His swirling cloak was what caught her eye, but even from across the crowded park, his aura of sadness and regret went straight to her heart. A little girl ran after him as he walked away, and when he stopped and knelt beside her, she held out her hand, offering him something. His long curling hair fell forward as he accepted it, revealing a streak of orange in the otherwise black locks. There was a brief exchange that Micayla couldn’t hear, but whatever the girl had given him must have been quite a treat, for his smile after tasting it was a mixture of wistfulness and delight.

Micayla had never seen him before, but, being a newcomer to Orleon Station, this wasn’t surprising. So far, Windura was the only one she saw on other than a coworker basis, and that was mainly because their quarters were next door to one another.

“Hey, Micayla,” Windura called out from the corridor behind her. “Let’s meet for lunch, okay?"

“Yeah, sure,” Micayla replied. Tearing her eyes away from the man, she turned to greet her Vessonian friend.

“Lunch would be great.”

“The main dining hall at eleven hundred?”

“Fine,” Micayla replied, forcing herself to smile.

Glancing over her shoulder, to her dismay she saw that the man had already gone. She strained her eyes to find him among the huge potted plants and benches of the space station’s “park.” “Did you see that guy—the one in the cloak with the long black hair?”

“A cloak?” Windura echoed. “Why would anyone be wearing a cloak? It’s hot as hell in here!”

It wasn’t the first time she’d heard Windura complain about the heat, but then catering to the preferences of a variety of different beings made the choice of ambient temperature difficult. “Maybe so,” she said doubtfully. “But some people are just cold-natured…” She stared off in the direction he must have taken. “What’s back that way?”

“Some of the more disreputable parts of the station,” Windura replied, flipping her long blond hair over her shoulder. “You’re better off not going down there.” Micayla nodded absently. “I’m sure you’re right,” she said, but something about him was so compelling that if Windura hadn’t intervened, she’d have gone running after him in a heartbeat.

“We’ve got to get you better oriented to this place,” Windura went on. “A girl like you needs to know the ropes.”

Micayla frowned. “What makes you say that?”

Shaking her head, Windura replied, “If you don’t know that by now, then I can’t help you.” With a quick grin, she added, “See you at eleven,” and was gone. Micayla stood gazing blankly at the throng of children, unable to recall why she had gone to the park in the first place. Ordinarily it would’ve been a cold day in hell, let alone Orleon Station, when a man distracted her that much, but then she remembered: Tea. You’re here to get tea. Getting in line at Starbucks, she ordered a tall cup of hot, foaming chai and then headed off to work.

The communications center was a hive of bustling activity, and Micayla had to squeeze past several other officers to get to her station, nearly spilling her tea as she finally plunked down in her seat. The guy from the previous shift had left his candy wrappers scattered about, and she gathered them up, grumbling as one of them stuck to the console.

“Sorry about that,” he said from behind her. Reaching over her shoulder, he retrieved the last of them, his chest pressing lightly against her back.

Micayla shifted away from him slightly. Scott was Terran and an attractive fellow with a terrific smile, but he was getting a little too… chummy. As a female of an unknown species, if there was one thing Micayla had learned, it was that Terrans and whatever she was weren’t compatible—at least, none she’d met so far—and having grown up on Earth, she’d met quite a few. “That’s okay, Scott,” she said. “I’m sure I leave tea stains for Xantric to wipe up when she comes on duty.”

“Not sure she’d notice,” Scott said with a shrug.

“And if she did, you’d never know it. Twilanans never complain about anything.” He turned to leave, but then paused, adding, “Not much traffic on the system for the past couple of hours, but I’m sure it’ll pick up for you.”

Micayla took a sip of her tea and nodded. “It always does,” she agreed. “Get some sleep.”

Scott sighed. “Too bad you and I work different shifts. Otherwise, we could spend a little more time together—instead of me just going back to my quarters and dreaming about you.”

Micayla felt a pang near her heart and wished she could have felt something other than regret when a man said such things to her. Steeling herself against his inevitable reaction, she purposely avoided his eyes, focusing instead on resetting the instrument panel with her fingerprint on the log entry. “Dreams will have to suffice, big guy,” she said. “I’m not looking for a boyfriend.”

“You always say that,” Scott grumbled. “Sure I can’t talk you out of it?”

“You could try,” she said, wishing it really would work, just once, “but it probably won’t do you any good.”

“Ice Queen,” he muttered.

“I’ve been called that before,” she said wearily.

“Treacherous Temptress?”

“Been called that too.”

“You’re kidding me, right?”

“You’d be surprised.” Micayla sighed. “And believe me, it’s nothing personal, Scott. I have no problem with being friends, but if you want more than that, I’m simply the wrong species.”

Seeming to take this as an invitation, Scott turned and leaned against the partition that divided the workstations.

“What are you, anyway?”

“No idea,” she replied. “But I’m not human, that’s for sure.”

“No shit,” Scott said. “You’re better looking than any Terran I’ve ever seen. I love those cat-like eyes of yours. The elfin ears are nice too, and the fangs…” His voice trailed off there as though indulging in some erotic fantasy.

“The better to bite you with, my dear,” Micayla quoted. When her stepmother had first read her that story, she probably never realized that Micayla identified much more with the wolf than with Little Red Riding Hood—though, in truth, she looked more like a lion or a panther than a wolf.

If Scott’s response was any indication, being savaged by a lioness was the answer to his wildest imaginings. “Would you?” he asked eagerly. “Please? Pretty please?”

“Absolutely not,” Micayla said firmly as a hail came through the system. “Get going, now,” she added, shooing him away. “I’ve got work to do.”

Scott withdrew with obvious reluctance, mumbling imprecations under his breath as he went.

Micayla redirected the hail and wondered if it would be worth it to try to spend a little more time with Scott. He was a nice guy and it would take no encouragement whatsoever to—no, she decided. It wasn’t worth the pain. Her lack of interest in the opposite sex wasn’t her fault, but he would end up despising her for it and then she’d be right back where she started.

Her attitude wasn’t precisely a lack of interest, however; it was more a lack of desire, and though she knew what desire was supposed to feel like—she had one fantasy that never failed to elicit that response—it never seemed to work with a flesh and blood man. The man she’d seen in the park might have been different, though; she’d at least felt something for him, if only compassion. Had the little girl been his daughter, telling him good-bye as he left on a journey through space? Was she a friend or a complete stranger? Micayla had no way of knowing, but the more she thought about it, the more she itched to find out.

She glanced up as Dana took her seat at the next station, apologizing to Roxanne for being late. “I had such a tough time getting Cara out of the park!” Dana was saying. “She started talking to someone and didn’t want to leave. I’m surprised she didn’t go running after him.”

Chapter One

“You don’t like your mother very much, d’you, m’boy?”

Lincoln Ross Burnett, seventeenth viscount Cambury, glanced curiously at his aunt sitting across from him in the plush coach that was climbing ever higher into the Highlands of Scotland. The question wasn’t surprising, at least to him. Yet it was one that would simply be ignored—if asked by anyone else.

His Aunt Henry—only her husband and Lincoln had ever been permitted to call her Henry—was a sweet, cherubic woman in her forty-fifth year. A bit scatterbrained, but that merely made her more adorable. She was short, pudgy, and had a round face surrounded by an arch of frizzy gold curls. Her daughter, Edith, was identical, just a younger version. Neither was classically pretty, but they grew on you; each had her own endearing qualities.

Lincoln loved them both. They were his family now, not the woman who had remained in the Highlands after she’d sent him off to live with his uncle in England nineteen years ago. He’d been only ten at the time, and had been devastated to have been ripped from the only home he’d known and sent to live among strangers.

But the Burnetts didn’t remain strangers. From the beginning they treated him like a son, even though they had no children yet. Edith was born the year after his arrival, and they were told, unfortunately, that she would be their one and only. So it wasn’t surprising that his Uncle Richard decided to make him his heir, even changing his name so that the Burnett name would be preserved along with the title.

It shouldn’t bother him any longer. He’d lived more years in England now than he had at his home in Scotland. He’d lost the Scottish burr years ago, and he fit so well into English society that most people he was acquainted with had no idea he’d been born in Scotland. They thought Ross was merely his middle name, rather than his original surname.

No, none of this should bother him a bit after all these years, but it bloody well did. He kept his bitterness firmly in hand, though—at least he’d thought no one had detected it. Yet his aunt’s question suggested she knew the truth.

Oddly, one of the things that Lincoln admired greatly in his aunt was that although she could bully with the best of them if it was a matter of health or welfare—and he’d spent many an unnecessary extra day in his bed getting over a cold to prove it—she didn’t assert herself otherwise. If a matter was considered none of her business, she wouldn’t try to make it her business. And how he felt about his mother was his business alone.

Nor was he inclined to own up to those feelings, and so he asked Henriette evasively, “What gives you that idea?”

“This brooding you’ve been doing since we left home isn’t like you, and you’ve never been so tense—nor so silent, I might add. You haven’t said a word since Edith dozed off.”

Thankfully, he had the perfect excuse. “I’ve had a lot on my mind since you announced Edith was going to have her come-out in the grand old style this season and volunteered me as her chaperone. I don’t know the first bloody thing about chaperoning a young miss who’s shopping for a husband.”

“Nonsense, there’s nothing complicated about it. And you did agree it’s past time for you to do that shopping for yourself, since you’ve no one in particular in mind yet either. You should have already got your own family started. You’ve been tardy, which is fine for a man, but Edith can’t afford to be. So you accomplish the same goal together. It’s a brilliant plan, and you know it. You haven’t changed your mind, have you?”

“No, but—“

“Well, then, we are back to my question, aren’t we?” Henriette persisted.

“No, actually, I’ve answered that, and if not to your satisfaction, at least be assured there is nothing for you to be concerned about.”

“Nonsense,” she disagreed again. “Just because I haven’t nagged you about the direction you choose for your life, doesn’t mean I haven’t been immeasurably concerned when you’ve trod down the wrong paths.”

“Immesurably?” He raised a brow, accompanied by a grin he couldn’t hold back.

She humphed over his amusement. “You will not dillydally around the subject thinking you can avoid it this time.”

He sighed. “Very well, what else has led to this amazing assumption that I don’t like my mother?”

“Possibly because you haven’t visited her in nineteen years?”

It had been ripping him up, the stark beauty of the view out the coach window. His mind hadn’t been playing reminiscent tricks on him all these years. The Highlands of Scotland were as wild and magnificent as he remembered—and he’d missed his homeland more than even he had realized, to go by the effect that seeing it again was having on him. But even that hadn’t been enough to draw him back here sooner.

“There’s been no need to visit her here, since she’s visited England numerous times,” he pointed out.

“And you managed to be busy elsewhere most of those times,” she countered.

“Unavoidable circumstance,” he maintained, though her expression said she wasn’t buying that either.

“I’d say pulling teeth would be easier.”

“The timing was never convenient.”

“Faugh, none of your reasons ever washed. Excuses all. Goodness, don’t think I’ve ever seen you blush, m’boy. Hit the mark, did I?”

His blush, of course, just deepened, now that it had been pointed out. The increased embarrassment turned his voice quite stiff. “This conversation is not productive, Aunt Henry. Do leave it go, before we wake Edith.”

She was hurt that he refused to share his feelings with her. He saw it briefly before she masked it with a tsk, a twist of her lips, then a shrug. Henriette didn’t pout. She probably didn’t know how. But she wasn’t usually so persistent, either, and he was afraid the subject wasn’t over, that it would be brought up again at another time.

His Uncle Richard had known what the problem was, but he’d had no answers for Lincoln. Richard Burnett had never been close with his only sister, so he couldn’t explain her reasoning with any degree of certainty, but neither did he take her side in the matter. The best he’d been able to offer was that she was raising Lincoln alone, without a father to guide him—then the trouble began and she didn’t know how to handle the situation. Besides, Richard had been in the middle, very grateful that she’d sent Lincoln to him, thus providing him with an heir, so he preferred to ignore the reasons for it.

Lincoln wasn’t quite sure why he’d finally agreed to revisit his old home. Most likely because he had made the decision to find himself a wife and get his own family started—a new life, a new start—and he wished to put his old grievances to rest first. It was a major undertaking, starting a new family. He planned to do it right and to have no brooding influence from the past mucking it up. But what had him so worried were the strong doubts that he could put those resentments to rest. He was afraid that seeing his mother in the home she had denied him was just going to fan it all to the point of rage again. The previous rage had lasted two years after he’d arrived in England, two long years before it tamped down to mere resentment.

