martha was with me,” Charlotte defended.

“As if your timid mouse of a maid could protect you if someone wished to harm you.” Anthony snorted.

“She is not a mouse!”

“Your sister is in more danger here than with my family,” Adam warned as he drew to her side. At least she had a champion against her brothers.

“How could she possibly be in more danger with her family?” Anthony scoffed.

“She did not tell you of the danger to her here?”

“We didn’t even know she went to your grandmother until yesterday, and she’s avoided us since,” Michael grumbled. “So no, she hasn’t warned us of any danger.”

“There is no danger!” Charlotte insisted, though she hadn’t been able to forget someone grabbing her as she started down the stairs, even if she had reasoned it away as being her unruly cousin, Toby.

Adam took a step back and looked her up and down before he frowned. “Did you dismiss her words to you? Your promise to me?”

“Of course not!” Charlotte insisted.

“Then, where is the putsi? I don’t see it.”

“Putsi?” Anthony asked.

“Talisman, fashioned specifically for Lady Charlotte.” Adam focused back on Charlotte. “Is it in a pocket because it’s not around your neck?”

Charlotte’s face heated.

“Let me see it,” Anthony said, holding out his hand.

“I’m curious too,” added Michael.

“I can’t get it for you right now.” Goodness, this was embarrassing.

“My grandmother warned you…”

“I have it on my person, I assure you.”

“Then hand it over,” Anthony ordered.

Adam took a step back and slowly looked her over from the top of her head to the hem of her skirt and back up, a slow, almost seductive smile coming to his lips as he lingered for but a moment on her breasts.

Blast! He knows exactly where it is. “Excuse me.” Charlotte turned her back to her brothers and Adam, reached inside her bodice and retrieved the putsi.

“Charlotte, how could you?” Anthony raged. Once again she’d disappointed her oppressive, prig of a brother.

“I don’t have any pockets, and I promised.”

“Rather creative if you ask me,” Michael laughed.

“My grandmother did suggest she keep it close to her heart.”

Her face was going to go up in flames any moment now. Even Adam was laughing at her.

“Well, hand it over.”

The moment she dropped the pouch into Anthony’s hand, a gust of wind swept through the room, billowing her skirts and sweeping up the curtains. An instant later, something squeezed her throat and lifted Charlotte from the floor. Nothing was there, but Charlotte grasped at whatever was cutting off her air and kicked out her feet, trying to find purchase. Her brothers and Adam were yelling, but Charlotte couldn’t make out their words over the wind and panic pushing through her brain as she tried desperately to draw a breath. Darkness clouded her vision until there was only a pinpoint of light, and in a moment she knew she’d be dead and nobody was helping her.

Suspended off the floor, choking, clawing at her throat, but nothing was holding Charlotte there. Nothing! It had to be Tyrell, but how could he fight a ghost? Especially one he could not see?

Adam swiped through the air, but all his fist connected with was frigid air, while Michael reached out to grab Charlotte, only to be flung across the room by an unseen force. Anthony stepped forward to assist, and a roar reverberated throughout the room, sending him stumbling back. Adam reached forward to grab whatever it was around her neck, but again, only cold air and nothing to pry from her neck.

The putsi! Without it she would die!

Adam grabbed it from Anthony and shoved it down Charlotte’s bodice where it had been kept before. In a blink, the winds stopped and Charlotte fell to the floor before he could catch her. She lay there, gasping for breath, eyes wide with fear. Adam scooped her up into his arms and carried her to the settee.

“What was that?” she finally asked, her voice raspy, harsh, as if she’d been ill…or strangled.

“That, I believe, was Lord Tyrell.” The only thing keeping Adam from grasping Charlotte to him and carrying her from this place were her two brothers in the room.

Bloody hell, what had just happened? Adam knew his grandmother’s talismans could be powerful, but he’d no idea it was literally keeping Charlotte from being murdered.

Charlotte rubbed her neck, and that’s when he saw the marks. Tyrell may be a ghost, invisible, but eight bruises were forming, four on each side of her neck, each the size of fingertips. The ghost had picked her up from behind.

Redgrave stood staring at them. His face pale, fear in his eyes, and for once, his rigid composure was gone as he focused on the bruises forming on Charlotte’s neck. “Good God, Charlotte.” Then sank down before her, taking her hands in his. “Are you all right?”

She blinked at him, her hazel eyes clouded with confusion and fear. “I…I…think so.”

Lord Michael pulled himself from the floor, his hands shaking as he attempted to straighten his clothing. “Tyrell?” he asked. “Who the bloody hell is Tyrell?”

Redgrave pushed his fingers through his hair. “I’d heard rumors of ghosts, dismissing the possibility, of course.” His eyes met Lord Michael’s, as if they weren’t sure what to make of what just happened.

Adam wasn’t even certain. In his few encounters with spirits, it had never been dangerous—deadly.

“Perhaps you should tell us about this danger to our sister,” The gravity of Redgrave’s voice matched Adam’s emotions perfectly.

Lord Michael requested a tea service, and Adam told them everything his grandmother had said while Charlotte sipped her tea and recovered the best she could.

“We need to find the portrait gallery,” Lord Michael finally said when Adam concluded.

“But first, Charlotte needs a scarf or something around her neck, and for God’s Sake, keep that putsi, or whatever it is, in your bosom and never let it go,” Redgrave insisted.

“I’ll get a scarf,” Lord Michael said as he hurried from the room, and Adam settled onto the settee beside Charlotte, taking her cold, shaking hand in his. “How are you feeling?”

“Frightened.” Her hazel eyes caught his. “There really are ghosts.” She said it with such amazement, and despite the circumstances, a smile pulled at his lips.

“Yes, well, I suppose you have the proof you required, but did you have an explanation for my earlier question?”

“What question was that?” Redgrave demanded.

Really, the man had been one of his closest friends since Eton, and even though they hadn’t seen each other in a few years, that didn’t mean he needed to be so protective of Charlotte around him. He’d never harm a hair on her head.

“Mr. Vail wished to know how I could believe in God when I didn’t believe in ghosts, and what I thought was nonsense, until today.”

“Did you have an answer?” Adam asked.

“Simply faith, which you could easily argue with.”

“Sometimes faith is all we need to believe something is real.” She was shivering. Was it a chill or fear? “You are as cold as ice,” he said as he put an arm across her shoulders and drew her near.

Redgrave narrowed his eyes on Adam but made no objection.

“Oh dear, I feared this would happen.”

Adam looked up to find Mrs. Bray, the housekeeper, standing at the entrance to the room. Beside her was Lord Michael, holding a flimsy piece of material that Charlotte took and wrapped around her neck to hide the bruising.

“What would happen?” Charlotte asked, her voice still no more than a croak.

“Baron Tyrell,” Mrs. Bray answered.

“How did you know?” Adam demanded.

“The moment I laid eyes on Lady Charlotte, I knew it was only a matter of time.”

“Why didn’t you say something?” Redgrave demanded.

“As if anyone’d believe me,” Mrs. Bray scoffed. “All of them descending on this castle, some frightened, others unbelieving, and still others, simply making fun. It’s not right, and I’ll be glad with the will has been read.”

“We believe you now. Tell us of Lady Helena and the others,” Redgrave insisted.

CHAPTER 7

C harlotte’s legs were weak, and her body still shivered uncontrollably, but she was so thankful to have Adam at her side, his arm at her waist, as they climbed the stairs to the portrait gallery. Without him, she might not have the strength to move. And, even though two of her older brothers were with them, it was Adam who made her feel safe and protected.

The ghost of Baron Tyrell had tried to kill her. As impossible as it may seem, it was the only explanation. Her life could have been over if not for…she wasn’t even certain what had occurred. One moment she couldn’t breathe and her neck felt as if it was being crushed, and in the next, she was falling to the ground and Adam was beside her. He’d been caring for her since, and she didn’t want to let him go. He wouldn’t let anything happen to her again. Of that, she was certain and didn’t need any proof to make it so.

“Here we are,” Mrs. Bray announced as she reached the long gallery at the top of the stairs.

They followed her to the opposite end where she stopped before the portrait of a young, blonde woman. She, her brothers, and Adam all sucked in their breaths at the same time. “Lady Helena?” she asked. The woman in the portrait looked exactly like Charlotte, though this one dated back decades, and she wore an Elizabethan gown with a high, ruffled collar.

Mrs. Bray nodded. “I assume you know she was strangled on the eve of her wedding by Baron Tyrell.” With that, she turned and walked further down the gallery, stopping at another portrait. “Lady Eleanor.”

She, like Lady Helena, was the very image of Charlotte. The only difference being Lady Eleanor wore an ice blue gown, squared across the bosom, worn off the shoulder, with full sleeves, as was fashionable in the mid-1600s. “She was a cousin, twice removed, and married to one of Hambly’s sons. When he went to his wife’s chamber, the night they’d wed, he found her strangled in her bed.”

Charlotte grasped her neck as a chill went down her spine, knowing very well the terror the young bride must have experienced.

Mrs. Bray then continued on to a third portrait, and Charlotte was almost afraid to look. “Lady Alice.”

Charlotte took a deep breath and then opened her eyes. Again, it was the very likeness of her and the others, except she wore the large paniers that were so popular during the reign of Marie Antoinette.

“A Hambly niece, come to live in the castle when she was orphaned. Only sixteen and didn’t last a week.” Mrs. Bray shook her head sadly and turned. “Now, you are here.”

“Not for long,” Redgrave announced. “Have Martha pack your trunks, Charlotte, we are returning home.”

No, Adam wanted to shout. He couldn’t explain it, but Adam was convinced that Charlotte was in danger, not only in the castle, but away from him. If she returned to her home, he’d not be able to protect her there, not that she should need his protection away from Keyvnor, but his gut warned him not to let her go, no matter what.

“What are you going to tell our parents?” Lord Michael demanded. “They won’t believe the truth.”

“She’ll stay with me,” Adam blurted out as his hand tightened at her waist.

Redgrave and Lord Michael whipped their heads around. Redgrave’s eyes widened, and Lord Michael’s mouth dropped open. Their expressions were a mixture of surprise and suspicion. They’d known him since Eton and never questioned his honor before. Was it because he’d come to call on their sister, or because he was part Gypsy, or both?

“I’m not letting my little sister go off with you,” Lord Michael argued.

“Yes, you will, because I’m going as well,” Redgrave interrupted, then focused on Charlotte. “Pack enough for tonight and tomorrow. The rest can be sent,” Redgrave ordered. “Charlotte, we will not spend another night here, and you will keep that talisman exactly where it is until we are free of this place.”

The decision should make him easier about Charlotte’s safety, but Adam’s gut warned that this was not over. Maybe once they left the castle his unease would disappear, but Adam doubted it.

“I’ll escort you to your chamber.” Lord Michael pulled Charlotte from Adam before lifting an eyebrow in warning. It was all Adam could do to keep from grabbing her back to him.

When had Charlotte become so important to him? And why did he feel it was up to him to see to her safety and not her brothers? They barely knew one another. They’d shared a carriage and he’d called on her today, but it wasn’t as if they’d been acquainted for years or he was courting her. Yet, Adam could not let go of the feeling that Charlotte belonged to him and that he was meant to protect her.

Adam followed Lord Michael and Charlotte through the dark, haunted corridors of Castle Keyvnor. He’d never been above stairs because there’d been no cause.

The castle was huge, curved, going on and on, with places where you needed to go down before you could go up again. All throughout were sections from icy cold to warm and comforting. Charlotte shivered each time they stepped in frigid air but made no comment. Adam knew exactly what those spots were, but said nothing. She and Redgrave were already worried about one ghost, they didn’t need to be concerned about the half dozen harmless ones they’d just encountered on the way to her chambers.

Finally, they stopped and Lord Michael opened the door for Charlotte, gave instructions to her maid, and then stepped back out, closing the door.

Should he stand here and wait too? Return to the sitting room, if he could find it now, or return to Hollybrook Park to alert his grandfather that they were to have guests? But, even as he considered the possibilities, Adam knew he was not leaving her chambers unguarded no matter what. What if she needed him?

Lord Michael crossed his arms across his chest and studied Adam.

“You put your hand inside my sister’s bodice.”

Bloody hell! Of all people to chastise him he had not expected it to come from a rake like Lord Michael, who’d probably had his hands in more bodices in one year than Adam had in his life. “I needed to put the putsi back or she would have died.”

He nodded. “I know your reasoning, but I still take issue.”

“You’d rather I let her die for propriety’s sake? You and your brother weren’t doing anything but yelling.”

“Had Charlotte told us about her visit to your grandmother and the warnings, perhaps we would have been better prepared and had an idea of what to expect.”

Adam had heard the dire warnings, and was familiar with the castle and the hauntings, but not even he was prepared when Charlotte was suspended in the air by invisible hands around her neck.

Lord Michael shook his head. “I knew this place was haunted, but I suspected the ghosts to be harmless, why else would families continue to live here?”

“Lord Tyrell is far from harmless.”

“Yes.” Lord Michael narrowed his eyes again. “When did you and my sister become so close?”

Adam resisted the urge to pull at his cravat. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“You came to call on her, and ever since that damned ghost nearly killed her, you’ve held her hand, had a hand at her waist, and kept her rather close.” Lord Michael took a step closer. “Exactly what are your intentions?”

Bloody hell. He barely knew her. He wanted to know Charlotte. He wanted to know everything, but it was far too soon to be discussing intentions.

A man stomped down the corridor whom Adam recognized as the Marquess of Halesworth, Charlotte’s father. “Where is she?” he demanded.

Lord Michael nodded to Charlotte’s room. Her father barely knocked on the door before he barged in, slamming it behind him. As much as Adam tried to listen, all he could hear were raised voices, but he could not make out the words.

As the moments ticked by, he waited in uncomfortable silence with Lord Michael staring at him. Adam had yet to answer his question.

When Halesworth finally did emerge, any anger that had entered the room with him was gone, and the marquess was visibly shaken, his face ashen. “When Anthony told me what happened, I assumed he had embellished or was poking fun at all the ghost talk. But after Charlotte explained and I saw the bruises on her neck, I agree that she must leave. If I didn’t have to remain, I’d take the entire family from this cursed place.”

He turned to Adam. “Thank you for offering your home to Charlotte and Anthony.”

“It’s my pleasure to do so, Lord Halesworth.”

“I understand you returned this putsi charm thing to her person, inside her bodice.”

Adam’s face heated as he nodded.

“You and I will talk when the danger to my daughter has passed.”

“It was to save her life,” Adam insisted.

“Far less has ruined young ladies.” He took a step forward. “It’s time she married anyway, and you have need of a wife since you are now the heir.” With that he turned on his heel and marched away.

CHAPTER 8

C harlotte tried her best to sleep but found it near impossible. She thought she’d relax once she was away from Castle Keyvnor, but Adam’s grandfather, Viscount Lynwood, frightened her nearly as much as the ghost of Baron Tyrell. Of course, she couldn’t blame him for being upset at having guests when he’d buried his oldest grandchild the day before. Had she even paused to think before her escape from the castle, she would have insisted Anthony take her into Bocka Morrow. Surely there was an inn where they could have spent the night.

Dinner was strained and silent, with the viscount glaring alternately at Adam, Anthony, and then her. When it was concluded, all she wanted to do was hide away in the chamber they’d given her for the night and find a new place to stay tomorrow.

Perhaps she was simply still on edge from what had happened today. Those events would surely make it impossible for anyone to sleep.

But, she was safe here. Or at least that is what she kept telling herself. Yet still, sleep evaded her.

As gently as possible, so as not to disturb Martha, Charlotte pushed the covers away and got out of bed. It wasn’t her maid’s habit to sleep with her, but after hearing what happened, Martha would not leave Charlotte’s side. She couldn’t have the poor dear sleeping on the floor or in a chair, and since the bed was certainly large enough, she insisted her maid sleep beside her. Unlike Charlotte, Martha was asleep almost instantly.

After grabbing a wrapper, she wandered about her room, seeing only what she was able under the full moon. Voices drifted to her, and she stopped and slowly turned. “Not another haunted house?” she whispered.

Charlotte remained still and listened, straining to hear where the voices were coming from. When she realized it was from outside, she relaxed and wandered to the window. Why would anyone be out this late? Was it Adam, her brother, strangers meant to do them harm?

She shook her head. One encounter with a ghost, and she was becoming as easily alarmed as her cousin Cassy.

Lights flickered below, disappearing when they grew closer to the cliffs. It was too early for fishermen and too late to be enjoying an evening on the water. And, there were a lot of them.

Maybe she should determine who they were before alarming anyone. It wouldn’t do to wake a household over something that may be innocent, but she didn’t want to be murdered in her sleep either. The day had already been trying enough.

This was why his grandfather was upset about having guests. Adam had completely forgotten the smugglers were bringing in cargo tonight. Not that the practice was a secret to anyone in the area, but outsiders, such as Redgrave and Charlotte, might alert the authorities. Hopefully they were both sound asleep and would never know what his grandfather was up to.

The lights bobbed on the water under a full moon as the boats made their way to the beach. He’d seen it many times before and usually participated, but held back tonight. He didn’t want to be so far from Charlotte. What if she needed him? The day had been horrible, and Adam was surprised she slept. If the same had happened to him, he might very well be having nightmares. For that very reason, he remained on the terrace, beneath her window, drinking brandy and watching the boats as he contemplated his future.

Why wasn’t he angry by the turn of events? Even if he had known that returning the putsi to her bosom would get him leg shackled, Adam would do it again. To not do so, simply to avoid matrimony, would have seen her dead, which he could have never lived with. Besides, he hadn’t thought, he’d only reacted.

If it was any other lady he knew so little of, he’d be livid at being forced to marry, but the idea of marrying Charlotte didn’t alarm him in the least. In fact, as soon as her father made his intentions known, Adam relaxed as warmth seeped around his heart. He did desire her. Had since the moment he’d seen her crossing the field, a bright smile on her face. Her soft, rounded body outlined in her gown and those breasts. His mouth practically watered, knowing that soon he’d be able to taste them and she’d be his.

Oh, to be that putsi, nestled between her glorious breasts.

No, the idea of marrying Charlotte, of her being his forever, didn’t alarm Adam in the least. In fact, he wondered how soon it could be accomplished.

Adam sensed her before he saw her--Charlotte, his future wife, not that she’d been made aware of that fact. He turned and his cock twitched when he caught sight of her. His mouth went dry, as it hung suspended in air. Good God, she was a vision. She wore a wrapper over a nightgown, her golden hair was down, flowing about her shoulders, and all he wanted to do was sweep her up in his arms and carry her back to bed. His bed!

She took a step back and pulled the wrapper close, clutching it together at her breasts. Adam wished to take her hands away, to have her open to him.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she said with a shy smile.

He could think of many ways to help her relax enough to sleep, but she was not his yet. “After the events of the day, I cannot blame you.”

She took a step closer and looked past him, to the beach. As she was going to be living here, she might as well become familiar with the odd comings and goings on the beach.

“Would you like a brandy?” Was it proper to offer a lady brandy? He was too befuddled to know what was proper at the moment. Only that he didn’t want her to return to her chamber. “Perhaps a glass of wine? Tea?”

“Brandy would be nice.” She smiled. “It may help me sleep.”

“I’ll only be a moment.” Adam hurried through the doors leading to the library where he poured a glass for Charlotte and added more to his own before returning to her. Charlotte had moved to the end of the terrace. There wasn’t much lawn beyond, before the high cliff.

“Thank you,” she said as he pressed the glass into her hand. “Who are they?”

“Smugglers.”

Charlotte straightened. “Smugglers? And you are just standing here, doing nothing?”

“Usually I’m down there with them.” He took a sip, waiting for her reaction.

Charlotte turned, her hazel eyes wide with surprise. “You’re a smuggler?” she whispered. Instead of being appalled, she seemed almost intrigued and excited.

“Family business, one I resisted for a time.”

The wind picked up and Charlotte rubbed her arm, the one holding the brandy.

“Come inside, you’ll freeze out here.”

He stood back so she could precede him into the library. He’d left a few lamps burning low earlier so that he could make his way around the furniture without injury to a toe or shin, but a good deal of the room was now lit by the full moon, unobscured by clouds.

“Does your grandfather know?”

Adam chuckled. “He’s probably down there right now.”

“Why did you resist it?” Charlotte asked as she settled onto the settee. “It sounds marvelously adventurous.”

Ah yes, her brothers had complained that she was too adventurous. Being married to Charlotte would either be entertaining or drive him to Bedlam.

Adam settled beside her and then took her hand in his. He’d wanted to touch her since she stepped outside. She didn’t pull away but threaded her fingers with his. Soon, if he were so lucky, their legs would be equally intertwined.

Charlotte frowned. “Though it is highly illegal.”

“Aye.” Adam shook his head. “My mother’s family…”

“They’re Gypsies,” Charlotte offered, taking a sip of her brandy.

“Yes. Well, my grandfather never liked the Gypsies being in the area. He didn’t trust them — called them pickpockets, thieves, and charlatans. He was livid when my father fell in love with my mother.”

“He smuggles,” Charlotte pointed out the obvious.

“Yes, but brandy, wine, lace, silks, and the like are refined, my dear. Stealing from the unsuspecting seeking to have a fortune told is far beneath any gentleman.”

“He believed your mother…”

“Far beneath my father, yes.”

“How sad.” Though the viscount’s opinions should not be a surprise. She’d often heard those in the ton talk ill of those thought to be beneath them, as if anyone had control of their birth, and that automatically made them unworthy of notice. Then she blinked at him. “That is why they live on Banfield land?”

Adam chuckled. “Banfield and my grandfather hated each other. I can’t begin to describe the animosity between the two, so when my grandfather sent them away, Banfield offered a piece of land for them to live in the winter, right on the border of the two estates.”

“That’s simply horrible, of your grandfather,” Charlotte said with outrage. “His own in-laws.”

“At least they were near, or are every winter, so I can visit my grandmother. Had Banfield not offered a place for them, I might not have ever had the chance to know my mother’s family.”

“Do you have other family?” Sadness filled her eyes. “You’ve just lost your brother, older brother, is there no one else?”

As they were to be married, even if she wasn’t aware, now was just as good a time as any to tell her of his family. Besides, perhaps it would take her mind off the smuggling going on below them and the ghost that’s trying to kill her at Castle Keyvnor. “My mother died when I was two, not long after delivering my younger brother who did not survive.

Charlotte gasped. “I’m so sorry.”

He squeezed her hand. Truthfully, he remembered nothing of his mother and only had a portrait of her in his room since grandfather would not allow it to be displayed with the other family portraits. Once he was gone, however, Adam would see that it was returned to the place on the wall beside the one of his father in the gallery.

“What was her name?”

“Lela, Lela Boswell.”

“And, she was the daughter of the Gypsy who gave me the putsi?”

Adam grinned. “Yes.” Did his grandmother foresee a future for him and Charlotte as one? Is that why she broke from tradition, from her normal readings to please those who came and pocket a few shillings? The gems inside the putsi were valuable, especially to a Gypsy, yet she’d given them over to a stranger without a fee.

The old woman knew. He’d bet everything he had that Puri daj knew the moment she set eyes on Charlotte that she was Adam’s destiny and had done everything in her power to make sure that Charlotte survived so that their fates could merge as they were supposed to.

“It is sad that there is only you and your grandfather left from your father.” Then she frowned. “Unless your father lives. I only assume…”

“My father passed away several years ago.”

Charlotte turned more fully towards him. “I’m sorry.”

“However, he did remarry when I was six. Besides a stepmother, I also have four younger sisters, Diana, Miranda, Cordelia, and Adriana, as well as a younger brother, Edward.” He really should consider sending for Edward so that he could begin to learn what was expected of him. Now that Thomas was gone, Edward was now the spare.

Her hazel eyes widened in surprise. “Where are they?”

That is what he’d like to know, not that he missed his stepmother. “She took her children away when Thomas, my older brother, returned home. She feared them becoming ill or injured in his presence.”

Those delicate, blonde eyebrows drew together in concern. “How long ago?”

“Two years.”

CHAPTER 9

C harlotte twirled the stem of the glass between her fingers. In retrospect, two years wasn’t terribly that long. She hadn’t seen her brother Harry in nearly twelve years. But, he’d been away at sea, which was an entirely different matter. And, as irritating as Anthony and Michael could be, she would miss them after a year or so.

Voices drifted up from the beach. How exciting to be sitting right above smugglers. “Will you show me?”

“Show you what?”

“The smuggling. The operation, family business, or whatever it is you call it.”

This was turning out to be the most delightful holiday, with the exception of being strangled that is. But, she’d visited a gypsy, was coming to know Adam, and now she had a chance to encounter smugglers. London would surely be boring after this. Certainly any gentleman she’d meet in the future would pale in comparison to Adam Vail, especially dressed as he was tonight, so much like he’d been clothed while visiting his grandmother. She much preferred the Gypsy in him to the refined grandson of a viscount.

