Chapter One

Rowena’s Journal, October 28, 1875

Since my sister Wilda ran off with that outlaw Calder Raines six months ago, I have waited for Lord Blair Prescott to turn his attention to me. I have loved him since first I saw him in the gardens at St. Ann’s the day he chose Wilda for a wife and broke my heart. Heaven knows she is the beauty of the family, while I am hardly notable to look at and am nearly an old maid at twenty-five.

I fear he is ill, for he grows gaunt and no longer exhibits his famous temper. He is eating less and drinking more, and I’m convinced he is haunted by much more than losing an intended wife who did not care a whit for him. He appears to have lost interest in Cousin Tyra’s antics and increasing absences, which once irritated him no end.

What haunts him I have no notion. I know not how to help him, but sense that if I do not, he shall wither up and die, as if of old age.

One night as I passed by Blair’s chambers on the way to my room, I heard him cry out. Without shame, I pressed an ear to the door and listened but heard no more. Eventually, I continued on down the hallway, the candle casting dancing shadows up the walls like hovering spirits.

It is lonely here, and I long for companionship. The Chesshires, who accompanied the three of us Duncans to America last spring, have moved into their own place in Victoria, having built living quarters above their shop. I visit with Marguerite occasionally.

I miss my sister, but she chose to leave us behind and go off with that bedraggled outlaw. So be it. I cannot believe Blair grieves for her loss, as they were at each other’s throats from the moment we arrived in Kansas and moved into Fairhaven. Her arranging a kidnapping to escape the marriage was the last straw.

At first, when he still thought she would agree to marry him, he and I had many discussions about her behavior. We even shared some private opinions and beliefs. I thought we had become friends, and my company made his ebony eyes spark occasionally, but now he shuns me and I am bereft.

Sometimes I think I should find myself a man amongst those who emigrated here to Victoria from England and Scotland, but the thought leaves quickly. Besides, what man of means would look twice at me? Blair’s expressive dark eyes and the way he holds himself, his charming smile, even the scar that mars his exquisite features, reach out to me. The heart, not the head, chooses love, and the soul suffers when it is unrequited. He may never return my feelings, yet I must find a way to help him before he is so far gone he cannot find his way back.

Rowena cleaned the pen’s nubbin, carefully tucked the journal under a stack of handkerchiefs in the night table drawer, and rose to dress for the day. Writing about her heartache over Blair without taking steps to help him was not good for either of them. She had to do something, and soon.

After eating breakfast alone, she went in search of Simmons and found him in the great room tidying up. The housekeeper had fled after one of Blair’s explosive tirades, and no one had been found to replace her.

“I will require the buggy. I’m going to town and may be gone until midafternoon.”

His raised eyebrows irritated her. “His lordship might need it.”

“Rubbish. All he does is ride over the prairie all night as if it were the English moors and he were Heathcliff. Worse, he returns at dawn to drink himself into a stupor. He won’t even know it’s gone.”

“You should not speak of him in that way. However, I shall take care of it.” Simmons gave her the evil eye and stalked off.

Probably going to ask his lordship’s permission to allow use of the seldom-used conveyance. He might have done so, but it was not long before the buggy was brought to the front entrance. Rowena grabbed her reticule, draped a shawl over her shoulders, and stepped out into a chilly November wind that grabbed at her skirts and tugged at her carefully pinned hair. Because of the Kansas wind, she’d given up wearing the gaudy Victorian hats so popular in England. Frontier women wore straw-brimmed hats tied under their chins or those ugly bonnets that hid their features. She’d never worn such adornments in England, for they were frowned upon at St. Ann’s, an orphanage and workhouse with strict religious rules. She had grown accustomed to covering her head with a woolen scarf to keep out the cold.

Settling into the seat behind a new man hired when Layton left to marry, she glanced up at Blair’s windows. Clothed in his robe, he stared down at her through the glass. Such a forlorn figure. Tears filled her eyes.

