October 1808
All Hallows’ Eve, a night when specters and wraiths and ghosts walked the land—when anyone foolish enough to stray from the safety of his cottage might expect to encounter bogles and banshees and phantoms. A night when decent folk prudently locked their doors and stoked their fires and tried not to listen too closely to the sounds of darkness.
Rowena Linley stood at the window of her great-uncle’s library and looked boldly out into the night. In the distance, the sky glowed red from the bonfires the villagers had lit to scare the demons away. Nearer at hand, the soft light from the full moon struck the iron deer standing eternal vigilance in front of Castle Ravenswych and made it seem as if they, too, had come alive for this one night.
Beyond them, a narrow pathway wound its way down the hill, at the bottom of which, out of sight from the castle, a copse of trees hovered around the Drowning Pool, their branches stretched protectively above it.
Spring-fed, the small, almost perfectly round pool was so deep that not even the brightest sunlight could illuminate its dark waters, and the villagers avoided it all year, not just the night before All Saints’ Day. Perhaps because it appeared bottomless, there were vague rumors whispered around the countryside about tormented souls who had sought an end to earthly sorrows in its cool waters, and who had—at least in the official opinion of the church—earned for themselves eternal damnation rather than a surcease of sorrows.
Uncle Timothy had never been one to listen to fanciful myths, nor had he believed in such things as ghosts. And as delightful as Rowena found it to curl up in bed with a book of truly horrifying tales of the supernatural, she had likewise never understood how grown men and women could be well and truly frightened by childish stories of headless apparitions, or how they could in their own minds transform the screech of one branch rubbing against another into the eerie cry of a suffering spirit.
Behind her Rowena heard someone open the door, and her temper rose. The only ghoul she herself had ever encountered was right here in the castle, but despite his efforts to intimidate her, he did not have the power to frighten her in the slightest.
Not bothering to turn around, she said, “Do not sit in my uncle’s chair.”
“Uncle Timothy is dead and buried,” Mr. Neville Hewley replied with forced joviality. “So the chair now belongs to his heir, the new Lord Cheyne, who, I am sure, will not object to my using it since he is presently with Moore, fighting the French in Spain.”
“And Uncle Timothy was not your uncle,” Rowena said, wishing for the hundredth time that there were some way she could rid herself of her unwelcome guest. Only two weeks ago they had buried her great-uncle, and a week later Mr. Hewley had arrived from London bearing with him a document signed by her uncle, appointing the aforesaid Mr. Hewley as guardian of the person of one Miss Rowena Linley, who, lacking at present only a day of being twenty, was quite capable of taking care of herself.
“But Lord Cheyne himself gave me express permission many years ago to call him uncle,” Mr. Hewley said smugly.
“Only because he did not know you very well,” Rowena retorted. In her opinion, the only serious mistake Uncle Timothy had ever made was trusting this slimy creature standing behind her, whose clothes bespoke a gentleman, but whose actions were those of the most repulsive bounder. An obsequious coxcomb, he was determined to wed above his station.
Several years before Rowena was born, Uncle Timothy’s only son David had died childless. After a suitable mourning period, his widow had married a wealthy tradesman in London, and in due course had produced a son. Lacking any direct descendants, Uncle Timothy had made the mistake of considering his daughter-in-law’s son, Neville Hewley, as if he were in truth related by blood, writing to him regularly albeit infrequently, and following his career with interest.
Unfortunately, after one brief introduction when Neville had been a babe in arms, Uncle Timothy had never again laid eyes on the obnoxious Mr. Hewley, and the good opinion he had gained from the very respectful letters the younger man had written was completely erroneous.
“In due time you will learn to show me more respect,” Rowena’s unwelcome guest interrupted her thoughts, “and speaking of time, I am afraid the hour has come to end your maidenly coyness and set a date for our wedding. I have a special license with me, so we need not wait for banns to be called.”
Rowena could hear the smirk in his voice, and she rolled her eyes at this evidence of his undaunted egotism. Despite her efforts to deflate his pretensions, he persisted in thinking himself irresistible to all females. Apparently the young ladies in London were not as particular as they were here in Northumberland.
“Play a different tune,” she said, tired of his dogged efforts to cajole her into marrying him. “There is nothing you can do to force me to marry you.” At first she had been gentle with her rejection of his suit, not wanting to cause unnecessary pain. But when that had not worked, she had resorted to plain speaking, and had finally been driven to outright rudeness. None of it had had the slightest effect on the conceited Mr. Hewley.
What would it take to make the man leave her alone? To make him once and for all abandon his ambitions to acquire a well-born wife? To make him slink back into whatever hole he had crawled out of?
“I am afraid you underestimate me, my sweet,” he said, and to her surprise, she heard the sound of the door being locked. “I have sent my valet to Newcastle on an errand from which he will not return until tomorrow, and your servants have already retired to their own quarters. They will not be able to hear your cries.”
Turning around, she saw that her unwelcome visitor had appropriated her uncle’s burgundy velvet dressing gown and leather slippers for his own use. Mr. Hewley was not as large a man as her late uncle, so he looked ridiculous rather than suave, but his expression was a self-satisfied smirk.
He held up the key for her to see, and when she did not react, he shoved it into the pocket of the robe and began to stalk her, his arms stretched out as if he expected her to try to dash past him and throw herself dramatically against the locked door.
“Oh, do be serious,” she said, walking over and sitting down in her own wing-backed chair, which was a smaller version of her uncle’s. “This little farce you are acting out will never play in London—indeed, it would be booed off the boards even here in the provinces.”
Since she was not acting out the role he had planned for her, he was obliged to tag along after her, and obviously disgruntled, he sat down in her uncle’s chair and said petulantly, “I am quite serious, as you will learn before this night is over. And by morning, when your servants discover us here, you will be quite amenable to becoming my wife. No, I rather think you will be begging for me to make an honest woman out of you.”
He began to shift uncomfortably, and Rowena made no effort to hide her smile. As much as he wanted to prove himself her master by defying her even in such minor matters, he had never yet managed to sit for more than a few minutes in Uncle Timothy’s chair.
“The Brignalls do not gossip,” Rowena said. “Nor are they deceived by your pretense of being a gentleman. No matter what elaborate scene you arrange for them to see, they will never say anything to anyone that would damage my reputation. In fact, they will more than likely swear an oath on a stack of Bibles that you were never alone with me for one minute.”
Lurching to his feet as if forcibly ejected from the chair, Mr. Hewley scowled down at it, and his leg twitched as if he were going to kick the offending piece of furniture. But then he apparently recalled himself to the business at hand. He tugged on the sash of his robe, smoothed his hair with the palms of his hands, straightened his lapels, and said, “You still do not catch my meaning. By the time the first light of day streaks the sky, I shall have had my way with you.”
Knowing it would aggravate him, she picked up the heavy glass decanter from the little table beside her chair and poured herself a healthy portion of brandy, which was not, in Mr. Hewley’s opinion, a suitable beverage for a lady. Nor was it at all to her taste, Rowena admitted to herself after taking a sip, but then irritating Mr. Hewley must always be her primary aim.