“I’m not sure that is wise,” he finally said.

Of course that would be his reaction. She was a stranger. One didn’t just reveal the ins and outs of their illegal business to a practical stranger. Besides, he was probably tired. He’d had a few trying days as well, and she’d nearly forgotten he’d just buried his brother. Now was not the time to have guests in his home, yet he’d welcomed her and Anthony.

“I am sorry to be an imposition at a time like this.”

“Time like this?”

“Your brother. You are in mourning.”

His smile was sad as he took a sip of brandy. “I am not in mourning. It’s forbidden.”

Certainly not by his grandfather. She disliked the viscount more and more since that uncomfortable dinner.

“Thomas forbade it. He knew he was ill and fading, and while his mind was still somewhat whole, he forbid me to mourn him.” He took her hand then and brought it to his lips, nearly scalding her skin when he pressed his lips to her knuckles. “Besides, he’s been gone for over a year, a shell of a man before his heart stopped. I did mourn the loss then, and have been, but once he took his last breath, only relief remained.”

If his brother had been ill for so long, she could certainly understand, and it did give Adam a chance to truly say goodbye. “If you don’t mind me asking, what was his illness? Something so long in duration must have been horrible.”

The side of his mouth quirked. “The pox.”

Alarm shot through her. Surely she’d misunderstood. “He was not inoculated?”

Adam choked on his brandy. “Excuse me.”

“Hardly anyone gets smallpox anymore, not since Edward Jenner discovered a way to protect people from the disease. And, I certainly didn’t know such a horrible illness lasted so long.”

Adam set his glass on the table and then turned to her, cradling her cheek in his hand. “Oh, Charlotte, you are such a delight.” And with that, he kissed her.

This was a mistake. He knew it the moment he leaned in, but how could he not. Since she’d stepped out on the terrace, looking so beautiful and, well, ready for bed, he’d been wanting her. Charlotte was unlike any lady he’d ever met. A bit of mischief, an ounce of adventure, a pinch of naïveté, and a ton of desirability. Adam wasn’t quite sure he’d ever get enough of her. Or ever learn all that there was to her, but he’d spend a lifetime in discovery. Beginning right now, with her lips pressed against his. She didn’t hesitate but pulled him close, as if she wanted this as much as he. His mouth molded against her soft lips and he knew he should pull back, end this, but how could he? Not when she was so delightfully soft, and utterly perfect.

He deepened the kiss, expecting her to pull back. Instead, Charlotte tilted her head to accommodate him, and he pressed her back against the settee.

This was unwise. Extremely unwise. Yet, he didn’t stop as his body reacted to all that was Charlotte, wishing he could push her nightgown above her hips and make her his once and for all.

Her soft breasts pressed against him, burned his chest through his shirt as his body temperature soared. It was as if a spell had been cast over him, and he couldn’t get enough nor force himself to pull away, and she wasn’t asking that he stop either.

Adam thought he’d known passion before, and he’d been so wrong. This was passion, and Charlotte was the beginning and the end.

Her fingers threaded their way through his hair as she shifted, and Adam found himself lying between her soft thighs, his cock pressed against her womanhood. If they weren’t fully clothed, he’d make her his, forever.

How could he want someone he’d only known a few days? Burn for her as if she was his all? Had his grandmother added something to her talisman he was unaware of? Why else would he have so little control? Charlotte was innocent, his future wife, not a light skirt, and he should not be lying upon her, in his grandfather’s library where they could be discovered at any moment.

Yet, as much as he told himself to move away, his body acted of its own accord. His hand caressed her full breasts, teasing the taut nipple beneath her wrapper and nightshift before he began pushing it aside to get closer, wishing there was a way to open her nightshift so he could feel her skin. To taste every inch of her from her forehead to her ankles.

As he pulled her wrapper apart and found her breast again, Charlotte arched and moaned, a leg coming around his hips to keep him close as she pressed against him.

A door slammed in the distance, breaking the spell, and Adam jerked away, quickly covering Charlotte.

She lie there dazed, her hazel eyes dark with passion, a slight smile upon her lips. “Goodness!”

“I apologize.”

She blinked at him. “For what?”

“I should not have taken advantage.”

“I don’t believe I tried to stop you.”

“It wasn’t right. You are a lady.” He helped her sit up and smoothed down her gown.

She frowned. “In that you are correct.” Her eyebrows drew together in concern. “I’m not certain what came over me. I’ve never behaved in such a manner.” She clutched her robe together. “I hope you don’t think poorly of me.”

She was as confused as he. “You felt it as well?”

“What?”

“Like you had no power. As much as your mind willed you to stop, you couldn’t make your body obey?”

Those hazel eyes widened. “Yes!”

Adam leaned back and thrust his fingers through his hair as he reviewed the stones in her putsi. His grandmother was behind this, somehow.

“The emerald,” he groaned.

“It’s for seeing the evil. I don’t understand how it can have anything to do with what just occurred.”

Adam shook his head. “It is also for passion.” He had his answer. He might be marrying Charlotte because he had supposedly ruined her while trying to save her life, but the emerald did not lie. “As well as love.”

He picked up her hand and kissed the back, lingering a bit longer than he should because the draw to her was so very strong.

“Love?”

He chuckled. “It’s hard to understand as we barely know one another, but an emerald will reveal your true mate, your destined love.”

Charlotte leaned forward, her eyes full of intrigue. “We will fall in love?” A smile slowly formed on her lips as if she was not at all upset with the idea.

He looked into those eyes and held them with his own. “I do believe it’s already begun to happen.”

“As do I,” her voice was barely a whisper as she leaned into him and placed her lips against his.

“Adam,” his grandfather bellowed from the back of the house.

Adam jumped, putting himself between the door and Charlotte.

“We have need of you. Get your arse to the caves.”

CHAPTER 10

M agical. Simply magical. That’s what Adam’s kiss was and everything else she’d experienced with him. Her pulse was still humming through her body, and there was a tension she didn’t understand, as if her insides were wound tight. Even her most private areas ached. Never had she experienced the like, and she couldn’t wait to experience it again.

Was he truly falling in love with her? She could most certainly be falling in love with him. Adam Vail was unlike any gentleman she’d ever encountered and he kissed divinely. If he were to ask her to marry him this instant, her answer would most assuredly be yes. It may not be the romance of poetry and picnics she’d always assumed would occur before she fell in love, but this was better. She knew in her heart that he was her destiny, and each day of her life, without a doubt, she would grow to love him more and more. It would be impossible not to.

“I’ll be along in a moment,” Adam called.

Charlotte grasped his hand. “Let me go with you.” After all, she was his now, or would be if she had any say, so she should learn everything she could about his life.

“You can’t go to the caves dressed like that.”

“I’ll change.” She hopped off the settee. “I’d never be able to get to sleep now.”

Adam stared at her and she could tell he was warring inside of himself whether to send her upstairs or agree to let her accompany him.

“Please?”

He let out a sigh. “Very well, but hurry. My grandfather won’t wait for me long.”

Without glancing back, Charlotte rushed from the room and up the stairs. “Another adventure.” She grinned.

She pushed through the door and went straight to her trunk, hoping not to disturb Martha, who would never approve, and changed into the dress she’d brought along for tomorrow. It was a simple day dress of lavender. Certainly not something one should wear when smuggling, but it wasn’t as if she could have planned ahead for this outing.

After dressing, she pulled her hair into a knot behind her back, slid on kid boots and hurried back to the foyer where Adam stood waiting.

“We will enter from the top. Don’t let my grandfather see you.”

She nodded.

“Promise me you will stay out of sight and simply observe.”

As much as she wished to participate, Charlotte gave her promise.

Adam led her first to the back of the house, to the servants’ quarters, and then down two flights of stairs until they reached the cellar. He proceeded further, stopping only long enough to light a torch before they descended into near darkness. The wooden steps became stone, as if they were chiseled right out of the cliffs, and Charlotte kept close to Adam for fear she’d lose him in the darkness or miss a step if the light were too far away.

As they descended, the steps grew narrow and steep. Dust and mildew tickled her nose and Charlotte wiggled it to keep from sneezing. Soon, the dank air grew salty as fresh air from the sea floated up to them. Adam stopped at the top of the odd, curved staircase, and Charlotte came to his side, hardly able to contain her excitement, biting her bottom lip to keep from laughing with happiness. Her brothers would certainly disapprove. Hopefully Anthony was sound asleep and hadn’t been woken by the voices on the beach because his presence here would never do.

Adam placed the torch on the wall, and they continued only a little further before Adam stopped and turned to her. “Stay here.”

Charlotte nodded. As much as she wanted to go further, she would not leave this spot. At least, not this time.

He stood back and gestured. “You should be able to see everything from here.”

Charlotte took a step forward and peered out. Below them were all manner of barrels, kegs, crates, and chests. Some people were bringing them in from the sea while others were stacking them against the wall or attaching them to the back of a mule or horse. Adam’s grandfather stood over an open one as if inspecting the contents. It was all so very exciting and intriguing.

“Goodness!” she whispered. “Was all of this brought in this evening?” How could those small boats carry so much?

Adam chuckled. “No, over the last weeks. We are storing until it can be moved.”

“Moved?”

“One must be careful when getting rid of illegal items. It’s not safe right now.”

Safe?

Of course, what they were doing was highly illegal.

“You’ll stay?”

“Yes.” Today she would observe and learn. The next time…well, if there was a next time, she wasn’t making any promises.

Before he left, Adam pulled her close, brushing his lips against hers. “You’ve become a part of me, Charlotte. I never anticipated what could be. I am most anxious to see what else there is.”

Her heart soared because she felt exactly the same.

With one last lingering kiss, he pulled away and continued down into the cave and Charlotte sank down onto the step with a sigh.

“This was a very bad idea,” Adam muttered to himself as he joined his grandfather. But Charlotte had asked, and he found it impossible to deny her request, which did not bode well for the future. Yet, if she was his future, the smuggling was hers, not that he’d ever let her participate, of course.

With a chuckle he shook his head. As if he’d be able to stop her.

“Have you lost your mind?” his grandfather demanded.

“What do you mean?”

“You brought her here!” His grandfather pointed to the step Charlotte watched from. “Not thinking with your head, boy, but something else, and it will see the lot of them arrested.”

Of course his grandfather never feared arrest. His riches lined too many pockets, guaranteeing that investigators, if they ever came around, would look the other way. Others, their friends and colleagues, had been caught in the past, but his grandfather did nothing to help them. Someone had to pay for the crime, and it satisfied the authorities by arresting a few on occasion so they could claim they were ridding the coast of the dreadful smugglers.

“Just as bad as her.” His grandfather nodded to Tressa Teague, one of the vicar’s daughters. “Brought a stranger with her. A fisherman who I’ve not seen in these parts before.”

“Does Miss Teague trust him?” Adam asked. Tressa would never put this operation in danger, any more than Adam would.

“Says she does, but what does she know? She’s a woman.” He pointed to Charlotte. “Just like her. None of them have a lick of sense.”

Adam should have expected such a comment from his grandfather. He knew of only two uses for women. One was warming a bed and the other, delivering heirs. Otherwise, they were of no use, which was why he’d practically celebrated when Adam’s stepmother took her four daughters from the manor when Thomas returned, ridding them of all the nonsense that comes from having females about.

CHAPTER 11

This was truly one of the most adventurous nights of her life. Actually, since coming to Castle Keyvnor, there had been more excitement than her entire last season in London, and it was delightful.

Well, the ghost of a baron trying to kill her wasn’t exactly delightful. In fact, it was downright frightening, especially for one who once believed ghosts were an invention to frighten children.

However, the baron was not at Hollybrook Park, and Charlotte put him from her mind.

Below, several men and women moved cargo about. The ladies carried smaller chests, each grabbing a handle on the sides. Was that lace or silk or both? The large barrels stacked against the far wall must be brandy. Had the brandy she and Adam shared come from right here? Rowed in on boats under the cover of darkness? And all that wine in his cellar. How much of it was purchased and how much was smuggled?

In the back, in the darkest corner of the cave was a stack of strange flat crates, and she couldn’t imagine what was in them. If Charlotte hadn’t promised to stay in this exact spot, she’d sneak down the stairs and take a quick peek inside.

To think, men and women worked side by side down here. She’d never seen the like. Though she’d been surrounded by servants her entire life, the heaviest thing she’d ever seen a female servant lift was a tray, or perhaps laundry. Men did the manual labor. But not here. It was almost as if they were equals.

A thrill shot through her at the possibility of a chance to be more than a pampered sister, daughter, or wife. If she and Adam did fall in love, which was already occurring, they might one day marry and then she’d be able to enjoy adventures such as these regularly. Between the smuggling, the gypsies, and Adam, her life would be exciting and full.

A sigh escaped as she spotted Adam near the entrance of the cave. He bent to lift a wooden crate, the material pulled against and outlined his backside. Heat surged at the delightful sight. When he stood, the linen of his shirt was pulled across his shoulders and back because his arms were holding the crate. He was a gentleman who need no padding in his jackets. As he turned, Charlotte noted the strength of his arms and the cords of his neck as he carried what appeared to be a heavy crate to a wagon.

Goodness it was warm down here!

The sun would be up soon, and Adam was exhausted. No doubt Charlotte was as well. But, despite all that, he wished he was not just escorting her to her chamber but taking her to his, where he could strip her of that lavender dress and lay her in his bed. After he thoroughly loved her, then they would sleep.

In time that would be true, especially if her father still insisted on her ruination, and Adam could only hope he pressed for a Special License. Not that Adam needed to be forced to marry Charlotte. He wished they were now, which was maddening. Adam always assumed that once he married, it would be to a lady he’d entered into a proper courtship with, probably meeting her during the season. He’d walk with her, take drives in the park, get ices at Günter’s, dance at balls, and sneak kisses when a chaperone was not watching. He never dreamed he’d meet his future at a Gypsy camp and need to save her from a ghost before taking her to the caves for smuggling.

They stopped just outside of her door, and Adam drew Charlotte into his arms, unable to keep from touching her.

“Thank you for another wonderful adventure.”

“Hollybrook Park is usually not so exciting. Rather boring if you must know.” He hoped she didn’t think there’d be excitement every day, or she’d be disappointed within a month of their marriage.

“Of course,” she smiled up at him. “But your corner of Cornwall is far more interesting than Suffolk where nothing ever happens.”

“Surely something happens.”

“That depends.” She grinned. “If your idea of entertainment is gossiping about others in the churchyard after Sunday services. It’s perfectly dull, I can assure you.”

He chuckled. “Many days here are just as dull.”

“How can they be when your land borders a haunted castle, Gypsies are not far away, and I haven’t even had an opportunity to visit Bocka Morrow.”

“I’ll take you there tomorrow,” he said without thinking. As long as Martha was with them he’d be able to keep himself from touching and kissing her at every turn, and it was a perfectly acceptable outing for a courting couple. “It’s an important week for Bocka Morrow.” He grinned.

Charlotte’s eyes sparkled with delight. “How so?”

“It’s the Feast of St. Allan, or Allantide, as it’s called here. A week-long celebration that ends with a bonfire on All Hallow’s Eve.”

“It sounds delightful.” Charlotte grinned.

Adam stared into her eyes. It was said that when a Miss marked her apple and a man took a bite the two were destined to marry. He did not need an apple to know that Charlotte was meant to be his.

Did she even realize that their future was tied together and not because of the passion that had sparked between them. She’d not heard her father’s words to him, but it wasn’t even that. Nor was it the emerald, which may or may not be behind the intensity of his passion. It was as if his soul recognized his mate the moment he saw her.

“But first, you need some rest.” He kissed her forehead knowing it was too dangerous to kiss her lips. After what happened in the library, Adam didn’t trust that he wouldn’t sweep her up in his arms and carry her to his chamber.

“You should as well.”

“Goodnight, Charlotte.”

“Goodnight, Adam.”

He opened the door for her and waited until she disappeared inside then closed the door. He should go on to his room, but his feet wouldn’t move. He couldn’t bring himself to leave her. What if she needed him? Ridiculous, of course. Charlotte was safe here. Her maid was with her, and all danger was back at Castle Keyvnor. Still, Adam contemplated curling up on the floor and sleeping outside her door.

Of course the events of earlier in the day had been frightening, but it wasn’t necessary that he be by her side now, however, the draw to her room was stronger than his weariness and wanting his own bed.

Hopefully soon, he’d not have to retire without her.

Forcing one foot in front of the other, Adam retreated down the corridor, insisting to himself that any concern and worry was for naught, and after a deep sleep, he’d probably laugh at his ridiculous emotions.

Just as he pushed open the door to his chambers, a blood-curdling scream rang out, and it came from the direction of Charlotte’s room.

CHAPTER 12

She wanted to hum, laugh and dance. She wanted to sing! But Charlotte would do none of those things for fear of waking Martha. She’d never felt so light, so happy, so excited and she’d never get to sleep now. How could she when she’d just experienced the most exhilarating night of her life?

With help from the full moon, she lit a lamp, keeping the flame low so as not to disturb Martha, then wandered to the dressing table and began taking the pins from her hair. The locks fell one by one, still holding their curl despite being twisted and tied in a hurry so that she could accompany Adam down to the caves.

A pin caught on something and she yanked. It didn’t come free and Charlotte felt around behind her neck only to discover that one was lodged in the knot of the leather strings holding the putsi around her neck. “What stuff and nonsense.” She no longer needed to wear this thing. They weren’t at the castle any longer. Even better, Baron Tyrell was not here.

She pulled at the knot until it was free then slipped the putsi from her neck and placed it on the dresser. Before she could remove the rest of the pins, a gust of wind swept through the room, knocking a vase from a table, sending it crashing against the fireplace. Charlotte reached for the putsi but was unable to lay her hand on it before something grabbed her about the neck and lifted her from the floor.

Not again!

At least she knew what was happening this time. She tried her best not to panic as her hands felt around the top of the dressing table, trying to grasp the talisman, only to succeed in knocking it to the floor. Martha rose from the bed, her eyes going wide, and let out a scream that would wake the dead. With her eyes, Charlotte motioned to the putsi on the floor and tried to point to where she thought it had landed, praying her maid would understand, but all Martha did was sit on the bed and scream.

Charlotte would scream as well, but she couldn’t get a breath. And it seemed the more she struggled, the tighter the constriction became around her neck.

She couldn’t die now. Not after meeting Adam.

The chamber door crashed open and Adam rushed in. He stopped, his face going pale, and Charlotte tried to point to the floor. Where had that talisman gone?

He rushed forward, snatching it up and rushed towards her. Just as she almost had it in her hands, the vise around her neck loosened and Adam was thrown back, crashing against the wall.

Charlotte tried to catch a quick breath and kicked out her legs, but all she met with was icy cold air. An instant later, the full strength of Tyrell’s grip was once again cutting off her air. Her lungs burned, and the room began growing dark. Figures moved about the room, but she couldn’t see who or what through the tears in her eyes, and all she heard were the continued screams of Martha.

“He can’t fight us both off.” Adam pulled himself from the floor and hurried to Charlotte as Anthony ran into the room. He swiped the pouch up, hoping to move quickly enough that he wasn’t thrown across the room again. The moment what felt like an icy hand touched his chest, he tossed the pouch to Anthony and ducked behind Charlotte.

Anthony caught it in midair and ran towards his sister, only to be tossed away, much as Adam had been, but as he was falling, he threw the pouch back to Adam, who caught it and pressed it into Charlotte’s hand. The room stilled in an instant, and this time he was prepared to catch her when she fell.

“Keep hold of it,” Adam instructed as he slowly lifted and tied the strings around her neck once again.

“How could this happen?” Tears streamed down her face, and all he wanted to do was pull her into his lap and never let her go.

“I’d like to know the same thing.” Anthony stood, fists planted on his hips, staring at them.

“As would I. Tyrell is supposed to be at Castle Keyvnor, and I can assure you, Hollybrook Park has never been haunted.”

“Oh, Lady Charlotte, we must leave,” Martha cried.

Adam scooped Charlotte up in his arms and carried her to the bed. “Nobody is leaving.”

“I’m not staying in this room,” Charlotte insisted, her voice raw to his ears.

He couldn’t really blame her, but if Tyrell could get her here, he could get to her anywhere.

“Go make some tea, Martha,” Anthony ordered, not taking his eyes from Charlotte or Adam.

Charlotte pushed herself off the bed. “I need to be out of here.”

He’d suggest taking her to his chamber, where he could hold and protect her all night, but by the way Anthony was glaring at him, all he’d accomplish was a dawn appointment. “Let’s adjourn to the library.”

“I’ll be along with the tea, Lady Charlotte,” Martha assured her as she hurried from the room.

Charlotte’s hands shook and her walk was unsteady, which was surely understandable given what she’d just endured, again. Adam kept a hand at the small of her back and helped her down the stairs, leading her right to the settee when they gained the library. Anthony followed close on his heels.

“Why did you remove the putsi?” Anthony demanded.

“It was caught in my hairpins, and I didn’t think it was necessary here.”

“Clearly it was.” Anthony marched to the sideboard and poured himself a glass of brandy.

“One for me too, please,” Adam said, not yet willing to leave Charlotte’s side.

“And me,” Charlotte croaked.

“Tea would be more soothing to your throat,” Adam offered with concern.

“But not for the state of my nerves.”

She was shivering, as she’d done before, and Adam wasn’t certain if it was from fear or cold. “I’ll fetch you a blanket.” He jumped to his feet. “Keep an eye on her, Redgrave.”

“She’s my sister, of course I’ll watch over her,” he retorted. “And she’s not the only one I’m keeping an eye on.”

Redgrave could brood and threaten all that he liked, but once Adam found something to keep Charlotte warm, he wasn’t leaving her side again.

Where the blazes were the blankets kept? He really should know more about the household, but fresh blankets appeared in his room when he needed them, and he’d never given much thought to where they’d come from.

With that thought in mind, he took the stairs two at a time before he reached Charlotte’s chamber where he grabbed the covering he’d seen at the foot of the bed and took it to her.

“Thank you,” she muttered as he tucked it around her.

“What are we to do now?” Anthony demanded. “How are we going to keep Charlotte safe? Is she going to have to wear that thing for the rest of her life?”

“I’m never taking it off, ever again,” she mumbled and drew further into herself before she took a sip of brandy.

“I don’t have your answers,” Adam admitted. “But I can assure you, we will be visiting my grandmother at daybreak.”

CHAPTER 13

C harlotte woke with a gasp, clawing at her throat, desperate for air.

Her eyes caught Anthony’s, who sat in a chair opposite her.

“Nightmare?”

Charlotte blew out a breath and nodded, not wishing to relive being strangled by an unseen entity. “Did you sleep?” she whispered.

“In this chair?” he practically snorted. Neither Adam nor Anthony were willing to leave her alone last night, or early morning as it was, and since neither she nor Martha wanted to return to the chamber, or any chamber for that matter, they’d all fallen asleep in the library. Adam and Anthony in matching chairs, Charlotte on the settee, and Martha in a larger chair, out of the way and off in the corner.

She glanced around. Adam’s chair was empty. “Where is Mr. Vail?”

“He’s arranged to have five maids waiting in your chamber to assist as you prepare for the day.”

“That really isn’t necessary.”

He hitched a brow. “I disagree. If that thing falls from your neck again, you’ll need practically an army to keep you alive before Vail and I can arrive. And,” he continued, “as it isn’t proper for either of us to be present during your toilette, the maids will be there to offer any and all assistance.”

He really was making too much out of this, yet she’d be glad for the company. The more people about, the safer she should be, correct? No doubt both Adam and Anthony would be outside her door the entire time, which did give her comfort.

Anthony stood and stretched. “You and Martha should prepare for the day. We’ll breakfast and then go to the Gypsy camp.”

Charlotte pushed the blanket aside and stood. Every muscle in her body protested. Tyrell had only tried to strangle her, but her body ached as if she’d been wrung out like a washcloth.

She stretched, trying to loosen the tension in her arms and back, but it didn’t do any good. “I’d love to soak in a hot tub of water.”

“Don’t have time.”

Charlotte cast him a look of irritation. Why was he so surly? Because he slept in a chair? At least nobody had tried to kill him—twice.

“Very well.” She crossed to the back of the room and shook her maid’s shoulder. “Come along, Martha. We must prepare for the day.”

It took Charlotte entirely too long to dress. It took everyone far too long to breakfast, and never had it taken to so long to reach his grandmother.

Adam had been on edge all night and morning, unable to catch a wink of sleep as he watched Charlotte lost in dreams on his grandfather’s settee. At least she was rested, somewhat, as was her maid. Unlike him and Redgrave. Neither one of them had closed their eyes.

His grandmother was standing outside of her wagon, watching their approach, as if she’d been waiting for them. Did she know what happened?

“Ah, Lady Charlotte, I’ve been worried.”

“Why?”

“You don’t believe in the unseen, and I was afraid you wouldn’t keep the putsi with you.”

