Chapter Three

The very day the bank draft was handed over to Mr. Hunt, her father’s steward, with careful instructions on the bills to settle, a note arrived at Berkeley Square, addressed to Ophelia. She stared at it as if it held a small viper that would spring out and sink its fangs into her skin as soon as she opened the letter. The envelope held the same insignia on the seal as the one that had held the bank draft.

It was from the same man.

The power it suggested shook her. This man had known exactly when the steward of their household made use of the money. Ophelia had held on to that bank draft for a little over two weeks, staring at it almost nightly yet denying its existence in the day. She had overheard the housekeeper meeting with the butler, speaking about how best to reduce the staff while maintaining the appearance and dignity of the marquess and his marchioness.

Not while she managed the household, Ophelia had determined, informing Mrs. Barrett no one was to be fired, but all unpaid wages overdue for almost a year would be settled.

Flipping open the note, she sucked in a wondering breath.

A carriage will arrive for you at 7 p.m. Wear the dress and the wig. You will be taken to the Asylum.

There was no return address—no room for protest or negotiation.

The Asylum. This man was outrageous. That gambling den was one of great notoriety. Ophelia was being sucked into a world of intrigue, and every instinct within her warned her to flee. The ordinary and the mundane were safer.

Boring most assuredly, but safer.

A shaky laugh escaped her, and how Ophelia hated the thrill that went through her heart. That decided thrill spoke to the edge of impropriety and indecency she had been living in for the past few months. It spoke to the part of her that no longer found satisfaction with the life she endured. And that was what she did daily: endured disappointment, frustration, and anxiety, often mired in dark, confusing feelings she did not like or understand.

Ophelia longed to go back to the girl who laughed, danced, and sang with gaiety. The girl who loved the seasons in town and found them to be jolly fun, even as she danced and walked in the park with a few gentlemen, knowing she had no plans to marry unless she fell in love. Fanny and Maryann noted the strain, for they delicately probed. How she wished she had confided in her wallflower friends; they were remarkably close and shared many secrets and triumphs. A hot lump rose in her throat, along with burning shame. To admit to anyone of her bastardy, and the lack of honor in her father, felt unbearable.

She tentatively opened the large box that had arrived with the note. Oh! A dark golden blond wig of exquisite quality and a gold filigree mask laid inside. The wig was similar to the one she wore the few times she acted as Lady Starlight. Inside the other box was an icy-blue gown made of the finest quality, together with dainty silver dancing slippers.

Every instinct warned her the author of the notes was Devlin Byrne. Oddly, Ophelia found comfort in that belief. This was not a man who wanted to harm her. Surely he would have done so a long time ago if he had ill intentions. Perhaps singing the one song would be worth it.

“Can I really do this?” she whispered in the emptiness of her bedchamber.

Being alone with this man for the timespan of a song. Five minutes was worth the benefit to her family. Though many things could happen in five minutes. Such as ravishment.

Her parents would possibly collapse if they ever learned the shenanigans Ophelia had been up to. With a pang, she acknowledged how much she had changed since learning about Sally Martin. With a groan, she dropped her forehead onto the box. If not for her cousin Robert, her father’s heir, being sent home from Eton, she might not have had the temerity to summon the steward and hand over the bank draft.

Ophelia had checked the books secretly, waiting to see what her father did to turn around their fortunes. The only things that seemed to have happened were more bills getting added to the drawers, and some of her mother’s precious items disappearing. Such as a diamond necklace gifted to her by a Russian princess and a painting by Rembrandt. The sums fetched for those items still had not been able to dent their financial problems.

Even more infuriating, she did not see where the monies had been applied to servant wages and creditors more important than the milliner and her modiste. Her father was even now contracting a small gazebo with a stone fountain of Neptune at the back of their townhouse so he could sit and admire the birds on sunny days with his marchioness. Worse, her father still shut her out of those meetings with his steward and lawyers, only imparting what he believed necessary for her management of the household.