“So you intend to assault me, after which I shall be so overcome by your manly prowess that I will agree to marry you? My dear sir, you belong in Bedlam.”
“It will not be assault,” he said, again tightening his sash. “I am quite capable of seducing the most reluctant virgin until she is panting in my arms, as you will find out to your own delight, my dear Rowena.’’
“I am afraid you have misunderstood the terms of the guardianship papers,” she said, unobtrusively setting down her glass and grasping instead the neck of the decanter. “Because my uncle was misguided enough to name you guardian of my person does not mean that you may molest me with impunity.’’
“A man has whatever rights he is strong enough to seize,” Mr. Hewley said, lunging at her. It was a bit awkward for him, since she was sitting down and the wings of the chair were in his way, but by bending his knees, he managed to get close enough to slobber all over her neck. The strain of maintaining such a contorted pose was apparently too much, and without any further by-your-leave, he grabbed her roughly around the waist and attempted to hoist her out of her chair.
Reaching the end of her patience, Rowena swung the decanter and smashed it against the side of his head.
With a moan he collapsed, much of his weight coming down heavily on her lap, but she set down the decanter, which had not broken, and by using both hands she was able to shove him the rest of the way off onto the floor.
Rising to her feet, she rolled him over on his back, removed the key from his pocket, picked up her shawl, and marched resolutely toward the door. Behind her she could hear him already beginning to stir. Apparently she had not hit him hard enough. Not that she had wanted to kill him. That would have meant a messy inquest, with private family matters made public.
But on the other hand, she thought, turning the key in the lock and pulling open the door, it was long past time to rid herself of this nuisance permanently. She had no intention of spending the next twelve months until her twenty-first birthday fighting off the amorous advances of her guardian.
* * * *
Feeling as if his head had been split open, Neville pushed himself to his feet and stood swaying slightly while his brain caught up with recent events. The open door told its own story, and he cursed under his breath when he saw it. Under no circumstances could he allow Miss Linley to escape the trap he had set for her, for it was clear to him that she would never allow him a second chance.
He staggered for the first few steps; then his legs and brain began to respond with increasing strength. By the time he reached the hallway it was empty, and the heavy front door stood wide open. Surely she would not have gone out on such a treacherous night?
And if she had done something that foolhardy? It did not bear thinking about—with her black hair and wearing a black dress, she would vanish effortlessly into the darkness.
Hurrying across the worn flagstones, he peered out into the night and saw the shadowy figure of a woman running toward the pathway, her white shawl clearly visible in the moonlight, fluttering like wings, as if beckoning him to follow.
With a cry of triumph, he was after her, feeling the thrill of the chase—feeling the blood heating up in his veins at the thought of what he would do to her when he caught up with her.
The path was crooked, which gave her an advantage since she was more familiar with its twists and turns than he was, but on the other hand, her gown was not made for running in. As desperate as she was to escape, she nevertheless could not prevent him from gaining on her.
Halfway down the hill and only a few steps behind her, he saw her pale, frightened face turned back toward him, which only made him laugh with triumph. “You are mine!” he cried, reaching out to grab her dress.
But just as his fingertips grazed the silky cloth, the sash on his robe came undone, the garment flew open, the night air chilled his passion, and before he could recover from the shock, one slipper flew off. Unable to check his headlong descent, he measured his length on the ground with such force that his breath was knocked out of him.
For the second time in the space of a few short minutes he was too stunned to move, and he could hear the running footsteps of his prey becoming fainter and fainter.
Suddenly there was a terrified scream, cut off by a loud splash, and then... dead silence. Not a sound. With growing horror he pushed himself up, located his slipper, which was lying beside the path a few yards uphill, donned it, retied the sash of his robe, and then moved cautiously down the hill to investigate.
The path ended at a small, round pool, in the center of which floated a white shawl. Ripples still agitated the surface of the pool, as if a heavy object had just been cast into the water... or as if a young girl, intent upon escaping her pursuer, had not been able to check her steps in time... as if she had fallen screaming into the pool.
Mr. Hewley wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. He must fetch help—find someone to jump in and pull her out. He would do it himself, except that water had always terrified him, which meant he would have to rouse the servants. On trembling legs he turned away from the hideous sight of that ghostly white shawl floating there, taunting him....
Feeling a growing nervousness, he looked around at the still woods, whose shadows could conceal any number of secret watchers—human or otherwise.
An owl hooted, and a little animal scuffled in the leaves beside the path, and Neville hurried faster, unable to keep from looking back over his shoulder, needing repeated reassurance that no one was behind him—that bony, inhuman fingers were not stretching out to catch him and pull him back into that dark, menacing water.
By the time he reached the welcoming light streaming out through the open doorway of the castle, he had reconsidered the wisdom of waking the servants. Dressed as he was in his lordship’s robe and slippers, what possible explanation could he offer them? No, before he interrupted their sleep he would need to change into something more suitable.
He tugged the big door shut behind him and leaned against it, feeling relief that he had regained the safety of the castle.
But was he safe? If he told the Brignalls that Miss Linley had run out into the night, might they not accuse him of some impropriety? Might they not bring charges of murder against him? Besides, the girl was quite clearly past saving. She had doubtless drowned before he had even managed to reach the water’s edge.
And despite what the Brignalls were bound to say, it had not really been his fault. After all, if she had only agreed to marry him the way any properly brought-up young lady would have done when ordered to by her legally appointed guardian, then none of this would have happened. Better to let the servants discover for themselves that she had drowned.
But would they? Would the shawl still be there as mute evidence by morning?
Unfortunately, if it was not still visible, the hue and cry might go on for weeks, and he would be forced to take part in an extended search for his missing ward. He would have to pretend to look for her even knowing precisely where she was.
No, this must be ended at once—tonight.
Thinking quickly and with such cunning that he amazed himself, he tugged the door open again, went back into the library, retrieved several objects, carried them out and laid them along the path, then returned to the library, jerked on the bellpull vigorously, and darted out into the hall and hid himself behind a suit of armor.
A good ten minutes later Brignall’s gruff voice sounded a few yards away from Mr. Hewley. “What’s this door doing open. I bolted it myself.”
“There’s no one in the library. Who do you suppose rang for us?” his wife replied, making Neville want to shriek impatiently at the two of them.
“What’s that on the path?” Brignall said abruptly, and Neville’s hopes for the success of his spur-of-the-moment plan grew stronger.
Without hesitation, the old woman hurried out into the night, and Neville heard her say, “Why, saints preserve us, ‘tis that book of poetry Miss Rowena was reading. And there—there is his lordship’s decanter, and ‘tis drained dry! Oh, something terrible has happened, I feel it in my bones.”
“Nonsense,” her husband said, peering out uneasily from the relative safety of the doorway. “Miss Rowena would never have gone outside on such a night.”
“Well, you may cringe inside the walls of the castle like a craven coward, but I am going to see if I can find Miss Rowena,” Mrs. Brignall called back to him.
Muttering to himself, the old man went out to join his wife. Neville could hear their voices growing fainter and fainter, and he could only pray they went all the way to the pool.
He had done all he could. Emerging from his hiding place, he hastened up to his room and bolted the door behind him. Without even bothering to take off his clothes, he dived into his bed and pulled the blankets over his head.