Charlotte’s cheeks turned pink and she glanced away.

“Now tell me, child, what has happened?”

She quickly explained about being attacked at Castle Keyvnor then at Hollybrook Park. His grandmother frowned deeper and deeper as Charlotte spoke.

“Those were the only times you did not have it? The only attack on your life?”

“No.” Charlotte answered, her eyes lighting with a memory. “That first time I’d left it on my dressing table because I didn’t have pockets.”

“We weren’t attacked then?” Adam asked.

“I think I was, but…”

“What happened?” His grandmother, Anthony, and Adam asked at the same time.

“I was at the top of the stairs when something grabbed at me from behind. I lost my footing but was able to grasp the banister before I tumbled down the stairs. I turned, but nobody was there.” Her eyebrows drew together with confusion. “I assumed it was my cousin Toby playing tricks and had run away.” She looked at his grandmother. “Why didn’t he try to strangle me then?”

Grandmother shrugged. “Perhaps he wished to try later, when you were alone in your chambers.”

“But he didn’t,” Adam said. “Redgrave and I were with her.”

“Redgrave is her brother. You, however, may have been seen as a threat.”

That was certainly true. Adam would do anything to rid this world, and the next, of Lord Tyrell and keep Charlotte safe.

“Why was he at Hollybrook Park?” Charlotte asked. “Aren’t ghosts supposed to stay in one place?”

His grandmother sighed and hobbled over to a chair beside a cooking fire and gestured to the others to sit as well. “Some spirits are attached to a place, others an object.” She focused on Charlotte. “Others… to a person. Tyrell is attached to the likeness of Lady Helena, which is you.”

“Are you certain?” Redgrave asked, clearly thinking he was being fed a bit of nonsense.

“’Tis the only reasonable explanation.”

At least that answered one question, but it wasn’t what Adam wanted to hear. “So, how does Charlotte rid herself of him?”

“Become a wife,” his grandmother proclaimed.

CHAPTER 14

“Wife?” Charlotte muttered. Courtships took time and as much as her heart sang for Adam, she’d not known him a week.

“I don’t think so,” Redgrave argued. “One of the women strangled was wed.”

“But she was not bedded.”

Charlotte’s face heated. Maybe it was simply a matter of her virginity. Not that she could rid herself of that without marriage. Well, she could, but she’d be ruined for the rest of her life.

On the other hand, if she didn’t, she’d be stuck wearing this talisman for weeks, months, possibly even years. She must definitely put pockets into all of her dresses and gowns.

“How can you be so certain?” Adam demanded.

Charlotte could well understand why he’d be uneasy. He’d professed a liking for her, possibly love, but he was no more ready to marry than she.

Oh, she shouldn’t lie to herself. If Adam were to ask her right now she’d agree without even the need to give his proposal any consideration.

“One other had visited, and stayed for a long duration at Keyvnor Castle, and not even a hair on her head was touched.”

“Why?” Anthony asked with curiosity.

“She’d married only a week earlier and was on her wedding trip, visiting family.”

“So, I’m to find a gentleman, marry, and become his wife,” Charlotte said, too embarrassed to utter to words like bedding and consummation. “Then I will be safe.”

Adam’s grandmother shook her finger at Charlotte. “It cannot be any gentleman. It must be the one your soul calls for.”

“My soul calls for?” She glanced at her brother, then Adam. Her heart, soul, and body certainly called to him.

The Gypsy slowly smiled. “The emerald, child. It will lead you to him.”

Charlotte blinked at her. “The emerald? The one in the pouch?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“It will brighten, like a star in the sky, when he is near.”

Charlotte frowned and pulled the putsi from around her neck.

“You can take the emerald from the pouch, but both the putsi and the emerald must stay with you,” the old woman explained. “They must remain joined through your body.”

Charlotte nodded and looked to Adam. Would it glow for him?

“Do not mistake passion for love,” his grandmother hissed.

Charlotte’s face grew hot again. How did she know?

“The emerald is not only for love, but also passion, and can cause a person to think there is more in the heart, when it’s only in the body. If it does not glow. He is not the one.”

Goodness, her face was going to go up in flames. It was impossible for Adam’s grandmother to know anything. Then again, she did have the second sight, according to Adam. Something she dismissed before, but something she was willing to trust completely now.

“What would you know about passion, Charlotte?” Anthony asked, but stared at Adam.

“Nothing,” she hastened to answer as she looked into Adam’s eyes.

He simply quirked his lips but said nothing.

Oh, she hated to lie, but this was Anthony, her older, stuffy, and overprotective brother, and if he had any idea what she and Adam had been about, Anthony would do grave harm to him or something foolish like challenge Adam, and that would never do.

Adam eyed the putsi, wondering if the emerald would glow for him, or if Charlotte was meant for another. Just the idea of another gentleman taking her as his wife knotted his stomach. “Why don’t you remove it now?” If it glowed, they could put an end to this. He’d arrange for a Special License and claim her at the earliest possible moment, thus ending all danger.

“No,” his grandmother hissed. “She will carry it with her at Castle Keyvnor. If he is not there, she will keep it with her until it does.”

“We might see if it glows now,” Adam offered in what he hoped was a nonchalant manner, looking into Charlotte’s eyes. The blush she’d been sporting since Grandmother first started discussing the delicacies of what needed to be done to keep her safe only deepened.

“Not here. Not outside, and certainly not in the sun.”

“Then we shall go inside your wagon,” Adam suggested. Why was his grandmother so afraid of seeing the emerald now? Did she not like Charlotte?

“There is no point in bringing it out when we are at the castle.” Charlotte shrugged. “Most of the guests are relatives.”

“Not all.” His grandmother leaned forward. “There are bachelors that are of no relation to you, and others, who are so distant it would not matter, and still some that are connected only through marriage.”

Adam frowned. “Who is there besides St. Giles?” Which was bad enough.

“Blackwater, Ashbooke, and Devon Lancaster,” Redgrave answered.

Bloody hell! Lotharios, each and every one, who would be quite happy to help relieve Charlotte of her maidenhead.

She was his, Adam wanted to shout but held his tongue.

The only comfort found with regard to those four was that none of them wished to be married, thus they would not risk seducing an innocent. Though, how they could not want Charlotte with her laughing hazel eyes, golden hair, and perfectly rounded form was beyond him.

“You shall encounter each gentleman today or this evening,” his grandmother continued.

“I will see it done.” Anthony nodded with assurance.

“Carry the emerald in your left hand, as it leads to the heart. Talk to each bachelor, and see if it begins to glow. The one it sparks for is your destined mate.”

“Very well.” Charlotte nodded and Adam frowned.

She was being a little too complacent. Why hadn’t she asked to see if it glowed here, as he had? Did she not feel as he did? Was she hoping it was someone else? “I’ll join you.”

“No!” his grandmother ordered. “You will stay here.”

“Why?”

“You will only interfere in Charlotte finding the truth, the match to her soul.” She narrowed her eyes on Adam. “Your passion is strong, as is hers. Your presence could confuse the truth. Charlotte must test it and learn for herself without you.”

Redgrave glared at him again.

“It is important that the two of you separate and Charlotte test the jewel. If it does not glow for any other, and still glows for you, then you will never question your future. If you rely just on what you feel at the moment, when passions are high, you may live to regret it.”

Adam refused to believe that one of them was meant for Charlotte when it was clearly him! “Since when do you know anything about glowing emeralds?” Adam asked. “You have the second sight and premonitions, but no magic.”

“My dear boy, it’s already been enchanted to reveal true love.”

“By whom?” he demanded.

“The witches, of course.”

Charlotte’s eyes grew wide, and the color drained from her skin. “Witches?”

“You arrived two days before Lady Charlotte. It is not possible that you visited them and knew what you needed.” For the first time, Adam doubted his grandmother. But why would she tell him a falsehood?

“It was done many years ago,” she answered. “That emerald belonged to your mother.”

Adam sat back, and his heart skipped a beat. “My mother?”

“Yes. She was very beautiful, and many men visited to see her dance and have their fortunes told. They also wanted more than she was willing to give, often making impossible promises without honorable intentions,” she said with disgust and spat on the ground beside her. “There came a time when she wasn’t sure who she could believe, so we visited the witches. They enchanted the emerald, and she waited until it glowed before she gave her heart.”

“It glowed for my father.”

“Almost as soon as they saw one another.” The old woman smiled. “He was a good man. Not like your grandfather.” With that she spat again, cursing the man who’d caused so much hardship.

Grandmother focused back on Charlotte. “When you are through with the emerald and Tyrell is no longer a threat, you must return it to me.”

“Of course.”

Grandmother stood and dusted off her hands as if she was finished with this topic, or possibly them, for the time being. “I shall see you tomorrow when you reveal his name.”

“What if he is not there?”

His grandmother smiled. “He is, my dear. You need only to open your heart and mind to the impossible.”

“And hold the emerald,” Adam grumbled. It had better not glow for anyone but him.

“You do not believe any more than I that Charlotte needs to test the jewel on others,” Adam said as soon as Charlotte and Redgrave had left the camp.

“No. Nor do I doubt that it glows brightly when you are near.”

“So why have her go through this madness? We should be planning our nuptials, not sending her back to the castle where her very life is in danger.”

Grandmother sighed. “When Lady Charlotte first came to me, she did not believe in anything she could not see.”

“I’m certain her opinion has been changed.” Given she’d nearly died twice at the hands of a ghost.

“Yes, but who is to say she won’t doubt the emerald one day? Insist it was an oddity, easily explained away, once the two of you are away from all the danger and as you live out your years.”

“She’d start to doubt our love? That we are meant to be together?” It was the one thing he would never doubt.

“Perhaps no, and highly unlikely, however we do not know the future of your marriage.” Her dark eyes bore into his. “Seeing the evidence that it glows only for you will convince Lady Charlotte today, tomorrow, and when you’ve been wed decades, that your souls are to be as one.”

“How can you be so sure she’d ever doubt it?”

“As sure as I am that the first time you argue, she will question the madness of this week.”

“We will not argue,” Adam insisted.

His grandmother chuckled. “You most certainly will. She is headstrong, stubborn, and adventurous. You are entirely too protective for your own good. The two of you will have many arguments, but as long as Charlotte remembers that the emerald glowed only for you, she will never doubt that rightness of marrying you within a week of meeting.”

It was if the wind had been sucked from his lungs. “She’d wish we’d not married?” Even though they weren’t even betrothed, the very idea was painful.

Grandmother chuckled some more. “It is the way of love and of passion. Your parents shared a great love, but that didn’t mean she didn’t march here many times ready to be done with your father.”

Adams eyes grew wide. His parents had argued, but he had no idea his mother had actually left.

“Short lived, Adam. The longest she could stay away from your father was six hours, and never the night. You are much like your father, and I daresay, Lady Charlotte is much like your mother.” A smile blossomed on his grandmother’s face. “The two of you are going to have a grand, passionate love but not without a few bumps along the way.”

CHAPTER 15

A nthony had not left her side all day. She couldn’t even have privacy for personal needs without a maid practically beside her. To think she thought Anthony and Michael were protective before. Their interference was nothing compared to what she’d experienced today. If only Harry were here and given the task of watching her. At least he wouldn’t hover but would trust that she could take care of herself.

They knew. Her entire immediate family knew what the Gypsy had told her, and they all watched and waited for either Tyrell to strike or the emerald to glow. Father had already sent word that he needed a Special License post-haste.

As much as she didn’t have the slightest interest in any of the bachelors currently in residence at Castle Keyvnor, Charlotte almost hoped whoever it happened to be would be revealed sooner than later so Anthony could quit hovering over her.

Hovering!

“There is St. Giles. Go talk to him.” Anthony nudged her toward the lord.

“I need the emerald first,” Charlotte whispered under her breath.

“Where the blazes is it?”

“One moment,” she bit out and turned her back before slipping the pouch from between her breasts.

“Good God, is there nowhere else to keep that thing?”

“Unless you can magically make pockets appear in my dresses, then no.”

“It has strings,” he pointed out. “Wear it around your neck.”

Charlotte pulled the emerald from the bag and returned the rest of the putsi to its hiding place. “So everyone can ask me about it?” She straightened her gown and turned. “Do you really wish for me to tell them it’s for protection so a ghost doesn’t strangle me?”

“Lower your voice,” he hissed.

“I’m not the one being a vexation.”

Actually, this situation would be laughable if her situation wasn’t so precarious. Had it been the season, and there wasn’t a ghost trying to kill her, St. Giles was the exact type of gentleman both Michael and Anthony would discourage, even remove her from his presence if St. Giles dared in her direction with any more warmth than one shared with a friend.

Michael glared at Anthony from across the room. “He is not the one.”

“Which one?” St. Giles asked, looking from one brother to the next.

“Never mind them,” Charlotte said sweetly as she approached. “Would you care to stroll with me?”

His grey eyes widened as a look of near panic flashed in his features. Since when was St. Giles afraid of any female? Then again, she’d never tried to flirt with him before.

“Just for a moment.” She fluttered her eyelashes. “This won’t take long.” She linked her arm in his and practically dragged him away from the others as he looked helplessly back at Anthony and Michael.

“Go!” they both ordered.

“So tell me, are you still charming maids and dogs?”

“Lady Charlotte?”

She opened her left hand and looked at the emerald. It looked just the same as it had before.

“Dogs and maids,” she repeated.

“What exactly is this about, my lady?”

The emerald remained a dull green. It didn’t even shine. “Nothing, my lord.” Then she glanced back up at him. “I am sorry to have bothered you.

Relief washed through her as she returned to Anthony. It would have been terribly awkward had the stone glowed for St. Giles when he clearly had more interest in her cousin.

“What was that about?” she heard St. Giles say to Michael as she exited into the corridor.

“That, my friend, is a story best saved for when we are free of this place and have plenty of ale.”

“Well, that is one out of the way,” Charlotte said to Anthony. “Who next?”

Anthony rubbed his chin. “Devon Lancaster is in need of an heiress, I’m told, which you happen to be. It would solve both of your problems.

“How romantic!” she retorted. “Where is he?”

“I don’t keep everyone’s schedule.”

Charlotte rolled her eyes and tried to think of where she’d seen him since he arrived at the castle.

“He’s been spending time with Jane Hawkins,” Anthony said after a moment.

“Lady Marjorie’s friend?” she asked. “Is she an heiress?”

“Not that I believe. Her father is a vicar.”

Charlotte sighed. “Let’s find him, shall we?”

How long would it take for Charlotte to encounter each bachelor and learn if the emerald glowed?

The waiting was driving Adam mad, and by the late afternoon, he headed to the castle. What if something happened to Charlotte, and he wasn’t there to protect her? What if Tyrell somehow got to her? What if that blasted emerald glowed for someone who wasn’t him?

A footman left him to cool his heels in the foyer while he went to see if Lady Charlotte was in.

“Just what we need around here, another bachelor for Lady Charlotte,” Mrs. Bray said as she came through an open door.

Adam blinked at her. “Pardon.”

“That one’s been flirting with every bachelor in the household today.” She leaned in. “It isn’t right.”

Adam’s stomach knotted. Even though he knew what Charlotte was about, it didn’t mean he liked it. “Where might she be?”

“In the solarium with her family, but I wouldn’t disturb them if I were you.”

“Why?”

“I suspect they are taking her to task for her behavior today.” She nodded, all-knowing.

“Then perhaps I should rescue her.” Adam headed for the solarium as quickly as his feet could carry him. Surely they weren’t chastising Charlotte for her behavior. They had to know how necessary it was.

“We need her wedded and bedded,” Adam heard the Marquess of Halesworth proclaim as he drew near.

“Donald!” Lady Halesworth reprimanded.

“No need to be sensitive, Gwen. Would you rather we ignored the warning and bury her in the morning?”

“There is still no need to be crude.”

For a moment Adam hesitated, reluctant to walk in on their private conversation.

“Why don’t you arrange for the mares to be studded as well, while we’re at it?”

Adam bit back a grin and held in a chuckle at Charlotte’s words. He would never tire of her.

“I assume there has been no luck?” he asked hopefully as he stepped into the solar.

They all turned to look at him in surprise.

“No. Not a one.” Charlotte sighed. “Your grandmother was wrong.”

For the first time since his grandmother had sent Charlotte away to find her mate, Adam relaxed. “Grandmother is never wrong,” he insisted, though he’d had a few doubts recently.

“Then how can you explain why that stone hasn’t glowed or whatever it’s supposed to do?” Halesworth demanded.

Adam had no answer except that Charlotte hadn’t found her life mate.

Charlotte stood and stared at her hand.

“What is it?” Anthony asked.

“It’s warm,” Charlotte answered.

“You have been holding it all day,” Michael reminded her.

Charlotte took a step in Adam’s direction, then another, and another, and with each one, her smile grew brighter.

“What is it?” her mother demanded.

“I do believe Mr. Vail is my future.”

Charlotte held up her hand and in the palm was the precious emerald, no longer dull like he remembered, but bright, sparkling from within.

Adam closed his hand over hers. “Lady Charlotte, will you do me the honor of becoming my bride?”

Her eyes met his. “We hardly know one another.”

“We have a lifetime to learn.”

CHAPTER 16

“O h, Charlotte,” her mother cried, coming to her feet. “I’m so happy for you. We shall start planning the wedding straight away!”

“This will not be a grand affair,” her father insisted.

“Of course it will be. She’s our only daughter, and it must be done right.”

“The longer she remains unwed, the longer she remains in danger. A Special License has been requested. As soon as it arrives, we’ll see the deed done,” Father sternly informed Mother.

Special License? This was all happening so fast, and panic rushed through Charlotte as she watched her parents bicker. Then, Adam squeezed her hand, and the moment she looked into his light blue eyes, everything calmed and settled. Even waiting on a Special License would seem to take forever.

“We could always head off to Scotland,” Adam offered.

“My daughter will not be one of those chits who runs off to be married over the anvil,” her mother argued. “Even if we must rush, it will be a respectable marriage. I will not have the ton gossiping about my daughter.” She wagged a finger at them in warning.

“Yes, Mother,” Charlotte answered dutifully while planning her escape. Racing for the border with only Adam at her side sounded delightfully adventurous. And one should begin as one wished to continue. One adventure with him after another.

“She needs to be married as quickly as possible and—”

“Do not finish that sentence,” her mother reprimanded Michael, and Charlotte’s face flamed again. Apparently the wedding wasn’t as important as the bedding.

“When will the Special License arrive?” Adam asked Charlotte’s father.

“A sennight, possibly fortnight.”

“We might as well wait for the banns if it’s going to take that long,” Anthony grumbled.

“That is far too long to leave Charlotte in danger,” Adam argued.

“She’ll just keep that thing around her neck,” Mother insisted.

Did she not understand how important and dangerous this was? Charlotte took the scarf from around her neck. The bruises were deep.

Mother gasped. “That is what he did to you?”

“Why do you think we’ve been so concerned?” Charlotte cried.

“Honestly, I thought you were being a bit melodramatic, dear,” her mother said, not taking her focus from Charlotte’s neck. “You must be married immediately. Gossips be damned.”

“Gwendolyn!” Father roared with shock.

“This is not a time to be sensitive, Donald.” Then she smiled at Charlotte. “Let’s see what we can do about the matter of your marriage being addressed post-haste.”

There were exactly three options available. Traveling to Scotland would be the quickest, but despite the danger, Lady Halesworth insisted on being present when her daughter wed. As the will had not been read yet, it wasn’t as if the family could leave.

Nor was the Special License easy to obtain since it needed to be sent for, and Lord Halesworth couldn’t go for it himself, at least not until after the reading. Then there was waiting for the banns to be read in his parish church, which would be done in the event the Special License did not arrive within three weeks.

Three choices, none of them acceptable.

If it were simply a matter of Charlotte’s innocence, Adam would happily claim her before the vows, but he feared it wasn’t that simple. Marriage and consummation, which meant they’d need to wait. However, that didn’t mean he’d be leaving Castle Keyvnor. Someone needed to be here to protect Charlotte, which he intended to do for the remainder of his life. Her family meant well, but she was to be his, and Adam wasn’t about to let anything happen to her while they were forced to wait.

“I should go inform my grandmother,” he finally said after all wedding options had been discussed and decided upon.

“I’d like to go with you,” Charlotte said. He hadn’t asked her but assumed she would accompany him.

“Grandmother?” Lady Halesworth asked. “The woman who started all of this? The Gypsy?”

His mother’s family had faced many prejudices in his life, and Adam had witnessed many himself. However, he was not going to stand by while his future in-laws looked down upon them as his grandfather did. “Yes,” he answered, waiting for a response. “And she didn’t start all this. A ghost did. She had the second sight to warn Lady Charlotte, thus saving her life.”

Lady Halesworth took a step back as her mouth popped open.

“Further, I am more connected to my mother’s side of the family than I’ve ever been to my father’s. I will remain at Hollybrook Park with Lady Charlotte. When the time comes, I will accept the title of Viscount and attend Parliament. But in my heart, where I truly wish to be is with my grandmother and my family.” He would not stand by if they wanted to pretend that part of his life, his heritage, did not exist.

“I meant no disrespect.” Lady Halesworth stepped forward, holding out her hand to him. “I simply wished to meet her. And thank her.” Tears welled in the marchionesses’ eyes. “My daughter might be dead otherwise.”

Perhaps he had overreacted, but few welcomed Gypsies. His family wouldn’t be here now if Banfield hadn’t wanted to be a thorn in grandfather’s side. And, it was important they understood he was Rom.

That was it! A Rom. A Gypsy. What a bloody fool he’d been.

CHAPTER 17

“Y our grandfather will not be here?” Charlotte asked as Adam led her into the Gypsy camp. Her mother, father, and Anthony followed.

“He will not recognize this marriage.”

“He’d better, after the banns are called,” her mother insisted.

“As long as the church and England has approved, he will,” Adam assured her mother. It was a bloody nuisance to participate in a second wedding when Adam needed only one, but the laws of England would not recognize he and Charlotte’s wedding otherwise.

“How do you know this will work?” Father asked. “If others won’t recognize the marriage…”

“Because I recognize it,” Adam insisted. “In my heart and mind, Charlotte will be my wife, despite the type of ceremony. As long as she feels the same, then the laws of Gajikane matter little.”

He looked down at her. The question in his blue eyes. “It matters not to me how we wed.” Then she leaned up and whispered in his ear. “In fact, I find it all very romantic and adventurous.”

“What is Gajikane?” her mother asked, but the word didn’t roll off her tongue as it did Adam’s.

“Non-Gypsy.” Adam grinned and led them to where Charlotte had come to have her fortune told. She could have never imagined what was to come after that first visit.

Six chairs were set around a table outside of his grandmother’s wagon. The table was covered in a bright red cloth laced with gold. A bottle and one wine glass sat at the center.

There were more people out and about today than the last two times. A half dozen tables dotted the lawn. The men roasted meat over roaring fires, as the women carried large bowls to the tables. So much activity and everyone was smiling and laughing. Were the Gypsies always so happy? And did they always eat as a community?

His grandmother approached and took Adam’s strong hands into her gnarled ones. “Are you happy?”

“Yes.” Adam smiled down at his grandmother with such love and devotion that it nearly broke Charlotte’s heart.

“You know already?” Charlotte asked.

“I knew the moment the two of you met. It was the same as it was for my Lela and Adam’s father.”

“Why did you make me take the emerald back to the castle?” Not only was it not necessary, but it was embarrassing. All of Michael’s friends were probably wondering where her sense had gone.

“I never wanted you to have a question or a doubt.”

“I wouldn’t have,” Charlotte insisted.

“Ah, but your family may have.”

If they’d returned and only told them she needed to be wedded and bedded, who knows who her father would have settled on for her? Even though she didn’t need the proof of a glowing emerald, they would never question this match.

“Come!” His grandmother gestured to the table and then instructed everyone to sit while Adam disappeared into her wagon.

They waited in silence for him to return, though Charlotte couldn’t imagine what he was doing, but her heart soared when he emerged. He’d removed all clothing that identified him as a gentleman and was now wearing brown breeches, a cream linen shirt with billowing sleeves, and dark brown vest with gold buttons. He looked even more the Gypsy than he had when she first encountered him.

Her mother frowned as he took his place beside his grandmother, but she held her tongue.

“Has a bride price been settled upon?” his grandmother asked.

“Bride price?” Charlotte whispered. Was it the same as a dowry? Her father and Adam had been behind closed doors while she and her mother prepared to travel to the Gypsy camp, but she hadn’t asked what was discussed. She did have a rather large dowry, at least according to Anthony and Michael, but she’d just never asked the details. Women weren’t supposed to. Especially since it had meant so little to Charlotte because she’d never consider any gentleman if that was his only reason for wanting her.

“Lord Halesworth will not accept the bride price,” Adam bit out and it was the first time Charlotte sensed any tension between her father and future husband. “He insists upon the English way, by giving me a dowry.”