How could Ophelia refuse so much money when her family had need for it? And what about the repayment? Could one really place dignity and pride before her family’s comfort and her father’s heir’s future expectations?

“Just a song,” she whispered. “Then why is it so scary?”

If this mysterious man was Devlin Byrne, he did not own a reputation of being licentious. He was dangerous but not dissolute. He was a known lover of the arts, extravagantly supporting amateur but extraordinarily talented painters, musicians, and novelists. Perhaps he wanted a singer to add to his coterie.

“Please let this man be Devlin Byrne,” she muttered.

The ridiculous irony did not escape her.

Shrugging aside the doubts and fears, Ophelia soaked in her bath for a long time, then, with the help of her lady’s maid’s discretion, dressed in the gown, which contoured to her body quite flatteringly. All her curves seemed more pronounced, her décolletage on lush display. Her black tresses were pinned in a coronet and the blond wig fitted to her head. It was styled in a chignon, with several curls kissing her cheeks and shoulders. Staring at herself in the cheval mirror in her chamber, Ophelia thought she have never looked more…sensual.

Nerves plucked at her heart, and, taking a deep breath, she allowed her maid to help her slip on the gold filigree half mask and a dark blue pelisse. Tugging the hood of the pelisse over her head, she walked down the stairs, confident she would not encounter her mother or father. Since her father’s ailment, they retired to their chamber at the same time each night, no doubt savoring the time they had left with each other.

Stepping out into the cold night, she noted the large conveyance awaiting her. Footmen in no discernable livery knocked down the steps, and Ophelia ascended the carriage. Inside was elegant, well-lit, and comfortable. The carriage rattled off, and with each clack of the wheels against the cobbled stone, the knot in her belly drew tighter and tighter.

“This will be no different than singing in one of those opera halls or taverns,” she whispered, clasping her gloveless hands together. “One song. That is all.” Leaning her head back against the squabs, she recited the song in her head over and over, and the manner in which she would sing it.

Sooner than she anticipated, the carriage stopped, and she leaned forward to part the curtains. They were on St. James’s Street. That she had not expected. The carriage steps were knocked down, and Ophelia released the curtain. Reaching up, she touched her face to ensure the mask was securely fitted. Then patted her wig. No one would recognize her as Lady Ophelia.

Taking a quick, steadying breath, she descended the carriage, surprised to see an elegantly dressed lady in a mask approaching her.

The lady paused close to her. “Lady Starlight?”

Ophelia almost laughed. She swallowed down the sound that would surely have a hysterical edge and nodded confidently.

“This way, please,” the lady with the blue-and-green mask said with a smile.

She led her to a large oak door that opened as if an invisible force had commanded it. Ophelia stepped into sin and decadent luxury. She handed her coat to the majordomo, glancing around as she walked farther inside. The decor was one of elegance and luxury. Blue-and-silver carpets covered the floor of the long hallway, and swaths of silver-and-golden drapes twined themselves around massive white Corinthian columns. The dim, firelit interior of the club made it impossible to identify anyone, though several ladies wore glittering masks. Sounds of laughter and music filtered on the air, and as Ophelia walked behind the lady, an unexpected bite of anticipation coursed through her veins.

I am in a gambling hell.

This news would have to be shared with her friends first thing tomorrow. How shocked and delighted they would all be. Especially Charlotte and Fanny. Another large set of double doors opened, and they stepped into an enormous room, at least the size of two ballrooms merged into one. The glitter of the chandeliers seemingly lit by a thousand candles, the dazzling array of lavishly and beautifully dressed ladies, the self-indulgence and excess, and the raucous sounds of laughter assailed Ophelia’s senses.

In this room, dozens of tables were scattered in an organized sprawl, and many gentlemen recognizable to Ophelia sat at tables playing faro, Macao, whist, and vingt-et-un.

“This way,” the lady said, leaning closer to be heard over the facile laughter and chatter.