He did want it all gone, though, all behind him. There was even the remote hope that he could forgive his mother. He was almost thirty, too old to be holding childhood grudges. And the blame wasn’t even all hers. She’d merely been too much the coward to confront their neighbor and insist he put a leash on his sons, who were determined to kill Lincoln every chance they got. Numerous things could have been done to end the savage onslaught. But she chose not to face it, chose instead to uproot Lincoln, sending him away from his home, his country—and her.

“Two days.” Brigit ran her fingers through her hair. How was she going to pull that off? She didn’t have tons of cash and a flight forty-eight hours ahead was going to cost a fortune. A bus would be cheaper, but could she do it in two days?

“Let’s surprise your mother,” Ja’Rol offered. “We do miss her. She’d been with us for a long time.”

“How?” she asked, questioning them both.

“Tell us where you’re staying, and your number. We’ll arrange for you to be picked up. We’ll fly. A final gift to say goodbye for her.” Slone sat, looking at her, hardly blinking.

“Won’t that interrupt your week?”

Ja’Rol smiled. “It’ll be worth it.”

After giving them her information, she took a couple numbers with her in case something changed. She promised to be packed and ready by seven the next night to catch the flight with them.

Standing, she noticed again how they stood over her, tall and broad. Both watched her with a protective gleam, and with Ja’Rol, more than a hint of desire. She couldn’t argue with what she saw in him. She felt it too, but being attracted to them both confused her. Just thinking about it made her nipples tighten more.

Feeling off kilter, she shook their hands, fighting to hide the tremble as heat flared up her arm to land in her stomach. It oozed like a hot lava flow to settle between her legs, making her damp with want the longer she stood with them.

“Until tomorrow,” Slone said. His voice had dropped to a low timbre. The kind of voice that made women swoon off their feet. Because she almost did.

“Thank you for doing this,” she said, trying to keep herself grounded. He smelled as good as Ja’Rol. Damn. What did they wear? She was so buying it.

“We’re happy to. You should be with your mother when she shares vows with her soon to be husband.”

Decadent. She was staring at the personification.

She licked her lips. “Tomorrow night?”

“Seven sharp,” he replied. Still holding her hand, he lifted it and brushed the back of her knuckles with his lips, just the softest tease of heat to skin. Her body pulsed as liquid slicked her pussy. Shit. I have got to get out of here before I combust.

“Let me walk you to the way out,” Ja’Rol offered.

Almost numb with need, she followed. Slone opened the door and with a hand to her back, she let Ja’Rol guide her to the elevator. “All the way to one,” he told her.

She nodded. “I can get a cab.”

“A cab?” He glanced at her, his eyes wider. “Not for Traci’s daughter. I’ll go down and call for the car. Are you already settled at your hotel?”

“Yes,” she answered, feeling breathless.

“Good.”

“It’s not an imposition? Doesn’t it take money to just drive me to my hotel?”

“You are now our guest, as we will be your guests to your mother’s wedding. We take care of our guests.”

She felt it was a losing battle, so she didn’t push. Riding in the elevator was a torture. Not as rugged as Slone, dark brown hair, honey gold eyes, he was perfection.

Decadence and perfection. And she was about to be ensconced in an airplane for hours with the two of them.

Brigit swallowed the groan, crossing her arms to conceal her arousal.

December 10, 1822
One o'clock in the morning
On the deck of the Heloise Leger, The English Channel

Hell hath no greater fury than the storms that raked the English Channel in winter.

With elemental tempest raging about him, Major Logan Monteith leapt back from the slashing blade of a Black Cobra cult assassin. With his saber countering the second assassin's strike, using his dirk, clutched in his left fist, to fend off the first attacker's probing knife, Logan suspected he'd be learning about the afterlife all too soon.

Winds howled; waves crashed. Water sluiced across the deck in a hissing spate.

The night was blacker than Hades, the driving rain a blurring veil. Falling back a step, Logan swiped water from his eyes.

As one, the assassins surged, beating him back toward the prow. Blades met, steel on steel ringing, sparks flaring, pinpricks of brightness in the engulfing dark. Abruptly, the deck canted-all three combatants desperately fought for balance.

The ship - a Portuguese merchantman bound for Portsmouth that Logan had been forced to join five days before, when, on reaching Lisbon, he'd discovered the town crawling with cultists - was in trouble. Battered by pounding waves, buffeted and tossed on the storm-wracked sea, the ship wallowed and swung, no longer held into the wind. Whether the rudder had broken or the captain had abandoned the wheel, Logan couldn't tell. He couldn't spare the time to squint through the rain-drenched dark at the bridge.

Instinct and experience kept his eyes locked on the men facing him. There'd been a third, but Logan had accounted for him in the first rush. The body was gone, claimed by the ravening waves.

Logan struck, saber swinging, but was immediately forced to block and counter, then retreat yet another step into the narrowing prow. Further confining his movements, reducing his options. Didn't matter; two against one in the icy, pelting rain, with his grips on his dirk and saber cramping, leather-soled boots slipping and sliding - the assassins were barefoot, giving them even that advantage - he couldn't go on the offensive.

He wasn't going to survive.

As he met and deflected another vicious blow, he acknowledged that, yet even as he did his innate stubbornness rose. He'd been a cavalry officer for more than a decade, fought in wars over half the globe, been through hell more than once, and survived.

He'd faced assassins before, and lived.

Miracles happened.

He told himself that even as, teeth gritted, he angled his saber up to block a slash at his head - and his feet went from under him, pitching him back against the railing.

The wooden scroll-holder strapped to his back slammed into his spine.

From the corner of his eye, he saw white teeth flash in a dark face - a feral grin as the second assassin swung and slashed. Logan hissed as the blade sliced down his left side, cutting through coat and shirt into muscle, grazing bone, before angling across his stomach to disembowel him. Instinct had him flattening against the railing; the blade cut, but not deep enough.

Not that that would save him.

Lightning cracked, a jagged tear of brilliant white splitting the black sky. In the instant's illumination, Logan saw the two assassins, dark eyes fanatically gleaming, triumph in their faces, gather themselves to spring and bring him down.

He was bleeding, badly.

He saw Death, felt it - tasted ashes as icy fingers pierced his body, reaching for his soul.

He dragged in a last gasp, braced himself. Given his mission, given his occupation for the last several years, St. Peter ought at least consider letting him into Heaven.

A long forgotten prayer formed on his lips.

The assassins sprang.

Crack!!

Impact - sudden, sharp, catastrophic - flung him and the assassins overboard. The plunge into turbulent depths, into the churning icy fury of the sea, separated them.

Tumbling in the watery dark, instinct took hold; righting himself, Logan struck upward. His dirk was still in his left fist; he'd released his saber, but it was tied to his belt by its lanyard-he felt the reassuring tap of the hilt on his upper thigh.

He was a strong swimmer; the assassins almost certainly weren't - it would be a wonder if they could swim at all. Dismissing them - he had more pressing concerns - he broke the surface and hauled in a huge breath. He shook his head, then peered through the water weighing down his lashes.

The storm was at its height, the seas mountainous. He couldn't see beyond the next towering wave.

The ship had been in open water in the middle of the Channel when the storm had hit, but he had no idea how far the tempest had tossed them, nor any clear idea of direction. No idea if land was close, or—

He'd been losing blood when he'd hit the water. How long he would last in the cauldron of icy waves, how soon his already depleted strength would give out-

His hand struck something-wood, a plank. No, even better, a section of the ship's side. Desperate, Logan grabbed it, grimly hung on as the next wave tried to slap him away, then gritting his teeth, he hauled himself up and onto the makeshift raft.

The cold had numbed his flesh. Even so, the cut down his side sent burning pain lancing through his entire body.

For a long moment, he lay prone on the planks, gasping, then, gathering his ebbing strength, steeling himself, he inched and edged further onto the planks, until he could lock his right hand over the ragged front edge. His feet still dangled in the water, but his body was supported to his knees; it was the best he could do.

The waves surged. His raft pitched, but rode the swell.

Beneath the lashing roar of the storm, waves crashed. Cheek to the wet wood, he listened, concentrating, and confirmed; the waves were crashing against something near.

The ship was, he thought, wallowing in the unrelieved blackness to his right. Breaking up. Sinking. Given how he and the assassins had been flung, the impact must have been mid ship. Whipping up his failing strength, he lifted his head, searched, saw debris but no bodies - no other survivors - but only he and the assassins had been so far forward in the prow.

Lightning cracked again, and showed him the ship's bare masts silhouetted against the inky sky.

As the simultaneous clap of thunder faded, Logan heard a sucking, rushing sound. Recognizing the portent, he peered at the ship.

The listing, tipping, capsizing ship.

Out of the night, the main mast came swinging down—

He didn't even have time to swear before the top of the mast thumped down across him and the world went black.

* * *

"Linnet! Linnet! Come quickly! Come see!"

Linnet Trevission looked up from the old flagstones of the path that ran from the stable to the kitchen door. She'd left the stable and was nearing the kitchen garden; directly ahead, the solid bulk of her home, Mon Coeur, sat snug and serene, anchored within the protective embrace of stands of elm and fir, bent and twisted into outlandish shapes by the incessant sea winds.

At present, however, in the aftermath of the storm that had swept over them last night, the winds were mild, coyly coquettish, the winter sun casting a honey glow over the house's pale stone.

"Linnet! Linnet!"

She smiled as Chester, one of her wards - a tousle-headed scamp of just seven - came pelting around the side of the house, heading for the back door. "Chester! I'm here."

The boy looked up, then veered onto the stable path.

"You have to come!" Skidding to a halt before her, he grabbed her hand and tugged. "There's been a wreck!" His face alight, excitement and more bubbling in his voice, he looked up into her eyes. "There are bodies! And Will says one of the men is alive! You have to come!"

Linnet's smile fell from her face. "Yes, of course." Swiping up her skirts - wishing she'd worn her breeches instead - she strode quickly toward the back door, inwardly reviewing the necessary tasks - tasks she'd dealt with often before.

On the southwest tip of Guernsey, dealing with shipwrecks was an inescapable part of life.

Chester trotted at her side, his hand gripping hers - too tightly, but then his father had been lost at sea three years ago. As they neared the kitchen door, it opened to reveal Linnet's aunt, Jemima.

"Did I hear aright? A wreck?"

Linnet nodded. "Will sent Chester - there's at least one survivor. I'll go straightaway - can you find Edgar and the others? Tell them to bring the old gate, and the pack of bandages and splints."

"Yes, of course. But where?"

Linnet looked at Chester. "Which cove?"

"West one."

Grimacing, Linnet met Jemima's eyes. Of course it would be that one - the rockiest and most dangerous. Especially for whoever had been washed up. "Broken bones, almost certainly."

Nodding briskly, Jemima waved her off. "Go. I'll have everything ready here when you get back."

Linnet met Chester's eyes. "Let's race."

Chester flashed a grin, let go of her hand, turned and ran back around the house.

Both hands now free, Linnet gathered her skirts and set out in pursuit; with her longer legs, she was soon on Chester's heels. The path cut through the surrounding trees, then out across the rocky expanse that bordered the edge of the low cliffs.

"Hold up!" Linnet called as they rounded the southern headland of the long northwestern side of the island and the west cove opened up below them.

Chester halted at the top of the path - little more than a goat track - that led down to a strip of coarse sand. Beyond the sand lay rocks, exposed now the tide was mostly out, a jumble of tumbled pieces from fist-sized to small boulders that formed the floor of the cove. The cove wasn't all that wide; two promontories of larger, jagged rocks enclosed it, marching out into the lashing gray waves.

Looking down, Linnet saw three bodies, two flung as if carelessly discarded on the rocks. Those two were dead - had to be given the contortions of limbs, heads and spines. The third she could only catch glimpses of; Will and Brandon-another two of her wards-were crouched over the man.

Aware of Chester's pleading look, Linnet nodded. "All right - let's go."

He was off like a hare. Linnet kilted her skirts, then followed, leaping down the familiar path with an abandon almost Chester's equal. As she descended, she scanned the cove again, noting the flotsam thrown up by the storm; to her educated eyes the evidence suggested that a good-sized merchantman had broken up on the razor-sharp rocks that lurked beneath the waves out to the southwest.

Reaching the sand, Chester bounded toward Will and Brandon. Suppressing the urge to follow, Linnet carefully made her way out onto the rocks, and confirmed that the other two men were indeed dead, beyond her help. Two sailors by the look of them, both swarthy. Spanish?

Leaving them where they lay, she picked her way through the rocks back onto the sand, then walked to where the third body lay close to the cliff.