“You need to pay for me?” Charlotte asked. “That isn’t right?”

Adam turned and took her hand. “No price would be too high to take you as wife.”

Heat surged through her at his touch and words. “Nor any price for you.”

“You must accept the bride price,” his grandmother informed Charlotte’s father. “If they are to be married by our laws, then all must be done as our custom.”

“I cannot accept payment for my daughter.”

“I don’t understand,” her mother finally said.

“Payment is made to the family of the bride to compensate for the loss of a daughter and as a promise that she will be treated well,” Adam explained.

“Very well,” her father ground out. “I’ll accept five pounds.”

Charlotte gasped at the insult. She wasn’t worth any more to him than that?

“A token,” his grandmother hissed. “We will not pay so little when she is worth so much.”

“I don’t wish anything for her. It isn’t right,” her father argued. “It is not our way.”

“It is ours.” His grandmother banged her fist on the table. “You will do this our way, or it will not be done.”

Her father and the old woman held eyes for a moment, before her father broke contact, shaking his head. “I have no idea what to ask.”

“Forty thousand pounds,” Adam announced.

Her father’s mouth popped open as the figure sank into Charlotte’s mind. “That is too much,” she cried.

“It is twice the dowry,” Adam answered. “He insists on paying the dowry, I happily give him twice back.”

“Why not settle on twenty?” her mother asked.

“Because your husband’s pride will not allow him to give his daughter in marriage without a dowry,” his grandmother spoke. “And my grandson’s pride will not simply return the same amount as it would mean he paid no bride price.” She nodded with approval. “This is good. Pride is saved, and the bride price is paid.”

“I do believe I prefer our customs,” Anthony frowned.

“You might change your mind if you are blessed with only daughters,” Adam grinned at him.

Anthony chuckled and shook his head, the tension finally having been broken.

He’d like to be angry with his grandmother for all the trouble she’d forced them to go through, but he couldn’t when this had turned out perfectly. Adam hadn’t been so certain when they’d left the castle. Both he and her father had dug in their heels with regard to the bride price and the dowry. A small fortune would be exchanged for the honor of marrying Charlotte, but he would have paid more if it were demanded of him.

Grandmother poured deep red wine into a goblet and pushed it toward Lord Halesworth. “You must drink to show that you approve of Adam as husband of Lady Charlotte and the terms are in agreement.”

He narrowed his eyes on Adam, still not happy with the terms, but he lifted the cup and drank.

At the sign, the camp broke out in a cheer.

“And now, time for the Pliashka,” Grandmother announced as she stood.

“Pliashka?” Lady Halesworth asked as she looked around in confusion. Charlotte’s family had carried the same confused look upon their features since they’d stepped into the camp. Adam hoped they would remain for the festivities, or his mother’s family might not accept them or Lady Charlotte as his wife.

“A celebration of our betrothal. It is usually held a few days after the betrothal, but we don’t have the convenience of waiting.”

As they moved toward the gathering, an older man approached carrying a bottle wrapped in a red and blue silk, with a gold chain about it. “Uncle George.” Adam embraced the oldest brother of his mother.

“As your father cannot be here, I do the honor.” He removed the necklace of coins and put it around Charlotte’s neck, then embraced her as one of the family.

“My uncle,” Adam introduced the man with pride.

Uncle George then took a drink, passed the bottle to Adam, who did the same, and then handed it to his future father-in-law, who simply stared at it.

“Drink,” his uncle smiled. “To the health and happiness of the children.”

Lord Halesworth tipped the bottle back, took a swig, and then handed it back to Adam, who refused to take it. “To Redgrave,” he said.

Redgrave took the bottle and drank with none of the reluctance of his father. When he’d finished, his Uncle John, the younger brother of his mother, took the bottle, drank and passed it onto the other men in the camp.

Adam offered his arm to Charlotte. “And now, I shall introduce your family to mine.”

CHAPTER 18

“Y ou are really going to marry a Gypsy that you’ve known only five days?” Samantha Priske, Charlotte’s cousin, asked as she stepped into Charlotte’s chambers.

Five days certainly did sound like a short time, but she couldn’t help but feel she’d waited a lifetime for Adam, and she had almost died twice in those few days. “He is also the heir to Viscount Lynwood and will inherit Hollybrook Park.” Though if he chose the Gypsy life, Charlotte would happily wander with him.

“First Cassy and now you? I believe this corner of Cornwall may be quite mad.”

It was still surprising that mild-mannered Cassy had run off in the middle of the night. Charlotte almost didn’t believe the tale, but at the moment, she was much more focused on her own future than her runaway cousin. “Please reconsider and say that you will stand with me.” She crossed the room and took her cousin’s hands. “It would mean everything to me.”

“I don’t see why you just can’t wait to have the banns read like everyone else. You’re getting married in the church in three weeks as it is.”

That was her compromise to marrying Adam today. The Gypsy wedding that would unite them as one and keep her alive, then the one her parents always envisioned and the only one Adam’s grandfather would accept, in three weeks, in a proper church with a proper blessing. The church wedding wasn’t for her or Adam, it was for everyone else. But she couldn’t explain to Samantha that there was an urgency to her marrying Adam today, and that her very life may depend upon it.

“I don’t wish to wait.” Charlotte smiled and then turned in the room, the full skirts billowing out. “I am in love. I knew Adam was the one almost the moment I met him, and I can’t wait to be his wife.”

Samantha frowned at her. “Do you really need your hair to be braided like that? It isn’t very formal given this is your wedding.”

“It is custom.” Charlotte smiled, though her mother still insisted that she be dressed as a proper English lady. “And you’re one to talk about hair!”

Her cousin smiled sheepishly. “How did you know?”

“That you’d turned it orange? I’m afraid the whole castle knows by now. But never worry. That scarf looks lovely on you, and quite decidedly Gypsy. You will fit right in.”

The feasting and drinking would go well into the night, and probably into tomorrow, but Adam had a much more enjoyable way to celebrate his wedding to Charlotte. It was time to take his bride home. Except it wasn’t to Hollybrook Park, but to the cottage, situated further away from the others, the place he’d built for his grandmother, that would be his and Charlotte’s tonight.

At the nudging of his grandmother, Lady Halesworth came forward and unbraided Charlotte’s golden curls before his grandmother placed the headscarf on her head, knotting it and proclaiming Charlotte to be a married woman.

All Adam wanted to do was sweep her up in his arms, race across the camp, and disappear into the cabin. His mother’s family would cheer and perhaps a few guns would be fired off as laughter followed them. However, it wasn’t just his family here but Charlotte’s too. Her parents had remained seated with his grandmother all evening, taking everything in, smiling politely, though their discomfort was obvious. This was not the type of wedding celebration they were used to in society. The traditional wedding breakfast had been replaced by an outdoor buffet, the earthy dances of the Rom took the place of country dances, and the music came not from a small orchestra on a dais, but from his family’s handmade instruments.

Redgrave, Lord Henry, and Lord Michael enjoyed themselves the most, getting to know Adam’s relatives, asking questions, learning the customs, and dancing with the pretty women. Redgrave, normally sober and controlled, even relaxed and allowed himself to be pulled into a few dances. Adam had expected he would be the one to disappear early, but it had been Lord Henry.

His grandmother nodded and Adam approached; taking Charlotte’s hand, he led her around the merry group toward the cottage. The farther they walked, the darker it became, easing farther and farther from the light and music.

Her small hand trembled in his, and Adam feared she might be having second thoughts. This was rather quick. Quicker than he’d ever imagined, but his heart and soul called for Charlotte, and now she was his.

They paused at the entrance after Adam opened the door. He turned, swept Charlotte up in his arms, entered, and kicked the door shut behind him.

CHAPTER 19

It would be a wedding she’d never forget, but now she was alone with her husband. The violins and laughter could be heard in the distance, and they’d probably hear them long into the night.

Adam let her slide from his arms, her body against his until her toes touched the floor. Her heart pounded and body heated, and she tilted her head back waiting for his kiss.

Instead, Adam grumbled and set her aside.

Had she done something wrong?

“One moment.” With that, he locked the door and pushed a tall dresser in front of it. He then made sure all the windows were locked and curtains were securely closed and that nobody could enter.

“My many cousins are drinking heavily tonight.” He laughed. “It is not unusual for them to pull pranks in their inebriated state, and I don’t want them to decide to visit us.”

Her face flamed. “Perhaps we should return to your home, or the castle.”

“No, my love.” He drew her back into his arms again. “We are safer here than either of those places, especially Castle Keyvnor.”

Truthfully, Charlotte hadn’t felt safe anywhere since she’d been attacked in Adam’s home.

“Put thoughts of danger from your mind and think only of love.”

“Love?” she blinked at him.

“Yes, love. You are my heart, mate to my soul, the very breath I breathe.”

Her heart melted. “And you are my heart. You lived in me before I ever knew you.”

Adam brushed his lips against hers, ever so lightly and gently. Charlotte ached for more.

“The passion I feel for you is barely contained.”

“Unleash it.”

“I don’t want to rush this.”

“Rush?”

“Passion reigned that first night we kissed. I shall rule it. It is your wedding night, and I want you to know tenderness.”

“What if I don’t want it ruled?” She didn’t. She wanted to be swept away by his lips and his touch. To burn with the need that nearly engulfed her before.

Adam cradled her face in his hands and lowered his lips once more. This time he didn’t tease but pressed on. Charlotte grasped him to her, molding her mouth to his, opening to him, needing to be closer. The flame ignited, her skin heated, her breasts swelled, and her clothing became unbearably tight. She pushed the coat from his shoulders, then started pulling at the buttons on his waistcoat as he loosened the back of her gown. He pushed her away only long enough to slide the sleeves down her body, and soon she was standing in only her shift, with the silk pooled at her feet.He stepped back, keeping her at arm’s length as his blue eyes raked her from head to toe. His heated gaze nearly scorched her.

“So beautiful. So perfect.”

Adam ripped the shirt over his head and then yanked both boots from his feet before returning to her.

“I must see what you’ve hidden from me.”

Charlotte blinked up at him as her face heated. He didn’t really expect her to be completely unclothed outside of the bed, did he?

A slow smile came to his lips. “There is no need to be shy, Charlotte. Not now. Not ever.”

And then, he touched her. Lifting her breasts as if weighing them. Her nipples tightened as heat shot to her most private areas. A moment later Adam pulled her against him, lifting her higher, and his mouth captured one breast through her shift.

Charlotte let her head fall back as a moan escaped her throat.

Adam carried her to the bed and together they fell onto it, their bodies entwining, his lips everywhere, and her hands caressing his skin.

She didn’t know how or when, but soon all clothing was gone and he was upon her, pressing against her womanhood. She wanted this. She needed this now. Charlotte arched and drew his mouth to hers as he thrust. The pain was gone almost as soon as it began and then he moved, drawing back and then forward. An ache, a need, pressure, pleasure, spinning and building. His lips on hers, his hands on her breasts, her body lifting to meet his.

“Come with me, Charlotte,” he whispered against her mouth.

And with those words, the most extraordinary burst of pleasure exploded deep inside of her as Adam arched and groaned, filling her deeper than he had before. The bed shook at the intensity, and fragile items fell from the shelves, crashing to the floor.

Adam stilled and lifted his head.

Charlotte glimpsed at him. At first, she’d thought the pure, exquisite eruption from within had altered everything around them, but now that she was more aware, coming back to the present, and reality, she realized that the shaking was something else altogether, though she wasn’t sure quite what it was.

“The earth moved,” Adam laughed.

“What do you think happened?”

“I’d like to think it was forces beyond our understanding removing Lord Tyrell from your presence,” he said as he pulled away from her and went to the window. Pushing the curtain to the side he glanced out. “My family, they’re looking to Castle Keyvnor and the sea.”

Charlotte pulled herself from the bed, her legs shaky from what she’d just enjoyed with her husband, and wrapped a blanket around her before joining him to look out. Some of his family was pointing, others were rushing towards the sea. “Do you think we should find out what is going on?”

Adam pulled her close. “If there is an emergency, or we are needed, they will come for us.” Turning toward her, he hugged her close, then pulled the blanket away. “This is our night, and I’m not leaving this cottage until the light streaks the skies.”

The cloud of passion lifted, and Adam stared at the ceiling while rubbing his hand up and down Charlotte’s back. He’d meant to remain in control. To be gentle and loving. But twice now he’d failed. However, he wasn’t the only one who’d been ruled by passion. She’d torn at his trousers while kissing his chest, needing him to be in her as much as he needed to be there after he’d first undressed her. Her enthusiasm for his touch hadn’t lessened the second time he brought her to him.

Would it always be like this, or was it simply because it was their first night together? As invigorating and satisfying as this was, Adam did hope that in time they could enjoy each other, prolong the ending, giving and getting pleasure, lazy and slow.

Charlotte tilted her head back and smiled up at him. The only thing she wore was the putsi around her neck, which would remain until tomorrow, when they were surrounded. The last thing Adam wanted was for Charlotte to be attacked tonight, of all nights. He didn’t fancy fighting a ghost in the nude.

“I do love you, Charlotte Vail.”

“And I so love you.”

CHAPTER 20

The camp was quiet when she and Adam emerged from the cottage the following morning. A few people were about, but most everyone was still asleep even though the sun had risen hours ago. Not that Charlotte blamed them. They had celebrated long into the morning hours. She’d heard them.

Whatever had happened last night that caused the ground to shake must not have been so dire that it would cause the celebration to cease.

Adam took her hand in his as they started for this grandmother’s wagon. Charlotte should be tired as well, having not slept much herself, but instead, she was exhilarated and ready to start her life as Adam’s wife.

And, in the light of day, she had a hard time believing any of this was real. Had she really met a beautiful man, fallen in love, and married in less than a week? She fingered the putsi around her neck. Had she not come for her fortune that first day, her parents may have already buried her instead.

A chill shot down her spine as the memories of being strangled flooded her mind.

The putsi had protected her, but had it made her fall in love too? Would this euphoria of being with Adam disappear once she returned the emerald? That was what she feared most. She hadn’t believed in magic when she arrived at Castle Keyvnor, but she certainly believed in it now. What if what tied them together was magic, a green stone that she must now hand over to his grandmother?

The older woman waited for them, a smile on her wrinkled face. “It is done.”

“I am now free?” Charlotte began to take the putsi from her neck.

“Leave it child. We were only assuming marriage and bedding would keep you safe.”

Her heart skipped a beat. The rushed wedding may not have been necessary? Not that she’d change anything that had happened since she had first glimpsed Adam chopping wood--other than near death--but Charlotte wasn’t certain how she felt about needing to wear this for the rest of her life.

“Remove it at Castle Keyvnor, near your family for your protection. It is where the baron wanders, where his strength may be. If he does not come after you when you remove it there, then you are safe.”

She let the pouch drop and nodded. “I’ll return it to you as soon as I know for certain that I am safe.”

The old woman grasped her hand. “No. Keep it.”

“You might have need for it?”

Her smile was kind, loving. “The emerald was fashioned for my daughter, then it worked for her son. I have no others who are in need of it, but one day, you will have daughters and sons of your own. It will show them their love as well.”

Daughters and sons? Of course she and Adam would have children. He did need an heir and a spare, but she really hadn’t given much thought to children.

“And, since my grandson’s passion for you is so strong, you will see your first born before a year has passed.”

“Is that her fortune, Puri daj? The one Charlotte came looking for?”

“No, Adam. Her fortune is you, and she is yours.”

Charlotte looked up into Adam’s blue eyes. He was her fortune and her future, and her fears this morning were for naught. He was her heart and her soul, and she didn’t need any stone to make it so.

Adam took a deep breath and escorted Charlotte into Castle Keyvnor. They would not remain here as her things had already been delivered to Hollybrook Park, and as soon as the reading of the will was complete, her family would join them there until the wedding. It was the wedding that would be reported in the newspapers, if anyone bothered to ask. As far as Adam cared, he’d not set foot in London again, until it was absolutely necessary. He no longer had need to search for a wife.

Redgrave stepped into the foyer, his eyebrows raised in surprise. “You are still wearing that thing?” Then sent Adam a censuring look. “Did matters not proceed as planned?”

Was the man actually asking if Adam was not successful in bedding his wife? Had Charlotte not been standing there, Adam would have assured Redgrave that he’d done his duty, several times last night.

But as Redgrave was also Charlotte’s older brother, that might not be wise. “My grandmother thought it best to remove it here, where the threat originated, with others present in the event help was needed.

The light humor dropped from Redgrave’s lips and he sobered. “Of course. I’ll summon Michael.”

The brothers returned a short time later. Lord Michael had to be pulled from bed. His hair had not been combed, and his eyes were red from a night of celebration and too much wine. “Must we do this now?” he complained while rubbing his temple.

“Yes. I want it gone,” Charlotte nearly screeched and then grinned when Lord Michael winced.

“You’ve always had a cruel streak.” Lord Michael walked past Adam. “I should have warned you, but now it’s too late.”

“Enough,” she finally said and took a deep breath. “Let’s do this.”

The three of them surrounded her in the sitting room and Adam watched as she lifted the putsi from her neck, stretched out her arm, closed her eyes, and dropped it into his hand.

They waited.

Charlotte opened one eye. Then the other. Then looked around. Not even a slight breeze.

“Step back,” Adam said. Perhaps the putsi was still too close to her person.

They did. Still nothing.

He took another step back, putting distance between himself and his wife while he held tight to the talisman.

The air didn’t even stir.

“It really worked?” she asked in a whisper

Adam moved forward and pulled her into his arms. “It really worked.”

“I’m free,” she cried with happiness, and it was as if he could feel all tension leave her body, as it had a few times last night.

“That all depends on what you consider free. You are stuck with him now.” Lord Michael smirked.

“I’ll have you know that I’m very happy to be stuck with him.”

“And I couldn’t be happier to be stuck with her for the rest of my days.”

ALSO BY JANE CHARLES

Historical Romances

The Wiggons’ School for Elegant Young Ladies Series

To Walk in the Sun

Ghosts from the Past

The Tenacious Trents

Compromised for Christmas (novella)

A Misguided Lord

A Perfect Gentleman

A Lass for Christmas (novella)

A Reluctant Rake

Lady Revealed

Lady Disguised (novella)

Lady Concealed

A Tenacious Trents Wedding (novella)

Lady Admired

Tenacious Trent Connected Novellas

Landing a Laird

Devil in Her Dreams

Muses

Her Muse, Lord Patrick (novella)

Her Muse, His Magic (novella)

Her Muse, Her David

Her Muse, His Grace

A Gentleman’s Guide to Once Upon a Time Series

His Impetuous Debutante

His Contrary Bride

His (Not so) Sensible Miss

His Christmas Match

The Spirited Storms

Christmas Spirits

Ruined by A Lady (Evading the Duke anthology)

Weathering Captain Storm

Lady Hannah’s Holiday (coming soon)

To Love a Governess Series

Sacked – Regency Short

Handfasted – Regency Novella

Ruined – Regency Short

Contemporary

Baxter Boys

Rattled: Rattled #1 (Baxter Boys Series ~ Rattled)

Still Rattled: Rattled #2 (Baxter Boys Series ~ Rattled)

The Rattle Box: Rattled #3 (Baxter Boys Series ~ Rattled)

Baxter Academy

Valentine Wishes: The Legacy #1 (Baxter Academy Series ~ The Legacy)

Colors of You: The Academy #1 (Baxter Academy Series ~ The Academy)

Shadows of Memories: The Academy # 2 (Baxter Academy Series ~ The Academy)

Casting Doubt: The Academy # 3 (Baxter Academy Series ~ The Academy)

Between the Lines: The Academy #4 (Baxter Academy Series ~ The Academy)

About Jane

Jane Charles is a USA Today Bestselling author who has lived in the Midwest her entire life. As a child she would more likely be found outside with a baseball than a book in her hand. In fact, Jane hated reading until she was sixteen. Out of boredom on a long road trip she borrowed her older sister’s historical romance and fell in love. Eventually she penned one of the many stories that were always in her head and discovered her passion for writing. Jane is an author of both historical and contemporary and blames being a Gemini on why she can’t pick one over the other.

ABOUT JANE CHARLES

Jane Charles is a USA Today Bestselling Author and has lived in the Midwest her entire life. As a child she would more likely be found outside with a baseball than a book in her hand. In fact, Jane hated reading until she was sixteen. Out of boredom on a long road trip she borrowed her older sister's historical romance and fell in love with reading. She long ago lost count of how many novels she has read over the years and her love for them never died. Along with romance she has a passion for history and the two soon combined when she penned her first historical romance, and she has been writing since with the loving support from her husband, three children and three cats. She writes both historical (set in the Regency period) and Coming of Age contemporary.

Connect With Jane

- @JaneACharles

- JaneCharlesAuthor

www.janecharlesauthor.com

ALSO BY JANE CHARLES

THE TENACIOUS TRENTS

Compromised For Christmas

Landing a Laird

A Misguided Lord

A Perfect Gentlemen

Devil in Her Dreams

A Lass For Christmas

A Reluctant Rake

Lady Revealed

Lady Disguised

Lady Concealed

A Tenacious Trent’s Wedding

Lady Admired

THE SPIRITED STORMS

Christmas Spirits

Ruined by a Lady

Weathering Captain Storm

Lady Hannah’s Holiday

WIGGON’S SCHOOL FOR ELEGANT YOUNG LADIES

To Walk in the Sun

Ghosts From the Past

A GENTLEMAN’S GUIDE TO ONCE UPON A TIME

His Impetuous Debutante

His Contrary Bride

His Not So Sensible Miss

His Christmas Match

MUSES

Her Muse, Lord Patrick

Her Muse, Her Magic

Her Muse, Her David

Her Muse, His Grace

To Love a Governess

Sacked

Hand fasted

Ruined

CONTEMPORARY

Baxter Boys

Rattled: Rattled #1 (Baxter Boys Series ~ Rattled)

Still Rattled: Rattled #2 (Baxter Boys Series ~ Rattled)

The Rattle Box: Rattled #3 (Baxter Boys Series ~ Rattled)

Baxter Academy

Valentine Wishes: The Legacy #1 (Baxter Academy Series ~ The Legacy)

Colors of You: The Academy #1 (Baxter Academy Series ~ The Academy)

Shadows of Memory: The Academy #2 (Baxter Academy Series ~ The Academy)

Casting Doubt: The Academy #3 (Baxter Academy Series ~ The Academy)

Between the Lines: The Academy #4 (Baxter Academy Series ~ The Academy)

LADY GHOST & LORD DEATH: A LOVE STORY

CLAUDIA DAIN

CHAPTER 1

N ell had never believed in ghosts, which made being a ghost that much more uncomfortable.

Nell had died from a surfeit of oysters not long after her beloved Roland had died at the sword point of a Banfield during what had come to be called the War of the Roses. A battle of kings and kingdoms, a battle that had little to do with the common man, though Roland was hardly that, yet he had died for another man’s cause, making common cause with the king who had finally won his throne. Banfield, clever as they all were, had politicked his way into favor and had secured his son’s future, and so on to this day. She was unsure what day it was, dates having less and less meaning the longer one lingered in this half-life of gray and lingering purgatory.

She was in purgatory. She had self-murdered, the worst of all sins. She had eaten a robust helping of oysters upon hearing of Roland’s death, once she knew she wasn’t with child, and died. She had followed dearest Roland into death, an act of love she knew he would cherish for eternity.

She had been such a romantic fool.

She could not tolerate oysters, something her priest did not know. But God knew. Turning her into a ghost was His punishment, and no mistake about it.

It had taken her some time to find Roland in the ghostly half-world of sprites and elves and spirits, but find him she had, in the very place of his eternal enemy, the Earls of Banfield and their many progeny. The grim Castle Keyvnor, on the rough coast of Cornwall was their haunting place, for how could she leave him when she had died to be with him, to share whatever fate he faced?

She was still a hopeless romantic.

Once Roland got over the shock of being a ghost, and of Nell being a ghost, and of them being together in ghostly togetherness for all eternity, or until God changed his mind about them, Roland had become quite changeable in his affections for her. He had been more devoted as a hot-blooded lover than he was as cold, gray vapor. Roland had not been as touched by her sacrifice as she had imagined he would be.

They had been making war and peace upon each other for 300 years, as close as she could tell.

God certainly had a very long memory.

Roland had just disappeared in a fury of outrage and venom and all the usual passions to which he was endowed. Theirs had always been a tempestuous, passionate, volatile relationship. She was as passionate as he was, perhaps more so, and there had been the stray thought that she might have been in the grip of some nameless, ill-conceived passion when she had devoured those long-ago oysters.

Yet, had she not died for love? Was that not noble, after a fashion?

Still, after a few years of being ghostly, one did tire of it so. There were so few amusements. Even passion dimmed with the years, though when one was given a surfeit of passion as one’s natural bounty, that same passion did not dwindle swiftly.