But no matter how he tried to cover his ears, it seemed to him as if he could still hear voices calling, “Rowena... Rowena... where are you, Rowena?”
* * * *
The next morning, Mr. Hewley was suitably shocked to discover what had happened to his hostess, but as he pointed out to the Brignalls, no good ever came of going outside on All Hallows’ Eve.
His expressions of concern were met with hostility and suspicion, and he wanted nothing more than to depart from this accursed castle and return to his own house in London. But first his testimony was needed at the inquest. He could not, of course, testify to anything other than the victim’s state of mind: “Yes, of course she was grieving for her uncle, but I would not say she was despondent.”
After due deliberation, the verdict of death by misadventure was brought in, and the villagers were all suitably relieved that their beloved Miss Rowena had not deliberately killed herself. Suicides were not allowed to be buried in consecrated ground, after all. Since the Drowning Pool never gave up its victims, that was rather a moot question in Neville’s opinion.
Still, as soon as he was free to leave, he had his valet pack his trunk and summon the hired carriage from the village. As quickly as common decency allowed, he set off for London, vowing to himself that nothing would ever make him return to Northumberland.
* * * *
“Good riddance is what I say,” Brignall muttered as soon as Hewley’s carriage was out of sight. “I misdoubt I have ever met such a hypocrite in my life.”
“And as for you, young lady,” his wife said, turning to the girl who stood hiding in the shadows, “that was a rash and foolish thing you did that night. If you had paused to think things through, you would have realized that your actions were only causing you more complications, rather than settling your problems.”
“Keep in mind that it is not easy to think things through properly when a lecherous cad is chasing you with evil intent,” Rowena pointed out. “Is he truly gone?” she asked, wishing she could see his departing back for herself.
“Yes, he’s gone, and from the look of relief on his face, he’ll not come sniffing around here again, trying to assault any of our young ladies,” Brignall said. “But you should have come to me rather than faking your own death. I’d have sorted out that miserable cur fast enough.”
“I’m sure you would have,” Rowena said, tucking her arm through his and laying her head on his shoulder. “But he had the law on his side, you know, and he really could have dragged me off to London, where nobody knows me, and where no one would have taken my word against his, so it is better this way.”
Mrs. Brignall shook her head. “Has it occurred to you yet that you will not be able to leave this castle for a full twelve months? If you even set one foot outside, someone from the village or some poacher may see you, and then all of this play-acting will be for naught.”
That had not occurred to Rowena, and she uttered an unladylike oath when she fully realized the situation she had thrust herself into with her rash actions. Not to enjoy the sunshine in the garden, not to walk to the village for tea and gossip, not to ride ventre à terre across the countryside...
“Botheration, that wretched man is ruining my life even in his absence. I should have thrown him into the water instead of that large rock.”
“Now then, it will not be that bad,” Mrs. Brignall said, putting her arm comfortingly around Rowena’s waist. “You will still have your books and your music, and they should keep you tolerably entertained.”
September 1809
Jolting along over a road that seemed to be composed entirely of ruts and boulders, Marcus, Lord Cheyne, was tired—tired of soldiering, tired of lying in a hospital being poked and prodded by doctors, tired of jouncing the length of England in a hired carriage with very worn springs.
Ultimately he would make a complete recovery, the surgeons who had sewed him back together had reassured him. The pain would eventually ease, they had pledged when he struggled to walk again. He would sooner or later regain his strength, they had promised every time they bled him. Given sufficient time the fevers would become milder and someday cease altogether, they had vowed every time the ague struck, leaving him too weak to lift his head off his pillow.
But none of them held out any hope that he would soon be able to rejoin Wellesley in Spain. And the old men in the War Office were not known for their understanding in such matters. Now that you are the fourth Earl of Cheyne, they had explained while offering him a desk job in London, it would be most unfortunate if you were to be killed in battle.
Marcus was not the least interested in spending his days reading battle reports and tallying lists of provisions purchased, but he had been too tired to argue his case properly. It had taken less effort to resign his commission and hire a carriage to take him to Northumberland, where Castle Ravenswych awaited him.
Only once, when he was about seven or eight and his father was briefly stationed in Edinburgh, had he ever visited the castle. He did not really remember his predecessor, the third earl, other than as a large, gruff man who had seemed impossibly old even then. That was now over twenty years in the past, and the old gentleman had died nearly a year ago, only a few months short of his eightieth birthday.
Centuries old, the castle stood on the spot where an earlier earthen fortification had guarded the border against marauding Scotsmen. It was the pride of the Cheynes that the castle had never fallen by force of arms or by treachery, and the sons born inside its walls had always been quick to pick up their swords and march into battle in defense of king and country.
Distracted by his thoughts, Marcus only became aware that the carriage had stopped when the driver opened the door and let down the steps. Peering out, Marcus saw the remembered bleak stone walls of Castle Ravenswych.
As always, the long hours of immobility had stiffened his muscles and joints, and he had to accept the impassive help of the hired coachman. “Shall I ring the bell, m’lord?” the man inquired.
His great-uncle’s solicitor had said something about a pair of caretakers, but waiting for them to admit him was to risk collapsing where he stood, which would be a novel but not much desired way to take possession of his estate.
“No, I have a key,” Marcus said, producing an oversized, ridiculously ornate brass key from his pocket. Shrugging off his would-be helper’s hand, he walked unaided the few yards from the carriage to the castle.
The coachman hurried to unlock the door, which swung open on well-oiled hinges. Entering his new home, Marcus was glad to see that inside the castle some concessions had been made to comfort.
Without conscious decision, he crossed to the door on the left, which was slightly ajar. Pushing it open, he entered a smallish chamber snugly furnished as a sitting room.
Bookshelves lined one of the walls, and faded tapestries depicting various battle scenes brought color to the other three walls. Oriental rugs softened the ancient stone floor, and two comfortable wing-backed chairs were positioned in front of the fireplace.
Marcus had an overwhelming feeling of déjà vu before he realized he was in the same room where he had sat for so many hours listening to his great-uncle’s tales of the glories and heroism of the Cheyne family.
A decanter of brandy stood on the table between the chairs, and a fire was burning cheerfully in the fireplace. Evidently the old couple taking care of the place were also taking advantage of his long absence to make themselves comfortable.
With the last of his energy, he crossed to the larger of the two chairs and sank down in it wearily, too tired even to keep his eyes open.
“Shall I see if I can locate any servants, m’lord?” the coachman asked as solicitously as the most devoted nurse.
Marcus knew he should pay off the man and send him on his way, but he was too tired. Already he was having trouble staying awake. “Yes, yes,” he said. “And see if they can prepare some food for both of us.”
But the chair was not as comfortable as it looked, and after a few minutes of shifting his position, he got up and moved to the other chair, which although a bit small for his large frame, was still comfortable enough that he soon lost the struggle to stay awake.
* * * *
The stones were cold behind her back, the dust from the tapestry was tickling her nose, and Rowena was justifiably angry at the man who had put her in such a ridiculous position. Who he was, she could not fathom, unless—
He did have a key to the front door, and the coachman had called him “m’lord.” With a sinking heart, she realized that the intruder was undoubtedly the new Lord Cheyne, and as much as she might wish it, the Brignalls could not throw him out on his ear.