What would he do if she ran up the stairs, burst into his room, and told him to get in the buggy and ride out across the plains bundled up beside her? Thighs touching, holding hands. Laughing together. Not a chance of that. Who could blame him for shunning her? Having inherited her father’s build, she was long and lean, with small breasts and hips. Her hair, neither the rich red of her sister’s nor the golden red of Tyra’s, was almost devoid of color, pale as alabaster, and so she pinned it severely into a bun at the back of her head. She had her mother’s azure eyes, but her features were plain. Why any man would spare her a look, she could not fathom. That did not keep her from loving Blair and yearning for him. Fool that she was.

A deep loneliness, a desire for his touch, and a growing sexual passion had her taking care of her own needs while imagining Blair lay beside her, black hair tousled, long fingers trailing through her loose hair, mouth at her… She shuddered and shook herself. Such an act would have brought out the whip from the nuns at St. Ann’s. Not something she cared to dwell on. The scars across her back itched as if something evil crawled there.

The small settlement of Victoria soon appeared in the distance beyond the rise. The town had spread out on the Kansas plains like the sprouting of mushrooms and had taken on the look of an English village. From the railroad tracks to the north, streets and alleyways were laid out in precise rows. Victorian-style homes were built on each lot surrounding the business district, where new shops opened on a regular basis. George Grant’s vision of bringing English life to the West appeared to be well on its way to fruition. All that was missing were hedgerows of delicate roses and blooming shrubs.

The air smelled of wood smoke and fresh lumber, the richness of turned soil and horse manure, though the streets were cleaned regularly. Many westerners walked or rode around town. They were employed by remittance men and other Englishmen of means who preferred to fox hunt or breed horses and cattle or sheep, rather than work. Land ownership was not possible for them in England, and they had become the new landed gentry of this wild, wild west. Near the railroad depot was the imposing two-story Manor House, constructed by Grant. Emigrants could stay there while their homes were built by hired help.

The driver didn’t speak until they reached the busy streets of town. “Where to, miss?”

“Take me to Chesshire’s, please.”

He reined the horse toward the boardwalk in front of Chesshire’s Dry Goods Emporium, jumped down, and offered his hand to assist her in stepping from the buggy.

Without making eye contact, she said, “Thank you. Come back in an hour.”

The driver kept her hand for a moment, and she glanced up to see him staring at her with what she could only take as sincerity. She struggled to remember his name and, wanting to be polite, finally asked.

“Grady, it’s Grady, ma’am.” He was a presentable man, perhaps a bit younger than she. About her size, though broader through the chest, he had shaggy blond hair that escaped from under a wide-brimmed western hat. When he smiled, dimples popped in his cheeks and blue eyes sparkled in his tanned, pleasant face. She couldn’t help but return the smile, then lowered her glance.

“Will do, miss.” He released her hand and touched the brim of his hat with respect.

Not bad, if she were inclined to take up with the help. Oh, dear. That sounded like she was titled or something. Good heavens, what was wrong with her? Thinking like that? If she were back home in Manchester, she would be even lower than the help. Thanks to Blair, she lived in a fine castle built of stones shipped over from England. Alone, for all intents and purposes, in a castle built for her sister Wilda.

Raising her shoulders, she walked briskly across the boardwalk. The bell tinkled above her head when she pushed through the double glass doors. The scent of fabrics hung thick in the air. Heels clacking on the wooden floor, Marguerite rushed to embrace her. She smelled of rose toilet water and perfumed soap. A tendril of graying hair escaped to hang over her wrinkled forehead.

“I’m so happy to see you, my dear child.” Marguerite took her by the shoulders to get a good look at her, then untied the scarf and tugged it from Rowena’s head. “It’s been much too long.”

“Yes, it has. I’ve wanted to come for a while, but—”

Marguerite held up a hand. “No excuses expected. You’re here now. I do hope everything is all right out at Fairhaven. How is his lordship? I’ve worried so much about him since that precocious Wilda abandoned him. What a shame, and after all he has done for you Duncans. How do you think she can bear living the life of an outlaw’s woman?”

It was sometimes difficult to reply to Marguerite’s questions, she rushed on so, but Rowena stopped her as she opened her mouth to continue.

“They are not living like outlaws. Calder was pardoned, and they went to Colorado. I think he started a business of some sort out there. I am not sure.”