Hence, the passion of their latest fight.

There was a girl, a quite ridiculous girl, from Bocka Morrow, the fishing village near the castle, who was aware of Roland, ghostly Roland, and who had convinced herself she was in love with him and planned to do herself a mortal injury so that they could spend eternity together.

A familiar tale, to be sure.

Roland must be quite pleased with himself, getting girls to do themselves in over love for him. Naturally, Mary, the ridiculous girl, could not have gotten this idea into her head without considerable help from Roland. Roland had, for all that he could in his present state, been unfaithful to her with the village idiot.

Roland, the scoundrel, had denied it. She had screamed her accusations at him, quite appropriately considering his crime. He had snarled denunciations at her, his eyes blazing furiously. Mary had been standing near the beech tree that she and Roland had watched grow from sapling to maturity, their tree, if anyone could have a tree, and Roland had been hovering quite near to Mary when Nell caught them together. What more proof was needed?

As things between Nell and Roland had always proceeded swiftly and thunderously, they did so again, and Mary, the imbecile, had been caught in the midst of their argument. Mary, her mouth agape like the idiot she was, her hair standing on end, her dull shawl flying around her like a bat until it got swept up and tangled in the highest branches of the beech, had eventually screamed and run back toward the village down the path. Roland had cursed Nell and disappeared in a swirl of mist and cloud. Nell was tempted to follow Mary, to see if Roland was following Mary, but she could not make herself spend one more moment looking at the horrid girl.

Mary, for all her rank stupidity, was quite lovely. She had a mass of curling black hair, flawless skin, crystalline blue eyes, and long graceful fingers. Mary was fifteen years old and as completely ridiculous and effortlessly beautiful as all fifteen years old were. Nell remembered her own fifteenth year quite vividly. She had been fifteen when she’d seen Roland for the first time; her hair, tight red gold curls tumbling down her back, had been her glory. Her skin had been alabaster, her eyes the blue green of a shallow sea, her features elegant and her form slender. Roland had become entranced with her with his first look.

Naturally, he denied all that now.

But that had been long ago. Ghosts wandered a colorful world, but they did not have color. Her hair was gray, her skin was gray, her eyes were gray, as were Roland’s, yet somehow, being a man, he carried it all off. It was quite unfair of him.

Ghosts, dead and not gone, drifted on currents of invisible air, their life force spent. She looked hideous now. There was no denying it. She did not appear corrupted, it was not to that state, but her hair did not gleam like a golden river in the sun (Roland’s first compliment to her) nor did her skin glow like the whitest, purest wax candle (King Henry). How could Mary, even in her grubby skirt, not defeat her in a war of beauty?

Nell wandered away from the gnarled beech, letting herself drift back towards Castle Keyvnor. The castle was busy now, the Lord Banfield having died and not having gone to ghost, and his will was being read soon. The family, his great extended family, was coming from far and wide to hear the reading of his will. It might distract Roland from Mary. Though probably not.

They had seen so many die in this place, had seen so many born, so many marriages; she almost felt herself to be more of a Banfield than any living Banfield possibly could. She had seen the castle grow and then wither until infused with enough currency to grow again. The grounds had extended, becoming increasingly clipped and restrained, wilderness tamed, until a billowing sort of false Eden became the fashion in gardens and hedges were destroyed that had taken decades to mature. She missed the formality of the hedges.

Nell walked toward the setting sun, the light shining up against the branches of the wood. Mary was no where to be heard, the single scream having sufficed. Roland she could not sense. He must be far off, hiding, if he was any judge at all of her mood.

After more than 300 years, he should know her moods exceedingly well.

Roland was not a cold-hearted man, even if he was merely a vapor within the mist. He was trying to avoid Mary, that ridiculous girl, not seduce her. What could he possibly want with a fifteen year old girl? In his present condition. If he still had hot blood in his veins . . . but he did not. It was getting so that he could hardly remember being hot-blooded.

Mary had been following him about with a moody, theatrical air, making proclamations of ‘sensing the ghost’ and similar rot, and generally making a royal nuisance of herself. Roland could have ignored her, and would have, if Nell had.

Nell had taken an instant dislike to Mary, not without cause, and the whole thing had blossomed from there. Now that the Earl of Banfield had died, his relatives surging into the castle yard like the spring flood, Mary’s theatrics would likely be buried in the tide of horses and carriages rushing into Bocka Morrow. The castle yard was being swept, the dead limbs trimmed from all the most obvious trees and the autumn leaves burned. A will reading did bring them out, like termites from a dead oak.

“Looking for her?” Nell said at his elbow.

“Just looking,” he said. “Lots of activity. Looks to be an exciting autumn. For once.”

They were sitting on the roof of the inn, a slate roof on a stone building, the clouds building for rain. If they had possessed hot-blooded bodies, the position would have been uncomfortable in the extreme. But nothing was uncomfortable any longer. He missed his body, even after all these centuries. He’d had such a good time in his body, really made use of it, one could say. And Nell had said, more than once.

“You always did enjoy a crowd,” Nell said, flinging back her mane of hair with a graceful hand.

“I remember you dancing until the candles sputtered out, more than once.”

“Yes, well, I wasn’t going to leave you alone, was I?”

They stared in silence at the carriages rolling through Bocka Morrow. They had begun arriving yesterday, a trickle to start, building now to a flood tide. Grand carriages of various colors in shining lacquer for the deep pocketed among the relatives, plain black coaches for the lesser endowed, smartly dressed gentlemen with mud splatter patterns upon their coats riding gleaming horses from black to roan to gray. All Banfields or friends of Banfield. He felt the echo of hot-blooded hate rise in his throat.

“A pretty party to send off a minor lordling sitting upon a rocky coast on the edge of the world,” he said.

Nell looked askance at him, the ends of her hair lifting in a ghostly wind. “You still hate him.”

“I do. He cut my throat, the dog.”

“He acted in the name of the king.”

“As did I. He enjoyed it, draining me dry,” Roland growled. “There’d been bad blood between us for years.”

“It seems a waste to me, to think of him still. He has the victory over you yet, just in that.”

“I do not answer to you, girl, nor to him. Nor to anyone, by God.”

“And so you are suspended in this halfway world. Be answerable to God and He may release us both from this gray land of shadows and mist.”

Roland only grunted. They had spent years on this contested ground. He had nothing more to say on the topic. He hated Banfield, all of them, and he would not apologize for it.

“Who’s that, do you reckon?” she asked, changing the subject.

“Has to be a Banfield, one way or t’other,” he said, crossing his arms in disgust.

“He came yesterday with some others. You were too busy with Mary to pay him any mind.” Roland said nothing. He had noted the coming of this rider on splendid riding stock yesterday; the man was out upon his stallion today, getting the feel of him and doing a fine job of it, too. He had not mentioned it to Nell. He did not mention every passing thought to Nell, a fact which annoyed her, which only made it well worth doing.

“Halesworth’s boy, do you think?” Nell asked. “He has the look of him.”

Roland looked, saw no resemblance and said nothing. To be honest, he had paid more attention to the man’s stallion. He cared for horseflesh, always had, and the passing centuries had not changed that.

“What a likely looking lad,” Nell said. “So handsome, on his fine horse.”

Roland grunted and said, “A Banfield brought him. Only a Banfield would bring friends to a will reading. Appalling want of taste.”

“Hmm, perhaps. Though I do remember you once attending your great-aunt’s funeral procession drunk as any sailor on his first night ashore in a year.”

“That was entirely different.”

“Of course you’d say that.”

Nell smiled at him and crossed her hands over a cocked knee, studying the gentleman. As he moved past Bocka Morrow and toward Castle Keyvnor, Nell drifted off after him. Roland drifted off after her. He sensed a wager in the making. He had a nose for such things. In fact, it was as a result of a lost wager that he gone drunk to old Aunt Eldith’s funeral. The old girl would have understood entirely.

The castle yard was in a fury of activity today, bodies clustered everywhere. Nell floated above the man on the stallion, looking acquisitive. Definitely a wager in the air when Nell got that particular look. She had not seen him arrive yesterday. Very little that the living did was of interest to the dead. Still, this level of activity was unusual for Keyvnor and the centuries did tend to drag on.

Two carriages pulled into the courtyard, startling the distracted stallion. The imp ghost, that Banfield boy who’d drowned, was worrying the horse, sending him back upon his rear hooves, front hooves flying at the gray imp tormenting him. The two carriage drivers, holding nothing but Banfields, did not even turn their heads at the commotion.

Roland looked at the imp in deep disapproval. Shocking mistreatment of horse flesh. The boy should be whipped and then scolded, and then whipped again for good measure.

Too young to be a ghost, completely unsupervised and bored beyond bearing, and too young to bother learning how to bear it, Paul was a continual problem. Roland hated the Banfields, every one, but this boy, drowned years ago, had deserved a better end. As to that, Roland deserved a more peaceful afterlife.

Out of the two carriages stepped six young women, looking quite the worse for the ride. Their clothing was askew and their hair mussed. Still, they were very nice looking girls, very nice looking, even though he could see at a glance that they were Banfields, through and through. Allan Hambly and his wife also exited the carriages, looking tired and worn through. Roland smiled at the sight of that.

The man on horseback whirled, holding his seat and his temper. Remarkable bit of showmanship and form. The fellow got his mount under control, looked at the stallion with stern disapproval, rightly so as he could not know Paul was the cause of it all, and then looked across at the girls standing in the yard, fussing with their garments, ignoring him entirely.

“They don’t look attached,” Nell said.

“Attached? Attached to what?”

“To whom, is the correct parlance, Roland,” Nell said, smiling a wicked sort of smile. “I don’t believe those ladies are attached.” When he only scowled at her, she added, “They are not married, Roland. Everyone should be married.”

“We were not married.”

“How well I know it!” she snapped.

How like Nell to be annoyed by that fact. Women always were unhappy about being unmarried. It was completely commonplace.

“I don’t know how you can determine if they are married by just looking at them,” he said. “They all look perfectly ordinary to me.”

“That is why,” she said. “Each one of them looks so very ordinary. If they were in love, if they were married, they would sparkle.”

“Sparkle,” he said. “I’ve yet to see anyone sparkle, and I have been looking about for a few centuries now.”

“From the inside,” she said. “Love sparkles. To make a lifelong commitment to another produces the most miraculous glow in people. I’m not surprised you’ve never noticed; it is not like you to notice such things.”

“And it is like you?”

“Obviously,” she said, blinking at him in a most superior, self-satisfied fashion. Most unsatisfactory. “I think those two would make a beautiful couple,” she said, pointing to the rider who had kept his seat and then to one of the girls who had lurched from the carriage. She had an elfin look to her, somehow. Her features were small, her eyes and brows tilted up at the corners and her chin was narrow. Her hair was a unremarkable shade of dark blonde and her eyes the light blue of a cold winter sky. “Though he is rather dark. Do you think he’s a Spaniard? They are so . . . hot-blooded,” Nell said on a shiver of delighted laughter.

Of all the phrases to use, Nell had hit upon the one to cause him the most annoyance. She had a rare talent for it, and had even before three and more centuries of practice.

“There is no point in denying you dallied with that Spaniard in court,” he said. “I knew it then and I know it now.”

“I did not dally. I flirted. There is a difference,” she said, looking far too pleased with herself. “Do you think he might be a Spaniard? She might not be a good match for him, if so. She looks rather delicate, don’t you think?”

“Yes, she does,” he said, stroking his bearded chin. “She’s quite the delicate beauty, isn’t she, now that I study her. Quite delicate coloring, too. Always attractive in a woman.”

It was just the thing to say. Nell had lost her vivid coloring; white skin, shining blue eyes, flaming red gold hair, upon death. She mourned the loss still. He had been dirt brown of hair and eye; he did not miss one instant of it.

“You think them a match, eh?” he said, floating down over the girl, looking her up and down. The girl shivered and pulled her cloak more securely about her body; she had a nice shape to her, lithe and trim. “I suppose she could do worse. He has quite a fine seat, if you hadn’t noticed. He handled that stallion with ease and grace. Essential quality in a man.”

“She won’t fall in love with him because of his horsemanship,” Nell said. “She will fall in love with him because he is handsome and kind and devoted. Those are the essential qualities in a man.”

“I suppose he should turn water into wine as well,” Roland said.

“Don’t blaspheme! Would you extend this purgatory?” she said, crossing herself.

“Women,” Roland said, shaking his head. “You expect too much of a man. He is simply a man, not a saint with candles at his feet. This one, whoever he is, looks healthy, rides a good horse well, and has the self-restraint not to punish his mount for a wild moment of fright. Let that be enough for any woman, even this elfish girl of miserable parentage.”

“She cannot help her parentage, which even you must confess,” she snapped. “Get away from the poor little thing! Can’t you see you’re chilling her to the bone?”

Roland looked at the girl. She was shivering incessantly and looked a trifle blue about the lips. Her sisters, for that they were, he could sense the Banfield blood in them, looked at her in perplexity as they walked into the hall of Castle Keyvnor, unfastening their cloaks. She clutched hers to her chin.

One of the girls, the plainest of the pack, lost her cloak in the frosty, ghostly gale that was the essence of him.

Being a ghost was the opposite of being hot-blooded.

The man who had not been thrown from his horse had dismounted and joined a party of fellows, discussing women, as any hot-blooded man would do and should do. The introductions had not been made and were not likely to be made in the castle courtyard. Far too casual a setting for such a thing, at such a time. They were here for a will reading, after all. The event was dangerously close to developing a party atmosphere.

Manners had gone to ruin since the 1400s.

“I think there is something there, don’t you?” Nell said.

“Something where? Between the horseman and the Banfield chit?”

“Yes,” Nell said. “I do believe that he will fall in love with the Banfield chit and make a complete fool of himself for love of her.”

“No man deserves that, and I’ll see him saved from the Banfields. I’d do no less for any man.”

“Would you?” Nell said, following the party into the hall. It was a cavernous space, old and drafty and full of memory, Banfield memory. He hated the place. “Even if he is a Spaniard?”

That stopped him for a moment. He did hate the Spaniards. The group of them stood together now, and a Banfield man among them. Lord Michael Beck was the one with Banfield blood, he had discerned that much yesterday.

Roland scowled, waiting for the horseman to be named. He did not like being forced to wait to find out if the man was a Spaniard or not. In a murmur of conversation, he grasped hold of the name: Harold Mort, Viscount Blackwater. That holding was in Ireland, southeast coast, if he was not mistaken. Not a Spaniard!

“Ha,” Roland said, looking at Nell. She stood in the midst of the girls, studying them.

“They’re sisters, Roland. How lovely they are,” she said.

“For Banfields, I suppose,” he said, shrugging, drifting closer to the girls. Nell was wrong; he did blame them for their parentage.

“My girl is named Morgan,” Nell said, smiling at the girl. Morgan’s nose was runny and red-tipped from the cold that always came with ghostly presence; the girl seemed highly sensitive to it, more than most. “Won’t she make a beautiful bride?”

“With that nose?” he said.

Nell rose to the top of the lofty ceiling, smiling down at the group below. Roland joined her there. Blackwater lifted his face to study the ceiling, a frown marking his face.

“They are a stunning couple. I thought his eyes were brown, but they’re blue, the deepest, darkest blue I’ve ever beheld,” Nell gushed, quite unbecomingly. “How long do you think it will take for him to offer for her? He won’t last the week, I shouldn’t think.”

“That man will not be taken in by a Banfield,” Roland said. “I won’t stand for it.”

“Oh, you are the only one here who has anything against the Banfield name,” Nell said, making a dismissive gesture with one hand. “I shouldn’t think he’ll have a problem with her father being the Earl of Banfield. Look! He’s looking at her now, and he looks half smitten already, doesn’t he?”

“He most certainly does not.”

Roland was not going to allow it. He simply was not. He did not bother to hide his feelings on the matter.

“You aren’t going to do anything to hinder their romance, Roland,” Nell said, looking instantly cross. “I know you. I know how you work and I won’t see it happen here. They are going to fall in love and they are going to be married! I won’t hear a word against them.”

“And I won’t hear a word for them!” he said, his voice rising. “That man wandered into this nest of adders and he shall, by God, wander out again without encumbrance!”

“A wife is not an encumbrance!” she shouted.

“Ask any husband that question and see what he answers!” he shouted in reply.

The giant candelabra, freshly dusted and wiped free of cobwebs, swung lightly upon its chain. Blackwater looked on, his frown deepening. Morgan, the Banfield chit, had a handkerchief to her nose and was lightly stamping her feet on the stone floor.

“I say he shall love her and want her for his own,” Nell said.

“I say that fine horseman shall not be chained to a Banfield for all his life.”

“If he’d fallen in the mud you’d think otherwise, I suppose?”

No, probably not, but he hadn’t fallen and a man deserved an ally, even a ghostly one, when women set their caps to marriage.

“He didn’t fall,” he said, “and he shall not marry that girl.”

“We shall see, won’t we?” Nell said, and with those words, Nell was gone.

But not far. She couldn’t go farther than either Lady Morgan Hambly or Harold Mort, not if she was going to force a marriage upon them. He would have to stay close to the two of them as well. He did hope he could work well with Blackwater. Anything to avoid that Banfield girl.

CHAPTER 2

Harold Mort, Viscount Blackwater, had ridden across the breadth of England on a lark. He and Jack and Teddy had accompanied Michael to a will reading, not something one generally did for a lark. Spending time in Cornwall was also not something one normally thought of as a lark. The landscape was rugged and romantic, according to some, those who were desperate to see romantic qualities in every blessed thing. Hal did not possess that degree of desperation. He saw Cornwall as it was: bleak, barren, boring.

Hal had ridden to Cornwall because he was riding a newly purchased stallion, one he’d picked up at Newmarket, and wanted to learn the fellow, and have the fellow learn him. He’d also been happy enough to continue spending time with his friends, something they had little enough chance to do as they grew older and acquired more responsibility.

The responsibility to marry came to mind, and was just as firmly pushed out of mind. There was never any reason for a man to marry hurriedly and a long list of reasons why he should not marry hurriedly.

There was no reason, either based in responsibility or frivolity that could explain why he had larked his way across England all the way to grim Cornwall. He could not explain to anyone, least of all himself, why he was in Cornwall. He only knew that he must be in Cornwall, that being in Cornwall, at Castle Keyvnor, was precisely where he was supposed to be.

Romantic hogwash. The word destiny sprang to mind, a word he detested as the worst of romantic drivel, the offspring of a weak and credulous mind. His mind was not weak nor was he credulous.

Still, there was something about Castle Keyvnor. He’d felt something before they’d even sighted the bare beginnings of Bocka Morrow, a very ordinary village by any standard. The narrow village streets, the lime washed stone cottages, the slate roofs, the jagged jumble of chimneys marking the pearl white sky. Entirely ordinary. And yet . . . there was something.

His stallion, Keystone, from whom he would build his stables into something to make his mark upon the racing world, had tensed upon entering Bocka Morrow, side-stepping, ears forward, nose quivering. He knew enough to pay attention to his horse, to trust Keystone to scent what he could not, and he had walked him past the fields and then through the village and then into the castle courtyard with a wary eye and a steady hand. It was only that wariness that had allowed him to keep his seat when his horse reared, when he felt icy air descending all around him, and when he had seen the girls alight from their coach.

Six girls, each lovely in her way. His eye had lingered upon the chilled one, the one who drew her cloak and shivered and drew her deep green cloak tighter still. So she felt the cold as well. They were a match in that. No one else seemed to feel it, not from what he could see from watching, yet he could, and she could, and he could not explain the why of that.

He did not like Castle Keyvnor. He did not like things he could not explain. His was not a credulous mind.

“What are you scowling about, Hal?” Jack asked him in an undertone. “You’ll frighten the virgins.”

“‘Tis virgins who frighten the world, and well you know it,” Hal said.

There was a frigid combustion happening right over his head; he could feel the pulsating bands of cold air pounding against his head. The girl, Morgan Hambly, had a nose streaming like a waterfall. She searched for a handkerchief in her reticule and clumsily got it to her nose in time, just. The green cloak grew ever tighter about her.

She had quite a slender figure, even in a woolen cloak.

Hal looked up at the ceiling. Perhaps there was an open window on the roof. He did not see a window. Castles were cold, drafty things. It promised to be an uncomfortable visit. Last night, his first in Keyvnor, he had barely slept an hour.

“Black Death, at it again,” Jack said, grinning.

As his title was Viscount Blackwater and as his family name was Mort, the French word for death, his pet name was explained. Not enjoyed, but explained. To be honest, he took it in stride. There were worse things to be called, such as naive, gullible, irrational, to name but a few.

“Remarkable you kept your seat, Hal,” Teddy said to him. “Though, perhaps not.”

Teddy smiled and Hal nodded at the compliment.

“Cold in here, isn’t it?” Hal said, changing the subject.

The men looked at him, their heads swinging simultaneously in his direction. “Not particularly,” Teddy said. “Perhaps you’ve caught something.”

“And perhaps what he’s caught is wearing petticoats,” Jack said.

“What is a man supposed to do with a petticoat?” Hal asked, smiling.

“If you have to ask, you have more trouble than a bucking stallion,” Jack replied.

“Hal has no trouble from that quarter,” Michael said, joining them, leaving the girls to the care of the butler, who was following them, conversing with Morgan, the red-nosed one. “Petticoats waving at him like flags, poor devil, and he blind to every one.”

“I’d call that trouble,” Teddy said.

“I’d call that disastrous,” Jack said, winking at Hal.

“I’d call that prudent,” Hal said. “I’m to build my stable, get wins on the books, get rich, then get a wife. That’s the proper order of things, my lads. Feel free to take a lesson from my book.”

“I’d rather get rich from White’s book,” Michael said, “but I take your meaning.”

“He doesn’t like it, but he’ll take it,” Jack said.

They all laughed and the subject died gracefully. They followed Michael to the wing of the house that contained their rooms, a winding route that promised to confound him in the dead of night when he was out for a wander.

Out for a predawn wander? He was never out wandering in someone else’s home. Where had that devilish thought come from? The cold drafts in Castle Keyvnor were merciless. He’d be wearing a woolen shawl like a dairy maid before he quit the place.

CHAPTER 3

“I tell you I am not sick!” Morgan said.

“Tell that to your nose,” Tamsyn, the eldest said.

“Look! It’s stopped,” Morgan said.

She felt perfectly fine, had always felt perfectly fine; it was just that she’d been so sharply cold as soon as she left the carriage. It had been as if winter had descended directly onto her and no other. It had been perfectly horrid, her nose running and red, witnessed by Lord Michael and his friends. That one man, the dark one, Lord Blackwater, had been transfixed by the sight of her nose.

What a first impression she had made!

Oh, well. It was not as if she were marriage mad. Not at all. Let it happen when it happened, as long as it did not happen now. Or even soon. Marriage was for life, and she had every expectation of living a very long life, and she therefore saw no reason to rush out of a situation where she had her sisters, a lovely home, perfectly lovely parents, and a very nice degree of freedom, at least for a virginal girl from a good home. From that situation into a binding marriage contract? There was no hurry, was there?

Marriage meant losing control. Marriage meant marrying and hoping for the best from a man who’d worn his best face to win her father’s approval and her acquiescence. Marriage was meant to last a long, a very long time. Let marriage wait.

Of course, she didn’t share much of these thoughts with anyone. She loved her sisters and she respected her parents, but there was only so much truth a person could take. She suspected her father would think her frivolous. She suspected her mother would find her fractious.

As to what she thought of herself, why, she thought she was a very reasonable, very logical sort of girl. A mother could do a lot worse than to have a daughter like her. She was not the sort, for example, to run off and get herself ruined. No man could tempt her to that. It was a very stupid, very dreamy sort of girl who gave a man that much control, simply upon the hope that he should not do his worst.

Every man alive was capable of doing his worst. The trick was to find a man who was capable, and willing, to do his best. Now that was a man worth considering for marriage. She would be prime material now, her father the latest in a long line of Banfield earls. She was not looking forward to being the hare in this race of hounds, and she knew she would be, as would her sisters. They were pretty girls, each one of them, and they were of marriageable age and of respectable family, each with a hefty dowry in the column. Oh, the men would come running, they would, and she was not eager for the chase to begin. Let this week, the week before the will reading, be a last repose before the hunt began.

She might even last as long as the next London season, a bare six months from now. Six months of quiet and peace before she must defend herself against all comers. She was tired just thinking of it.

At least her nose had stopped running. She didn’t want a red nose and icy fingertips to ruin the will reading. There were so many new people about, like that man, Lord Blackwater with his dark hair and deep, dark blue eyes. And the way he had stayed upon that stallion, it had fair robbed her of breath.

Perhaps she truly was coming down with something. She had never felt starved for breath in her life.

“What sort of look is that you’re wearing?” Rose asked, her third sister. “I do think you might be feverish. I’ve never seen Morgan look like that. Have you ever seen Morgan look like that?” Rose asked Marjorie, the second sister.