His back to her, Will looked up and around as she neared, his fifteen-year-old face unusually sober. "He was on this piece of siding, so we lifted it and carried him here."

Halting, she dropped a hand on Will's shoulder and answered the question he hadn't asked. "It was safe to move him if he was already on the planks."

Shifting her gaze from Will's face, she got her first look at their survivor. He was lying on his stomach on the section of planking, a wet tangle of black hair screening his face.

He was large. Big. Not a giant but in any company he would rank as impressive. Broad shoulders, long heavy limbs. Running her gaze down his spine, she frowned at the bulge distorting his sodden coat. Bending, she reached out and touched it, traced.

"It's a wooden cylinder in oilskins," Will said. "It's slung in a leather holder with a loop through his belt. We think his arms must go through other loops to hold it in place."

Linnet nodded. "Curious." Had he been carrying the cylinder secretly? With it nestled between the long muscles on either side of his spine, if he'd been upright, the fall of his coat would conceal it,

Straightening, she ran her gaze down his legs, but saw no evidence of breaks or wounds. He was wearing breeches and a loose coat, the sort many sailors wore. His right arm was extended, the fingers of his large hand curled around the front edge of a plank. His other hand, however, lay level with his face, fingers locked in a death-grip around the hilt of a dagger.

That seemed a trifle odd for a shipwreck.

Conscious of her pulse thudding - the run to the cliffs shouldn't have made her heart beat so rapidly - she bent to look at the dagger. Not just a dagger, she realized - a dirk. The fine scrollwork on the blade was exquisite, the hilt larger than that of most knives, with a rounded stone set in the crosspiece. Reaching down, she pried long, hard, ice-cold fingers away from the hilt, then handed the dagger to Will. "Hold that for me."

The man hadn't stirred; not a single muscle had so much as tensed. Linnet drew back, aware of her instincts twitching, flickering in definite warning, yet for the life of her she couldn't make sense of the message.

The stranger was all but dead - indeed, she wasn't sure he wasn't-so how could he be dangerous?

From his position kneeling on the other side of the planking, Brandon said, "He's got a sword, too. On this side."

Linnet circled the man, looked where Brandon pointed, then crouched and unhooked the lanyard that attached the weapon to the man's belt. Drawing the blade carefully from under the man's leg, she straightened, studied it.

"It's a saber - a cavalry sword." She'd seen enough of them during the war, but the war was long over, the cavalry largely disbanded. Perhaps this man had been a trooper, and after the war had turned to sailing?

"We think he's alive," Brandon said, "but we can't find any pulse, and he's not breathing - well, not so you can tell."

Leaving the saber with Brandon, Linnet returned to Will's side. The man's head lay turned that way.

"He must be alive because he's bleeding," Will said. "See?" He lifted the clothes along the man's side, and a rent parted, exposing pale flesh and a long nasty cut. A recent cut.

Crouching beside Will, Linnet looked, and recognized a sword slash. That explained the dirk and saber. While Will held the clothes, she leaned closer, examining the wound, following it up - to the side of the man's breast. Thick muscle had been sliced through. Tracing the wound down, she sucked in a breath when she saw bone - a rib. But that was lower, where there wasn't so much muscle between taut skin and ribcage.

"He's bleeding," Will insisted. "See there?"

Linnet had noted the pale pinkish liquid seeping from the cut. She nodded, not yet ready to explain that that might simply be seawater oozing back out of the wound, tinged with blood that had bled out before. Before the man died.

Yet it was possible he still lived. The sea had all but frozen his flesh; any bleeding would be extremely slow, even were he alive.

Continuing to trace the wound, she discovered it curved inward, angling down and across the man's belly. She couldn't see further than the side of his waist, but a gut wound—if he had one, he was almost certainly dead, whether he'd already died or not.

Lying as he was, the pressure of his body, combined with the effects of the icy sea, might have held the wound closed, inhibited the usual bleeding.

She glanced at Brandon's face, then at Will, alongside her. Chester was hovering at her shoulder. "I need to check the wound across his stomach. I need you to help me ease this side of him up - enough for me to look."

The boys eagerly reached for the man's left shoulder, his side. Settling on her knees, Linnet placed Brandon's hands on the man's shoulder, positioned Will's hands beneath the left hip, set Chester ready to help support the shoulder Brandon would lift. "All together, then." Linnet licked her lips, said a little prayer. She was too experienced in matters of life, death, and the sea to allow herself to become invested in a stranger's survival; she told herself it was for the boys' sake that she hoped this stranger lived. "Now."

The boys heaved, pushed, propped. As soon as they had the man angled up and steady, Linnet ducked down, close to the heavy body, peered beneath to trace and follow the wound - then exhaled the breath she hadn't realized she'd held. Easing back, she nodded. "Let him down."

"Will he be all right?" Chester asked.

She couldn't yet promise. "The wound is less deep over his belly - no real danger. He was lucky." A scenario was taking shape in her mind - a picture of how the man had received such a wound. It should have been a killing, or at least incapacitating, slash. He'd escaped death by less than an inch, just before his ship had wrecked.

"But he's still not really breathing," Brandon said.

And she still wasn't sure if he was alive. Linnet checked for a pulse in the man's wrist, then in his strong throat. There was none she could detect, nor any discernible rise and fall of his chest - but all that could be due to being close to frozen. There was no help for it; shuffling nearer, with one hand she brushed back the fall of black hair hiding his face, bent close, focused - and stopped breathing.

He was heart-breakingly, breath-takingly beautiful. His face, all clean angular lines and sculpted planes, embodied the very essence of masculine beauty - there was not a soft note anywhere. Combined with the muscled hardness of his body, that face promised virility, passion, and direct, unadorned, unadulterated sin.

Such a face did not belong to a man given to sweetness, but to action, command, and demand.

Chiseled lips, firm and fine, sent a seductive shiver down her spine. The line of his jaw made her fingertips throb. He had winged black brows, a wide forehead, and lashes so black and thick and long she was instantly jealous.

She'd frozen.

The boys shifted uneasily, watching, waiting for her verdict.

As usual her instincts had been right. This man was - would be - dangerous. To her peace of mind, if nothing else.

Men like this - who looked like he did, who had bodies like his - led women into sin.

And into stupidity.

Dragging in a breath, she forced her eyes to stop drinking him in, forced her mind to stop mentally swooning. She hesitated, needing to get nearer - and too rattled to lightly risk it.

Maintaining her current, already too-close distance, she held her fingers beneath his nose. And felt nothing.

Turning her hand, she held the sensitive skin of her wrist close, but could detect not the smallest waft of air.

Lips thinning, mentally muttering an imprecation against fallen angels, she leaned down, close, in - angled her cheek so that it was a whisker away from his lips—

And felt the merest brush of air, a breath, an exhalation.

She eased back, straightening on her knees, and stared at the man's face for an instant longer. Then she turned to the wound in his side, checked again. And yes, that was blood, not just seepage. "He's alive."

Chester whooped. The other two grinned.

She didn't. Getting back to her feet, she looked down at trouble. "We need to get him up to the house."

Chapter One

September, 1881

Isabella’s footman rang the bell at the house of Lord Mac Mackenzie on Mount Street, while Isabella waited in the landau, wondering for the dozenth time since she’d set off whether this were wise.

Perhaps Mac would be out. Maybe the unpredictable man had gone off to Paris, or to Italy, where summer would linger for a time. She could investigate the matter she’d discovered by herself. Yes, that would be best.

As she opened her mouth to call back her footman, the large black door swung open, and Mac’s valet, a former pugilist, peered out. Isabella’s heart sank. Bellamy being here meant Mac was here, because Bellamy never strayed far from Mac’s side.

Bellamy peered into the landau, and a look of undisguised astonishment crossed his scarred face. Isabella hadn’t approached this house since the day she’d left it three and a half years ago. “M’lady?”

Isabella took Bellamy’s beefy hand to steady herself as she descended. The best way to do this, she decided, was simply to do it.

“How is your knee, Bellamy?” she asked. “Are you still using the liniment? Is it too much to hope that my husband is at home?”

As she talked, she breezed into the house, pretending not to notice the parlor maid and a footman popping out to stare.

“The knee’s much better, m’lady. Thank you. His lordship is . . .” Bellamy hesitated. “He’s painting, m’lady.”

“So early? There’s a wonder.” Isabella started up the stairs at a quick pace, not letting herself think about what she was doing. If she thought about it, she’d run far and fast, perhaps lock herself into her house and not come out. “Is he in his studio? No need to announce me. I’ll go up myself.”

“But m’lady.” Bellamy followed her, but his damaged knee wouldn’t let him move quickly, and Isabella reached the landing, three floors up, before Bellamy had mounted the second flight.

“M’lady, he said not to be disturbed,” Bellamy called upward.

“I won’t be long. I need only ask him a question.”

“But, m’lady, he’s . . .”

Isabella paused, hand on the white doorknob of the right-hand attic room. “I shall take full blame for invading his lordship’s privacy, Bellamy.”

She lifted her skirts as she swung open the door and walked into the room. Mac was there, all right, standing in front of a long easel, painting with fervor.

Isabella’s skirts slid from her nerveless fingers, the beauty of her estranged husband striking her like a blow. Mac wore a kilt, threadbare and paint-flecked, and he was naked from the waist up. Though it was cool in the studio, Mac’s torso gleamed with sweat, his skin tanned from spending the summer on the warmer continent. He wore a red kerchief on his head, gypsy style, to keep paint out of his hair. He’d always done that, she remembered with a pang. It made his cheekbones more prominent, emphasized the handsomeness of his face. Even the rough boots, much worn and paint-splotched, were familiar and dear.

Mac laid paint on his canvas with energy, obviously not hearing Isabella open the door. He held the palette in his left hand, arm muscles tight, while his right moved the brush in swift, jerking strokes. Mac was a stunning man, made still more attractive when absorbed in doing something he loved.

Isabella had used to sit in this very studio on an old sofa strewn with cushions, simply watching him paint. Mac might not say one word to her while he worked, but she had adored watching the play of muscles on his back, the way he’d smear paint on his cheek when he’d absently rub it. After a particularly good session, he’d turn to her with a wide smile and pull her into his arms, never minding that paint now smeared all over her skin.

So absorbed was she in Mac that Isabella didn’t notice what he painted with such intensity until she forced herself to look away from him and across the room. She barely stifled her dismay.

A young woman lay on a raised platform draped with yellow and red coverings. She was nude, which came as no surprise—Mac generally painted women who wore nothing or very little. But Isabella had never seen him paint anything so blatantly erotic. The model lay on her back with her knees bent, her legs wide apart. Her hand rested on her private place, and she was spreading herself open without shame. Mac scowled at the offering and painted with rapid brushstrokes.

Behind Isabella, Bellamy reached the top landing, puffing from exertion and distress. Mac heard him and growled but didn’t look ’round.

“Damn it, Bellamy, I told you I didn’t want to be disturbed this morning.”

“I’m sorry, sir. I couldn’t stop her.”

The model raised her head, spied Isabella, and grinned. “Oh, hello, yer ladyship.”

Mac glanced behind him once, twice, then his copper gaze riveted to Isabella. Paint dripped, unheeded, from his brush to the floor.

Isabella strove to keep her voice from shaking. “Hello, Molly. How is your little boy? It’s all right, Bellamy, you can leave us. This won’t take long, Mac. I only came to ask you a question.”

* * *

Damnation.

What the hell was Bellamy playing at, letting her up here?

Isabella hadn’t set foot in the Mount Street house in three and a half years, not since the day she’d left him with nothing but a short letter for explanation. Now she stood in the doorway, in hat and gloves donned for calling. Today of all days, while Mac painted Molly Bates in her spread glory. This wasn’t part of his plan, the one that had made him leap onto a train to London after his brother’s wedding and follow her down here from Scotland. He’d call this a grievous miscalculation.

Isabella’s dark blue jacket hugged her torso and cupped her full bosom, and a gray skirt of complicated ruffles spread over a small bustle. Her hat was a concoction of flowers and ribbons, her gloves a dark gray that wouldn’t show London grime. The gloves outlined slender fingers he wanted to kiss, hands he longed to have slide up his back as they lay together in bed.

Isabella had always known how to dress, how to present herself in colors dear to his artist’s eye. Mac had loved to help her dress in the mornings, lacing her gowns against her soft, sweet-smelling skin. He’d dismiss her maid and perform the tasks himself, though those mornings it took them a long time to descend for breakfast.

Now Mac drank in every inch of her, and damn it, grew hard. Would she see, and would she laugh?