“Oh, yes, Colorado. They have a ranch there. At least that’s what her letters say, but I’m sure that’s just to make me feel better. I imagine the two of them waving pistols and robbing banks or the like.”

“Oh, Marguerite. You do have a great imagination. I do wish you would urge her to write to me. I truly would love to hear from her, but I know she thinks I have not forgiven her for taking off like she did.”

Marguerite stared into her eyes a long moment. “And do you mean that you have?”

“Why, yes, of course.” Rowena fiddled with the trim on the bodice of her dress.

“Well, perhaps. But what about poor Lord Prescott?”

“He is a different matter. I’m sure he’ll never forgive her. That is difficult to understand, since he never cared a whit for her in the first place.” She shrugged and took off her gloves. “That is why I have come to see you, not my sister’s welfare. I am so worried about Blair. He does not eat, he drinks too much and stays up half the night, often riding in the dark of the moon. If he does sleep, he cries out like some lost soul. I am afraid he is ill.”

“Blair, is it? And you know his manner of sleeping?” Marguerite tilted her head and frowned.

Was that all the woman took from her statement? That she referred to Lord Prescott as Blair and had seen his bed? “I was hoping you would have some ideas of how I—we could help him. You have known him since he was a boy.”

Marguerite patted her arm. “Be careful, my dear. I don’t believe it’s such a good idea for you to live out there alone with him. People are talking.”

“It is none of their business, but we are not alone.”

At that moment the bell on the door tinkled and two women entered, chattering and laughing. Rowena breathed a deep sigh. Though she certainly felt alone, she and Blair couldn’t be said to be living in the castle unchaperoned, what with Nellie and Annie and Simmons wandering about inside and outside. She wanted to rush on, to explain that, if only to satisfy Marguerite. To the devil with what people thought. And surely Blair would not care a whit, one way or another.

“Why don’t you go to the back and sit down,” Marguerite said. “I’ll join you in a moment.” She turned toward the customers. “Good morning, ladies. How may I help you?”

Rowena tuned them out and fingered a bolt of fine silk of the purest blue, her favorite color. Perhaps while she was here she’d purchase some and have Blair’s seamstress sew her a new dress. After Wilda left, he had hired Nellie to care for his clothing and hers. But she’d had nothing new since coming to America. He had outfitted her, Wilda, and their cousin Tyra with a few traveling garments, and nothing since. One could scarcely blame him, considering that Wilda had broken her promise to marry him. They were lucky he had not tossed both of them out to fend for themselves when Wilda arranged that kidnapping. Charging the fabric to his account would be simple, and she was so piqued at him she might do just that. But on the other hand, what did she need with a dress of such a fine fabric? Where would she wear it?

In one of his more sober moments, he had told her he did not blame her or Tyra for Wilda’s betrayal and would not go back on his promise to continue to be their guardian until they married.

Remembering that conversation and his light manner renewed her longings for those infrequent, intimate conversations she and Blair had enjoyed before Wilda left.

With a sigh, she lifted her shoulders and carried the heavy bolt of fabric to the back of the store, propped it against the wall, and continued to wander through the aisles, studying threads, fabrics, needles, and the like while Marguerite finished with her customers. Perhaps she would have Nellie teach her how to sew so she would have something with which to occupy her mind. It would be enjoyable to turn out some lovely embroidery work. If she were fated to live as a spinster, she might as well develop some useful hobbies.

Marguerite soon joined her and heated water for tea on the potbellied stove in the center of the store. Marguerite took out her silver service, brought from Manchester, and served the tea along with some biscuits, also from England. Nothing from America was used in Victoria, which was a huge mistake.

How good the heat felt coming off the ugly little black stove, so different from the huge fireplaces in the castle that did well to keep them from freezing on cold Kansas nights. And it wasn’t true winter yet. Perhaps she could speak to Simmons about installing some of these quaint western wood heating stoves. There were some fine products made here in the west, items better suited for the life than their English wares.

Sipping at her tea, Marguerite eyed Rowena. “Do you know Lord Prescott’s history?”