Ophelia followed her through the crowd, aware of the many eyes upon her body. Staring straight ahead, she almost missed an opened door, the gateway to a ballroom. Several couples danced the waltz, but much more scandalously, as their partners clung so close it bordered on indecency. She was riveted. Her heart jolted upon seeing Nicolas St. Ives, Marquess Rothbury amongst the dancers; however, Ophelia faltered when she noted his partner.

Dear God, Maryann!

Others might mistake her, but Ophelia knew her friend, and how many ladies about the ton would wear their spectacles perched atop their masks? An ache formed in her throat when she observed the way that rogue held Maryann to his body. It was indecent…but there was something very tender and possessive in his stare.

Please be careful, Maryann.

Looking away, Ophelia continued onward, down a long, silent hallway. A few weeks ago, she and her friends had met at Maryann’s home for one of their usual gatherings. Something had been different that night, and it was Maryann who had stood and dared everyone to be wicked in their pursuits, reaching for the dreams in their heart. Ophelia had been unable to say she was already being daring in her search for her mother, but something inside her had awakened at those words, and she too had felt the awful emptiness that had lingered in her friends. Surely the sums of their lives were not balls, more balls, perhaps a few picnics, and then marriage and children if they were fortunate enough. Something seemed amiss, and that aching void in her heart and soul yawned even wider.

“We are here,” the lady said, opening a door.

Ophelia swallowed, pushing aside all nerves, and stepped inside. The room was empty. The door closed behind her with a soft thud. There was a stage, raised on a dais, and it was lit with several candles and a lone chandelier. She walked over to it, quite aware of the largeness of the room and that no one was about. She had assumed there would be an audience. Halfway to the stage, she faltered, awareness rippling down her spine. There was someone else in the room with her. There…near the stage but in the shadows. A large animal was sprawled at their feet. A dog or a wolf. Half in the light and the next half in the shadows.

A song from you to me.

So an audience of one, then.

Butterflies erupted in her belly, and her heart jerked so fast Ophelia feared fainting. She would never forgive herself if she did something so silly and miss-ish.

What the devil is the matter with me?

Ophelia continued to the stage, going up five steps before she turned around, her gaze searching for him. He was barely discernable, sitting in the center of the room in a large armchair. He was indolently reposed, a cheroot in his mouth—she could see the red spark at the tip with each drag. One of his hands rested casually on his knee, and in that hand was a glass, with perhaps whisky.

Ophelia stared at him, quite aware that he must be staring at her, too. She almost did not know where to begin. Should she ask for an introduction? Should she rush from the stage and go to him to demand to be told what was happening?

A song from you to me.

Ophelia swallowed. Just a song, and then she would leave. Immediately.

She almost chose one of the songs she had performed previously at the opera house and the tavern as Lady Starlight. Something either operatic or lively and upbeat in the manner of folk songs. Something simple and without tension…without feelings.

Yet as she stepped closer, it was the song she had written last night as she lingered in the shadows of her doubts about everything that came pouring out. As a soprano singer, she had often been praised for her powerfully dramatic renditions. Ophelia stared at the man in the dark and sang in a manner unique only to her—slow, sultry, powerful, and sensual.

Waking up in shadows, a tempest trembles in my heart

Listening for your voice in the rain and the wind streaming

No answer I hear, and how long the night can be apart

I fear to reach for you, but you come as I am dreaming

Seeking to touch your face, but you vanish in the dark night

The world is a storm, so I’ll follow you through the cold

Then you’re standing before me under the silent moonlight

Trembling with fear, shall I rush to you? Can I be so bold?

Like frost drifting endlessly as I float in wind’s power

Do not leave me, my darling, everything will be right

Dreaming as the moon shines down on the night-blooming flowers

Together in dreaming the gentle winds succor our flight.

Tipping her head to the ceiling, she sang the other two verses, dimly aware of the wetness against her lashes. The song died from her lips, and her hands dropped to her sides to hang limply. Terrifying sensations crashed against Ophelia’s senses when the figure stood, the shadows around him dancing and twisting. He said nothing, but the large beast by his side also rose, and they prowled together toward her.