Isabella crossed to the dressing gown Molly had left in a heap on the floor. “You’d better wrap up in this, dear,” she said to the model. “It’s chilly up here. You know Mac never believes in feeding the fire. Why don’t you warm up downstairs with a nice cup of tea while I have a chat with my husband?”

Molly leapt to her feet, her grin wide. Molly was a beautiful female in the way many men liked—large-bosomed, round-hipped, doe-eyed. She had a mass of black hair and a perfect face, an artist’s dream. But next to the glory of Isabella, Molly faded to nothing.

“Don’t mind if I do,” Molly said. “It’s stiff work posing for naughty pictures. My fingers are that cramped.”

“Some teacakes ought to loosen you again,” Isabella said as Molly slid on the dressing gown. “Mac’s cook always used to keep currant ones in large supply, in case of emergencies. Ask her if she still does.”

Molly’s dimples showed. “I’ve missed you, no lie, your ladyship. ’Is lordship forgets we ’ave to eat.”

“It’s his lordship’s way,” Isabella said. Molly strolled from the studio without worry, and Mac watched as though from far away as Bellamy followed Molly out and closed the door.

Isabella turned her lush green eyes to him. “You’re dripping.”

“What?” Mac stared at her then heard a glob of paint hit his board floor. He let out a growl, slammed the palette onto the table, and thrust the brush into a jar of oil of turpentine.

“You’ve begun early today,” Isabella said.

Why did she keep on in that friendly, neutral voice, as though they were acquaintances at a tea party?

“The light was good.” His own voice sounded stiff, harsh.

“Yes, it’s a sunny morning for a change. Don’t worry, I’ll let you get back to it soon. I only want your opinion.”

Blast her, had she come here to throw him off guard on purpose? When had she gotten so good at the game?

“My opinion on what?” he asked. “Your new hat?”

“Not my hat, although thank you for noticing. No, I want your opinion on this.”

Mac found the hat in question right under his nose. Gray and blue ribbons trailed into glossy curls that beckoned to be lifted, smoothed.

The hat tilted back until he was looking into Isabella’s eyes, eyes that had snared him across a ballroom so long ago. She hadn’t been aware of her power then, the sweet debutante, and she didn’t know it now. Her simple look of inquiry, of interest, could pin a man and give him the most erotic dreams imaginable.

“On this, Mac,” she said impatiently.

She was lifting a handkerchief toward him. In the middle of its snowy whiteness lay a piece of yellow-covered canvas about an inch long and a quarter inch wide.

“What color would you say this was?” she asked.

“Yellow.” Mac quirked a brow. “You drove all the way here from North Audley Street to ask me whether something is yellow?”

“Of course I know it’s yellow. What kind of yellow, specifically?”

Mac peered at it. The color was vibrant, almost pulsing. “Cadmium yellow.”

“More specific than that?” She wiggled the handkerchief as though the motion would reveal the mystery. “Don’t you understand? It’s Mackenzie yellow. That astonishing yellow you mix for your paintings, the secret formula known only to you.”

“Yes, so it is.” With Isabella standing so close to him, her heady scent in his nostrils, he didn’t give a damn if the paint was Mackenzie yellow or graveyard black. “Have you been amusing yourself slicing up my pictures?”

“Don’t be silly. I took this from a painting hanging in Mrs. Leigh-Waters’s drawing room in Richmond.”

Curiosity trickled through Mac’s impatience. “I’ve never given a painting to Mrs. Leigh-Waters of Richmond.”

“I didn’t think you had. When I asked her about it, she told me she bought the picture from an art dealer in the Strand. Mr. Crane.”

“The devil she did. I don’t sell my paintings, especially not through Crane.”

“Exactly.” Isabella smiled in triumph, the red curve of her lips doing nothing to ease his arousal. “The painting is signed Mac Mackenzie, but you didn’t paint it.”

Mac looked again at the strip of brilliant yellow on the handkerchief. “How do you know I didn’t paint it? Maybe some ungrateful blackguard I gave a picture to sold it to raise money to pay a debt.”

“It’s a scene from a hill, overlooking Rome.”

“I’ve done many scenes overlooking Rome.”

“I know that, but this wasn’t one of yours. It’s your style, your brushwork, your colors, but you didn’t paint it.”

Mac pushed the handkerchief back at her. “How do you know? Are you intimately acquainted with all my works? I’ve painted quite a few Rome pictures since you . . .” He couldn’t bring himself to say “since you left me.” He’d gone to Rome to soothe his broken heart, painting the bloody vista day after day. He’d done too damn many pictures of Rome, until he’d grown sick of the place. Then he’d moved to Venice and painted it until he never wanted to see another gondola as long as he lived.

That was when he’d still been a debauched, drunken sot. Once he’d sobered up, replacing his obsession for single-malt with one of tea, he’d retreated to Scotland and stayed put. The Mackenzies didn’t view whiskey as strong drink—they viewed it as essential to life—but Mac’s drink of choice had changed to oolong, which Bellamy had learned to brew like a master.

At his words, Isabella flushed, and Mac felt a flash of sudden glee. “Ah, so you are intimately acquainted with everything I’ve painted. Kind of you to take an interest.”

Her blush deepened. “I see notices in art journals, is all, and people tell me.”

“And you’ve become so familiar with each of my pictures that you know when I didn’t paint one?” Mac gave her a slow smile. “This from a woman who changed her hotel when she knew I was staying in it?”

Mac hadn’t thought Isabella could grow any more red. He felt the dynamics in the room change, from Isabella in a bold frontal attack to Isabella in hasty retreat.

“Don’t flatter yourself. I happen to notice things, is all.”

And yet she’d known straightaway that he hadn’t painted what she’d seen in Mrs. Leigh-Waters’s drawing room. He grinned, liking her confusion.

“What I’m trying to tell you is that someone out there is forging Mac Mackenzies,” Isabella said impatiently.

“Why would anybody be fool enough to forge something by me?”

“For the money, of course. You are very popular.”

“I’m popular because I’m scandalous,” Mac countered. “When I die, the paintings will be worthless, except as souvenirs.” He set the slice of paint and handkerchief on the table. “May I keep this? Or do you plan to restore it to Mrs. Leigh-Waters?”

“Don’t be silly. I didn’t tell her I was taking it.”

“You left the painting on her wall with a bit sliced out, did you? Won’t she notice that?”

“The picture is high up, and I did it carefully so it doesn’t show.” Isabella’s gaze moved to the painting on his easel. “That is quite repulsive, you know. She looks like a spider.”

Mac didn’t give a damn about the painting, but when he glanced at it he wanted to groan. Isabella was right: It was terrible. All of his paintings were terrible these days. He hadn’t been able to paint a decent stroke since he’d gone sober, and he had no idea why he’d thought this one would be any better.

He let out a frustrated roar, picked up a paint-soaked rag, and hurled it at the canvas. The rag landed with a splat on Molly’s painted abdomen, and brown-black rivulets ran down the rosy skin.

Mac turned from the picture in time to see Isabella swiftly exiting the room. He sprinted after her and caught up to her halfway down the first flight of stairs. Mac stepped around her, slamming one hand to the banister, the other to the wall. Paint smeared on the wallpaper Isabella had picked out when she’d redecorated his house six years ago.

Isabella gave him a cold look. “Do move, Mac. I have half a dozen errands to attend before luncheon, and I’m already late starting.”

Mac took long breaths, trying to still his rage. “Wait. Please.” He made himself say the word. “Let us go down to the drawing room. I’ll have Bellamy bring tea. We can talk about the paintings you think are forged.” Anything to keep her here. He knew in his heart that if she walked away from this house again, she’d never return.

“There is nothing more to say about the forged paintings. I only thought you’d want to know.”

Mac was aware that his entire household lurked below, listening. They wouldn’t do anything so gauche as peer up the staircase, but they’d be in doorways and in the shadows, waiting to see what happened. They adored Isabella and had mourned the day she’d left them.

“Isabella,” he said, pitching his voice low. “Stay.”

The tightness around her eyes softened the slightest bit. Mac had hurt her, he knew it. He’d hurt her over and over again. The first step in winning her back was to stop the hurting.

Her lips parted, red and lush. Because he was two steps below her, Isabella’s face was on level with his. He could close the few inches between them and kiss her if he chose, feel her mouth on his, taste her warm moisture on his tongue.

“Please,” he whispered. I need you so much.

Molly chose that moment to climb toward them up the stairs. “Are you ready for me again, yer lordship? You still want me sticking me fingers in me Mary Jane?”

Isabella closed her eyes, her lips thinning into a long, immobile line. Mac’s temper splintered.

“Bellamy!” he shouted over the banisters. “What the devil is she doing out of the kitchen?”

Molly came closer, her smile good-natured. “Oh, her ladyship don’t mind me. Do you, yer ladyship?” Molly sidled around first Mac, then Isabella, her dressing gown rustling as she headed back up to the studio.

“No, Molly,” Isabella said in a cool voice. “I don’t mind you.”

Isabella lifted her skirt in her gloved hand and prepared to start around Mac. Mac reached for her.

Isabella shrank away. Not in loathing, he realized after the first frozen heartbeat, but because the hand he stretched toward her was covered in brown and black paint.

Mac slammed himself back against the stair railing. He wouldn’t trap her. At least not now, with all his servants watching and listening, and Isabella looking at him in that way.

Isabella moved down the stairs around him, very carefully not touching him.

Mac strode after her. “I’ll send Molly home. Stay and have luncheon. My staff can run your errands for you.”

“I very much doubt that. Some of my errands are quite personal.” Isabella reached the ground floor and took up the parasol she’d left on the hall tree.

Bellamy, don’t you dare open that door.

Bellamy swung the door wide, letting in a wash of London’s fetid air. Isabella’s landau stood outside, her footman ready with the door open.

“Thank you, Bellamy,” she said in a serene voice. “Good morning.”

She walked out.

Mac wanted to rush after her, grab her around the waist, drag her back into the house. He could have Bellamy lock and bolt the doors so she couldn’t leave again. She’d hate him at first, but she’d gradually understand that she still belonged with him. Here.

Mac made himself let Bellamy close the door. Tactics that worked for his barbaric Highland ancestors would be useless on Isabella. She’d give him that cool look from her beautiful eyes and have him on his knees. He had prostrated himself for her often enough in the past. The feeling of carpet on his knees had been worth her sudden laughter, the cool tinge leaving her voice as she said, “Oh, Mac, don’t be so absurd.” He’d pull her down to the carpet with him, and the forgiveness would take an interesting turn.

Mac sat down heavily on the bottom stair and put his head in his paint-stained hands. Today had been a misstep. Isabella had caught him off guard, and he’d ruined the beautiful opportunity she’d handed him.

“Oh, the painting’s all spoiled.” Molly hurried from the floors above in a flurry of silk. “Mind you, I think I look a bit funny in it.”

“Go on home, Molly,” Mac said, his voice hollow. “I’ll pay you for the full day.”

He expected Molly to squeal in pleasure and hurry off, but instead she sank down next to him. “Oh, poor lamb. Want me to make you feel better?”

Mac’s arousal had died, and he didn’t want it to rise again for anyone but Isabella. “No,” he said. “Thank you.”

“Suit yourself.” Molly stroked slender fingers through his hair. “It’s the absolute worst when they don’t love you back, ain’t it, me lord?”

“Yes.” Mac closed his eyes, his rage and need swirling around him until he was sick with it. “You’re right, it is the absolute worst.”

* * *

Lord and Lady Abercrombie’s hunt ball in Surrey the following night was stuffed to the rafters with fashionable people. Isabella entered the ballroom in some trepidation, expecting at any moment to see her husband, who, her maid Evans had informed her, had also received an invitation. Evans had obtained the information directly from her old crony, Bellamy.

Seeing Mac in his studio like a half-naked god yesterday had sent Isabella straight home to fling herself on her bed in tears. Her errands had never got done, because she’d spent the rest of the afternoon curled into a ball feeling sorry for herself.

Isabella had risen the next morning and made herself face facts. She had two choices—she could completely avoid Mac as she had in the past, or resign herself to encountering him about London as they lived their lives. They could be civil. They could be friends. What she ought to do was become so used to seeing him that his presence no longer plagued her. Grow inured to him so that her heart no longer leapt into her throat at one glimpse of his strong face or the flash of his wicked smile.

The second choice was the more unnerving, but Isabella berated herself until she stepped up to the task. She would not hide at home like a frightened rabbit. Hence, her acceptance of Lord Abercrombie’s invitation, even though she knew the odds were high that Mac would attend.