“Not much. Simmons told me he fought with les Zouaves French army, but why or when or where, I do not know. Do you suppose he has a dark past, one that is now haunting him?” Life at the workhouse at St. Ann’s had been tough, the thing of which frightening dreams were made, but she had managed to put that behind her, for the most part. She could not imagine what horrors went along with war.

“Yes, that is true. And some of the battles were bloody and dangerous,” Marguerite said.

“No doubt we are all somewhat influenced by what happens to us. Do you suppose he was actually involved in those battles? I know little of this Zouaves except that they fought under Napoleon the Third and were in Paris when it fell to the Prussians.”

“Oh, my dear, yes. Mr. Chesshire read about their adventures in journals and has spoken of their prowess. He often said that the British, who were their allies in the battle against Russia, praised them to the high heavens. But that would have been before his lordship joined up, I’m sure.”

“Hmm, I wonder why he would join a French army?”

“All I know is that his father censured him. He was a second son, you know, an earl, thus the title of His Lordship, but there was much more to it than that. I’ve never known the details, but his father gave him a generous yearly stipend to leave and not return. He left all his holdings to his older brother Gerald, who inherited the title. A misbehaving dolt of a young man. It so angered Mr. Blair that he went to France and joined up. He never saw or spoke to his parents again.”

Rowena frowned, thinking of how much she wished her parents had not died when she was young. “I would never deny my parentage, no matter what.”

Marguerite shook her head. “Oh, my dear. We don’t know what we would do under certain circumstances.” Her eyes grew distant and she stared off into space. “I remember him as a child, so sweet and polite. Tenderhearted. Those lovely dark eyes snapping with mischief. A smile so beautiful it would break your heart. And Gerald, hitting him at every turn and always behind their parents’ backs, causing him to get in trouble for mischief he did not commit.” She shook her head, tut-tutted.

“How did you know them? The family, I mean.”

“My mother was a housekeeper for his parents. I was grown then, but I visited on occasion, and she took me to their home, a castle much like the one he built here for your…for Wilda, only it was much more grand.

“He was small, just walking the first time I saw him. While I was there I cared for him on occasion, when his nanny was busy with Gerald, who was a handful, let me tell you. Spoiled rotten. Two were as different as night is from day. Blair fair stole my heart. I met the family off and on over the years, till Mama died. Must be twenty years’ difference in our ages, mine and his lordship’s, but I adored him.” She pressed her lips together for a moment, as if trying to control her emotions. Her eyes gleamed. “Still do. Wish I could do something to help. Poor man. Poor, poor man.”

“He needs help, not pity,” Rowena snapped, then bit her lip. “You must have remained close to him. After all, you brought him to see us at St. Ann’s that first time, when he chose Wilda for a wife. Would you come out to Fairhaven and see him once in a while, try to urge him to put his life back together?”

Marguerite took a bite of biscuit, then sipped at her tea. “Oh, I’m afraid that would never do. Never. I couldn’t possibly insert myself into his person in such a way. And I could not bear to see him as he is now.”

Odd. The woman had not hesitated to direct him toward Wilda as a future wife. Did she not believe that was inserting herself in his person, as she put it? “Well, I am at my wit’s end. I do not know what to do.”

“Perhaps the answer to that is to do nothing. He’s a grown man and should be allowed to live his life as he wishes. If you interfere, he could resent it as well as you. You’re there at his largesse, my dear. What if he throws you and Tyra out? Where will you go? What will you do?”

Rowena could only shrug. “He assures me he will not do that.” Yet she was right. Blair could resent any interference and break his promise. Still, why was Marguerite not willing to help him, since she professed to think so highly of him?

“How is your cousin Tyra?” The china cup clinked into its saucer, accenting the abrupt change in subject.

“Oh, you know. Wild as a March hare. I seldom see her, and she runs free. As soon as she can support herself, I expect she will leave Fairhaven altogether and embrace this western country, she loves it so. The riding, the lingo, the attire, the lack of certain moralities.”

“Oh, dear. I do hope she doesn’t resort to immoral acts. How does his lordship view her behavior?”