Ophelia’s heart jolted, for she was distressingly aware they were alone in this room. Another step, and the light from the candles caressed his features. Almost lovingly. Something warned her nothing with this man would be harmless—even her very virtue might be in danger. Simply because of the raw pulse of want that burst inside her body when he stepped fully into the light.

He had high-sculpted cheekbones, a strong patrician nose, and a full, sensual mouth. His black hair needed trimming, the strands of it curling around his cravat. Something tumbled inside of her, the feeling so fleeting it vanished before she could allow herself to assess the sensation.

There was an air of keen alertness about him and a sense of recognition deep inside her.

But Ophelia was certain she had never met this gentleman in her entire life.

It would be impossible to forget such a man.

They stared at each other, and to her mind, it was as if he waited on her. To do what? She felt a sharp thump of panic, and that annoyed her greatly. She was not the nervous sort, not given to fits of vapors or rattled nerves. That was why she could be here, in this club, singing for this stranger.

“Who are you?” she finally whispered, unable to bear the silence any longer, stepping down from the dais.

Instead of answering, he took another step toward her. There was an indefinable air of self-assurance about him quite uncommon to a man of his class. Ophelia did not jerk or betray any sort of anxiousness that the hem of her dress brushed his polished shoes. A rigid, breathless silence filled the space between them. No man of refined sensibilities would presume to stand so close to a lady. Or stare so boldly at her. And she was quite determined to appear unflappable.

His gaze lowered to her fingers, and she fought not to curl them. That had been one of his odd requests: that she wore no gloves.

“You hid your talent well. The few times you sang as Lady Starlight, you were singing subpar. Why?” he asked on the harsh note of some emotion she couldn’t identify. “Do you sing now for a lost lover? Or because you hunger for one?”

Ophelia recoiled, shocked. But perhaps she should not be. The words of her song had been unspeakably scandalous, and she had poured the pent-up emotions that churned her up daily in her words. If she had sung so at a musicale, polite society would have thought her ruined. She had to make a conscious effort not to bite her lip. “It was but a song.”

His eyes—a dark yet vivid green, burning beautiful, stunning in a face of flawless masculinity—rested on her face and stayed there. “A gloriously beautiful one.”

The reverence in his tone warmed her. Careful to only show an expression of civil politeness, she said, “I daresay you should feel as if you attained ten thousand pounds’ worth and shall dare make no more demands on my time.”

His eyes kissed over her skin like a sharpened blade. Ophelia was actually afraid to ask his identity once again.

“I never heard a voice as pure…or as sultry and sensual as yours. You have a gift.”

“Thank you.” For she could think of nothing else to say.

“Did you write this song?”

“Yes.”

Another stretch of silence passed, barely endurable. Ophelia felt uncertain. Should she leave? Surely, they could not just stand here, staring at each other. Confused laughter tickled deep in her throat, and she bit the inside of her lower lip. It was important to remain unruffled at all times.

My very life…virtue…and all my sensibilities might depend on it.

Quite dramatic and overwrought, but she would allow for the slip, given the highly unusual nature of this situation. What even was the situation?

He shifted slightly, patting his dog’s head. “When?” he finally asked.

When had she written the song? “Does it matter?”

“Yes.”

She lifted her eyes to his face in a questioning look. “I…I wrote it last night.”

“Where were you?”

A startled smile bloomed on her mouth, and he stepped back as if shoved. The dog growled low in his throat, and her heart started that dratted thumping once more.

“In my chamber,” she admitted softly.

“Were you sitting before a desk, or were you in your bed?”

He was the oddest creature, and it baffled her that she indulged him with a reply. “In my bed.”

Another shift, this time casting his expression in the shadows from the mounted lamps. “In the dark…under the covers, or were you sitting on the coverlets, quill and paper resting on a pillow?”