Isabella bade Evans dress her in a new ball gown of blue satin moiré with yellow silk roses across her bodice and train. Maude Evans, who could boast having been a dresser to famous actresses, several opera singers, a duchess, and a courtesan, had been dressing Isabella since the morning after Isabella’s scandalous elopement with Mac. Evans had arrived at Mac’s house on Mount Street, where Isabella, Mac’s ring heavy on her finger, had stood in her ball gown from the previous night, having no other clothes at hand. Evans had taken one look at Isabella’s innocent face and become her fierce protector.

I look quite acceptable for a matron of nearly five and twenty. Isabella surveyed herself in the mirror as Evans draped diamonds across Isabella’s bosom. I have nothing to be ashamed of.

Even so, her heart froze when she entered Lord Abercrombie’s ballroom and spied a tall Mackenzie male in the supper room beyond. Broad shoulders stretched a formal black coat as he rested an elbow on the fireplace mantel, his kilt Mackenzie plaid.

Isabella realized in the next heartbeat that the man was not Mac, but his older brother Cameron. Touched by relief and delight, she broke from the friends she’d arrived with, caught up her satin skirts and sped through the crowd to him.

“Cam, what on earth are you doing here? I thought you’d be up north, frantically preparing for the St. Leger.”

Cameron tossed the cigar he’d been smoking into the fire, took Isabella’s hands, and leaned to kiss her cheek. He smelled of smoke and malt-whiskey; he always did, though those were sometimes accompanied by the scent of horses. Cameron kept a stable full of the best racehorses in England.

The second-oldest brother, Cameron was a little larger than Mac, a little broader of shoulder and taller of stature, and a deep scar cut across his left cheekbone. Cam’s unruly red-brown hair was the darkest of the four brothers’, his eyes more deeply golden. He was known as the black sheep, a daunting task in a family whose exploits filled the scandal sheets. It was common knowledge that Cameron, a widower with a fifteen-year-old son, took a new mistress every six-month, having his pick of famous actresses, courtesans, and highborn widows. Isabella had stopped trying to keep track of them long ago.

Cameron shrugged in answer to her question. “Not much more to do. The trainers have my instructions, and I’ll meet them there before the first race.”

“You’re a bad liar, Cameron Mackenzie. Hart sent you, didn’t he?”

Cameron didn’t bother to look embarrassed. “Hart was worried when Mac raced after you after Ian’s wedding. Is he making a nuisance of himself?”

“No,” Isabella said quickly. She loved Mac’s brothers, but they did tend to stick their noses into each other’s business. Not that she wasn’t grateful to them—they could have shut her out when she’d decided to leave Mac three and a half years ago, but instead they’d rallied to her side. Hart, Cameron, and Ian had made it known that they still considered Isabella part of the family. And as she was part of the family, they tended to watch over her like protective older brothers.

“So Hart sent you down to play nanny?” she asked.

“He did,” Cameron drawled, straight-faced. “You should see me in my cap and pinafore.”

Isabella laughed, and Cam joined her. He had a gravelly laugh, sounding as though something had scratched away at his voice.

“Is Beth well?” she asked. “She and Ian are all right?”

“Fine when I left them. Ian is extremely pleased at the prospect of becoming a father. He mentions it only about once every five minutes.”

Isabella smiled in true delight. Ian and Beth, his new wife, were so happy, and Isabella looked forward to holding their little one in her arms. The thought gave her a pang as well, which she quickly suppressed.

“And Daniel?” Isabella went on, keeping the conversation light. “Did he come with you?”

Cameron shook his head. “Daniel is lodging with an old don of mine who is to stuff his head with knowledge before Michaelmas term. I want to give Danny’s tutors less cause to beat his lessons into him.”

“Lessons instead of horses? I’m certain that rankles our Danny.”

“Aye, but if he keeps getting poor marks, he’ll never get into university.”

He sounded so like a concerned father, this tall man with the dark reputation, that Isabella laughed again. “He tries to emulate you, Cam.”

“Aye, he does. That’s wh’t worries me.”

Behind Isabella, the strains of a waltz began, and couples in the ballroom glided into place. Cameron held out his broad arm. “Dance, Isabella?”

“I’d be most happy to—”

Isabella’s polite acceptance cut off when strong fingers closed over her elbow. She smelled Mac’s soap and masculine scent overlaid with the faint odor of turpentine.

“This waltz is mine,” Mac said in her ear. “And don’t bother to tell me your card is full, my wife, because you know I’ll make short work of that.”

The Duke of Edenham walked into their circle of conversation as if he had every right to enter where and when he chose. Dukes were like that, according to every rumor of them. This duke was quite tall, quite handsome, and quite elegant looking, if one liked the type. Having never been exposed to his type before she was withholding judgment. He was very handsome. He also did not seem at all overawed by her brothers, which was refreshing. In New York, there were very few men who would risk anything at all with her for fear of her brothers’ comeuppance. Such a nuisance, really. Her brothers were always at sea. What sort a squeamish man lived in fear of what would happen six months in the future? Life in New York was far more dull than it should have been. She blamed her brothers entirely.

The second gentleman was the Marquis of Ruan, a most dangerous and rugged looking man, not nearly as elegantly arranged as the Duke of Edenham, but handsome nonetheless, though in a more ruthless fashion entirely.

It was perfectly obvious that Sophia was well-acquainted with both men. Jane would hardly have expected anything less.

The introductions having been made, the immediate result being that Jed had escaped from Sophia’s highly focused attention, Jed then gave every indication that he was going to leave this newly arranged circle of conversation and drag her with him. She was not ready to leave. Sophia hadn’t got her way yet, had she? Which meant that Jane hadn’t got her way. She was going to stay, and she wasn’t going to leave Sophia’s side until it was formally decided that she was to remain in London.

Jane put the most innocent look upon her face, for her brothers’ benefit, obviously, and ignored both the duke and the marquis. But the duke was staring at her with the most peculiar expression on his face. His odd behavior was not helping her at all.

She ignored him more pointedly.

He continued to stare.

Joel shifted his weight and rolled his shoulders a bit.

Oh, mercy.

Looking innocent and disinterested was not putting the duke off one bit. How very like a duke to behave as he pleased and attempt to ruin her plans in such thoughtless fashion. Could he not go off and bother some other poor girl? Some girl who did not have two brothers at her elbows?

“Edenham,” Sophia said, “I’m so delighted to see you here. And your enchanting sister, she is with you?”

“Yes,” the Duke of Edenham replied, turning his gaze from Jane just long enough to make eye contact with Sophia, cast a quick glance over Jed and Joel, and then looked into her eyes. He had lovely eyes, a warm shade of brown, and quite a nice brow. She averted her gaze after noting that, only the most obvious details of his appearance, which she would argue quite forcefully if Jed said one word about it, and then turned to stare with bland attention at Joel. Joel rolled his shoulders again and kept his gaze on Edenham. Edenham kept his gaze upon her. The stupidity of dukes was thus proved. “A cause for celebration. We wish Hyde nothing but joy.”

Sophia smiled and said, “With three sons married within a single Season, I can assure you that they feel nothing but joy. And with the happy addition of the Elliots to share in their joy, why, what can they do but smile away their days? Which brings me back round to you, darling,” Sophia said to Jed, laying her gloved hand upon his arm in a light caress. “Surely you must allow Miss Elliot to stay and partake of the general joy to be found within Hyde House. I assure you that she will be well cared for.”

It was perhaps not the ideal thing to say to sway Jed to release them all from their Father’s instructions. Only a little over a day in London, within the very walls of Hyde House, and the Elliots had heard word of how three of Hyde’s sons had come to be married in a single Season.

The word was ruin.

No one seemed especially bothered by it, certainly not the sons, yet neither were their wives, which was most strange, wasn’t it? Of all the things she had been told about the British, their odd habits and proclivities, a facility and easiness about being ruined was not among them.

“Not as well cared for as upon an Elliot ship,” Jed said, which was likely very true.

“Truly?” Sophia said brightly, her gaze almost resolutely removed from the Marquis of Ruan. Jane began to wonder if Sophia was not on the most cordial of terms with the man, which would not surprise her in the least as some of what her mother had told her about Sophia left no doubt that Sophia could and did make a very firm enemy and that her enemies were entirely deserving of the position. Jane gave Lord Ruan a cold look of bland curiosity at the thought. “No storms?” Sophia continued. “No violent waves? No enemy ships? No contrary currents? No pirates? What has quiet and serene Hyde House to offer by way of excitement that an Elliot ship can not merely match but overmatch?”

“Men?” Joel said. Jed gave him an approving look, annoyed but approving.

“British men, most assuredly,” Sophia said, casting a casual glance in the general direction of both Edenham and Ruan. Edenham blinked and continued to stare at her. Ruan’s mouth tightened, against a smile or a grimace Jane could not determine. “But what is that? Certainly they are not to be feared. Or do you think otherwise, Captain?”

Well, then, there was a pretty insult, and delivered so sweetly, too. Jed looked properly angered. Joel did not appear angry so much as bewildered by the sudden turn the conversation had taken. As to that, Jane felt much the same. Is this how Sophia got what she wanted? By insults? She had not heard that about her. Not at all.

“In the proper circumstances, it is wise to consider any man with due caution,” Jed said stiffly, eyeing both Edenham and Ruan. Edenham ignored him. Ruan returned the look and nodded sharply.

“And what of improper circumstances?” Sophia said. “I do confess to having more experience of men in improper circumstances.”

“If we are speaking of English men, then I must confess the same,” Jed said, smiling slightly.

“Captain Elliot, you shock me. I am intrigued,” Sophia said, smiling, and raising her fan to obscure her face, which naturally resulted in all the men, Edenham excluded, staring with increased intensity at her. Jane needed a better fan, if only to shield herself from Edenham’s obsessive gaze. It was becoming something of an embarrassment to her, and was not at all helpful with her brothers standing at her elbow and witnessing his complete break from polite behavior. Or what she assumed was polite behavior. The two countries could not be that different, could they? “Please, tell me all,” Sophia urged. “Is it improper circumstances to which you refer, or improper men? Or is it the extreme Englishness of both which results in the impropriety?”

“Lady Dalby, you have left me,” Jed said, his eyes twinkling. “I fear the conversation has twisted out of my hands. I am a simple man. I beg you to show me mercy.”

“Lady Dalby is not known for showing mercy,” Lord Ruan said abruptly, “though she may be partial to men who beg, Captain Elliot. You would do well to show her the same caution you practice when facing an unidentified ship.”

“But Lord Ruan, how absurd,” Sophia said, her voice soft and her gaze sharp. “I am flying my colors boldly, as is my practice. There is no mystery attached to me.”

“Lady Dalby, you are a woman,” Ruan responded, his green eyes searching Sophia’s face. “You are as mysterious as the sea. As turbulent. As unfathomable. As compelling. And as dangerous.”

Sophia said nothing for a moment, but there was something that passed between them, something sparkling and hot, something buried and smoldering. It was gone almost before it had begun. Jane was left with the shimmer of it before her gaze, and then it vanished.

“Which is why Jane will come home with me,” Jed said. “I would see her stay a calm pond of decorum and not become a turbulent sea of mystery.”

“Lovely,” Jane muttered. “I suppose that was intended as a compliment?”

“Of course,” Jed said, looking both annoyed and befuddled. Typical.

Sophia laughed. “But, darling, she is your sister and, like any brother, you do not see her clearly at all. Miss Elliot is already a sea of mystery to any man who is not related to her.”

And, naturally, both Jane and Sophia could not resist the impulse to glance at Edenham, who was still staring.

“The sea can be calm at times, usually the most inconvenient times, is that not so?” Edenham said, sparing a glance for Jed. “There is no cause to anticipate any trouble for Miss Elliot. I cannot think but that Hyde would care for her as a beloved daughter.”

“Now I am a calm, inconvenient sea?” Jane said. “Can not a new metaphor be framed? I grow weary of this one as it does nothing at all to flatter me.”

Sophia laughed, as did Jed and Joel, which was something of a relief. Edenham smiled. Ruan did not; he studied her, which she did not enjoy at all. Lord Ruan was capable of a very focused gaze. She was not certain that was destined to be flattering to her either.

Chapter One

Rhys St. Maur, newly Lord Ashworth, was a broken man.

Literally.

By the age of twenty, he'd fractured his left arm twice--once in a schoolboy brawl at Eton, and then again during an army training drill. Cracked ribs . . . he'd lost count of those. Fists driving through bar- room haze to connect with his face had snapped the cartilage in his nose a few times, leaving him with a craggy profile--one that was not improved by his myriad scars. Since sometime around his thirtieth birthday, the little finger on his right hand just plain refused to bend. And in damp weather like this, his left knee throbbed with memories of marching through the Pyrenees and surviving the Battle of Nivelle unscathed, only to catch a Basque farmer's hoe to the knee the next morning, when he left camp for a predawn piss.