A slight snore interrupted her thoughts, and she ventured to peer around the edge of the hanging. Lord Cheyne appeared to be sleeping. If she was quick enough, she might be able to make her escape before his coachman returned.
Tiptoeing over to him, she inspected the new owner of Castle Ravenswych. He did not look at all a gentleman—his jaw was too strong, his nose too aquiline, his brows too fiercely straight.
In addition, he was lean to the point of gauntness, and his chin was covered with stubble, as if he had not bothered to shave in a week.
His appearance would have frightened her, except that his dark chocolate hair curled the merest bit at his neck... and his eyelashes were much too luxurious... and his mouth bespoke a passionate rather than a harsh nature.
You will have the ladies in London swooning at your feet, Cousin, if you go there for the Season, Rowena thought to herself. And prudent fathers in Northumberland will be locking up their daughters when you are around.
She started to turn away, but something else about his appearance bothered her. Studying him more carefully, she finally realized his skin was too pale for a soldier, who could expect to spend a good part of his life out-of-doors.
Had he also been shut up inside for months just as she had been? But no, that was highly unlikely.
While she stared at him, memorizing his features, he stirred in his sleep, and she hurried to make good her escape before his servant returned with the Brig-nails in tow.
Only later did it occur to her to wonder what color his eyes were.
* * * *
Sir William Cheyne it was who followed King Richard to the Holy Land, Uncle Timothy’s deep voice echoed in Marcus’s ear. There Sir William battled bravely against the infidels, but unfortunately he died of a fever on the journey home.
It was Edgar, the first Baron Cheyne, who brought treasures back from the New World for good Queen Bess, but you’ll find no Spanish goblets or Toledo blades in this castle. Edgar invested his share of the spoils in more ships, and during his lifetime he raided the Spanish galleons with such impunity that the price they put upon his head was ten thousand gold doubloons.
And do you remember John, the first Viscount Cheyne? Have I told you how he lost a leg fighting against the Roundheads? His grandson, Maximillian, was my grandfather, and he gained us the earldom by helping defeat the rebellious Highland clans in the uprising of ‘15.
Those were glorious days, nephew, glorious days, and it is your duty to follow in their footsteps. We Cheynes have always been in the thick of the battle, never cowering at the rear. Remember that, boy... remember that...
* * * *
The sound of someone clearing his throat pulled Marcus out of his sleep, and he opened his eyes to see three faces peering intently at him. His coachman looked worried, and the old man hulking behind him was fierce enough to frighten little children into behaving.
The ancient crone peering around the other side of the coachman would have had to stretch to reach five feet tall, and she was so old, her skin was like brittle parchment. At first glance, she looked like a proper witch, with scraggly gray hair sticking out from under her mobcap, but her expression could only be described as motherly.
With an inward sigh, Marcus admitted to himself that he would have preferred it if she had been scowling. He was quite tired of well-meaning people hovering over him, treating him as if he were a small child, all of them positively brimming over with good intentions.
“This is Lord Cheyne,” the coachman said. “And these here are the Brignalls, m’lord. They say as how there are no other servants living in the castle, just a pair of women from the village that comes up twice a week to help clean.”
Before Marcus could open his mouth, the old woman bobbed a curtsy and began to fuss over him like a broody hen with only one chick. “Can’t you see how exhausted his lordship is? Brignall, you look lively now and build a fire in his lordship’s room. Such a sorry welcome as you’re getting, m’lord, but if you’d sent us word you were coming, we’d have made better preparations.” She rattled on, apologizing, scolding, explaining, until Marcus’s head began to ache.
“If I might have something to eat,” he murmured when she momentarily paused to take a breath. “And something for the coachman, too.”
“Now, then,” she said, her hands flying up to her cheeks, “my wits have surely gone begging. You just sit here and don’t move, and quicker than a cat’s wink I’ll fetch you something tasty.”
“If you don’t mind, m’lord,” the coachman said nervously as soon as the housekeeper was out of sight, “I’ll just carry in your things and then be on my way.’’
“You don’t wish to sup with me?” Marcus said with a smile.
“No offense and all,” the coachman said, his eyes shifting uneasily around the room, “but this place is enough to make anyone feel twitchy. And as for that housekeeper, why, I couldn’t swallow a morsel of food fixed by an old witch like that.”
Considering the repellent tisanes, the foul-tasting decoctions, and the nasty potions he had been forced to swallow in the hospital, Marcus rather thought that even a witch’s brew would taste good in comparison.
But he gave the coachman permission to leave as soon as he had unloaded his vehicle.
“If you wants my advice, m’lord, you’ll come along with me and leave this accursed place.”
“But I don’t want your advice,” Marcus said, opening his eyes and giving the coachman a look black enough to send the poor man scurrying out of the room to attend to his duties.
* * * *
“You’ve got to get rid of him, and the sooner the better,’’ Rowena said, popping a slice of the apple she had just peeled into her mouth. “Not forever, of course, just until my birthday. On All Saints’ Day my guardian will no longer have any legal power over me, and that interloper up there can have the castle with my best wishes.”
“Don’t talk nonsense, my girl,” Mrs. Brignall said, sliding a pan of custard into the oven. “Whether you like it or not, he’s Lord Cheyne of Castle Ravenswych, and it’s past time he took his rightful position here.”
“Bah, he’s no better than Mr. Hewley—so worn down by dissipation he’s forced to go on a repairing lease before he returns to a life of gaiety and frivolity in London.’’
“Now, that’s enough of that kind of talk, young lady,” Mrs. Brignall said, waving a floury rolling pin in Rowena’s face. “I’ll agree that Mr. Hewley is a thoroughly worthless sort, but Lord Cheyne has been a soldier for years.”
“Soldiers, bah! I have met enough of them in Newcastle to know that they are the worst carousers of all, so do not expect me to make allowances for him on that account.” Besides which, Rowena added to herself, I can tell by looking at my Lord Cheyne that he is a long way from being a saint.
“Then you will show him the respect he deserves because he is the head of the family,” Mrs. Brignall said firmly. “Why, he is your second cousin, which makes him the closest relative you have left on the face of this earth. And you would do well to remember that like it or not, you are the one who has no legal right to be living here in the castle so I would advise you to mind your manners or you will answer to me.”
Her cheeks burning from the reproof, Rowena picked up another apple and began to peel it. “My great-uncle would have left Castle Ravenswych to me if it had not been entailed. He told me so before he died.”
“And if you would finish peeling those apples, I could get this pie in the oven,” Mrs. Brignall said sharply, then betrayed her emotions by wiping her eyes with the corner of her apron. “I remember what a dear little boy he was, so sweet and kind, like a little angel. And to see him so burnt to the socket, it fair makes me want to weep.”
Rising to her feet, Rowena hugged the older woman, who had gruffly mothered her ever since the day she had appeared on the doorstep, a newly orphaned and very frightened seven-year-old.
“I have no doubt but that you will soon fatten him up with your good cooking, Mrs. Brignall,” she said reassuringly. “For there’s no one in all of Northumberland who can match you in the kitchen.”