“I crafted it in the dark…in my thoughts…until I memorized each line.”

“Ah, so these are words that speak to the very heart of you.”

A feeling she had never endured before erupted inside her chest. “I supposed they do.”

“I am captivated. Why did you write this song for me?”

Ophelia tilted her head to one side and gave him a shrewd glance. “For you?”

His hard, brilliant, and beautiful emerald eyes gleamed. “Yes.”

“Your audacity leaves me breathless.”

“It does not negate the truth that you wrote this song for me.”

She choked back a laugh, but still some of it trembled on her lips and filled the air. “I daresay songs of flowers and pretty milkmaids would have bored you silly and perhaps made you feel cheated. I simply wanted to create words that might appeal to a man of your rumored jaded senses. Nothing more.”

“Consider me now titillated.”

“Who are you?” burst from her before she censored her thoughts.

A chiding expression settled on his face. “I presumed you knew, given you are familiar with my tastes.”

Ophelia did not like the intimate way he lingered over those words; it felt perplexingly obscene. This man before her wanted more than a song. The awareness settled over her like a dangerous, smothering blanket. “It is ungentlemanly to ignore my question.”

“Forgive my lack of manners—Devlin Byrne at your service.” These words were accompanied by an exaggerated but very graceful bow.

The piercing tension in her stomach eased, and a soft breath shuddered from her body.

A barely-there smile touched his mouth. “I have never seen anyone relieved upon hearing my name before, particularly not a lady of quality. Dread…doubt…fear: those I am intimately acquainted with. I believe I am doubly titillated. A new state for me, if you are wondering.”

He must be one of those rich, eccentric fellows people sometimes whispered about with a sense of awe and fright. For they were unpredictable, and anything the ton found unpredictable was unquestionably dangerous—and a little bit captivating. “I am merely relieved I am not dealing with another bounder. One is enough.”

“You are safe with me, always.”

That odd promise did even odder things to her heart, and she brushed aside the warm feeling with an irritated snort. “One may smile, and smile, and be a villain,” she drawled mockingly.

From the dark humor that lit in his eyes, Ophelia saw that he was familiar with Hamlet and all of his musings on treachery and villainy.

“You do think me naive—a simpleton, perhaps—to believe in such a promise from a man of your ilk, a man I do not know.”

“I think you are an iridescent flame unlike any I have ever seen, one I cannot help coveting.”

Oh God! Holding on tight to her composure, she made a chiding, tsking sound. “We are ever striving after what is forbidden…”

A very faint smile curled one side of his mouth. “…and coveting what is denied to us,” he said, ending her quote from Ovid. “Ah… so our story will be a forbidden lovers’ tale, then.”

Forbidden lovers? Those words drifted over her skin like fire, unsettling her composure entirely. It was her turn to take one…two…three steps away from him.

Forbidden lovers?

His gaze skipped over her body, lingering in places a man of respectable conduct had no right looking. Every dip, every hollow, and every curve felt the caress of his eyes as he probed. Ophelia was most aware the gown he had sent clung enticingly to her curves and revealed the swell of her cleavage. Hating that her heart quickened, she said, “You are no gentleman to so blatantly…” Her lips closed over the words.

“To so blatantly admire your sensual beauty?”

“I came because I was most handsomely rewarded for a song. No other reason,” she murmured huskily, feeling disposed of her usual calm and rational thinking.

Something in the air felt perilous. That strange feeling caressed her skin like the sharpened edge of a blade.

“I will leave now, Mr. Byrne,” Ophelia said, taking a few more careful steps away from him.

“Will you?”

That drawl hooked low in her belly and pulled, shaking her laboriously acquired air of indifferent civility. Worse, she could not dismiss the impression that this man was amused by the entire affair.

“Yes. I must leave.” Because there was something frightful inside her that actually wanted to stay. To ask all the questions that had plagued her these last few weeks as she pondered his identity and bank draft.