That left knee was on fire tonight, sizzling with pain as Rhys trudged through the granite heart of Devonshire, leading his horse down the darkened road. The moisture in the air kept dithering between fog and rain, and the night was thick with its indecision. He couldn't see but a few feet in front of him, which was why he'd decided to dismount and lead his horse on foot. Between the poor visibility and the surrounding terrain littered with chunks of stone and boot-sucking bogs, the risk of fatal injury was too great.

For the horse, that was. Rhys wasn't in the least concerned for himself. In fact, if he thought this godforsaken moor had any chance of claiming his own life, he'd cheerfully saddle his gelding and charge off into the gloom.

But it wouldn't work. It never had. He'd just end up with a lamed or dead horse, another broken rib perhaps, and the same curse that had haunted him since boyhood: unwanted, undeserved, and wholly wasted good luck.

No matter what misfortune befell him, this or any night, Rhys St. Maur was doomed to survive it.

The wind's low moan played his spine like a fiddle string. Behind him, the gelding balked. With a reassuring shush for the beast's benefit, Rhys marched on, turning up the collar of his coat to keep out the mist.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil . . .

He'd been walking through this valley for a long, long time. Trod so far into death's shadow he'd felt his feet turning to dust in his boots, the breath in his lungs burning acrid as sulfur. A living ghost, that's what he was. He'd returned from war to a newly inherited barony, and his sole duty now was to haunt the English aristocracy. Hulk awkwardly in the corners of their parties, terrify their delicate young ladies, and cause the gentlemen to rub their temples self-consciously as they tried not to stare at the gnarled scar marring his own.

As Rhys rounded a sharp curve in the road, a vaguely familiar sight emerged from the gloom. If he'd read his landmarks right, this had to be it. The tiny village of Buckleigh-in-the-Moor. At this distance, just a meager constellation of amber pinpricks against the black night.

The horse, scenting straw and safety, picked up his pace. Soon the cluster of stone and cob buildings came into focus. It must not be as late as it felt. A fair number of the cottages still showed light through their windows--yellow eyes peering out from beneath thatched-roof hats.

He halted in the center of the road. Wiping the moisture from his eyes, he squinted in the direction of the old inn. Fourteen years he'd been gone, but the same sign still creaked on its chains above the door. It read, in retouched...

Chapter One

Lady Adela, Abbess of Godstow frowned down the length of the table at the nuns all seated for the nooning meal. Sister Clarice, Sister Eustice, and Lady Rosamunde were missing. It was not unusual for Sister Clarice to be late. The woman was late for everything for one reason or another. Most like she had forgotten to fetch the incense for the mass that would take place after the meal, and had gone to rectify the situation. Sister Clarice always forgot the incense. As for Sister Eustice and Lady Rosamunde, however, they were both most punctual as a rule. However, they had not been at the morning meal either. Come to that, they had not been at Matins, Lauds, or Prime. It generally took an emergency to keep a nun from mass, and this was no exception. Sister Eustice and Lady Rosamunde had been in the stables through the night and well into the morning, working over a laboring mare who was having difficulty birthing her foal.

But surely they were not still at that, she fretted, then glanced sharply toward Sister Beatrice when she stumbled over the passage she was reading. Seeing that she, along with all the other women were peering up the table at her, Lady Adela arched an eyebrow questioningly, then glanced to Sister Margaret, the nun seated on her right as she made a motion with her hands. Sister was holding one hand up, the fingers fisted but for the baby finger which hung down like the udder of a cow. With her other hand, she was imitating the motion of milking.

Adela blinked at her briefly, then realized that she had picked up the pitcher of milk and then held onto it thoughtlessly as she worried over the women missing from the meal.

Passing the pitcher of milk to Sister Margaret, the Abbess gestured to the others to continue with their meal, then rose and moved toward the door. She had barely stepped into the hall when she spotted Sister Clarice hurrying down the corridor, a slightly guilty flush to her face. Unable to speak during meal time, Lady Adela once again arched an eyebrow, demanding an explanation of the woman.

Sighing, Clarice raised her hand and propped two fingers upward until they were inserted in her nostrils, somehow managing an apologetic look as she did.

The action was pantomime to announce that she had forgotten to provide incense for mass as Adela had suspected. Shaking her head at the other woman, she gestured for her to continue on to her meal, then made her way out to the stables.

The building was silent but for the faint rustle of hay as various animals shifted and glanced curiously toward her as the Abbess entered. Gathering the hem of her skirt close to avoid it trailing through anything unpleasant, Adela made her way down the rows of stalls until she reached the last one where Sister Eustice and Lady Rosamunde were kneeling by a panting mare. She stood there for a moment, peering affectionately at their bent backs as they toiled over the laboring animal, then her mouth dropped with dismay as Sister Eustice shifted and she could see exactly how Lady Rosamunde was toiling.

"What in God's name are you doing?!"

Rosamunde stiffened at that horrified exclamation from behind, her head whipping briefly around to see the Abbess gaping at her with dismay. Then she swiftly whirled back to soothe the mare as the animal whinnied, her muscles shifting around her hands.

Leaping to her feet, Eustice ushered the horrified woman a few steps away, babbling explanations as they moved. "The mare was having difficulty. She labored for hours before we realized that the foal was backward. Lady Rosamunde is trying to help."

"She has her hands inside the mare!" Adela pointed out with horror.

"She is trying to turn the foal," Eustice explained quickly.

"But-"

"Is it not the nooning hour?" Rosamunde asked with exasperation, removing the hand she had been holding the foal's feet with to pat the mare's rump soothingly. The animal was becoming distressed by the tone of voice the Abbess was using.

"This is an emergency. God will forgive our breaking our silence during meal time if 'tis an emergency," Adela responded promptly.

"Aye, well, let us hope the mare does," Rosamunde muttered, shifting swiftly out of the way as the horse began kicking her legs in a panicked attempt to regain her feet.

Sister Eustice moved at once, hurrying to the horses head and grabbing it to hold it still while murmuring soothing coos at the frightened animal.

Worry tugging at her brow now, Adela managed to contain herself as Rosamunde dropped back to her knees at the rear of the reclining horse. Unlike Sister Eustice, who was garbed in the plain gown of a nun, the girl was decked out in a stable boy's pants and overlarge top, the billowing sleeves rolled back to leave her arms bare. It was the costume the girl usually wore when working in the stables. She felt it much more appropriate and Adela, despite her better judgment, had done little to sway her from wearing the outlandish garb. There was no one of import around to disapprove anyway. However, she had already explained to the child that she would have to shed the stable boy's clothes for good, along with many other things, once she took the veil and became a nun.

Adela's thoughts fled, her face twisting into a half grimace, half wince as Rosamunde once again eased her hands into the mare, reaching to grasp the foal and try to turn it to ease it's way into the world.

"Thank the Good Lord's graces that your father, the King, is not here to see this," Adela murmured, remembering to keep her voice calm lest she frighten the horse again.

"To see what?"

All three women stiffened at that deep baritone. Eustice's eyes widened in horror as she peered past the Abbess toward the entrance to the stables. Her expression was enough to tell Adela that she had correctly recognized that voice. The Lord, it seemed, was not feeling particularly gracious today. The King had come in time to see what his daughter got up to under her care.

Straightening her shoulders, Adela turned resignedly toward the King, hardly noticing the men with him as she forced a smile of greeting to her face. "My Liege. Welcome."

Henry II nodded at the Abbess, but his attention was on his daughter as she glanced over her shoulder at him, a bright smile replacing the anxiety on her face.

"Papa!"

Henry started to smile, then frowned instead as he took in the sight of her. "What the Devil are you doing in the stables, girl? And all dressed up like a stable lad too." He frowned beetle-eyed at Adela. "Do I not pay you people enough to hire a stable boy? Do you spite me by putting my daughter to work with the animals?"

"Oh Papa," Rosamunde laughed, unconcerned by his apparent temper. "You know that it is my choice. We must all work at something and I prefer the stables to scrubbing the convent floors." The last of her statement was a distracted mutter as she turned back to whatever it was she was doing.

Henry's curiosity drew him forward. "What are you doing?"

Rosamunde glanced up, a scowl of anxiety on her face. "The mare has been in labor for more than a day now. She is losing strength. I fear she shall die if we do not help her along, but I can not get the foal out."

His brows drawn together, he peered to where her arms disappeared into the mare at the elbows and horror covered his face. "Why you- What- You-"

Sighing at his dismayed stammering, she calmly explained, "The foal is backward. I am trying to turn it, but I can not find the foal's head."

His brows rose at that. "Will it not hurt the mare having you dig about inside her like that?"

"I do not know," she muttered distractedly, reaching further into the animal. "But both mother and foal shall surely die if something is not done."

"Aye...Well..." Frowning at her back, he said, "Leave that for...er..." He arched a questioning eyebrow toward the nun now moving back toward Rosamunde and the mare.

"Sister Eustice," Lady Adela supplied helpfully.

"Aye. Sister Eustice. Leave it to the sister to deal with, daughter. I do not have long here and-"

"Oh, I could not do that, Papa. It would ruin the sleeves of Sister Eustice's gown. This will not take long, I am sure, and then-"

"I do not give a damn about Sister's sleeves," Henry snapped, starting forward to drag her away bodily if need be, but a pleading glance from his daughter made him halt. She did look so like her mother. Henry had found it impossible to refuse the mother anything. Why should their daughter be different?

Sighing, he removed his cloak and handed it to Eustice, then shrugged out of his short surcoat and handed that over as well.

"Who taught you to do this?" he asked gruffly, bending to kneel beside her in the straw.

"No one," she admitted, flashing him a smile that warmed his heart and immediately made him let go of his impatience and anger. "It just seemed to be the thing to do when I saw the problem. She will die otherwise."

Nodding, he shifted as close to her as he could get and reached his hands inside the mare to help her. "It is the head you can not find?"

Rosamunde nodded. "I have his rear legs, but I can not-"

"Ah ha! I have it... It is caught on something. There we go."

Rosamunde felt the back legs slip from her grip and shift away. She just managed to tug her hands free of the mare as her father turned the animal within it's mother until it's head was at the right angle.

"The mare is too weak. You will have to-" Even as the words left her mouth, her father tugged on the foal's head and front legs. Seconds later it slid out onto the straw.

"Ohhh," Rosamunde breathed, peering over the spindly legged creature as it wriggled on the straw. "Is it not adorable?"

"Aye," Henry agreed gruffly, then cleared his throat, grabbed her arm and urged her to her feet. "Come. Time is short. 'Sides, 'tis not fitting for a girl of your position to be participating in such things."

"Oh Papa." Laughing, Rosamunde turned and threw herself into his arms as she had when she was a child. Henry quickly closed his arms around her and gave up the reprimand as she knew he would.

"So that is the King's daughter."

Aric shifted on his feet, his gaze leaving the girl the King was embracing, to glance at his friend. "It would seem so."

"She is lovely."

"Quite," Aric agreed quietly. "Unless my memory fails me, she appears almost a copy of the Fair Rosamunde."

"Your memory fails you not. She is an exact likeness of her mother," Shrewsbury agreed, adding with a small smile, "Except for the hair. That is wholly her father's. Let us hope she did not inherit his quick temper along with it."

"She has been raised right, my Lord Bishop. With all discipline and goodness, and the disobedience beat out of her," The Abbess announced staunchly, glaring at Shrewsbury for the very suggestion that she might not have been. Then, seeming to regain herself, she forced a smile and in a much more pious tone murmured, "It is most gratifying that his majesty received my message. We feared when we heard that he was in Normandy that he might not receive the news in time to make it back for the ceremony."

Aric exchanged a glance with Robert, then asked carefully, "What ceremony?"

"What ceremony?" Adela echoed with amazement. "Why Lady Rosamunde takes the veil tomorrow."

There was dead silence for a moment after that announcement, then Robert murmured, "The King will no doubt be a bit surprised by that knowledge."

"WHAT!!!" Henry's roar drew their attention.

"I believe he just learned," Aric muttered. Henrys a sight to see. His face bore a furious scowl and was so red as to seem almost purple. Even his graying hair seemed to have picked up some of the fire of his temper and shone more red than gray as he stormed angrily toward them, hands and teeth clenched.