“He has given up disciplining her entirely. Shutting her in her rooms does no good. She climbs out the window and down the trellises. Takes that little spotted horse of hers and spends the night riding.”

Marguerite shook her head and clucked her tongue. “The girl needs a mother and father.”

“Perhaps, but she is seventeen, a woman who will soon be of an age to do as she pleases.” Rowena laughed. “As if she does not already.”

The bell in the front tinkled again, this time allowing a stream of women to drift inside.

Rowena rose. “I had better take my leave. It was good to see you. Please do come and visit us at Fairhaven.” Disappointed that her trip had come to naught for Blair’s sake, she embraced the older woman and moved past the customers who turned away when she nodded in their direction.

Lifting her nose in obvious disdain, she swept through the door and out onto the boardwalk. A young man was nailing up ads of some sort on storefronts, and she went to read one. A harvest dinner and dance. Her mind on the possibilities that might offer, she had climbed into the buggy and settled beneath the coverlet before she remembered the bolt of blue silk fabric she had left at Chesshire’s. Just as well. In any case, she probably was not meant to have it.

****

From the window of his chambers Blair Prescott watched the buggy return. The driver hurried to offer his hand, which Rowena took, then stepped down like a graceful dancer. The woolen scarf she wore slipped off her head, and sunlight glinted in her fair hair, creating a halo. She paused to talk to the driver, Grady his name was. A shabby cowboy, but a reliable stock keeper. They spoke for several minutes, the wind whipping her dress and tearing curls from her severely pinned hair, so that she looked younger, her features softer.

What could those two possibly have in common? The thought surprised him since he, of all people, should know that Rowena came from questionable parentage just like this American he’d hired to replace Layton. He cared for the barn animals and drove for him. Yet he’d expect to see Tyra consorting with him rather than Rowena, who to his mind was regal, both in bearing and in thought. Much too gentle to be involved with the help.

Most of these people out here in this wilderness were an odd lot, caring little for their heritage, wandering about taking whatever job came available. Most had left their families and homes behind to come here and start a new life. Like him, they had abandoned hearth and home for one reason or another. Barely able to walk, he’d had little choice when he left the hospital in Paris but to come to this remote outpost on the Kansas plains.

The Duncan girls had chosen him over remaining in St. Ann’s, which should have made him more attuned to their needs. And it had, in a way. But to be needed scared him as much as to need. He wasn’t sure which was worse. Most of the time he cursed the day he’d let Marguerite talk him into bringing three homeless young women into his home. Except on the occasions he unexpectedly caught sight of Rowena when she was unaware he was watching, and something inside him said she was the one. Then, of course, he realized how ridiculous that was. He deserved no woman.

In the shadowy corner of the room, a soldier in the dress of les Zuoaves watched him, white pants and red jacket soaked in blood that poured from a head wound. Saying nothing, just leaning there, eyes filled with accusation.

He swallowed the remainder of the whiskey, refilled his glass. Moved his mind from the apparition back to reflecting on the lovely Rowena.

Where could she have gone in the buggy? Did she have a man in town? He wouldn’t put it past any of the Duncans, considering Wilda’s behavior, not to mention that wild heathen Tyra, who had tried him beyond all endurance.

Doing his best to ignore the soldier who regarded him so darkly, he sipped at his whiskey. The woman he’d feared would be his wife had escaped. That had worked out precisely as he’d wished, but he still blamed her for the way she had left. Though Rowena was pleasant company and would make a better wife for him, could he trust her either? A handsome woman a bit beyond the marriageable age, she was more likely to be grateful for whatever he offered. But it was clear that could not be marriage, for he would only hurt anyone who dared get close to him.

Annie had informed him only the day before that Rowena had begun to help with the housework since the housekeeper had recently fled. He did not much like that. It would appear that he had brought the girls here to work as servants, and that had not been his intent. Perhaps he would speak to her about it, or maybe not. He had not decided.

He was well into the newly opened bottle of whiskey when a knock came on the door. No doubt Simmons, wanting to fuss over him. As bad as having a wife.

Without rising, he bade him to enter.

The door swung open slowly. “May I come in?”