Ophelia whirled around and hurried away, aware that the only noise echoing in the room was the clip-clop of her heels on the floor. Her hands on the latch, she stopped, twisted her head, and looked around. He was barely visible from her current position, but she was certain he had not moved. Mr. Byrne merely watched her with a hand resting on his dog’s head.

Her breathing had become agitated. She felt herself slipping, sliding into his net. Turning around, she walked back to him, stopping at a careful distance.

“I have been able to visit so many places unmolested because of your protection. For five months, I lay in the darkness of my room and wondered about you; it had become a torment. Why have you been helping me? How did you know I…my family needed money and that I would be tempted to act with recklessness and visit you here? Why would you only demand a song for such a fortune?”

He stared at her, seemingly unmoved by her outburst. There was a hint of something hard…almost sensually cruel about his handsome visage. That impression she could not dismiss, and the longer Ophelia stared at Devlin Byrne, the more her heart trembled.

Another familiar chord struck inside her, and once again the pit of her belly felt warm. Her reaction was most astonishing. If she possessed any wisp of rationality, she would turn around and rush from the room, forgetting she had ever been here. And she did just that. Turned around, hurrying at such a pace it was almost as if she ran. Another day, another time, should they meet again, she would ask those questions. Right now, every instinct inside her warned her to flee.

“Fifi.”

She was instantly riveted. Such a small word to make her breath stop.

Her feet faltered, and her entire body shuddered as she felt her heartbeat stutter. Again and again. Ophelia slowly turned. “What…what did you call me?”

Surely she misheard.

He walked toward her, stopping at a respectable distance. “I did all those things because you are Fifi.”

The years fell away, and for a brief moment, so fleeting she might have imagined it, she saw them sitting on a log, staring at the beauty of a midnight sky. “Niall?”

His head dipped in a brief nod of acknowledgment.

“So you are not Devlin Byrne?” she mumbled foolishly.

“A man reinvented cannot keep the same name.”

She wouldn’t have known what to reply to that even if she could. Speechless, she stared at him. Was he really the boy she had spent those several days with in the woodlands that had appeared enchanted? The memory had stayed with her for a long time, but she had forgotten him as life drifted along the path set for her at an alarmingly fast pace. She had not thought about him in years…and here he was before her, seemingly having never forgotten about her.

The feelings that tumbled through her were too strange and complex to name or even understand.

I did all those things because you are Fifi.

“I do…I do not know how to repay you,” she whispered, searching his expression.

“I paid to listen to the pleasure of your wonderful art. I am not owed.”

Her heart gave an appalling leap. Why had he chosen to approach her now, when he had known of her existence for months? The question hovered on her tongue, but she did not voice it, wary of the answer.

“I missed you,” she said, shocking herself—and clearly him. “For days…weeks…months…I missed you.”

Then I was forced to forget you.

Those enigmatic eyes touched her face, and while he did not return her sentiments, he paused, one side of his mouth kicking up. That small smile changed his expression from chilling insouciance to exquisitely charming.

“Fifi, I would like you to meet Conan. Conan, say hello to Fifi.”

To her astonishment, the massive dog sat on his haunches and lifted his front paw.

Ophelia took it, amazed that his paws were almost the size of her hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Conan.”

The dog purred low in his throat.

“He feels the same way.”

Ophelia smiled, unsure what to do with the sudden warm feeling rushing through her. Devlin Byrne was Niall.

“We meet again, Fifi.”

“We meet again, Nia…Devlin. I am astonished I am here with you. What are the odds that we would find each other? I thought I would never see you in this lifetime.”

“Fantastical odds, I’m sure,” he said with a dry bite. “But here we are.”

There was something a bit chilly in the gaze that skipped over her body once more.

“Are you trying to be discreet?” she asked archly.

“No.”

“Just rude?”

He smiled, and Ophelia almost forgot how to breathe.

“You are terribly handsome. Unsettlingly so. And so tall now,” she said with an almost nervous laugh. If not for the eyes, she would not think Devlin Byrne and her Niall the same person.