His daughter was hard on his heels, a startled and somewhat bewildered expression on her face. "I thought you knew, Papa. I thought you had received my message and come to witness-" Her words came to an abrupt halt when her father paused in his stride and swung on her in a fury.

"It shall not happen! Do you hear me? You are not, I repeat NOT going to be a nun."

"But-"

"Your mother - God rest her soul - insisted on the same thing ere she died and I could do naught about it. But I can and will do something now. I am your father, and I will not allow you to throw your life away by becoming a nun."

Rosamunde looked briefly stunned at those words, then seeing the stiff expression on the Abbess face at the insult in his words, she allowed her temper loose. "It is not throwing my life away! 'Tis perfectly acceptable to become a bride of God! I-"

"Will God see you blessed with children?" Henry spat, interrupting her curt words.

She looked taken aback briefly at that, then regained herself to snap, "Mayhap. He saw Mary blessed with Jesus."

"Jesus?" For a moment it looked as though he might explode, or have a heart attack. His face was so red as to be almost purple with his rage.

It was the Bishop who intervened, drawing his attention with the gentle words, "Your Majesty, it is a great honor to become a bride of God. If Rosamunde truly has a calling, it is not well done to force her to-"

"YOU!" Henry turned on the man. "I will not hear your religious drivel. Thanks to your dilly dallying, we nearly did not arrive here in time. MY GOD! If I hadn't chanced to hear of Aric's broken betrothal and saved a day's riding by choosing him to groom, instead of Rosshuen, we would have been too late!" Whirling on the Abbess, he roared, "Why was I not informed of these plans?!"

The Abbess blinked at him, taken aback. "We- I thought you knew, my Liege. It was Rosamunde's mother's wish that she follow in her footsteps and become a nun. She said so on her death bed. And you have never arranged a betrothal, I thought you agreed."

"I do not agree," he snapped, then added, "And I have been making arrangements. But what I meant was, why was I not informed of the upcoming ceremony for her to take the veil?"

"Well...I do not know your majesty. I did send word. Some time ago in fact. It should have reached you in plenty of time for you to attend. We hoped you might."

The King turned on Shrewsbury again at that news, eyes narrowed and accusing, but the Bishop merely shrugged and murmured, "We have been moving around quite a bit, my Liege. Le Mans then Chinon.... Mayhap it arrived after we left. I shall, of course, look into it the moment we return."

Henry glared at him briefly, then turned on his daughter. "You are not taking the veil. You will marry. You are the only child of mine who has not turned against me. I will see grandchildren from you."

"John has never turned against you."

"Not according to the gossips."

"That is just gossip," she argued with disdain.

"And if 'tis true?"

Her mouth thinned at the possibility. For truly no man in history had suffered so by betrayal as her father. Every one of his legitimate son's, her half brothers, had come to turn on him under the influence of their mother, the Queen Eleanor. "Then there are still William and Geoffrey," she whispered, mentioning Henry's other two bastard children.

His expression turned solemn at that and he reached out to clasp her by the shoulders. "But they were not born of my Fair Rosamunde. The love of my life. I am a selfish old man, child. I would see the fruit of our love grow and bloom and cast it's seeds across the land, not be stifled and die here in this convent."

Rosamunde sighed at that, her shoulders slumping in defeat. "And so I shall marry. Who is my groom?"

Aric stiffened as the King suddenly turned toward him.

"Burkhart." The King gestured for him to step forward and Aric unconsciously straightened his shoulders as he did so. "My daughter, Rosamunde. Daughter, your husband, Aric of Burkhart."

"How do you do, my Lord?" she murmured politely, extending her hand. Then, grimacing apologetically as she saw it's less than pristine condition, she retracted it and dropped a quick curtsy instead. "I regret my apparel, but we were not expecting company today."

Before Aric could even murmur a polite greeting in response, the King announced, "You should change."

Her head whipped around. "Change?"

"Aye. You will not wish to be wed looking so."

"The wedding is to take place now?" Dismay was the only word to describe her reaction and Aric could actually sympathize with her on that. It was all a bit dismaying to him as well.

"As soon as you are changed. I must return to Chinon."

"But-"

"See her changed," the King ordered Sister Eustice, then snatched up Adela's arm and urged her out of the building. "I would have a word with the Abbess."

Rosamunde gaped after them, then glanced to Eustice with a start when the sister took her arm and urged her to follow. "I am to be married."

"Aye." Eustice glanced worriedly at the girl as they stepped out of the stables. The child was unnaturally pale.

"I thought I was going to be a nun like you."

"Everything will be fine," Eustice murmured reassuringly, directing her through the convent doors and down the hallway to the left. King Henry and Adela were already out of sight.

"Aye," Rosamunde agreed, drawing herself up slightly. "All will be well." Then her shoulders slumped, and she whispered bewilderedly, "But I was to be a nun."

"It would seem you were not to be after all."

"Oh, but I was," Rosamunde paused to assure her quickly. "I knew from long ago that I was to be a nun. My mother wished it so. She told the Abbess. And my father never arranged a betrothal. I was raised to be a nun."

"It would seem not," Eustice corrected gently.

"But what if the Lord wants me to be a nun? What if he is angered that I am not to be one?"

"'Tis more likely the Good Lord has his own plans for you, Rosamunde. Else he would have stopped your father arriving until after it was done. Would he not?"

Frowning, Rosamunde tilted her head to consider that and Sister Eustice continued, "It seems to me that it must have been God himself who lead your father here in time to prevent your taking the veil. Were he even a day later in arriving, the ceremony would have been done by now."

"Aye," Rosamunde murmured uncertainly. "But why would God wish me to marry when there is so much good I might do as a nun?"

"Mayhap He has something more important for you to do as wife that you could not accomplish as a nun."

"Mayhap," she murmured, but it was obvious by her tone that she was having trouble fathoming that possibility.

Sighing to herself, Eustice urged her into moving along the hall again, managing to get her to the small cell that had been Rosamunde's room since childhood. Ushering the still stunned girl inside, she urged her to sit on the side of her tiny, hard bed, then turned to search through her small chest for the white gown the girl had made for taking the veil the next day. Coming up empty handed, she whirled to frown at Rosamunde. "Where is your white gown?"

Rosamunde glanced up distractedly. "White gown? Oh, Sister Margaret offered to hang it for me for tomorrow to let out any wrinkles."

"Ah." Nodding, Eustice turned toward the door. "Wait here. I shall return directly."

Rosamunde watched the door close behind her friend and mentor, then sank back on the bed with a sigh. She was having difficulty absorbing what was happening. Just that morning, her life had been set, her path a comfortable secure one. Now, events seemed to have careened out of control, changing the course of her life, and she was not sure it was in a direction which she wished to go. It looked like she had little choice however. Her father's decisions were law. For everyone.

So, she would be married.

To a man she had never met before and had got only a fleeting glimpse of but moments ago when her father had introduced them. She could have looked at him longer, but had found herself suddenly shy. Rosamunde had never experienced shyness before. But then she had had very little occasion to be in the presence of men during her life. The only men she had ever even met were her father, his servant and constant companion Bishop Shrewsbury, and Father Abernott, the priest who ministered the Sunday mass at the Abbey. The reverend mother did the mass the rest of the week.

There had been that stable boy when she was younger. But he had not been around long. A week perhaps, then he had cornered her in a stall, and pressed his lips against hers. Too startled to react at first, Rosamunde had just stood there, then by the time she had got over her surprise, curiosity and the beginnings of a surprised sort of shivery pleasure had kept her from protesting. Much to her shame, she hadn't even stopped him when he had covered one of her budding breasts with his hand.

Rosamunde had considered stopping him, knowing that anything that felt that wickedly interesting had to be a sin, for surely everything fun did seem to be sinful according to the sisters. But she would never know if she would have stopped him on her own, for Eustice had stopped him for her. One minute she had been wrapped in his enthusiastic embrace, and the next he'd been dragged away from her and was having his ears boxed by the good sister. Then she had dragged Rosamunde off to lecture her that she must never let a man kiss and touch her so again. It was evil. Lips were for speaking, and breasts for milking and that was that.

The Abbess had sent the stable boy back home that very day.

***

"She did not look pleased at the news of her upcoming marriage," Robert murmured.

Shifting on the bench seat where the nuns had presented a meal for the men to consume as they waited, Aric turned his gaze from the food he was unable to eat - despite how delicious it looked - and peered at his friend. "Nay," he agreed dismally.

"Well, mayhap 'tis just a result of surprise."

"Hmm." Aric nodded with little conviction.

"She is quite lovely."

"Hmmm." He looked far from happy about that fact and Robert sighed.

"Surely you do not fear she will be unfaithful? She was raised in a convent, man. She could not have learned the lying cheating ways of a faithless wife."

Aric was silent for a moment, then shifted his position at the table and murmured, "Do you recall my cousin, Clothilde?"

"Clothilde?" He thought briefly, then nodded. "Oh aye. The girl who's mother would not allow her sweets, lest she grow in size, or lose all her teeth ere she married."

"Aye." Aric grimaced. "Not a single sweet passed her lips ere her marriage, but they had a great tray of them at her wedding feast."

"Aye." Robert laughed as he recalled the event. "She quite liked sweets once she tried them. As I recall, she near ate the whole tray all on her own."

"Aye. She still likes them. Perhaps more so because she was deprived them for so long. In the two years since her marriage, she has grown to six times her original size, and lost three teeth at last count."

Robert winced at the picture that created in his head, then frowned. "Do not tell me you fear your wife will grow over large and lose her teeth?"

Aric rolled his eyes at his friend's lack of perception, then sighed. "What is missing in a convent?"

"Well, I realize they can be strict in these places, still I am sure they have the occasional sweet or-"

"Forget the blasted sweets!" Aric snapped impatiently. "It is men. Men are missing in convents."

"Aye, well, but that is the very reason behind their existence and- Oh!" A chagrined look on his face, he shook his head. "I think I see. You fear that having been deprived of the company of men all these years, your wife will find herself over fond of their company on leaving."

Aric muttered under his breath and turned away with mild disgust at the length of time it had taken to get his point across. Surely his friend had not always been so dense?

"Aric. Friend. I would not allow Delia's behavior to color your views. She was raised by her Uncle, Lord Stratam, the most notorious reprobate in the land."

"My mother was not."

"Ah," he sighed.

"She was raised most strictly."

"Ah ha."

"And she could not contain her passions."

Robert shook his head. "I can see you will not be easily reassured, but 'tis not as bad as all that. If you fear she will become over fond of the company of men, you merely have to keep her away from court and the affairs and intrigues that occur there. Keep her in the country where the only men she may meet are peasants and serfs. Surely she was brought up with enough honor not to dally with one of them," he pointed out in an effort to encourage his friend.

"Oh aye, the King would most like be very pleased does he not see his daughter again," Aric muttered sarcastically and Robert frowned.

"Aye, there is that. He will most like wish her at court on occasion."

"Most like," Aric agreed dryly.

"He appears to hold great affection for her." His frown deepened as he thought on that. "That could be a problem, could it not? Jesu! A King for father-in-law," he marveled now in horror as he realized the full significance of it. "Do you not make her happy, he could still have you drawn and quartered. What a spot to be in!"

"Robert."

"Aye?"

"Stop trying to make me feel better."

***

Rosamunde's fretting ended abruptly at the opening of the door. Sighing, she pushed herself to a sitting position as Sister Eustice re-entered, the gown she had fetched lying carefully over her arm to avoid creasing it.

"The creases are all gone, fortunately enough," Sister informed her and started to push the cell door closed, only to pause when the Abbess called out from the hallway. By the time she arrived at the door, both women were waiting curiously. Adela took one look at Rosamunde's telling expression and hurried forward.

"Oh, my dear child," she murmured soothingly, seating herself on the cot beside the girl to embrace her briefly. "All will be well. You will see. God has a special path for you to follow and you must trust in him."

"Aye, 'tis what Sister Eustice said," Rosamunde whispered as tears welled in her eyes. Oddly enough the small droplets of liquid had not threatened until the very moment that the Abbess offered her comfort. It had always been that way. While both Eustice and the Abbess had taken the place of her mother on that beautiful woman's death, it was the Abbess who Rosamunde had turned to to bandage her banged up knees, and soothe her hurts. And it never failed that Rosamunde could stand absolutely anything with a stiff upper lip and grim smile until the Abbess came around, then she handed over her burden and broke down.

"Oh now, shh my child. Do not cry. You must have faith in the Lord. He chose this path for you. Surely there is a reason."

"I am not crying out of fear of what is to come. Well," she corrected honestly. "Mostly I am not. Mostly I am crying for what is ending."