“You’ll not get me to deny that,” Mrs. Brignall conceded. “Now you finish this pie for me, there’s a good girl, while I take up a tray with a few little things on it to hold his lordship until I can fix him a proper meal.”
* * * *
Never had Marcus eaten such delicious food, which would have won acclaim in London, Paris, or even Vienna. He took a bite of a fluffy scone positively slathered with pale yellow butter and golden jam, and at the first taste, memories swirled through his tired brain. He smiled with pleasure, and the old woman spoke up with satisfaction quite clear in her voice.
“You never could get enough of my orange marmalade.”
Although he still did not remember her, the memory of the little boy he had once played with became clearer. “That month I spent here as a child—who was the lad I played with?”
“That would be my grandson, Will. He’s grown a deal since then. He’s a blacksmith now in Newcastle, and he’s going to make me a great-grandmother any day now. He asks after you now and again.’’
Standing over him while he ate, the old woman began to relate to him the news of various and assorted tenants and neighbors, none of whom he knew from Adam. Fortunately, now that she was over the excitement of his arrival, her voice was quieter, and he found it vaguely soothing.
Without even noticing what he was doing, he managed to eat everything on the tray. Replete with good food, he leaned back in his chair, only to have Mrs. Brignall announce that she would now make him his dinner.
* * * *
Rowena paced back and forth in her room—six steps to the door, turn, then three steps to the wardrobe, then five steps to the window, then six to the door. After only four days of confinement in her room, she was ready to scream with frustration. She could not fetch a book from the library, because Lord Cheyne preferred to sit there—in her chair, no less. She could not play the pianoforte in the music room lest he hear her. She was even forbidden to help in the kitchen, for fear he would drop in to chat with Mrs. Brignall and find her there.
It was grossly unfair that he was enjoying all the comforts of the castle while she was trapped in this one room.
Thanks to Mrs. Brignall clucking over him and stuffing her nourishing food into his mouth every time he opened it, his lordship was making a recovery that was nothing short of miraculous, although the housekeeper insisted he was still suffering from a lowness of spirits, which worried her no end.
But that was patently ridiculous. Why should he feel depressed? He had the run of the castle, whereas she, after a three-day grace period during which Lord Cheyne had kept to his room, was now a prisoner in her room.
And all because his lordship could never be counted on to stay in one place long enough for her to escape from these too-familiar walls, which every day seemed to close in on her more.
Stopping by the window, she looked down at where Lord Cheyne had been enjoying the sunshine she was forced to forego. The chair he had been occupying was now empty, which meant he could be anywhere.
No, she corrected, hearing voices in the hallway, he was not anywhere, he was right outside her room. Tiptoeing over to the door, she pressed her ear against the panel and listened intently.
“And what is in this room, Mrs. Brignall?” he asked, his deep voice unmistakable. Without waiting for a reply, he rattled the door handle, and Rowena could only be thankful that this time she had remembered to lock the door, something she too often forgot to do.
“I don’t rightly know, m’lord, and that’s a fact,” Mrs. Brignall lied. “The key’s been lost for as far back as I can remember, and the late earl never saw any point in having a new one made.”
“Well, I am not my great-uncle,” Lord Cheyne said firmly, “And I do not like the idea of locked doors in my castle with no keys that fit. I shall send Brignall for the locksmith without delay.”
Rowena dug her nails into her palms to keep from pounding on the door in frustration. Really, the new earl was impossible. Cousin or no cousin, now that he was well enough to travel, she had to figure out some way to get rid of him.
Abruptly realizing that the voices in the corridor had ceased, she left her listening post and threw herself down on the bed.
What would it take to drive Lord Cheyne away—not permanently, of course, but just for another three weeks—just until her birthday, when she could miraculously come back to life and take control of her inheritance and go wherever she wanted to go and do whatever she wanted to do.
Her mouth turned up at the corners when it struck her what an enviable position she was actually in. Being dead, could she not come back as a ghost? How brave would his lordship be when confronted by a tormented specter from beyond the grave?
What would a ghost who had drowned look like? Wet? Covered with slimy weeds?
She screwed up her face in disgust, some of her first enthusiasm for the project waning, then bethought herself of the bilious green shawl the vicar’s wife had knitted for her several years ago. Unraveled, it would make very realistic slimy weeds.
She could even drape some in her hair—
A pounding at the door interrupted her thoughts, and a moment later she heard Mrs. Brignall frantically calling her name. Hurrying to the door, Rowena let the housekeeper in. She had never seen the older woman so distraught.
“We must hurry, Miss Rowena, we’ve not a moment to waste.” Mrs. Brignall grabbed an armload of clothes from the wardrobe and headed back out the door. “Despite my efforts to persuade him it is pointless, his lordship insisted upon sending Brignall into the village for the locksmith. The best I could do was to persuade his lordship to go along on the expedition. I’ve given Brignall orders to delay things as much as possible, but we’ve got to have you moved out of this room before they return.”
Loading her arms with books, Rowena hurried after the housekeeper. “Where are you going to put me that his lordship won’t find me?” she asked. “He has a deplorable habit of snooping around in all the corners of the castle.”
“I’ve already given him a thorough tour of the rooms in the east wing, which is far enough from his bedroom that he’s not likely to notice me bringing trays up to your room.”
“What this castle needs is a few secret rooms and hidden passageways,” Rowena said crossly. “Then I could wander at will and spy on that wretched man.’’
Working together, they soon cleared the room of all signs of occupation, and then, at the last moment, Rowena remembered to lock the door again. Retreating to her new room, she surveyed the mess wearily. The only advantages that she could see was that the room was slightly larger, and she had a different view, neither of which would be enough to keep the boredom away for more than a day or two.
Ignoring the clothes that needed to be hung up and the books that needed to be properly arranged, she dug out the green shawl and began to unravel it.
* * * *
For a room that had been locked up for years, everything was surprisingly free of dust, Marcus observed once the locksmith had opened the door and then departed.
Not only that, but a scent of lavender lingered in the air, so faint he could not be entirely sure he was not imagining it.
“There, m’lord, ‘tis like I said. There’s nothing in this room worth fetching the locksmith for,” Mrs. Brignall said, folding her arms across her chest and looking at him with an I-told-you-so expression on her face.
“Just so, Mrs. Brignall,” he said with a smile. “You and my uncle were right, and I was wrong.”
“Well, now, if you’re done with your exploring for today, I’ll just go and fix you a bite to eat to hold you until dinner is ready. You must be famished after your excursion into town.”
Maybe she did put something magical into the food she was always shoving under his nose, Marcus thought, because despite the unaccustomed exertion, he felt stronger now than he had since he’d been wounded. Apparently the cooler northern air was likewise efficacious, because this was the longest he’d gone between bouts of fever since he’d been wounded.
The only thing that still bothered him, he realized, walking over to the window and looking out, was the feeling that there was something in the castle he needed to find. Usually he was not given to having such fancies, but even now the castle seemed to be waiting expectantly, as if the very walls held secrets it was his duty to discover.