Rowena. What in thunder was she doing here? Hadn’t his stable boy been good enough company for her this day? Fortuitous, though, considering his recent thoughts.

“What is it?”

“I wanted to ask you something. It’s important.”

“Come in. Sit. I want to talk to you about something that I am quite disturbed about.”

She moved toward him with a certain elegance, her shoes making little scuffing sounds on the carpet. The lone lamp he’d lit after dusk accented her high cheekbones and gleamed on her hair, the color of moonlight on a winter’s night. As she drew nearer, the flame reflected in her blue eyes regarding him with some trepidation. Her tongue darted out to nervously wet her lips, and she lowered herself to the edge of the chair near him.

“What is it?”

“Annie says you are helping with the housecleaning.”

“I, uh, well, yes. I need something to do.”

“I did not bring you here to be a servant.” He finished off the glass of whiskey to tamp down the anger boiling to the surface. “And do you have to dress like that?”

Her face paled, her eyes darted from side to side as if she searched for a way to escape.

“Goddamn it, girl. Stand up for yourself.”

“I do not wish to fight with you.”

“Hell and damnation. Why did you want to see me?”

“I, uh, what about the housework? I would like to continue to help Annie, at least until you can find someone who can put up with your shenanigans.”

He smiled behind the glass. That was more like it. Gesturing with the empty glass, he said, “Do as you wish, but kindly do not complain about it, especially to Marguerite. She would have my hide.”

“Yes, indeed she would. I will not say a word to anyone. It would not be wise for his lordship to get a bad reputation in Victoria.”

Even better. He chuckled, twisted the cap off the whiskey, and sloshed more of the amber liquid into the glass. “Now, what was it you wanted to ask me?”

She jerked a bit but held her ground. “I was wondering… When I was in town, I saw an ad for a harvest celebration planned, at the Manor Hotel. Everyone is invited, and I thought perhaps I…well, you and I might attend. I only ask you because it would not be proper for me to go alone. You would not be required to remain with me.”

“Harvest celebration? Grant’s allowing such an American tradition to be held in Victoria?”

She flushed. “I believe it’s more a dinner and dance to be held before the weather turns bad and shuts everyone up for the winter.”

“Who cares about being shut up?”

“Frankly, I do. And it would not hurt you to see people. You cannot stay here alone forever.”

“I suppose I can if I want to. I like being alone. Cannot stand crowds, and for that matter they cannot abide me. What do you care, anyway?” By the expression on her face, he’d hurt her with the question.

It took her a moment to reply. “I thought we were friends. Perhaps I misunderstood.”

For a full instant he almost capitulated, let down the barriers. Her natural beauty mesmerized him, mostly because she was not aware of it. She was right, they had become friends while her sister was busy betraying him. He closed his eyes and shuddered. “Yes, I am afraid you did misunderstand.”

Again the hurt expression, but she shook it off and replied in a firm voice. “Well, then, perhaps we could get past that misunderstanding. I am not asking you to bed me, sir, just accompany me so I can do something other than wander these empty halls. Besides, I don’t believe you like being alone. If you did you wouldn’t have to drink yourself into a stupor every night.”

The foxy minx. Bed her, indeed. That she would say such a thing shocked him. “It’s none of your business what I do.” He attempted to lunge out of the chair in her direction, stumbled, and fell to his hands and knees, his half-empty glass spraying whiskey as it rolled away.

“Goddamn it,” he said and tried to rise.

Uttering a small sound, she approached him, but he swatted her away. “Leave me be, woman. I do not need your help, or anyone else’s, for that matter.”

Through blurred vision he stared up at her, then rolled over on his back and let the welcome darkness blot out her worried features and the bloody soldier in the corner of the room.

Rowena gazed down at him for a long while, feeling the pity she had warned Marguerite against. “I’m sorry I bothered you. Have a nice night, there on the floor.”

He was out and didn’t hear, his face relaxed and peaceful. So beautiful in repose. She fought the urge to go to her knees and caress his cheeks, push the tousled hair from his brow, kiss him on those lush lips. She hurried out before she could burst into tears, found Simmons, and told him that his lordship needed him, then went to her room.