“She does look feverish,” Marjorie said. “You should probably stay in bed. We’ll send your regrets down when we go to dinner.”

“You will not,” Morgan said, “send my regrets. I fully intend to go to dinner.”

Though she did feel cold again and she could see at a glance that her four sisters did not, but she kept that to herself. She was determined to see the company, the entire company again, and she was not going to get married any time soon.

Why she was thinking so much of marriage was a complete puzzle to her. She really might be ill with something, some marriage illness, as if there were such a thing.

Looking at her sisters, who did seem very much to want to be married, when they spoke of it at all, she could not but wonder if there might, just perhaps, be something like marriage sickness which afflicted women. Certainly it was a very odd sort of sickness since men seemed immune to it.

“What is so amusing, Morgan?” Gywn asked. Gwyn was the youngest sister.

“Nothing at all,” she answered. “I was only thinking of what to wear this evening.”

“Something that takes that red glow from off your nose, I should think,” Tamsyn said. “Perhaps the ivory crepe.”

She didn’t like the ivory crepe very much. She had always believed it washed her out, robbing her cheeks of rosy health. She supposed that made Tamsyn’s point, though her nose was not runny. Not anymore, thank heaven.

“She thanks Heaven,” Nell said. “She should be thanking me.”

Nell was in the farthest corner of the room, studying the girl she meant to help into happy matrimony. Five sisters, virginal girls, each at the peak of her beauty. Did they not understand that now was the time to strike? Now, when they had youth and beauty in abundance? They lived a protected life and it had made them very ignorant. Her youth had been spent in a more turbulent time, a time of kings with real power and nobles with real ambition.

Had she used her youth and beauty well?

She had not.

She had been as ignorant as they. But now she was here and she would help Morgan Hambly marry the lovely Hal Mort, though what a name he carried. It was enough to put a girl off. Morgan Mort, she would be upon marriage. Hideous. Lord Death, he could be called, and if he did not fall in love with the lovely Morgan, she would call him exactly that.

Because she had chosen Morgan, singled her out from amongst the living, she could read her. If Morgan had a thought, a firm thought, a passionate thought, a thought hard and clear at the foremost tip of her consciousness, Nell could read it. She had often thought it very much like being a parent reading the thoughts of their own child. After “parenting” some very unworthy people during the first century of her ghostliness, she had given up the practice. Unfortunately, or not, those were the years and the people who had given rise to the legend of Benedict the ghost. Everyone had heard of Benedict, killed right here in Castle Keyvnor. No one had heard of Roland, dead in battle by a Banfield blade or of her, a girl who died of oysters in London.

It was irritating, being ignored so fully. Sometimes even a ghost wanted some attention.

Nell drifted out of the room, after reinforcing the idea that Morgan wear the ivory crepe, and found Roland with Hal. They were in the stables. Hal was seeing to his horse, talking to one of the grooms, one of the more experienced ones, about his horse and how to care for it. Roland, sitting on a crossbeam, looked at her and smiled in approval. Not approval for her but for Hal and the care he took with his horse. Nell rolled her eyes and watched from the open stable doors.

It was a very boring conversation.

“A firm, gentle hand, particularly when saddling him,” Hal was saying, the groom nodding. “He can be snappish if left alone too long so keep a dog with him, if possible.”

“Yes, m’lord.”

“You have a dog in mind?”

“Yes, m’lord.”

“He’s arranging for a dog, a pet for his stallion,” Roland said, leaning back against the bracing, grinning.

“If he is so particular about a dog, he should travel with his own,” she said.

“He just bought the horse. I’m certain he will acquire a dog as companion as soon as he can.”

“He might even steal this one.”

“Blackwater is no thief.”

“Let us see how he is with the stable dog before pronouncements are made, Roland.”

“How are you getting along with your runny-nosed girl? Has she recovered her looks?” Roland said.

Instead of being provoked, she laughed. “You know she is a beauty and that any man, especially a man with a stallion and a dog, will be ripe for her.”

“What does having a dog have to do with anything?”

“He is a man who has all that a man treasures, everything but a wife.”

“You sing the same tune relentlessly.”

“Do I? Perhaps if I sing it long enough, you will learn it as well as I.”

“I cannot be taught this piece.”

“You cannot be taught anything!” she snapped, her hair rising like a veil behind her.

Hal Mort, Viscount Blackwater, stroked the white blaze down his stallion’s face, whispering soft words, and looked up at the ceiling where Roland hovered over him and where Nell had drifted in her fury.

Hal could sense them. Not everyone could.

“He is here! Can you not feel his presence, Rory?” Mary said, running into the stable. Nell rolled her eyes, again.

“I am occupied with his lordship, Mary,” Rory said, and he rolled his eyes in pure exasperation.

Hal looked at the girl, scowling at her in displeasure. He might have a ridiculous name but the man was a good judge of character.

“Who is here?” Hal said, looking at Mary, then at Rory when Mary stood with her mouth hanging agape, then back to Rory. Rory was Mary’s maternal uncle, Nell recalled. Poor man.

“She is only a silly girl, m’lord,” Rory said. “You must pay her no mind.”

“Are you a silly girl, Mary?” Hal asked, still calming his stallion. The whites of the horses eyes were plain to be seen. “You don’t look silly to me.”

Mary pressed her lips together and looked at her uncle, then at Hal, then in the general direction of Roland, who gave the appearance of ignoring her. But he hadn’t ignored her, had he? Mary was too attuned to Roland’s presence for him to have been ignoring her.

Nell, in a surge of fury, materialized behind the open stable doors and terrorized a brute of a black dog to run, barking, into the stable block. Mary, screaming, as was her wont, said, “He’s set the dog on me! He wants me dead, with him!”

“Is she referring to me?” Roland asked the air above him. The dog continued to bark, Nell laughed, Mary screamed, Rory sighed, and Hal kept his stallion calm and steady. He truly did have a fine way with a horse. Just imagine what he could do with a skittish virgin.

Nell was having such a fine time. It had been too, too long since they’d had guests at Keyvnor.

“Was this the dog you had in mind?” Hal asked over his shoulder, his face close to Keystone’s, breathing his scent upon him. It was actually very sweet to behold. “I might have chosen another, one less combustible.”

“Mary!” Rory said. “Go back home at once!”

Mary, torn between screaming and crying, sure only that she was being misunderstood, looked at the living men, cast a glance upward toward the general vicinity of Roland, and ran out of the stable. The dog did not run after her. Nell was capable of some mercy, after all.

“I apologize, m’lord. My niece is . . .”

What word was there beyond the obvious idiocy?

“Combustible?” Hal said with a small smile.

What a lovely man he was, so understanding, so patient, so forgiving. So unlike Roland. Hal would make Morgan the most magnificent husband.

“You’re very kind, m’lord.”

To which Hal did not reply though Nell could sense him silently denying the statement.

“The dog seems fine now,” Hal said. The dog lay sprawled in the hay at Rory’s feet, panting, a spent force. She could make him charge again but as Mary was gone from the place there was no fun in it for her. “Any thoughts as to what got into her?”

“He’s a calm-natured dog, m’lord. I can’t say what got into him,” Rory said.

Roland laughed and dropped down to the floor, standing not two feet from the dog. The dog sat up and gave all his attention to sniffing the air. He gave a single bark that had more curiosity than aggression to it, a whining yelp of a bark.

The stallion, not five feet from the dog, pricked his ears forward, nostrils quivering. Hal Mort, Lord Death, studied the animals, blew out his breath, saw it appear as white fog in front of his face, and looked again at Rory.

“Can’t say?” Hal said. “Say something, man. I’ll not judge you for it.”

“‘Tis best that I hold my tongue, m’lord.”

“A wise practice in nearly every circumstance,” Hal said, scratching the horse between the ears. “Still, there is something to be said about the atmosphere of Keyvnor Castle.”

“You’ve heard the rumors?”

“I’ve heard nothing,” Hal said. “I merely observe.”

Rory snorted and ducked his head, avoiding eye contact with Hal. Hal gave Keystone a final pat on the head and then faced Rory fully, commanding his complete attention wordlessly.

“You see how he commands?” Roland said to her, snapping his fingers. The dog dropped to his belly and crawled a few feet toward Roland, hackles raised, yet coming nonetheless. “That is a man. You’ll not see him beg for any woman, least of all a Banfield. She shan’t manage him.”

“Oh, really?” she said. Nell walked behind Hal, trailing her fingers across the breadth of his shoulders. He was a most fine looking man, so muscular, so fit, so broad across the shoulder and narrow at the hip. Hal scowled, cast a quick glance behind him and suppressed a shiver, unsuccessfully. “Morgan,” she said into his ear, tickling him with her cold breath. “Morgan Hambly is the woman for you.”

“Unfair!” Roland shouted, charging her. Nell laughed and darted away.

“How unfair? I cannot make him think what he will not think. I cannot force a wish into his head, as you well know. He can only be encouraged, and so I encourage him to do what he already wants to do.”

“He only wants to do what any man wants to do with any comely lass,” Roland snarled. “‘Tis no special magic to desire this girl.”

“The only magic she needs is what every lovely girl possesses. I can work with that. Can you work against it? He is a man, a normal man with normal drives, as you say,” Nell said, laughing in Roland’s face, running her fingertips down Hal’s arm. Hal drew his hand back, crossing his arms across his chest. “Morgan Hambly. She is so beautiful,” Nell said. “Morgan is so desirable. Morgan is so available.”

“She shan’t manage him and neither shall you!” Roland said, grabbing her by the hair and hauling her away from Hal. Nell screamed and dug her fists into Roland’s hair, her face inches from his, her mouth inches from his.

“Shall I not?” she said, her mouth open beneath Roland’s. “Shall you stop me, my love? Shall you keep me prisoner?”

“God, if only I could,” Roland snarled, and then his mouth descended on hers in a fury of passion and familiar longing.

They swirled upward, merging, a twining of gray spirit, flashing silver, seen in erratic bursts of shimmering light in the physical world.

When both the dog and the horse had stopped making a racket of noise, howling and stomping and such, Hal looked at the head groom and said, “As I was saying, I merely observe. Is there some name you can put to what I have observed just now? That hint of reflected light where there is no candle? The cold blast of air in a closed room?”

Rory hung his head and groaned.

“Out with it,” Hal said.

“‘Tis the spirits,” Rory said. “They be strong at Keyvnor.”

“Spirits.”

“Aye.”

“Whose spirits?”

Rory shrugged.

“Surely a castle as old as Keyvnor has its history, its legends.”

“Aye,” Rory said on a sigh of defeat.

“Can everyone sense them?” Hal asked, abandoning one line of questioning for another.

“I cannot say, m’lord.”

“I suppose that’s true enough,” Hal said. “I presume you are directed not to talk of these matters with outsiders?”

“Nor with insiders, m’lord,” Rory said ruefully. “‘Tis felt by all that ‘tis best left lay. Some sees ‘em. Some don’t. Those that don’t, don’t want to hear of it. Those that do, don’t want to speak of it.”

“That’s quite a system.”

“It works. The spirits don’t like to be talked of, I reckon.”

“If they don’t then they should be more discreet,” Hal said. “Spirits. In this day and age. I can’t quite lay hold of the idea.” Hal looked at Rory. “And I don’t expect you to talk to anyone about our conversation.”

“No, m’lord. ‘Tis the way of it,” he added, a sparkle in his brown eyes.

“I can see that,” Hal said. “Yes, it all works out quite neatly. I gather that your niece sees them or feels them regularly?”

“Aye. She fancies herself in love with one of ‘em, the traitor, Benedict,” Rory said. “A fool notion.”

“I should think being in love with a spirit would be . . . unsatisfying,” Hal said.

“She’s fifteen, m’lord.”

“Ah,” Hal said, nodding. That did explain much of it. “What of Benedict? Is that who . . . . The cold presence. You felt it?”

“Aye, some,” Rory said. “‘Tis the shame of my family that we’re as sensitive to it as we are. Back when my gran was a girl, ‘twas said was the witch blood that made it so.”

“Witch blood?” Hal asked. Rory hung his head and nodded. “You’re not the first family where ‘tis said the women are witches, man,” Hal said. “Buck up. My own gran was a hellion in her day, so it’s said.”

“Aye, m’lord. Thank you.” Rory did not sound soothed. Well, he had to live with the legend; Hal did not.

“This Benedict, he was a traitor to . . . ?”

“English King Henry the 8th it was, m’lord. Beheaded right here, in the castle courtyard. Haunted the place ever since, so it’s said.”

“One traitor ghost. It doesn’t sound so bad.”

“Aye, then there are the witches.”

“Witches, too?”

“Aye, o’course. My gran, you remember.”

“Oh, yes. Of course, of course.”

“Then there’s the boy, the lord’s son. He drowned. ‘Twas very sad. He’s still about, ‘tis said. A boy of just five years.”

“That is sad. Still, children die and not all of them become ghosts who haunt. I take it he does haunt?”

“Oh, aye, he does. ‘Twas not such a nice lad when alive, they say, so you can see where . . . ” Rory shrugged.

“There’s a certain sense to it, most definitely. That does make quite a crew of spirits.”

“Then there are the pixies. In the forest,” Rory said. He was quite warming to the subject. Once the dam was cracked, the flood did follow. “‘Tis well you keep out of the forest during the season, m’lord.”

“The season?”

“The witching season, m’lord. All Hallow’s Eve.”

“Oh, of course. We are upon that time, aren’t we?”

“Aye, m’lord, not a week away from it now. The spirits have more energy now, the door opening to the other side.”

The dog, a black hulking male, lay curled at Hal’s feet, breathing heavily. It was quite comforting. He hadn’t had a dog since his boyhood, and Pip had died whilst he was at Eton. He missed having a dog at his side. He was quite glad he had one again, even as a pet for his horse. Hal looked back at Keystone. He was calmly alert, as if listening to the dangers of pixies in the forest with a deeply scholarly interest in the subject.

“Does the dog have a name?” Hal asked Rory.

“Not so he’d notice, m’lord.”

“No master?”

“No, m’lord. Just a stable dog, born somewhere on the place.”

“He’s a fine looking animal. Though he does need a thorough washing.” At that, the dog lifted his head and looked at Hal accusingly. “Perhaps deworming as well.” The dog stood up and moved to sit directly outside Keystone’s stall, looking nearly insulted.

“I’m sure no one would mind if you wanted to keep him, m’lord, taking him away from Keyvnor. He and the stallion seem to have formed a bond.”

“They have at that,” Hal said. “I shall name him Companion, for that is what he shall be.”

“For the stallion,” Rory said, his eyes sparkling.

“Of course,” Hal said. “Nothing is too good for Keystone.”

“Aye, m’lord,” Rory said. “Were you wanting to know anything more about the spirits of Castle Keyvnor?”

Hal looked at the man. Surely two ghosts and three witches, and an assortment of pixies, was enough. “There’s more?”

“Some say there is a sailor who died at sea and washed up on these shores. I have my doubts about it.”

“Only about the sailor,” Hal said, biting back a smile.

“Not many have seen the sailor, and he’s a stranger to Keyvnor, ain’t he? A body would think he’d want to be back among his own.”

“A logical argument.” About a ghost. Hal could not believe he was standing in a stable in Cornwall discussing ghosts and spirits with a groom. He’d not tell Michael of it, nor Jack.

“There are some,” Rory went on, clasping his hands behind his back, “who think there may be a woman.”

“The witches.”

“No, a ghost woman, who found her way here and can’t find her way away,” Rory said. When Hal simply stared at him, Rory added, “My lord.”

“Is that so?” This was getting . . . well, he didn’t know what it was getting. It was farcical from the start. If one ghost, why not five? If witches, why not pixies? It was time someone added a ghoul to the legend of Keyvnor. Perhaps he’d work something up this evening, after supper. “Have you seen this woman?”

“I have not, m’lord.” Hal did not know what to say. This conversation had begun reasonably enough; he had felt the cold and he’d seen the silvery sparkles and he could also almost swear he felt vibrations, something like tumbling air currents, at certain times. “I am only trying to give you a complete answer to your question. About the occurrences.”

“Very good,” Hal said. “I think you’ve done more than enough. Now, as to Companion, he’ll need to be fed, and bathed. You’ve a boy to see to it?”

“Yes, m’lord.”

“Very good. Thank you, Rory,” Hal said, walking out of the stable. The day had clouded over, dark clouds tumbling across the milky sky, the scent of rain in the air. A very normal weather event and nothing supernatural about it, he was entirely certain.

CHAPTER 4

M organ saw Lord Blackwater at dinner. She saw everyone else at dinner, but she was, for some odd reason, paying more attention to Lord Blackwater than she should have done. Certainly her sisters noticed it. She only hoped Lord Blackwater did not notice it.

He was a very handsome man. Yes, however, it was not as if he was the only handsome man she had ever seen. As to that, he wasn’t even the only handsome man in the room. She really could not explain her fascination with him. It almost felt as if a hand plucked at her elbow, whispering his name at the odd moment. She could hardly eat her dinner for the distraction.

Gwyn noticed her meager appetite and put it down to Morgan being ill.

Perhaps she was ill. She could not explain her behavior and she did want an explanation.

He was very handsome.

After dinner, when people were finding their own amusements and Lord Blackwater’s friends seemed to be coupling up rather alarmingly, she found herself standing next to him in the grand foyer outside the dining room. She could have sworn she’d been dragged there.

“Did I hear correctly, Lord Blackwater, that you have gained a dog today?” she said, looking at him pleasantly.

He was very tall.

“Yes, Lady Morgan, I did,” he said. “A companion for my stallion, in fact. They get on quite well.”

She had no idea what to say to that. She was staring into his eyes, tipping her head back to do so, and she was not a petite woman.

His eyes were so very blue.

“The dog is black, a male,” he said, staring down at her. “I have named him Companion. Because he is. A companion.”

“Yes. Charming,” she said.

Really, their conversational skills were painful. This was disastrous.

“Do you have a dog?” he asked.

“I did. She died recently,” she bit out.

He had the most beautiful mouth, a luscious looking mouth.

“I’m so sorry,” he said. “Losing a pet is always disastrous, on a personal level.”

He looked horrified. Yes, well, losing a pet would never be a disaster on a national level, would it? She must salvage this conversation.

He did have the most luscious mouth. She knew that never before in her life had she ever paired the words luscious and mouth. What was wrong with her?

“You speak from experience, I presume,” she said. Disastrous!

“I had a dog as a boy and loved him devotedly,” he said, taking her arm and leading her down a wide hallway to a door which opened onto a raised terrace. As the weather was miserable, blowing and stormy, they should have turned back and remained indoors. They did not. She did not seem to mind. Astonishing. “I was just thinking of that dog earlier today. Odd, since I haven’t given him a thought in years.”

“Perhaps getting Companion sparked old memories.”

Old memories . . . she had no old memories of this man or his dead dog, and yet . . . she could see him as a youth, all gangling legs and arms, running across a meadow with a brown dog with a feathered tail at his side, tongue hanging out in an utterly doggy grin, the boy shouting and laughing, throwing a stick into the tall grass, clapping his hands for the dog to return with the stick with all speed.

“Pip is such a lovely name for a dog,” she said. “He kept up with you, didn’t he, on all your many runs.”

“Pip. How did you know his name was Pip?” he said.

“You told me. Didn’t you?”

“Did I?”

“I’m sure you must have,” she said, the wind blowing against her hair, teasing a few strands loose. She pushed them back with her hand, a thoughtless gesture. He couldn’t seem to take his eyes from her. She knew because she couldn’t take her eyes from him.

“I must have,” he said, looking at the night sky, the wind blowing against his back. “Are you chilled? You must tell me if you feel chilled. I noticed earlier that you, well, I’m sorry to be indelicate, that you seemed quite uncomfortably cold.”

“I was, and my sisters were certain I was ill. But I feel fine, truly. I was just unaccountably cold.”

“But you’re not cold now? You must tell me if you are,” he said.

He wanted to touch her, to hold her, to envelop her in his arms. She could feel the urge in him, could almost feel an answering desire in herself. It was beyond shocking. She was not a wanton! The furthest thing from one.

“No, I’m not cold, Lord Blackwater,” she said. “I feel . . . wonderful.”

Wonderful? She had to tell him she felt wonderful?

Yes, but she did. She felt amazingly wonderful. She wanted to throw herself into his wonderful arms and be captured in his wonderful embrace and be swept into a wonderful swoon.

She had lost her mind. But she was not cold.

“Kiss her.” Nell whispered, her eyes closed in concentration. “Only touch her and you will be lost.”

Nell hovered far above the pair, far enough away to keep the cold away, close enough to see them, close enough to feel the longing they felt. And to feed the longing they felt.

“Never was a man so slow to act when a beautiful woman stood so near,” she murmured, shaking her head in disgust. “This new breed of man is a terrifying thing to behold.”

Roland laughed behind her and she whirled to face him. “Men are not as different as you may think.”

“I should have known,” she said, her long hair billowing out behind her, her eyes narrowed. “If you would only leave them alone, they would fall in love and all would be well.”

“If you would only leave them alone, he would ride his stallion, train his dog, and be gone from this foul place.”

“You are stopping him,” she said.

“Stopping him? How? He has good sense, and a healthy dose of self-preservation. I only watch and applaud that he can keep his wit when two women are in pursuit of him. He is no babe to be snatched from the comfort of his life into the turmoil of marriage.”

“You know nothing of marriage.”

“I knew enough to stay free of it,” he said, smirking.

He was colorless, lifeless, and yet he was still a handsome man and she still remembered how he had made her blood rush and her loins pulse. And, in an echo of life, did still.

“Had you lived just a few months longer, I do not think you could make that claim,” she said, gliding up to him and laying her hands on the sides of his face. She smiled at him, her hair enclosing them in a web of flying strands. “Can you have forgotten how we loved, Roland? Can you have forgotten the days we spent in bed, eating only when we could spare the time?”

“Fighting no matter the time,” he said.

“Reconciling,” she whispered, kissing his throat. “Laughing, teasing, giggling under the sheets.”

“I never giggled,” he said, lifting his chin so that she could better reach his jaw for kissing.

“Didn’t you?” she said. “Perhaps you did not. Perhaps you only sighed.”

“And you screamed,” he said, taking her face in his hands and kissing her boldly upon the mouth. “And screamed,” he breathed against her lips.

Below them, far below them, Morgan Hambly looked up into Hal Mort’s eyes and said, “I’m . . . I’m afraid I don’t quite know . . . ” Her hand lifted to his cheek, barely touched his face, and he was so warm, the texture of his skin so rough where his dark beard lay buried beneath his dark skin, so tantalizing. She could see the pulse point in his neck throb and she wanted to put her mouth there, to feel the rush of his blood beneath her lips. “Do forgive me, Lord Blackwater. I cannot seem to stop myself.”

“Lady,” he breathed, laying his hand over hers, “do not stop.”

He leaned down and kissed her, a bare brushing of his lips over hers, a hesitant kiss, a polite kiss in the most intimate of settings, a kiss wrong-headed and right-feeling. If she were the right kind of girl from the right sort of home, and she was, or had been, then she should slap his face and have her father bar him from the castle. Yet she wanted to do not one bit of that.

The kiss, this first kiss in her whole long life, expanded and exploded. His mouth softened and her mouth widened and then he was inside her and molten heat flared inside of her, upward, downward, outward. She felt possessed.

“You are not cold?” he asked, lifting his face to study hers.

“No. Not at all,” she said. “I am not myself, surely,” she added, her voice breaking on a sigh, “but I am not cold. Why is that important?”

He did not answer her directly. He held her in a soft, gentle embrace and looked up at the sky.

“I dare not say,” he said. “I have taken liberties, Lady Morgan. I fear I must--”

“No,” she said, pushing out of his arms. “No fear and no must. There is nothing you must do. Nothing you need fear.”

“I did not mean--”

“I know what you meant, Lord Blackwater,” she said. “If you owe me an apology, then I owe one to you. I am not in the practice of kissing men I have just met. Or of kissing men I know well!” she said, appalled. This kissing business did confuse one so. “I think this episode is best forgotten. Would you agree? Please?”

Blackwater nodded curtly, bowing crisply. He cast one last glance into the night sky and then offered her his arm and escorted her back across the terrace and into the house.

Nell, still kissing Roland, was delighted.

Roland, still kissing Nell, was delighted.

She had inspired the pair to kiss.

He had inspired the pair to avoid the marriage contract.

The battle between them still raged, to their mutual enjoyment.

CHAPTER 5

Tuesday, October 29, dawned cloudy. Dark clouds of rich gray and umber raced across the skies, snatches of brilliant blue quickly subdued, overcome, lost.

Hal did not notice the weather except to note that it wasn’t unseasonably cold, or cold in spots, or cold only for particular people. He did not look for Morgan to determine if she was cold or not. He called that progress.