* * * *
A few days later, Marcus paused at the kitchen door and heard Mrs. Brignall say, “We can’t leave his lordship alone, and that’s that.”
“Well, you can stay if you’re that worried about him, but I’m not about to miss the christening of my first great-grandson,” Brignall retorted.
“How can you even think of such things? Why, we’d be gone a good three days at the very least, what with traveling there and back,” Mrs. Brignall said with just as much determination as her husband. “And his lordship’s not well enough to be left alone for an hour, much less three days. No, I refuse to consider it.’
The dispute might well have escalated into physical violence had not Marcus stepped into the room and told them both that his lordship could manage on his own for a full week if necessary. “After all, I have been a soldier for many years, and soldiers early on develop great skill in fending for themselves. Not that any particular effort will be involved, considering how well stocked you keep your larder, Mrs. Brignall.”
The housekeeper was not easily convinced, but with Brignall’s help, Marcus finally persuaded her that the baby should be christened with both of his great-grandparents in attendance.
* * * *
“Now I have brought up enough food to last you for three days, but if there is anything I have forgotten, it would probably be best if you fetched it during the night,” Mrs. Brignall repeated for what was surely the hundredth time. “Lord Cheyne is usually in his room by ten, but to be safe, you’d better wait—”
“Until midnight. I will be careful, Mrs. Brignall, I promise. Now be sure you give that baby a kiss for me.” Putting her arm around the housekeeper’s shoulder, Rowena began easing her in the direction of the door.
She would be careful, of course. Such a golden opportunity was not likely to come her way again. If she worked very hard, her costume would be completed before the sun set, and then this very night the haunting of Castle Ravenswych would begin. And Mrs. Brignall would not be around to stop the ghost from walking.
* * * *
As soon as the Brignalls were out of sight, Marcus strode out of the house and set off down the path, deliberately ignoring his housekeeper’s repeated admonitions not to exert himself in the slightest while she was gone.
He had listened for too long to the people who told him he must not push himself—he had been playing the role of invalid for too many weeks. Now he craved not only exercise but also escape from the stone walls of Castle Ravenswych.
At the bottom of the hill the path entered a grove of trees and then came to an abrupt end at the edge of a small pool. Almost perfectly round, the dark water was as smooth as a looking glass, not a single ripple marring its surface.
Standing there alone, staring down into its depths, Marcus realized how empty his life had become. He had nothing to live for, no one to care about.
Now that his great-uncle was gone, he had no family left, and so many of his comrades had given their lives in Spain, he couldn’t bear to remember those days. What was worse, even while he stood there, more English officers and men were suffering, starving, fighting, and dying on those dusty plains.
So low were his spirits that the pool of water tempted him to an extraordinary degree. Its enticing stillness beckoned him; its seductive depths assured him an end to his loneliness.
Peace, it promised him—no more dreams—no more despair—no more suffering...
Shaken, Marcus stepped back from the edge of the water. As hard as it was to get through each day, he could not accept such a solution. Without a backward glance he turned away from the alluring pool and retraced his steps, climbing slowly back up the hill to the castle.
The answer lay not in giving up, but in going on. As soon as he could persuade the War Office that he was fully recovered, he could rejoin his regiment in Spain. Even if he died in battle, at least his death would not be pointless.
He entered the castle by the kitchen door and quickly filled a leather pouch with enough food and water for a day. Setting out a second time, he chose the path that led out across the moors.
Before the sun was directly overhead, he reached the end of his endurance, but he knew from experience that sitting down was a mistake. He had learned in Spain to push himself beyond the limit, to maintain a steady rhythm, to set one foot in front of the other no matter how impossible that might seem. Eventually he would get his second wind.
But this time his body did not cooperate—this time he could not stop his legs from buckling, and he was frequently forced to sit on the ground and rest, and each time it took longer before he was able to stand up again.
He ate the cheese and bread, but the food gave him no energy. By the time he gave up and began to retrace his steps, he was beginning to have doubts that he would be able to reach the castle.
With the setting of the sun came a chill wind, and for a brief moment he was afraid that he would die a needless death after all. But then a flash of lightning lit up the sky, and he could see the castle silhouetted only a short distance away from him.
Finding it so close gave him renewed determination to reach the safety and warmth that it offered, and despite an overwhelming desire to lie down where he was, he forced himself to go on, lifting one foot and then the other, the way he had learned on the retreat to Coruna.
By the time he reached the door to the kitchen he was soaked to the skin.
* * * *
The clock in the hall below chimed twelve times as Rowena crept along the corridor toward Lord Cheyne’s room. If only it was mid-summer instead of early autumn. Why had it never occurred to her that this was the wrong time of the year to be wandering through a drafty castle wearing a gown that was soaking wet?
Fortunately, this first haunting could be brief—she had only to give Lord Cheyne the merest glimpse of the ghost.
She had debated with herself as to whether or not she should carry a candle, and in the end she had decided that her costume would have no effect whatsoever if Lord Cheyne could not see it properly. Moreover, she could “vanish” quickly and easily by the simple expedient of blowing out her candle.
Reaching her intended victim’s room, she peered through the keyhole, but the room was too dark for her to see anything. Cautiously, her heart pounding in her chest, she opened the door. The light of her single candle showed her that the bed was occupied, and it was her good fortune that Lord Cheyne slept with the hangings tied back.
Suppressing a smile, she pulled several strands of “weeds’’ over her face, and then, taking a deep breath, she began to groan quite artistically.
Lord Cheyne did not stir. Apparently he was a sound sleeper.
Taking another breath, she began to wail, making her voice rasp eerily up the scale and down again, then letting the cry die away with a gurgle.
The sleeping man stirred restlessly, and she was about to try an even louder wail when he gave a low moan.
Shivers went up and down her spine, and she almost fled the room, so deeply did the sound affect her. But Uncle Timothy had not raised her to be a coward, so she tiptoed bravely forward, raising her candle so that she could see better.
“Dear God,” she whispered when the light struck his face. Reaching out, she tentatively laid her hand on his forehead.
He was burning with fever—hotter even than Mrs. Taylor had been before she died of pneumonia. Rowena wished desperately that the Brignalls would magically reappear, but of course they did not. There was no one to help Lord Cheyne except herself, and like a complete idiot, she was dripping wet and covered with green yarn.
Feeling as if even a second’s unnecessary delay might cost him his life, she sped back through the twisting corridors to her own room, where she stripped off her wet garments and pulled on her plainest and most practical gown.
Then, grabbing some clean cloths and the pitcher of water she had used to soak her costume, she hurried back through the shadowy passageways to her patient.
With trembling hands she dipped one of the cloths in the pitcher and wrung it out. “Please, you must not die,” she crooned, wiping his face.
Pulling the covers down, she discovered his chest was bare, which should have shocked her, but which did not. What did stun her was the number of scars on his body—some small, some large, some silver with age and others still an angry red.
How much pain he must have suffered—perhaps was still suffering. And in her ignorance she had scoffed at him, had belittled what it meant to be a soldier. Thinking only of her own selfish wants, she had even begrudged him the comfort of his home.
Tears filled her eyes as she touched the marks of battle. Then, without conscious thought, she bent over him and pressed her lips to each of the scars, as if by doing so she could erase the pain he had suffered.