“Why in God’s name do you care?” she said aloud, before removing several layers of clothing and shrugging into a nightdress.

Explosive ranting awoke her, and she sat up to listen. Out in the hallway, someone shouted curses. It had to be Blair. She ran to the door and opened it a crack. At that moment he stomped past, muttering under his breath. It was so dark in the hallway, she worried he would stumble and fall down the staircase, or worse, tumble over the railing into the floor below.

She hurried to light a candle and carried it into the broad hall. He had reached the end, whirled, and turned back. As he moved into the light, she saw he wore only a nightshirt and swung a sword in savage arcs, his eyes wild.

Simmons shouldered her aside and raced toward him. “Sir, sir. Please, sir.” He just kept shouting the words, over and over, closing in on Blair, who took a swing at him. The steel blade reflected the candle flame and cut through the air with a loud swishing sound. Simmons staggered backward.

Dear God, the man had gone mad. Trembling legs threatened to send her to the floor, but she stumbled toward him, holding the candle so he could see her.

“Blair, come back to bed. Can you hear me?” She kept her voice calm, though inside she was anything but. Her heart beat so hard she could scarcely catch her breath. “Blair, stop, this instant.”

He hauled up short, let the sword point drop to the floor, but he still gripped it. Before he made the decision as to whether to cut off her head or not, she slipped to his side away from the sharp weapon and put an arm around his waist. Beneath her touch, he shook as if palsied.

“Come with me, Blair. Come on, now. Everything is going to be fine.”

He stared straight at her, the dark eyes hard and blank as obsidian. “I killed you all. Why won’t you leave me be? Leave me be.”

The sword fell to the carpet with a dull thud, and he leaned against her heavily.

“Come on, then, let’s get you to bed.” She coaxed him down the hall toward his chambers. He stumbled, then began to move more easily. His body against hers radiated heat and sweat, yet he continued to shiver as if cold.

Simmons approached from wherever he’d fled and opened the door to Blair’s rooms. “I’ll take him, miss,” he murmured.

Blair swatted at him. “Leave me be, you bastard. Just leave me be.”

“It’s okay, I can do it,” she told Simmons.

“It is not proper, miss.”

“To hell with proper,” she said. “I said I will do it. Can you not see he does not want you?”

“While the two of you argue, I’m freezing my ass off here.” His normal tone startled her, and she stared at him.

He sounded sober and aware, but he left his arm draped over her shoulders. She walked him through the study and into his sleeping chamber, sat down with him on the bed. Never mind propriety.

Before she could remove her arm from around his waist, he turned so their faces were close. An odor of whiskey washed over her, but she didn’t move away.

“I hope I did not hurt you.”

“No, but you scared Simmons out of his wits.”

“I regret that. He has been faithful. Puts up with a lot.” He touched her cheek with one finger, then trailed it under her chin, lifting it a bit so he could kiss her ever so gently. “Thank you,” he said.

The kiss, whiskey and all, hit her like a lightning strike.

“Do not expect that when I am sober.”

“And when might that be, Blair?”

Hands on her shoulders, he pushed her away. “You had better leave, before we both do something foolish that I’m too drunk to remember. That would be a shame.”

Foolishly disappointed, she rose and gazed down at him for a moment, but he refused to raise his eyes. “Will you be all right now?”

“Yes, please do not worry. Before you go, would you mind fetching that bottle of whiskey and my glass? I think I need a nightcap.”

Nightcap, indeed. But she said nothing and did as he bade.

He took the bottle and glass with shaking hands.

Unable to bear the sight, she left the room on slightly unsteady legs. Before she could close the door, he called her name. She turned, stomach clenching with hope.

“What time is that dance?”

Surprise cast a spell and for a moment she could not answer. When she did, her own voice sounded as if it were lost in some huge cavern. “I believe the meal is at eight, with the dance following.”

“Tell Simmons to ready the carriage. I shall meet you in the foyer at quarter-past seven.”

She nodded and swallowed, throat clicking. “Yes, fine. I will do that.”