Devlin looked so befuddled, she couldn’t help smiling.

“No one has ever told you that before?”

“I believe you are the first lady to compliment my appearance.”

Unexpectedly, her heart squeezed. “I think I like that.”

“Do you?”

“Yes. Perhaps I shall be your first in many things.”

In the silence, the words seemed to echo. Ophelia had no blasted idea what she meant; the repartee had just fallen from her tongue. However, his gaze sharpened, and something cunning yet carnal moved in the depths of those eyes. When he smiled, she felt undeniably provoked.

She sniffed. “I suppose there is a naughty innuendo your mind is turning around?”

Humor lit in his eyes. “You are not at all like other girls, are you?”

“Of course I am. We all have a bit of madness in our hearts; we’ve just learned to hide it. I admit I might sparkle a little brighter because, according to my father, I have been overindulged.” Or perhaps it is that bit of Sally Martin hidden inside of me. Her breath caught at the errant thought.

He stared as if he did not know what to make of her.

“We are in accord,” she said in a voice of careful nonchalance.

He veiled his eyes briefly with his long, dark lashes. “About what, I wonder?”

“I do not know what to make of you, either. You are an exceedingly rare creature I am not sure if I should run away from.”

The words seemed to surprise another barely-there smile from him. Ophelia did not trust that smile. The quickening of her breath and heart also suggested something very remarkable. This absurd conversation made her feel alive and inexplicably more aware of herself in a way she had not been in months…years.

Devlin was so still…and watchful. “I brought you a gift,” he finally said.

She stared at him, dumbfounded. “A gift?”

“Yes.”

“Whyever would you do that?”

“I knew we were going to meet eventually, and soon.”

“You were so sure I would take the money?” she asked.

“No. I had another, far more reliable plan.”

“Which was?”

“It is better not to say.” His tone was laced with cynical amusement.

She stared bemusedly at him, nefarious ideas swirling in her mind. What other means could he have used to persuade her to visit him in this place of notoriety and sin? “Did it involve kidnapping?”

“More like gentle persuasion. There is a remarkable distinction there.”

A delicate shiver went through Ophelia. “Do you find this conversation at all odd?”

“No.”

She was flummoxed at the surety of that reply. Perhaps he had peculiar discourse in this vein daily. “What is the gift?”

“A goat from Ireland. A wee one, really, only about a month old.”

She looked up at him warily. “A goat?”

A small frown flickered on his face before his expression was quickly rendered inscrutable. “Is this an inappropriate gift for a lady of your station?”

“More baffling, and I believe that would be to any lady.”

“What is wrong with a baby goat? It is alarmingly…fluffy and…fantastical.”

Ophelia started to laugh, vaguely recalling a conversation they had years ago, when she said if she should own any pet, it would be a goat. Nay, it had to be a goat, or she would be forever forlorn. How dramatic she had been as a child. The sense of absurdity evaporated, and a curious sensation wrapped its arms around her body. The powerful, enigmatic man standing before her really was Niall. And from the glint in his eyes, he knew he was being outrageous. Did he really have a baby goat, or did he jest?

“This gift was meant to be a bridge of sorts,” he murmured.

A part of her understood it. So many years and distance separated them, but this “gift” would have been a reminder of their connection, of their past shared laughter and wishes. How profound and special their brief friendship had felt. An ache crowded her throat as she stared at him.

What did it mean that they were reconnected? Simplistically put, they were gossamer silk and rough sacking. Hades and Persephone. From different worlds with different interests and different futures. What did they have in common but a past that was almost forgotten?

“I missed you as well, Fifi. From the moment that door closed.”

It struck her then that, despite the hint of danger that practically glowed around him, he was candid about his feelings, unashamed to express them to her.

Who are you now, Niall, and why do I want to know?

Unexpectedly, the night did not feel so scary anymore. He did not feel so dangerous anymore.

And perhaps I am being sillier than I have ever been in my life.