He should never have kissed her. He had no firm idea of why he had but he had an ugly suspicion of why he had, and why she had.

Ghosts.

Ghosts were playing Cupid with them both. It seemed a very unlikely thing for ghosts to do. Of course, since he didn’t believe in ghosts, he had to admit that he’d never given one moment’s thought to what ghosts (which did not exist) did or didn’t do. He supposed that he should give it some thought now.

They had been played with. Morgan Hambly, lovely, pleasant, the absolute standard in pretty, virginal young things from good family, had behaved most inappropriately. So had he, but she had started it.

It was entirely appropriate that he marry her. He had begun to make the offer.

It was entirely kind of her to decline his offer. He had to admit, that put her above the rank of the average pretty, young thing. The girl had style, and grace, and dignity, now that he considered it. Quite a list for such an innocent miss.

Then again, it was possible that she simply did not want to marry, under any circumstances.

Impossible. She was a girl from a good family. She had been reared properly and would do the proper thing, which was to marry and to marry well.

Logic forced him to conclude that she simply did not think that marrying him was marrying well.

Impossible. Or was it?

He was a viscount, yet his estate was in Ireland. Some people did not relish the thought of living in Ireland. He knew those people were ill-informed. She was likely one of the many ill-informed. His estate, while large, was in want of funds. He needed to drain a bog and replace a tenant who had emigrated to America and build a water mill. Keystone and the foals he would sire was the cornerstone of that cash infusion. He would race him, win, mate him for stud fees and then sell the yearlings. Perhaps that sort of long-range planning and work required too much foresight and planning for the average pretty girl from a good English family.

Morgan Hambly’s face, her pretty face with her stalwart blue eyes, that delicate mouth declaring that she did not require an offer of marriage from him and they should both just please forget the kiss had ever happened, rose in his mind’s eye.

She did not seem the sort of girl who would balk at bogs, mills, and stud fees.

Then again, what did he know of her?

As much as any man knew about any girl of good family before he made an offer of marriage. His parents had known nothing more than that and theirs had been a perfectly fine marriage. They had gotten along together quite nicely, seeing each other at dinner each evening, on the evenings his father had been at home. His mother had breakfast in bed, saw no point in serving tea when no one came to call, and dressed for dinner even when she dined alone. His father’s schedule was somewhat irregular; he could pop up at home with scarcely a breath of notice. Hal had, upon reaching his majority, wondered if his father popped up at home like a rabbit out of a hole to catch his wife at some indiscretion. Hal had also wondered, upon meeting a few women in London in the off season, if his mother had kept her indecorous moments sequestered within the hours of teatime.

As they were his parents, he had not given the matter much thought as such mental meanderings struck him as highly impolite. As they were both now deceased, his father having departed this earthly realm just a bit more than a year ago, dying after his wife by more than five years, Hal had given the matter no more consideration at all. Let the dead die with their secrets intact.

Though, if ghosts did exist (they did not), was it highly indelicate of him to now ask his father if he had quite trusted his wife?

He did not want to think ill of his mother, and he did not, but that popping up that had been his father’s practice did make a man pause when considering taking a wife of his own.

Yet, how absurd. He was not in any position to take a wife. No, nor had he any desire to. He would make his fortune on his own and not rely upon his wife’s father to do it for him. He had held this position for most of his life, and had been roundly ridiculed for it by his schoolmates. They had blamed his Irish roots. They might have had a point.

Hal clasped his hands behind his back and strode from the ordered paths of the garden and struck off into the wild growth beyond the castle proper. It looked to rain and he was not wearing his greatcoat. Such was his mood that he almost welcomed a bit of rain, coat or not.

Morgan, finally, was not cold. She only hoped the condition lasted. She blamed her fleeting, frigid moments on the inexplicable kiss she had shared, perhaps even instigated, with Viscount Blackwater. She could think of no other explanation. She had never kissed a man before and she had no reason to kiss that man at that time.

Morgan was certain he thought terribly ill of her, naming her a wanton, a schemer, a witch. Though he had not treated her as if he thought of her that way. Then again, she had refused his offer of marriage. He must be jumping rainbows in delight at having escaped the noose.

Morgan put down her embroidery with a huff. Witches, nooses, wantons . . . when had she ever before thought in those terms? This place was playing the devil with her---and she’d just done it again! The devil?

She shoved the embroidery needle into the fabric, almost pricking her finger and ruining the canvas, and shoved the whole mess into the basket at her feet. Enough small work for now. She had to get out and get her legs moving, her heart thumping, a healthy blush to her cheeks. She had to escape.

And she was not going to apologize for using the word escape. It was entirely the correct word. Entirely.

Morgan waited long enough for her maid to fetch her favorite shawl, a lovely paisley wool in shades of rose and gold, and then she burst out of the castle and through the garden and into the wilderness that surrounded Bocka Morrow. She felt as close to flying as a person could, her feet skimming the ground, getting swift distance from buildings and pathways and man-made things that held her in and tied her down.

A small part of her mind wondered that she sought an escape from walls and warm coal fires and graveled paths, and then that small part was silenced by the wild roaring to be free, to be out, to be away, and even, even to be wild.

She was certainly not herself, and that was saying it simply.

She knew not where she was bound, did not recognize the route, yet run she did, her hair coming loose to fall in a tumble down her back. She grinned as she ran. She smiled as she ran her way into the wood, the trees taller and thicker as she gained distance from Bocka Morrow, the sky clouded over, protecting the earth in a thick pearly white blanket.

A giant beech was just in front of her and she ran straight to it, the wind rising in a howl, a roar, Nature unleashed and unmuzzled, grabbing her shawl from her shoulders and sending it rising, rising into the air like a great soaring bird. She watched it rise and land upon the very tip of a very high branch, looking almost satisfied to have escaped the bounds of earth and soil.

Morgan gasped for breath, one hand on her ribs, staring up at her shawl. It was lost to her now. And was there not another shawl also caught in this beech? Lower down than her shawl yet still a mighty way up that massive trunk. The lowest branch was six or seven feet off the ground, as if that made a difference.

“Shall I fetch them both?”

She looked beyond the beech and saw Hal walking toward her, his long legs striding, his hair blown back from his brow, his arms swinging with each step. He looked as much of this wild wood as any satyr.

Any words she thought to say were stuck in her throat.

“Take my coat. Stay warm,” he said, removing his coat of darkest blue superfine and placing it about her shoulders. The feel of his hands through the coat, on her, sent a shiver down her spine.

He jumped and gripped the first branch, hanging there but a moment before climbing up and up, legs and arms in constant motion, higher and higher into the beech. She knew she should call for him to stop. She knew that her shawl was not worth such a risk. She knew that she was behaving irresponsibly and that she was somehow encouraging recklessness in him, yet she could not open her mouth to stop him. She was thrilled by the sight of him climbing up and up, and she was dazzled by his daring.

His shirt came untucked from his trousers, his waistcoat was open, his cravat was a bedraggled thing, and he dazzled her.

Reaching the mystery shawl, he grabbed it, smiled down at her and dropped it. It fluttered to the base of the tree.

“No higher!” she called to him. She forced herself to say it. In fact, she wanted him to climb to the stars, to scale mountains and fight dragons, and she wanted to watch him do it, knowing he was doing it all for her.

“I must go on!” he shouted down to her, the wind blowing his dark hair about his face. “I cannot fail in my quest!” He turned and climbed higher upon another branch. Leaves and twigs fell to the ground, a small cascade of broken nature to testify to his endeavor.

A quest? Was it a quest and why was he upon it? Why did she want him to quest on her behalf?

Such thoughts, too logical, were an intrusion and she smothered them. Her eyes were filled with the bravery of his climb. Her heart was filled with . . . something she had never felt before this moment.

Higher and higher, the limbs were thin now, narrow things that could not support his weight. He was such a big man, so tall and heavily muscled through the shoulders. The beech could not support him up so high.

Her shawl moved lightly in the wind, fluttering enticingly, beckoning, almost.

“‘Tis too high!” she called.

He did not answer her, did not turn from his task to look down, so very far down at her. She was just as glad he did not.

His arm wrapped around the branch where it joined the trunk, he reached out to touch, just barely, the edge of her shawl. The shawl escaped him, fluttering free, taunting him. He adjusted his position and reached again, leaning, leaning, touching the fringed edge with his fingertips and then the shawl moved toward him. Just a bit, the smallest inch or so, and he had it in his grasp and he pulled it to his chest, wrapping it around his throat a time or two and then he came down and down until he jumped the final few feet to the ground. He turned and faced her, his dark eyes gleaming with pride and manly joy, her shawl his prize and the evidence of his victory.

“You did it,” she said. Her voice came out in something quite close to a gasp.

“I did it,” he said, smiling. “For you.”

“Yes,” she said, smiling back at him. “You did, didn’t you?”

“I did,” he said, his eyes losing their shine, becoming nearly suspicious.

“The shawl seemed to fold itself into your hand, at the end,” she said.

“That it did,” he said. “How did it get up there?”

“The wind,” she said.

“A cold wind?”

“A seasonable wind,” she said, losing her smile.

He looked up at the tree, studying it. The branches moved slightly in a light and erratic wind. The clouds were gray and billowed, running with the wind across a pearly sky.

“I have not climbed a tree since I was a lad,” he said. “I dare not think why I did so now.”

“It was a daring climb, Lord Blackwater. I would never have asked it of you,” she said, “yet it is a favored shawl and I shall never forget the gallantry of your act.”

“Will you not?” he said, turning his dark blue eyes upon her. He was a very handsome man, darkly seductive, masculine in a nearly primal fashion. “I did but climb a tree.”

“A very tall tree.”

“Yes, it is that,” he said, a half smile upon his face. “Yet still but a tree. Nothing so fearsome as a belted knight with sword drawn and set to quarter me.” Then he frowned and looked down at his feet.

He was a very changeable man, first smiles, then frowns, then scowls. He was scowling now and staring at the ends of her shawl, still wrapped around his throat. She held the mystery shawl in her hands. It was damp from the weather and a bit dirty and an unremarkable shade of brown.

“It is a shawl-gathering beech,” she said, hoping to make him smile. “I had not heard of such before. Perhaps it is native to Cornwall?”

“Are you not native to Cornwall, Lady Morgan?” he asked, his blue eyes burning into hers. “Do you not know all the legends of these parts? Tales of witches and of ghosts?”

Oh. He was one of those. She had little interest and no use for any man who paid one whit of attention to tales of witches, ghosts, and ghouls. Keyvnor had endured more than its share of such tales and she was determined to free it of the curse, yes, the curse, of lurid, ridiculous tales of the supernatural. The only supernatural entity in which she believed was God above and, perhaps, Satan below. As All Saints Day was upon them, mere days away, she was less likely to admit to tales of Satan and his hoard than she would be in May or June. She simply refused to be dragged into the nonsense this season inspired. And it was the harvest season, none other. Ghosts did not have any season, as should be perfectly obvious to any educated man.

Lord Blackwater had mentioned attending Eton. Perhaps he had been expelled. It happened.

“I do not listen to bedtime tales,” she said. “Thank you for retrieving my shawl, Lord Blackwater. It was quite a thrilling spectacle. I pray you do not make a habit of it.”

“Of making a spectacle of myself?” he asked, grinning. He unwound her scarf from his neck. He did it deftly. She had expected nothing less from a tree-climber. “I am almost afraid to make such a promise.”

She smiled in response and held out her hands to exchange scarves with him. He could have the dirty one.

“Do you see her? The ghost! A girl ghost!”

Morgan turned and saw a very pretty girl running toward them; her hair was free, her top gaping open, her skirts held high in her hands, her legs quite visible. Morgan cast a quick glance at Blackwater; he stood staring at the girl and looked to know her. How peculiar.

“Mary, you must stop,” he said, making a motion with his hands that encompassed everything.

“Oooh, you’ve retrieved it! Thank you, m’lord,” Mary said, finally reaching them, breathless and ruddy-cheeked. She grabbed the dirty shawl from out of Lord Blackwater’s still out-stretched hand, cast a glance at Morgan’s twisted shawl, and said, “Did the ghost Benedict make off with your shawl, Lady Morgan, and cast it up yon tree?”

Morgan looked at the girl, looked at Lord Blackwater, who looked both guilty and intrigued, and looked again at the girl. She was from the village, no doubt, and a very beautiful, very superstitious, very suggestible girl.

“No,” Morgan said to the girl. “There was no ghost, I can assure you of that.”

“But, m’lady--” the girl began.

“Thank you, Mary,” Lord Blackwater said. “Take your shawl and away with you now.”

Mary, looking cast down, said, “‘Tis me he wants, my Benedict. ‘Tis me he’s wantin’. That she ghost means to thwart us.” And with those woeful words, she hurried down the path to the village.

When she was nearly out of sight, Morgan turned to Lord Blackwater and said, “You should be ashamed of yourself, abusing a poor, innocent, trusting girl that way.”

“I?” he said, his brows lifted in an imitation of shock and disbelief.

“Yes, you,” she said, wrapping her shawl around her snuggly. It carried the scent of wood and sky and man. She did not appreciate it. “You told her some tale of Benedict the ghost and now she’s sunk into some delusion that a ghost is infatuated with her.”

“I?” Blackwater said again, more forcefully this time. Oh, how he could dissemble. It was shameful.

“It’s bad enough that Castle Keyvnor is burdened with these superstitious tales of witches and ghosts and such, but to play on the uneducated mind, and she’s just a girl.”

“Lady Morgan,” Blackwater said, lifting his chin and squaring his shoulders. She lifted her chin to match him, glad he could not tower over her with a show of masculine outrage. “I am a stranger to Castle Keyvnor, if you will recall, and far from instructing that girl, or anyone, in the legends of Keyvnor, I have been instructed, more than once, by nearly every person native to this place.” That had to be an exaggeration of the worst sort. How many natives of Bocka Morrow could he possibly know? “How you have reached the conclusion that I have tutored that girl in ghosts and ghouls beggars comprehension. I do not, that is, I have never believed in ghost stories. I do not spread ghost stories. I do not find pleasure is tormenting poor, innocent, trusting girls from remote villages.”

That did sound very bad. She had said something very like that, hadn’t she?

“Lord Blackwater,” she began. He held up a hand to stop her. It was very insulting, yet she did hold her tongue. The beast.

“I can only think that my poor behavior of last night, that ill-conceived kiss, has contributed to your low opinion of me. If I had a defense, I would mount one. I do not. What I did was the act of the lowest boor. I beg you to accept my apology.”

He bowed. He turned. He walked away.

He did not wait for her to gift him with her acceptance of his apology.

Morgan truly thought that, however handsome he was, she was building up to a very firm dislike of Lord Blackwater. The fact that her shawl carried his scent, and that she found it bewitching, was very inconvenient.

CHAPTER 6

“What did you do?” Nell said.

“Nothing,” Roland said.

“You must have done something because it’s all falling apart and it was falling together so beautifully.”

Nell had been watching Mary, to be certain she kept away from Roland, and so she had followed Mary from the castle to her home in the village. She had heard her talking of being haunted by Benedict with the village blacksmith, who had ignored her.

She had heard her talking with one of her brother’s friends, a fisherman, who nodded from time to time while keeping his eyes on the repair of his nets. Nell had decided that watching Mary talk about Benedict when she really meant Roland was a poor use of her energy. She had a marriage to make. She also had a wrong to right. For Roland.

Nell decided to give Mary just a bit of what she yearned for---a good haunting.

It hadn’t taken much.

Nell had, using rather more energy than she should have, appeared to Mary in the thick mist rising from the nearby waves. Naturally, Mary had her head turned in the wrong direction and so Nell was required to use even more energy to throw some sea spray at her. Mary had turned, finally, seen Nell in the curl of a wave, and run from the shoreline before Nell could do anything to clarify to the imbecile that Roland was not Benedict. Benedict, the Benedict she knew, would never be interested in haunting a girl like Mary. Roland, the hound, would haunt anything in skirts. At least Roland should get proper credit, even with the village idiot.

And so Nell had followed Mary through the village and past the fields and into the wood, once again to their beech tree. Mary had interrupted what looked to be an intense exchange between Morgan and Hal, and no one knew better than Nell where intense exchanges led, and now everything looked blown to pieces, while Roland stood and pronounced his innocence.

Roland was never innocent. No one knew that better than she.

“All I did was keep him from breaking his neck,” Roland said. “There are enough ghosts at Keyvnor. All named Benedict,” he added in an undertone. “What did you do to Mary?”

“Nothing,” she said.

“Nell?”

“Nothing much,” she amended.

“With that one, nothing much is too much,” Roland said, shaking his head.

Nell smiled. “‘Tis true.”

This wager between them had brought them closer. Through the earthly pair, they were remembering their own love story, the energy that had drawn them to each other, the passion that fueled every interaction, every conversation, every innocent touch. So she surmised. Whatever it was, they were more emotionally aligned now than they had been in a century.

“The girl, the Banfield girl, does not believe in ghosts,” Roland said. “Blackwater, thanks to us and that idiot girl and her talkative uncle, now does. It drives them apart.”

“Mary, the idiot, is the tip of that spear thrust,” Nell said. Mary was responsible for every noxious thing that had ever happened or ever would happen at Keyvnor, of that Nell would never be dissuaded. “If she would only keep her mouth closed.”

“She does not yet possess that skill,” Roland said. “But what did you do to her, little as it was?”

Nell rose up to the top of their beech. A few threads of shawl were twined around a branch, curls of rose red and burnished gold, glimmering in the soft light. Roland followed her.

“He climbed this far? He truly would have fallen to his death,” Nell said. “You saved him?”

“I put the shawl within his grasp, that is all. He was determined to climb, to do all in his power to retrieve that trifling thing.”

“He wanted to impress her,” Nell said, grinning. “Men do that when they are in love.”

“Men do that whether they are in love or not,” Roland said dismissively.

“You recall that you once jumped from a boat into the Thames to retrieve my earring?” Nell said. “A most gallant, dangerous act. As we were alone in the boat, whom did you seek to impress?”

“The earring was gold. It was simply a practical matter,” he said.

“How could you hope to find an earring in dark water on a cloudy night?”

“I found it, didn’t I?” he said, puffing out his chest.

“That you did, my love,” she said. “And I loved you the more for it. As you knew I would.” She drifted up to him, her hair encircling them both. “Admit it. You did it for love.”

“Love is a folly. Love gets a man killed,” he said.

“Love also keeps a man alive,” she said, kissing his cheek, first one, then the other. “It was brave folly and I noticed it. Morgan will not disdain this act of love from Hal Mort.”

“You did not hear what they said to each other,” Roland said. “They do not love. ‘Tis too soon for love. Marry, they might. Marriage can happen quickly, the mere signing of contracts. Love takes longer.”

“Sometimes. Sometimes, love takes an instant and can happen in a moment.”

“At the top of a tree?” he said.

“Or in the depths of a river,” she said, taking the thread from the shawl into her hands, winding it around her finger until she had made a fragile circle of warm, glimmering color. “Come. Let us help our man attain his woman.”

“How shall we do that?” Roland said.

“I would suggest killing Mary but that would be against my own best interests,” Nell said.

Roland laughed. Roland had not laughed in decades. Hal and Morgan were so good for them.

“Our man and our woman?” Roland said. “What of our combat?”

“Let us fight for them and not against each other. What say you?”

Roland grabbed up her hands and kissed them, closing her hands in his fist. “I say, let us introduce ourselves to Lady Morgan Hambly.”

CHAPTER 7

Hal hadn’t walked even a mile before Companion found him. The dog, his dog now, stuck his long nose into his crotch by way of greeting, then circled Hal and leaned against his leg, looking up at him with devoted eyes.

At least one relationship was proceeding smoothly.

Hal sighed and rubbed Companion’s head, fingering his soft ears. Companion sighed contentedly and then bumped him again on the leg and walked forward, looking back encouragingly.

“Yes, very well. Walk on,” Hal said. He was out of the wood and onto a path that led along the cliff top, the ocean crashing against the rocks below him. Bocka Morrow was across the fields and down, a winding road that he avoided; he assumed Morgan would follow the main road into town and castle. He had no wish to say another word to Morgan Hambly, particularly since he didn’t know what he could say on the subject of ghosts and haunts that wouldn’t leave her with an even worse impression of him than she already had.

Did he believe in ghosts?

Not precisely.

He was willing to admit, even accept, that he might not understand everything about the natural world, and if so, then he could also admit that the unnatural world, the supernatural world, might be a bit of a mystery to him. He could admit that much, and he considered that quite a lot. However, he was not prepared to have a conversation, nay, a debate, about ghosts with Morgan Hambly, who happened to live in a ghost museum of sorts.

One wondered how she had avoided the ghosts before now.

He wondered why the ghosts had flocked to him like iron filings to a magnet. Was there something about him that attracted spirits? He could not imagine it.

On the other hand, there were many things he had never before imagined that he was imagining now.

Hal sighed and kept walking, enjoying the sight of his dog, his monstrous black dog, sniffing the air six feet in front of him, alert for trouble. One thing he did know: Companion and Keystone could detect a ghostly presence. As to that, so could he.

Hal sighed again and lengthened his stride.

He could not discuss such things with Morgan. It was not proper, for one, and for another, she would think him mad. Rightly so.

Perhaps he was mad.

Hal stopped for a moment, did a quick mental review of himself, his thoughts, his behavior, and current events since arriving at Keyvnor Castle.

No. He was quite certain he was sane. It was Keyvnor that was mad.

Chuckling, Hal said, “Your master is not mad! How lucky you are, Companion. A dog of rare good fortune.”

Companion sported a doggy smile, barked his agreement, and they both walked on.

He was as sane as rain.

Nothing remotely interesting happened to Morgan for the rest of the day. Oh, it rained a bit, but that hardly counted as anything, not in Cornwall in late October. She dined, she refused a card game, she chose a book from the library and retreated to her room and read until after midnight, her mind jumbled and fevered. Perhaps she was ill, after all.

If she were ill, she blamed Hal Mort, Lord Death, the Black Death, for it. Oh, she had heard all his pet names by now. His friends were not shy of using them when they thought no one could overhear them. But she had. And she was glad of it. Lord Death, indeed, trading in ghost stories and scaring girls to early graves. Or so he might wish.

His dark looks were no lie. He was dark clear through, his soul as black as his hair . . . yet his hair was not quite black. It was quite close to being black but missed by a mite. His hair, thick and soft, was the darkest, deepest brown.

Morgan shook herself and closed her book. Like mud. He had hair like mud, and a soul to match.

Yet was she not being too harsh? How could she know his soul? She barely knew the man.

She’d kissed him, hadn’t she? Did she know any other man as well?

The room felt cold. Morgan pulled up the coverlet and huddled in her bed, the single candle on the night stand flickering. She was not going to cower. She flung back the bedding, rushed across the wide room, and lit two more candles on the dresser, and then for good measure, another candle on the mantle. There. She was not cold now. She hurried back to her high bed, leapt in, tucked her feet into the hem of her nightgown and cuddled into a ball.

A cold wind swirled through the room and the candle on the mantle went out. Then the candle on her nightstand went out.

Morgan closed her eyes, lay her head firmly on the pillow, and willed herself to sleep. After a few hours, she actually slept.

“Stubborn,” Nell said.

“She’s a Banfield,” Roland said. “Haven’t I been telling you?”

“For more than three hundred years you’ve been telling me. When did I ever dispute it?” Nell said. “We must do something else.”

“Throw her from a treetop? I know just the tree.”

Nell was silent, tapping her fingertips against her lips. “It may come to that.”

Roland rubbed his hands together. “Finally. A plan I can fully endorse.”

“But not before she has found true love. And is married,” Nell added when Roland opened his mouth to speak. He closed his mouth. “All that’s needed is to get them in the same room.”

“As they are in the same castle, that should not be impossible.”

“But perhaps difficult.”

“He is a man,” Roland said. “Trust in that.”

“Trust in a man?” Nell said, shaking her head. “I’ve not been dead that long.”

Roland swirled against her, his hips to hers, and pulled her hair to tug her in for a kiss. It was quite a kiss.

“If you want her married to him, she must trust him,” Roland said against her lips.

“I do want her married,” Nell said, wrapping her pale gray arms around him. He still felt good to her, even in this state.

“We must make her see she can trust him,” Roland said.

“Let’s discuss that later,” Nell said, twining herself around Roland as he lifted them out of the room.

CHAPTER 8

M organ was never going to trust anyone ever again. Her sisters were so otherwise engaged as to be nearly non-existent. She had barely seen Jane in days. She had stayed indoors for most of the past two days, in her room for much of it, merely to avoid Lord Blackwater, his friends, her cousins, her parents, her aunts and uncles, and Mary. She would have appreciated some company other than the cold vapor that swirled into her room whenever it felt like it, but no one came to relieve the tedium.

It was now October 31 and if anything supernatural wanted to make itself known, she was more than ready. She knew there was nothing there, of course, but she was ready for whatever was there.