Elated, she darted from the room and closed the door before he could change his mind.

He could very well do so later, or be so drunk on that whiskey he would not remember agreeing to go, yet excitement and anticipation crept through her, causing small shivers that raised the hairs on her arms. What could cause such a beautiful, intelligent man to destroy himself with such abandon? Certainly the loss of Wilda, whom he’d had no chance to fall in love with, could not be the sole cause. No doubt the war Marguerite spoke of was to blame.

Damning herself for this sudden need to nurture him, she lay wide awake for hours thinking of ways to mend his tortured soul. The waning moon was high in the sky before she finally drifted into a fitful sleep.

****

Blair sat in his chair by the window, sipping at the smoky whiskey and thinking about Rowena. Moonlight lay across his lap, and he stroked at the silver smear with shaking fingertips, remembering the way her soft hair tickled his cheek when she brought him back to his chambers. Downing what was left in the glass, he rose, took off his robe, and climbed into bed. Perhaps this night he could sleep, exhausted as he was.

A blade of moonlight slashed across his face and he punched at it, flung both arms free of the covers, emitted a roar of protest that only the dreamer could hear. Cool fingers grasped his arm, nails dug into muscles that jerked. Her voice, sweet and clear, said his name over and over, till he turned to wrap her in his arms. Drive away the nightmares that gripped him. She pressed naked breasts to his chest, mounted him, and he slipped inside her, smooth and warm as submerging himself in sweet oil. She leaned forward, hair fanning across his chest, and rocked to and fro, gently, till he grew to fill her.

“Oh, dear God.” His moan one of torture, of delight.

She made not a sound but kept moving long after he was finished. When she reached orgasm it was with a tiny cry and a gripping of her insides that sent tremors through him. Tremors that renewed his desire, causing her to continue the sensual movement till once more he climaxed with joyous abandon.

He held her until she disappeared, leaving his arms empty, fists gripping at the sheets. Moonlight slipped through darkness to reveal bloody prints across the bed. Men screamed, and the acrid stench of gunpowder filled the air that echoed with thundering cannons. Hands covered in gore, he could not move, could not escape. Asleep or awake? He could never tell when one began and the other ended. And the fear. God, the fear that he would be trapped on those killing fields.

As always, he awoke to the emptiness of his chambers, empty of life. Which world was worse, this lonely one he already shared with the dead, or another that beckoned with dark promises made by a beautiful ethereal woman? Surely promises she would not, could not, keep.

With a groan of despair, he flailed for the whiskey glass on the nightstand. It fell to the floor with a crash, splintered into needle-like shards that glittered in puddles of moonglow. He rose to both elbows. Sweat poured from his face, ran down his back. The sheet, already soaked from the dark battle, held him captive, marked by evidence of the orgasms that had dragged him from the night terrors. No matter how much he drank or where he slept, they pounced on him like a hidden tiger.

Worst of all, he didn’t know who the woman was who soothed him, for no such person existed. She was not real, yet he felt her, smelled her, saw her with such a clarity. He would frighten her away, just as he had the lovely Wilda, who had arrived with a winsome smile and an ever-present hate for him. What had he been thinking when he summoned her here?

But his wild one was gone, fleeing into the depths of this savage country that so suited her. And he wished her well. Such a fool to build this castle for her, to believe for even one second that he could live like a normal man, loving a fragile, vulnerable woman. Even as the men he had sent to rescue Wilda grew near she had begged that outlaw to lift her into his saddle, as if sensing what her life at Fairhaven would be like. It was said they had left the country, headed west. Together. He would not pursue them. Wished her well.

Poking his feet into the slippers tucked under the bed, he fetched a robe from the bedpost and shrugged into it, picked his way through glass that grated like gravel underfoot, found an unopened bottle of whiskey and a fresh glass, and padded to the chair near the window, where he collapsed. Twisting off the top, he half filled the glass, twirled it for a few seconds. Firelight reflected in the amber liquid, and he downed it in one gulp. Embraced the heat that crawled down his throat and into his stomach, waited for it to creep through his bloodstream and blot out the horrid memories of war. Such a futile hope he could not help but pursue.