He lay so still that only the terrible heat from his body persuaded her that he was yet living.
“I shall not let you die,” she said fiercely, picking up her cloth again and beginning to sponge off his muscled torso. “You are a Cheyne, and a Cheyne never gives up. You must live—you must!”
Was he getting any cooler? If anything, he seemed hotter, and she began to despair that her efforts would be adequate.
* * * *
The pass above him was filled with snow, but Marcus was being consumed by fire. If he could only climb a little higher, the snow would cool him, would stop the burning....
Then he could feel a woman’s hands touching him, putting out the flames—I will help you, she said—you are not alone—together we can go on....
* * * *
The first soft rays of sunlight crept into the room, bringing with them a most welcome sight. The drops of water beading Lord Cheyne’s forehead were sweat, not just moisture from her cloth. His fever had broken—he was going to live!
With a prayer of thanksgiving, Rowena smoothed the covers over him. Discretion demanded that she leave him now, before he woke up, but she could not bring herself to act prudently. Instead she enfolded one of his large hands in both of her own, and held it pressed to her cheek.
“You are beautiful, my lord,” she said, admitting to herself that she was becoming quite intrigued by the new master of Castle Ravenswych. “I think I would be a fool to allow any fancy London ladies to see you, for they would all of them lose their hearts to you, and that would be needlessly cruel, do you not think? For I must tell you truly that I have quite changed my mind about scaring you away from the castle. I am determined instead to devise a way to keep you here with me.”
She smoothed back a lock of hair that had fallen across his forehead, then bent and kissed him lightly. “Do you realize, my lord, that I have no idea what color eyes you have? You must admit that is a deficiency that really should be remedied as soon as possible. Will you not open your eyes and look at me?”
All too soon the shivering started—at first a barely perceptible tremor in his fingers, which in her ignorance she thought meant that he was waking up at last. But rapidly the shivers became more pronounced, his teeth began to chatter, and soon his whole body was shaking uncontrollably.
Hurrying to the carved walnut chest in the corner of the room she dragged out an eiderdown quilt, but when she went to lay it over him, she discovered to her horror that all the bedclothes were soaking wet.
Oh, if only Mrs. Brignall were here!
As much as she hated leaving him alone, Rowena had no choice but to abandon her patient long enough to fetch dry sheets and blankets from the linen closet.
Dear God, don’t let him die! I cannot bear to lose him!
* * * *
Get up, get up, someone was calling to him, but Marcus lay in the snow, unable to push himself to his feet.
His comrade was tugging at him, rolling him over, trying to drag him along with the retreating army.
No, it wasn’t a fellow officer—it was the woman again, and she was crying—hot tears that seared his soul.
As much as he wanted to do as she bid, he could not make his arms and legs respond... could not drag himself upright to march another mile and then another and another....
It was too far to the coast where the boats waited, and the snow was so cold....
* * * *
It was not the neatest job of making a bed that Rowena had ever done, but then it was vastly more difficult to get sheets properly arranged when there was a very large man sprawled in the bed. Not that it made any great difference whether the sheets were smooth. Lord Cheyne was in no condition to mind a few wrinkles.
All that actually mattered was getting him warm again, and to her dismay, his body was still racked with convulsive shivers. What more could she do to warm him up?
A fire in the fireplace? A quick glance showed her the coal scuttle was empty. She would have to go all the way to the cellars—but no, she could not leave him alone that long.
She knew the men who joked about needing a woman to warm their bed were speaking of a different kind of need, but surely it would help if she shared the heat of her body with him?
Before she could have second thoughts she slid under the covers and pulled him into her arms. With his head pillowed on her shoulder, she lay there for hours, praying desperately that he would live. If he died... But no, she could not think about that. He had to live.
* * * *
The sun was beating down on her unmercifully, parching her lips, scorching her unprotected skin—
Rowena awoke with a start, confused at first and then horrified to find that the man whose bed she was sharing was again burning with fever, even hotter than the last time. Or perhaps she only thought so because she was so close she could feel the heat from his body the full length of her own.
But that was unimportant. However high his fever was, she had to bring down his temperature as quickly as possible.
She began at once, her previous experience enabling her to fall into a steady rhythm, all her movements automatic. Dip the cloth in the pitcher, wring it out, then wipe it gently over Lord Cheyne’s muscular arms, over his scarred chest, over his handsome face... dip and wring ...
This time her efforts did not seem to be having the required effect....
* * * *
Come with us, we will show you the way, the voices called to him. Looking toward the light, he could see Lieutenant Crowley, who had fallen at Vimeiro, and Captain Thomas, who had died at Coruna, and Ensign Wallingford, who lay in a shallow grave outside Sahagun.
Laughing and smiling, they beckoned him, and he started to move toward them.
But someone was holding him back, refusing to let him go....
* * * *
Lord Cheyne’s eyes were open, and Rowena could see they were so dark as to be nearly black, but Lord Cheyne did not seem to see her.
She shook him gently, trying in vain to rouse him from his stupor. Then, to her horror, his features became peaceful—his face took on the same serenity of expression her uncle’s had worn just before he took his last breath.
“No, no!” she cried out, clutching his face with both hands. “Don’t give up now! I shall not let you die! Stay with me!”
Her heart was breaking at the thought of losing him. “No, no, don’t go,” she moaned, cradling his head against her bosom. “Please, please, you must live. I need you.”
Hot tears flowed unchecked from her eyes and fell onto his burning face—if only there were some way to bring his fever down, but she had tried everything.
In desperation, she pressed her lips to his, willing him to live—
If at that moment she could have given her life for his, she would not have hesitated.
“You must not leave me—I need you—I won’t let you die—you must stay with me,” she crooned over and over again, rocking back and forth in her grief.
How long she held him, she did not know—a minute or an hour or ten hours, she could not have said how long it was before his breathing became less ragged, before his eyes looked into hers instead of into eternity...
Before the shivering started again.
* * * *
The fever returned twice more, but each time with diminishing intensity. The chills were also less severe, which meant there was no longer a good reason for Rowena to warm his body with her own.
But she did.
After two nights and two days of tending him, she needed the rest, or at least that was the way she justified climbing back into bed with him. But in her heart she knew that was not the reason she lay beside him for hours, holding him close in her arms, pressing secret kisses on his face.
She could not leave him.
It was almost as if she had in truth traded her soul for his life.
She could not think about the future—about what would happen when the Brignalls returned, about what this man would say when he finally woke up.
But for the moment she was content. Nothing seemed real to her but this man in her arms.
She could never leave him.
* * * *
Mrs. Brignall had other ideas, of course. “You get out of that bed this instant, young lady, or I’ll take a strap to your behind,” she hissed. It was a favorite threat of hers, but one she had never actually put into practice.
Still, Rowena knew she had to obey. Once reality intruded, dreams faded away, no matter how desperately one tried to hold onto them.
Being careful not to disturb the man beside her, she slipped out of the bed and tiptoed into the corridor. Mrs. Brignall was right behind her, not waiting for an explanation.