And so ran her thoughts, in numbing, exhausting circles.

Nevertheless, she was ready.

Upon leaving her room, she rushed through the castle and out into the sunshine. It was sunny, finally, and she reveled in the feeling of the sun on her skin. Wearing a very fetching light blue day dress with a scalloped detail on the neck and sleeves edged in dark red embroidery, her favorite shawl draped elegantly over her arms, she walked with a swinging, confident step toward the stable block.

She was ready.

Lord Death’s stallion was not in his stall, nor in any of the stalls. Lord Death’s dog, Companion, was not to be seen. Shoulders drooping just a bit, she walked back out into the sunshine.

There was no cold wind to press itself down upon her head. The only thing she felt on her head was warm, golden sunshine.

Still, she was ready. If only something would happen, she would be able to demonstrate how very ready she was.

Morgan readjusted her bonnet, straw, with a very fetching ribbon, and girded herself for . . . something. After walking from the stable to the kitchen garden to the maze to the edge of the wood and feeling nothing but warm sunlight, and seeing nothing remotely interesting, Morgan was feeling a bit letdown. She had spent two days in her room preparing for this?

Without thought, and without a cold wind to direct her, she found herself wandering down a horse path through the wood that led, if she remembered correctly, to the cliff that edged the coast. It was a wild path, untended, seldom used. The sunlight filtered through the canopy of branches turning the light tawny gold. The birds were silent. The wood felt unnaturally still. Readjusting her shawl to sit higher upon her shoulders, the scent of Lord Blackwater still held within the fabric, and still just as enticing and comforting to her, Morgan strode down the narrow path, deeper into the wood. The sea was just ahead, just around a turn or two. She was almost certain.

It was All Hallow’s Eve and she was walking in a woodland upon her father’s own property on a sunny day. She had nothing to fear. Even so, she held the shawl to her face and breathed deeply of the scent.

“Look at her,” Nell said. “You cannot deny that she’s a brave one.”

“I never said the Banfields lacked bravery.”

“You said they were scurrilous, treacherous, and any man was a fool who turned his back on one,” Nell said.

“And every word of that the truth. But not cowards, madam,” Roland said, running a hand over his beard. “I never called any Banfield a coward.”

“Only everything else.”

Roland shrugged.

“She won’t acknowledge us,” Nell said, “no matter how we torment her. She has resolve.”

“She’s stubborn and obstinate. Like all Banfields.”

“We have to do something. The will reading is soon and then they will all depart, Hal may depart at any time; he has no reason to stay for the will, and then where will that poor girl be?”

“If she doesn’t marry Blackwater she can marry some other fool. There are men enough out there. She can live without this one.”

“Are we onto that again?” Nell said, swirling the dust on the path, creating a tiny whirlwind of leaves and twigs. “He is for her and she for him. It has been decided.”

“Decided by you,” Roland said. “The two parties have gone their separate ways. Let their hearts decide it, Nell. Would you have wanted outside interference in our love affair?”

“If the interference had resulted in a marriage?” Nell asked, her eyes narrowed. “Yes, and yes again, my love. Dragging you to the altar would have been worth any price.”

“Aye, and dragging it would have been! Why would any woman want a man taken so?”

“You never minded how you took me, sweet,” she said. “You would have been happy. I would have made certain of it.”

“Would you?” Roland said, his dark eyes gleaming. “I think you would have done, my Nell. Aye, indeed, I am sure of it.”

“So you should be. And so will she be, if we can but soften her heart towards him again.”

“Nell, did you not see how she caressed that scrap of shawl? She’s ne’er been without it since Blackwater had it at his throat. It’s the scent of him she’s got and she’s not going to let him escape, no matter what she thinks of ghosts and hauntings and whatever else she’s heard at the castle. Let her sniff him out. She’ll find him soon enough and work her female ways upon him until he’s not fit for dog scraps.”

“A fine opinion you have of females! Dog scraps, is it?”

Roland looked as innocent and confused by her remark as it was possible to look. “It was a compliment, Nell. How can you think otherwise? She’s got the scent and she’ll run him to ground. What finer thing could be said of anyone?”

“Oh, ‘tis a compliment, verily,” she said, her brows raised as high as they would stretch. “I’m off to find Lord Death. I’ll aid him if I can. He’ll need help against the bitch hound of Keyvnor.” And with those words, Nell vanished, twigs falling through the sunlight as she passed.

Roland stood a foot above the path, hovering, the sunlight shining through him in golden rays that sliced into his gray vapor. It created a striped pattern that he found amusing, and he found so little amusing any more. This battle of the sexes, this marriage war between the Banfield girl and Blackwater, was the most fun he had found in half a century, maybe longer. It was far more entertaining than listening to Mary bleat her love to him using Benedict’s name.

So, he had teased the girl a bit, here and there. He had haunted her and wooed her, as much as any ghost could woo, all to break the tedium of this half-life of never-ending death. But Mary was poor sport for a gentleman, and he was a gentleman. She was like to go mad if he didn’t leave her alone, which he had, upon the arrival of Blackwater, his stallion, and the Banfield girl.

Truthfully, they made a fine looking pair. The man and the girl, though the man and the stallion were magnificent. Blackwater had worked that stallion to a fine point, learning his habits, working out the bad ones. That stallion wanted to balk at jumps, and Blackwater had worked him out of that in the past two days. The girl had been in her bedchamber, hiding, declaring with every thought in her head that she did not believe in ghosts while the man had been working with his stallion, accomplishing something of worth. Thus were the two sexes revealed.

Still, a man without a woman was a pitiful thing to behold. The world did need women in it. Blackwater did seem to find the girl, Banfield though she was, attractive, and her dowry would be very helpful in getting the man’s estates on sound footing.

Roland sighed, his mind made up for good. Blackwater would get the girl. Banfield or not, Roland had confidence Blackwater could manage her and whatever mischief she got into. Look what he had accomplished with the stallion in only a few days.

Yes, Lord Death could handle Morgan Hambly, Banfield’s stubborn daughter.

CHAPTER 9

N ell found Hal Mort on the cliff walk, a narrow path set at the cliff’s edge, the wood acres distant, the path set amidst wild grass. The ocean’s horizon swept away as far as the eye could see or ghost could sense. The ocean was a vast place, abounding in life and death, wrecks and mayhem. She had never seen the sea until she came to Keyvnor. It was a beautiful part of God’s creation, so boundless, so blue.

Hal was working his stallion in a series of turns, his mane flying in the high sea wind, his coat gleaming. Off to the side, out of the way and lying in the golden grass of autumn, was the dog. He was chewing his right front claws contentedly. Companion, Hal had named him. Well, a man deserved more than a dog for a companion. He needed a good woman at his side; they all did, each man God had made. Had God Himself not said so, in the beginning? He surely had and Nell could not see that questioning God’s will had ever done anyone any good.

She floated over the golden grass and the dog, who stopped chewing his nails to sniff the air below her feet, and to the man upon his horse. His thoughts were all of his stallion.

“Work your will upon the girl, Lord Death,” she said. “You know she is for you. You can sense it, can you not? This girl was created for you as I was created for Roland.”

The dog sat up and barked at her.

The stallion tossed his head and jerked the reins.

Hal said, “None of that, now. A sea wind can be a chill wind. There’s nothing to fear in it.”

Nell sighed and dropped lower, to just above Hal’s right shoulder. The stallion pulled to the left, sidestepping. The dog leapt to his feet, lowered his head and began barking in earnest.

“As Roland and I are, so shall you and Morgan be. A love for all time. A love to last through centuries,” she said.

The wind of her cold breath ruffled his dark hair. He did not so much as shiver. He was a proud man. She admired that in him.

“Easy,” Hal said, pressing his knees into Keystone’s sides, holding the reins with a firm hand. “Companion, down.” His dark brows drew down into a frown and he said, “‘Tis a mouthful, isn’t it? Something shorter, quicker to say, I think.” Nell hovered at his shoulder, wanting to get Hal to think of Morgan in a hurry, before Roland arrived and set her off course. Roland could be a torment to her. “How does Roland sound to you, boy?” The dog looked at Hal with a turned head, ears upright and alert. “Roland? Roland,” he said, testing the name in his mouth. “It has an easy sound to it. It sounds right, doesn’t it? Roland it is,” Hal said.

Nell threw up her hands and let the ocean breeze carry her inland. Of course, Lord Blackwater had heard that.

“Morgan! Morgan!” she said, voice rising to push against the wind. “Seduce Morgan Hambly and make her your wife, you daft, dull man! Men are all the same, no matter the century. As dull as iron and as deadly to a woman’s joy,” she said, muttering, the wind of her anger fighting the clean sea breeze, the air around the man and the stallion and the dog growing more and more turbulent.

“I shall not seduce any woman, forcing her into marriage,” Hal said, speaking to the space between Keystone’s ears. “I shall not be bullied and I shall not be coerced, and I shall not allow Lady Morgan to be. Get that in your head, whatever you are.”

Nell spun to face Hal and then dropped down until she was right in front of him. Keystone did not like it one bit.

“You can hear me, Lord Death?” she said.

Hal swallowed, looked out to sea for a moment, then turned and patted his horse on the neck. He said, “No, Lady Ghost. I cannot hear you. I cannot see you. I deny your existence. I do not believe in ghosts.”

“Well spoken, Blackwater,” Roland said, coming from the shadowed wood, out into the bright sunshine of the cliff walk.

Hal did not so much as twitch. He kept his hand upon his warm-blooded horse, patting, stroking, soothing.

“No sane man should believe in ghosts,” Roland said. “It defies reason.”

“And God’s plan,” Nell added. “Yet here we are. If we are not ghosts, I don’t know what we are.”

Hal said nothing. He turned his gaze out to sea. The clouds were building a few miles off, fat white clouds with purple centers. It was late afternoon; the moon was rising in the east, pale and ghostly and full.

“We only want to see you happy,” Nell said.

“No,” Roland said. “She wants to see you married. She’s a woman. That is her logic.”

“Are you saying that Hal would not be happy married to Morgan?” Nell said. “I disagree.”

“Of course you do. You’re a woman,” Roland said. “Though I find no fault in that.”

“How kind,” Nell said in a clipped, furious voice.

Hal cleared his throat. “I have always intended to marry. It is my duty to my family and my title.”

Roland nodded and stroked his beard. Nell opened her mouth to say something. Roland shook his head at her ever so slightly. She decided to hold her tongue, for now.

“I must marry carefully,” Hal said.

“No one should marry carelessly,” Nell said, unable to hold her tongue one moment more. “Yet one should marry. God teaches us that it is better to marry than to burn.” When Hal said nothing, she asked, “Do you not burn for Morgan? She is a comely girl, of good family.”

“Of good family!” Roland barked. “Descended from whoremongers, traitors, and cutthroats, she is, and I’ll not let him forget it.”

“I’ll hear no word spoken against the Lady Morgan,” Hal said, setting his heels to his horse and starting off at a sharp walk. “No, nor against her family, ancestors included.”

Nell, who was floating along behind Hal, Roland a few feet from her, raised her brows at Roland and stuck her tongue out at him, more in play than in scorn.

Roland frowned slightly and made a shooing ‘be still’ motion with his hands.

“He scarcely knows the girl,” Roland said to Nell. “A wise man would take counsel from someone who has known the family for centuries.”

“Hated them for centuries,” Nell said, “and that’s not the same at all. A Banfield killed him in battle, Lord Death,” she said, “and that has strongly influenced his thinking on the matter.”

Hal barked a quick, sympathetic laugh. He did not respond more than that.

“He is not afeared of you, Roland,” Nell said, “so you can stop trying to make the man jump when you bark.”

“I do not bark,” Roland said.

The clouds thinned over the ocean as the sun lowered in the sky, turning pale purple and gray and pink against the vivid blue of the sky and the hot gold of the sun. In the east, the moon rose white and round, pocked and ethereal.

“‘Tis the night of the year when the portal between the living and the dead is thin,” Nell said.

“That is the explanation, then,” he said, setting his horse into a trot. The stallion moved easily beneath him, the dog running effortlessly on the right side of his master, the seashore far, far below. The sound of the waves crashed like a distant orchestra.

The path along the cliff led away toward the wood and it was at this bending of the path that Hal saw Morgan. She stood standing within the shadow of the wood, the light dim and dappled, and she looked more elf sprite than woman to him. Though that may have been the company he was keeping, inspiring such a fanciful thought as that.

Hal did not hesitate. He turned Keystone and rode straight to her. She did not move. Could she see what he saw? The ghosts, felt only before, he could now see and hear as plainly as any living being. It had begun with the tolling of an unearthly bell, a hollow, otherworldly bell that struck once, twice, thrice, and then the ghosts had materialized. Because he had felt their presence first, that frosty air that announced them, he had not reacted in the way that might be expected; namely, falling in a dead faint or throwing himself, screaming, off a cliff or any other normal, healthy response to finding oneself surrounded by chatty ghosts.

That the two were lovers was plain to be seen.

In their conversation, the looks they exchanged, the by-play of their every interaction, the deep union they shared burst forth like lightening bolts. He had rarely seen living couples display so much passion and connection. It did give one hope in the power of love, love that survived even death.

Still, having seen them, heard them, conversed with them, he still did not believe in ghosts. He had worked it all out. He believed in a living God, the God of the Holy Trinity, and he believed in the good works of the Church of England. He believed, he put his trust and his hope, in that. One did not believe in dead autumn leaves. One did not believe in wood ash in a cold hearth. One did not believe in the dead.

He was entirely at ease in that conclusion. It seemed most brilliantly logical to him. And if Lady Morgan could see the dead, he would put it to her in those terms and she would find peace as well.

But, the closer he drew to her, the less he thought of peace.

In truth, he did burn for her.

She watched him come, stepping out of the wood and into the falling sunlight. The sun hung over the sea, a pulsing flame of orange and gold, the ocean a blue magnet pulling the sun down and under. The sunlight reached out to light her hair to gleaming gold and her eyes to silver blue. A sprite, an elf, she surely was. Her small chin lifted, so delicately formed, her mouth opened and she said, “I was not looking for you. I had no expectation of seeing you today.”

Hal turned his head slightly to gaze upon the ghosts. They were just behind him; the woman was smiling at the girl and the man studying her as one would inspect a squirming rat. Hal turned back to Morgan. She was looking directly at him.

“Understood, Lady Morgan,” he said. “Who did you expect to see today?”

That seemed to catch her by surprise. She shifted her weight on her feet, looked at the ground for a moment and said, “The usual people, I suppose. I have not seen you in days, Lord Blackwater. I had--”

“Given up hope of ever seeing me again?” he finished for her.

“Good,” the male ghost, Roland, said. “Lay on. Keep her off balance. That’s the way to win a woman. They love to be kept on their heels.”

“Of all the ridiculous notions!” the female said. “Off their heels and in bed, that’s your method and there’s no point in dressing it up now. Lord Death has more finesse than that. He means to marry this girl, and you’ve no idea how that’s done, do you?”

Hal looked at Morgan. She did not respond to the ghostly chatter, did not look at them, but she did wrap her shawl more tightly about her throat. What sort of curse was it that only he could see the damned things? And damned they surely were. ‘Twas unnatural to linger about so.

“Hardly, Lord Blackwater,” she said stiffly. “I have not seen anyone much lately, truth be told. I have been in my room, suffering a mild chill.”

“A mild chill, was it?” Hal said, looking at the ghosts. Roland crossed his arms and returned the look with bland indifference. Nell smiled and shrugged at Hal. “And do you suffer still?”

“Not enough to mention,” she said. The way she held her shawl gave lie to that.

“Lady Morgan,” he said, dismounting, tying Keystone’s reins to a low-lying branch, “I fear I have stumbled into something here, at Keyvnor, that is not quite . . . ” He took a breath and tried again. “A will reading is not a social event. I should never have come at such a time. I mean to say,” he said, twitching his elbow to keep Nell away from him. Nell was breathing down his neck, literally.

He wanted to court the girl. He could not properly court her with ghosts at his elbow. During a will reading for a close family member.

He could not stop looking at Morgan’s mouth. She had the most delicate mouth set atop the most elegant little chin.

“You are leaving?” Morgan said, taking a step nearer to him. They stood upon the grass now, the wood behind her, the sea behind him. From the reflection in her eyes, he could see the slow melting of the sun into the sea. “You will not stay? Have I been too abrupt a hostess? Truly, I have not felt quite myself since we arrived.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Hal said, elbowing Nell again.

“Kiss her,” Nell whispered. “She wants you to kiss her.”

“He is not going to kiss a girl to whom he is not affianced,” Roland said.

“He already has done!” Nell said, not whispering any more.

“And nearly paid the penalty for doing so!” Roland snapped back. “The man will not be forced into marriage, and thank God for that.”

“Lord Blackwater?” Morgan said, looking up at him, lifting her delightful little chin. “You appear agitated. I hope I am not the cause.”

“She’d like nothing more than to be the cause,” Roland said. “Women live for such moments.”

“Do you know,” Nell said, rising high into the air, her hair blowing in the wind, “I think I am relieved we did not marry. You are a most contentious, most ill-tempered man, always giving in to pouts and tantrums.”

“A man does not pout!” Roland said, rising to match her height and drawing close to her, their vapors entangling.

“Then you should stop pouting!” Nell screamed in his face.

The roiling of their anger, their passion, swirled in the air around them and encompassed the whole cliff top. But that was not the reason Hal did it. He did it because he wanted to. He was not proud of it, but at least he was being honest about it.

Hal reached for Morgan, his hands on her face, and she seemed to melt toward him. He took that as a good sign.

“You, Lady Morgan, are the cause of everything. You are the reason I can’t sleep. You are the reason I am cold and hot by turns. You are the reason I find myself kissing girls without a by your leave.”

“You’ve been kissing girls?” she asked, her voice a breathy whisper against his mouth.

“One girl. You,” he said, and then he kissed her again. She seemed to like it. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and pulled him close, enveloping them both in her paisley shawl. The shawl tightened around them, beyond where her hands were, and he knew the cause. He hoped she did not.

When he stepped back from the kiss, or as much as the strangling shawl would allow, she wore a worried frown.

“I do not know if we align very well, Lord Blackwater,” she said. “I do not believe in ghosts and I am afraid that you do. Castle Keyvnor seems to inspire that sort of thing, all the legends that accrue to an old dwelling and so forth.”

He was shaking his head before she had finished speaking, pulling free of the shawl and giving a brushing motion to the ghosts with his hand behind his back. “I do not believe in ghosts.”

“Do you not?” she said, her voice hopeful. Then, looking at the sky, she said, “It has grown quite chilly, hasn’t it?”

“Warm her up, man,” Roland said. “We can’t let the little thing cool off.”

“Will you let the man propose?” Nell said.

“The sun has set,” Hal said. “I can see it in your eyes.”

“And I can see the moon rise in yours,” she said, relaxing in his arms.

He kissed her again. He felt like doing nothing more, and it kept her from asking questions about ghosts.

“Did you hear that?” she said, when he lifted his mouth from hers. “Did you hear bells ringing?”

He pulled her against his chest, burying her face there, kissing the top of her head. Nell and Roland were hovering on the edge of the cliff, quite far off now yet quite visible in the twilight sky, the rays of the sun striking the clouds from behind the ocean’s rim with all the force of a sword thrust.

“Do you want to know what I believe in?” he said, distracting her from the bells, because he had heard them and he was afraid they signaled more ghosts on the cliffs of Keyvnor, and Morgan did not need to have her beliefs shaken if he could prevent it. He wanted to protect her from everything, and he intended to do just that, for the rest of his life.

“What do you believe in?” she said, snuggling into him.

“I believe in us,” he said, and then he turned to face the sea and the rising Halloween moon. “I think that must be enough for any man.”

“And now we have to fix that idiot Mary,” Nell said. “I know just what she needs: a husband.”

Roland sat down on the edge of the cliff and hid his face in his hands. “A husband is your answer to every problem. ‘Tis like a sickness in you. Can’t we just see this one couple leg-shackled and off the place? I can tell you now, we are going to have to watch Banfield for the wolf he is. He’ll try to cheat Blackwater in the marriage settlement. Banfields are known for sharp dealing.”

“I shall make an agreement with you,” Nell said, pushing Roland’s arms aside so she could sit upon his lap. “You watch Banfield regarding the marriage portion, doing whatever you think best to him on Blackwater’s behalf and not your own endless revenge, mind, and I’ll not interfere. Just you leave Mary to me.”

Roland’s eyes grew huge in his face. “You’re not going to kill her, are you?”

“Don’t be absurd. How would it help me to do so? You know she’d stay about the place, moaning and weeping and screaming about something every hour of every day. She’d make a miserable ghost. No,” Nell said, catching her hair in her hands and winding it into a loose coil, “what she needs is a husband.”

“Of course you’d say that. What other solution could there be for any female trouble? But what man would have her?”

Nell ignored the question. “And once she has a husband, she’ll have a pack of children at her feet for the rest of her life. She won’t have a moment to think of her ghost lover.”

“I was never her ghost lover,” Roland said.

“‘Tis true. Her heart was all for Benedict,” Nell said, and then she laughed right into Roland’s face. Dare she say it? His pouty face.

ABOUT CLAUDIA DAIN

Claudia Welch/Claudia Dain graduated from the University of Southern California with a BA in English.  While there she became a member of Alpha Phi, one of the oldest sororities in America.  A two-time Rita finalist, she has won numerous writing awards and honors since her first novel was published in 2000.  She has lived for most of her life in Los Angeles, called Connecticut home for a decade, and currently lives in North Carolina with her husband.

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www.ClaudiaDain.com

THE EARL OF BANFIELD’S LAST WILL & TESTAMENT

In the Name of God, Amen, I, Jonathan Hambly, Earl of Banfield, of Bocka Morrow in the County of Cornwall, resident of Castle Keyvnor, on this 11th day of August, 1811, being of weak body but of sound mind hereby declare this to be my last Will and Testament.

Gentlemen, first I will that all my just debts and funeral expenses shall be paid by my Trustees and Executors hereinafter named.

I charge my second cousin Allan Hambly, with the care of my wife, Evelyn DeLisle Hambly, shall she survive me. Allan Hambly shall see to her care and comfort within Castle Keyvnor for the remainder of her days. Allan Hambly shall continue to employ the servants who currently serve and see to her care and comfort.

I give and bequeath to my second cousin Allan Hambly the sum of twenty thousand pounds of Lawful money of Great Britain, the same sum my wife brought to the marriage, for her care, comfort and for wages of the servants tasked with her care.

I give and bequeath to my sister Octavia North Barrows the cameo that belonged to our mother.

I give and bequeath to Daniel Goodenham, Viscount North Barrows, the sum of one thousand pounds of Lawful money of Great Britain.

I give and bequeath to my nephew Peter Priske, Earl of Widcombe, my 1721 edition of The Works of Geoffrey Chauceras.

I give and bequeath to my niece Gwnedolyn Beck, Marchioness of Halesworth, the blue and gold porcelain tea service.

I give and bequeath to Blade Hambly, controlling interests in two cooper mines and my collection of papers by astronomers William Wolleston, William Herschel, Pierre Simon Laplace and John Goodricke.

I give and bequeath to Lucien De Roye, my holdings of stock in the East India Dock Company.

I give and bequeath to Clive DeLisle, the red, orange, blue, green, gold and silver monstrosity of a vase.

I give and bequeath to Christopher Deering, Marquess of Brauning, my marbled clay pipe.

I give and bequeath to Jane Hawkins, the Kirkbourne estate.

I give and bequeath to Viscount Sutton, my 1725 edition of Homer’s Odyssey.

I give and bequeath to Baron Dinedor, ten thousand pounds of Lawful money of Great Britain.

I give and bequeath to Mr. Gryffyn Cardew, the parcel of Lancarrow land as laid out in the original sale.

I give and bequeath to Adam Vail, the land currently occupied by the Boswell gypsies.

I give and bequeath to St. David’s Church in the village of Bocka Morrow, two thousand pounds of Lawful money of Great Britain, for their roofing fund.

I give and bequeath to my servant and valet, Mr. Simpkins if he lives with me at the time of my Death all my wearing apparel and one years wages above what may be due to him at my Decease.

Likewise I give to my servants, Mrs. Bray, Mr. Drake, Mrs. Woodead and Mr. Morris, if they live with me at the time of my Death, one years wages above what may be due them at my Decease.

All the residue of my personal Estates of what nature or kind whatsowever and wheresoever I give to Allan Hambly and I Hereby Charge both my Real and personal Estates with the payment of my Just Debts and Legacies.

Lastly, I nominate and appoint Allan Hambly as Sole Executor of this my Last Will and Testament revoking all other wills made by me.

In Witness whereof I, the said, Jonathan Hambly, Earl of Banfield, to this my Last Will and Testament have set my Hand and Seal this 11th Day of August in the year of our Lord one Thousand Eight Hundred and Eleven.

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