Expression bewildered, the Abbess shook her head slightly. "For what is ending?"

"I will have to leave you all. The only family I have ever known. Aside from my father," she added loyally.

Eustice and Adela shared a dismayed look, their own eyes quickly filling with tears at the realization that they had been too distracted to face until then.

"Well..." Sister Eustice glanced desperately around, everywhere but at the sweet child who had been her student in the stables since a small child. Young Rosamunde had latched onto Eustice's voluminous skirts and trailed her around the moment she had gained her feet and been able to walk. In truth, the nun had come to feel much like a surrogate mother to the girl herself over the years, and quite enjoyed passing on her own knowledge as well as learning from the child. The idea of losing her now was untenable.

"Aye," Adela murmured unhappily, her watery gaze on the floor as she considered her own loss in all of this. She had been taken with Rosamunde from her birth. Her red curls and sweet smile had melted her heart as only a child could. Contrary to tradition, she herself had overseen the girl's lessons in the school room. Spending hour after hour feeding her expanding mind, encouraging patience, and curbing the temper that seemed always to come with red-heads. The reward for her effort had been great. She too had gained a daughter. A physical pain, as if a tearing of her heart in half brought her abruptly to her feet.

"Every bird must leave the nest one day," she said practically and moved to the door, only to pause and glance back uncertainly. "I never thought you would leave us. There was no betrothal." She sighed unhappily. "Thinking you would not need the knowledge, there was much I neglected to teach you about marriage and the marital bed."

"The marital bed?" Rosamunde frowned worriedly as she noted the sudden stain of embarrassment on the older woman's cheeks.

The Abbess stared at her at a loss for a moment, then turned abruptly away. "Sister Eustice shall enlighten you," she muttered. Then she opened the door and slipped out of the room, pausing to turn back and add, "But quickly sister. The King is most impatient to have this business done."

The door closed then, leaving Eustice staring at it rather blankly.

Prologue

England 1173

"Damn!" King Henry crumpled the scroll he had been reading into a ball and threw it to the floor with disgust. He spent a moment muttering about the soft hearts and interfering ways of women, then sighed with resignation and held his hand out to Templetun. "You may as well give me Lord Holden's message, too."

The older man's eyebrows flew up in amazement at the request, a touch of fear mingling with suspicion in his eyes. "How did you know-?"

"It is not conjuring or anything, Templetun. It is simply experience. I never receive a complaint from Lady Tiernay, that I do not receive one from Lord Holden as well. Besides, I saw his man ride in earlier and knew he would have a message from his Lord Holden. Hethe has been taking care of some uprisings in Normandy . They were minor skirmishes, really. He has probably taken care of them by now and written to tell me so.”

"Ah." Relaxing, the older fellow handed over the document in question.

Henry opened the scroll a bit irritably, displeased at having to explain himself. Templetun had only worked in the capacity of his chaplain for the past couple of days- his usual chaplain was ill- but already Henry was wishing for the latter’s speedy recovery. His replacement was entirely too nervous, superstitious, and seemed far too eager to lend credence to Henry’s reputation of being the “Spawn of the Devil”. Shaking his head, Henry focused his attention on the parchment he now held. A moment later, it was a crumpled mass on the floor not far from the first, and Henry had leapt up to pace before his throne.

As he had expected, Lord Holden had cleaned up the little revolts in Normandy and was on his way home. But he had also added a complaint or two about his neighbour. It seemed his chatelain was harassed mightily by the Tyrant of Tiernay and was beleaguering Hethe with letters regarding the woman and, in his turn, the Hammer of Holden had respectfully requested that his King do something about the woman...or he would.

It had sounded very much like a threat. Henry wasn’t pleased to be threatened by one of his vassels. In fact, if Hethe weren’t such a valued warrior and had not aided him so often these last ten years, he would have seen him punished for it. But, unlike his father before him, Hethe had been helpful.

Henry grimaced at the thought of Hethe’s father. Born the second son, Gerhard Holden had expected to be allowed to join a monastery and live out his life amongst the musty old papal teachings he loved. He had not been terribly happy when his elder brother had died, forcing him to abandon those plans in favor of marriage and producing an heir. He had taken out that displeasure on his son. The man had been a touch mad in Henry’s opinion. Fortunately, his son did not show the same predilection. Unfortunately - for Hethe at least - he had not shown the same love of learning either and his father had hated him for it. That hatred had driven the boy from his home and straight into Henry’s service as soon as he had earned his spurs.

Ah well, Gerhard’s loss had been his gain, Henry decided and turned his mind back to his present problem. "What the Devil am I to do with those two?"

"I am not sure, my liege. What appears to be the problem exactly?" Templetun asked tentatively. "I do realize they are both complaining -and from your reaction, I would say quite frequently- but about what, exactly?"

Henry turned to scowl down at him, opening his mouth to explain rather acerbically that his question had been rhetorical, when he changed his mind. Instead, he said, "Each other. Lady Tiernay writes to 'warn me' of her neighbor's cruel and abusive behavior to his serfs and villeins because she ‘knows I would not wish to see any of my subjects so sorely mistreated’."

"Ah." Templetun said again, biting back a smile at his king’s sarcastic imitation of a woman's high-pitched voice. "And Lord Holden?"

Henry gave a short laugh. "He writes to say that Lady Tiernay is a nosy, harping busybody who makes his life hell."

"Hmmm." The new chaplain was silent for a moment, then murmured, "Did not Lord Holden's wife die several years back?"

"Aye. Ten years ago. In child birth. Hether has been my best warrior since then. Always ready to fight, always away on campaign for me."

"And did Lady Tiernay's husband not die four or five years ago as well?"

"What?" Henry scowled briefly, then his expression cleared. "Oh, nay. That was her father. Lady Tiernay is not married and has not been. Her father neglected to see to that ere his passing."

"She is of marriageable age, then?"

"Oh, aye. She is beyond old enough to marry, I should think. Why she must be- " Henry paused, doing the math in his head. "I think she may be twenty or thereabouts." Groaning, he walked over and wearily rested his hand on his throne. "And there is another problem. I shall have to marry her off soon. How the Devil am I expected to find a husband for a harping wench like her?" Again, he began to pace.

"Perhaps you already have one, my liege," Templetun offered with some trepidation. When the King turned on him sharply, he shrugged. "Mayhap the solution would be to have Lord Holden marry her. It would solve both problems at once. She will be married, and they will be forced to work out their difficulties between themselves."

"They will kill each other within the week!" Henry predicted with disgust..

"Mayhap.” Templetun paused innocently. “But still- both problems would then be solved, would they not?"

Henry considered him with frank admiration. "Damn, Templetun," he finally breathed. "You have an evil mind." He rushed back to his throne and threw himself excitedly upon it. "You shall write two messages in my name...and take them forth yourself!" Then he turned to the chaplain with a dangerous look in his eye. “And Templetun,” he added. “Do not fail me.”

Excerpt from Fantasy

"GOING ONCE...going twice..."

With anticipation think in the air, the announcer called out, "Sold!"

And Sebastion Sinclair watched as the man just purchased was led off the stage to the sounds of raucous feminine cheers. Soon it would be his turn.

How the hell did I get myself talked into this? He wondered. Wearing a suit, watching huge amounts of money change hands with no consideration of the cost, being the center of attention-he hated it all. It reminded him of his youth and the fact that he had nothing in common with these shallow blue bloods.

Most of all, he hated the idea of being bought like an expensive toy for the amusement of rich women-regardless of the cause.

He seemed to be the only male not thrilled with the prospect of displaying himself. The others, in ages varying from late twenties to early forties, were smiling, flaunting their wares so to speak, and generally getting into the spirit of the thing. Only one man remained in line before Sebastian now and judging by the brawn of the guy and his rough-whiskered chin, he wouldn't last long. The women were really going berserk on the macho ones.

Which was probably why the construction workers had on very snug, tattered jeans and T-shirts too tight for men half their size-an adjustment for their female audience, no doubt. There was absolutely no way a man could work comfortably in a shirt that tight.

Likewise, the landscapers wore their work boots and jeans, some of them with no shirts on at all. And the carpenter-he had a heavy tool belt hanging low on his hips. The ensemble was complete with wrenches, a nail pouch, and the largest hammer Sebastian had ever seen, no doubt a pitiful attempt at symbolism. Sebastian shook his head and tried, without much success, to mask his amusement.

The announcer, a woman with a very wide, toothy smile, led a man around the stage by one finger hooked in his belt loop. The audience roared, then roared again when she had him turn, showing him to advantage. The spotlight moved over his backside and feminine shrieks filled the air.

Sebastian wondered if any of these rich people had realized the seriousness of the benefit, the purpose the money would serve in assisting abused women. He doubted it. To them, it was a lark, not a humanitarian deed to build shelters and help those in need.

To Sebastian, it was much more personal.

The brawny guy ahead of him bounded onstage, anxious for his turn to titillate the giggling masses, and Sebastian was left with a female attendant waiting for his cue.

As he'd guessed, the bewhiskered fellow went quickly, the last bid coming on a crescendo of womanly squeals and bawdy jests. The attendant took Sebastian's arm and directed him forward.

As he reached the center of the stage, hot lighting flooded over him. He stared out at the audience, satisfied with their reckless spending, but thoroughly disgusted by their careless attitudes. None of them gave a thought to where the money would go or how badly it was needed. They were all the same, full of glitz and shine; shallow, frivolous, concentrating only on their own pleasures. He was disdainful of them all.

And then he saw her.

She stood alone, a small dark-haired woman with huge eyes that dominated her face and expressed her fascination. She didn't smile as he met her stare. She didn't yell out suggestions or a bid as the other women were doing. She didn't laugh or joke; she didn't do anything but watch him. He no longer heard the announcer, no longer felt the heat of the bright lights. Her boredom and disinterest seemed to melt away. Her face was upturned, her lips slightly parted, as if in surprise. And he know-she couldn't look away. Some how he held her physically by the connection of their gazes.

Sabastian didn't dare blink. She seemed awestruck and innocent and he found her utterly irresistible. For some insane reason, because something inside him had stirred and heated at the sight of her, he had no intention of letting her go.

Maybe he wouldn't berate Shay after all. He just might be thanking her.

She wanted him.

Brandi stood in the middle of the floor, right beneath the stage. The men had been coming and going none of them overly remarkable to her mind, but then, she wasn't there to buy a man. She was only attending this benefit to support her sister, Shay. In truth, she avoided gatherings like this one, where the testosterone filled the air so thick you could choke on it. And there were any number of ways she would have preferred to spend her birthday.

But none of that matter at the moment. The man onstage was incredible, and once her gaze locked with his, she couldn't seem to find the connection to him, and she couldn't seem to find the wit- or the will-to walk away.

The woman handling handling the bids chuckled at some jest Brandi had missed, then turned to catch the man's arm. Holding a microphone in one hand, she gripped his arm firmly with the other and cuddled up to him. "Such a generous bid!" she called out sounding very excited, though Brandi, deeply involved in her own scrutiny, hadn't heard the exact amount offered. "He's worth every penny, ladies! Come on now, don't be shy. This one is quite a specimen." She squeezed his upper arm testing his muscle, then made an "oohing" expression to the audience.

The man didn't look overly complimented. He looked disdainful, and rather than work toward drawing more attention to himself as the other men had, he merely crossed his arms and braced his long legs apart. He seemed impossibly tall and strong and masculine in his rigid stance. As impenetrable as a stone wall. Almost barbaric in his strength. And he continued to look at Brandi.

The announcer struggled to gain his cooperation. She tried to force him into a turn, wanting to display him as she had the others in order to raise the already astronomical sum they'd collected. He resisted her efforts with ease. The announcer couldn't budge him a single inch.

And the women loved it. They called out more bids, made explicit suggestions on what they'd do with him and haggled amongst themselves.

Brandi's fascination built. Never before had she felt it, at least, not in eight long years. And before that, she's simply been too young. But there was no denying the interest surging inside her now. She'd made a decision earlier that day, a decision that would change her life-hopefully for the better. But this? Could she really consider bidding on a man? On this man?

***************

Excerpt from Tantalizing

Tugging at the hem of her miniskirt, Josie Jackson came the rest of the way into the noisy room. Seeing to the end of the bar was almost impossible in the near darkness with blue-gray smoke clouding everything. But she finally spied a man, his back to her, sitting on the end bar stool, just where he was supposed to be.

Brazen, she told herself, trying to get into the part she needed to play. Daring, sexy, confident. She'd scare the poor man to death and he wouldn't be able to leave quick e