“With all the things I have been worrying about the whole time I was gone,” she said indignantly as soon as the door was closed, “I never dreamed his lordship would seduce you! But what is done is done. You shall have to be married at once, of course, for I’ll have no one snickering behind their hands about any seven-month baby.”
“Hush up, Mrs. Brignall,” Rowena said impatiently. “Lord Cheyne has been too sick even to know I was in his bed so let us have no more talk of seduction and marriage. He has been most desperately ill, with high fevers followed by chills. Last night he almost died, but I think the worst is now over.”
With no more talk of impropriety, Mrs. Brignall quizzed Rowena about the nature of the illness, then announced that she would take over the nursing of the invalid.
“I am not too tired to help.” Rowena protested.
But Mrs. Brignall would not listen. “Brignall can help me, for it isn’t right that an unmarried lady like yourself should be tending to a gentleman’s personal needs, even if he is her second cousin. Suppose he was to wake up and find you alone with him? I doubt he’d listen to any excuses you might try to make. No, his honor would demand that he lead you to the altar, and then you would find yourself well and truly trapped, young lady.”
To be married to Lord Cheyne—to be with him forever—it would be heaven.
Unless, of course, he despised her for tricking him into a marriage not of his own choosing.
Hiding her pain from the housekeeper, Rowena finally agreed that no, it would not do for Lord Cheyne to see her when he awoke.
* * * *
At first Marcus could not remember where he was. The air smelled too cool and crisp for him to be back in Spain, and his bed was steady, which meant he was on land rather than on board ship. And judging by the softness of his bed he was no longer in the hospital, where the furnishings had been Spartan indeed.
Forcing his eyes open, he saw the figure of a woman seated beside him in the shadows, and the events of the last few weeks came back to him in a rush—the journey to Castle Ravenswych, his apparent good health, then the all-too-familiar attack of the ague.
He remembered also the woman who had doubtless saved his life—a young woman she had been, with long, silky black hair and gentian-blue eyes brimming over with tears. Her hands had been soothing, her voice gentle, and only her stubborn determination had kept him on this side of the River Styx.
“Who are you?” he said, and his voice felt rusty with disuse. “And how long have I been sick?”
“I’m Mrs. Brignall, of course, and you’ve been sick three nights and two days,” an old voice answered, and then the seated woman rose from her chair and approached near enough for him to recognize his housekeeper. “It’s lucky for you I could not rest easy in my mind thinking about you here alone. I made Brignall bring me back early.”
“No, no,” he said, rolling his head weakly back and forth on the pillow. “It cannot have been you who nursed me—she was young and beautiful and smelled of lavender.’’
The housekeeper gave a snort of disbelief. “There’s no accounting for the strange visions that the fever brings, but as much as it pains me to admit it, it’s been nigh on fifty years since I was either young or beautiful.”
“It cannot have been you,” Marcus still protested weakly. “Unless you shared my bed. Unless you kissed me.”
His words clearly amazed the housekeeper. “What a shocking accusation to make! And me old enough to be your grandmother!”
Abruptly he felt too tired to continue the argument—it was obvious that he had little chance of persuading her to alter her opinion about what had transpired when he had been feverish. And if he was honest with himself, he had to admit it could have been the fever deceiving him with false visions.
Wearily he shut his eyes, and the memories flooded back—the dulcet voice that had whispered in his ear, the gentle hands that had brought him soothing coolness, the soft lips that had caressed him. The fierce determination to keep him alive.
No, despite Mrs. Brignall’s assertions that the young woman was a figment of his imagination, the beautiful black-haired woman must have been real. But who could she have been?
There was no one else in the castle; he had searched it from the cellars to the top of the tower, and had found no sign of any other human being, other than the Brignalls. Which raised another question. If the young woman was real, then why was Mrs. Brignall lying about her having been there? His uncle had trusted the Brignalls completely—it was unlikely that they were engaged in any illicit activities.
But suppose the young woman was more than a figment of his imagination... and yet not completely real?
He could almost believe the castle was haunted. Since the day of his arrival, he had frequently had the impulse to look over his shoulder. So strong was the feeling that someone was watching him that each time he had done so, he had been a little surprised to discover he was alone.
“Tell me, Mrs. Brignall, is there a ghost in this castle?” he asked finally, unable to find any other explanation for the young woman who had called him back from the grave.
“If you ask around in the village, you’ll hear fanciful tales told by those who’ve never set one foot inside these walls,” she said scornfully, “but I’ve lived here all my life, and I’ve never seen nor heard anything the least bit odd.”
He hoped she was right. He did not want his black-haired beauty to be a ghost, Marcus realized as he drifted off to sleep. He wanted a flesh-and-blood woman in his arms again—soft, sweetly scented flesh, and hot-blooded kisses to heat his own blood to a boil...
He found her again in his dreams, but no matter how he pursued her, she stayed always out of reach; no matter how desperately he tried to catch hold of her, she eluded him effortlessly.
* * * *
The clock in the hallway below chimed twelve, and Rowena shivered in the darkness outside Lord Cheyne’s bedroom. It would not do, of course, for her to creep inside even for a few precious moments, but, oh, she was sorely tempted.
She had not seen him for too long. Even an hour away from him was unbearable, and three days without even a glimpse of him was cruel punishment indeed.
Although he had awakened the morning after Mrs. Brignall had returned, he was still not strong enough to leave his bed. Reports from Mrs. Brignall that he was recovering nicely were not enough. Rowena wanted to see him with her own eyes.
Frustrated beyond measure, she leaned against the door, pressing herself against the unyielding wood. Knowing he was so close and yet beyond her reach was torture.
Ever since she had left him she had suffered from an emptiness that could not be filled by food, no matter how temptingly prepared by Mrs. Brignall, for hers was not a hunger of the body.
Her heart ached with the need to see Lord Cheyne again, to touch him, to hold him.
No, she admitted finally, she could not be satisfied any longer with holding his unconscious body. She wanted him to be awake—to look at her and know she was there. She wanted him to wrap his arms around her, to kiss her back. She wanted one more time to experience that feeling of her soul reaching out to his—of their spirits coming together and blending, merging, becoming one.
Mrs. Brignall did not understand—or rather, Mrs. Brignall understood too much, and she had made it quite clear that she would not allow Rowena to do anything scandalous. “A ghost he thinks you are, and a ghost you will have to remain, at least until after your birthday. And even then, it would be best if folks were never to find out you’ve been staying here un-chaperoned with Lord Cheyne, even if he is your second cousin,” she had said in a voice that had brooked no argument.
Could Lord Cheyne fall in love with a ghost? And if he did, would he be angry when he discovered it was all a trick? When he found out she had been hiding in his castle for a full year?
Angry? He would doubtless be furious—not because he would begrudge her a roof over her head and food to eat, but because of the deceit involved.
Despairing, Rowena abandoned her futile post by his door and wandered through the castle, upstairs and down, wishing there were someone who understood—someone she could talk to.
“Uncle Timothy,” she murmured, “I wish you were here again, just for a while. Maybe you could help me.”
In her mind she could see his face crease with a broad smile, could hear him say gruffly, “Well, child, whenever my pain became too much to bear, you were always able to comfort me with your music.”
* * * *
Marcus was not sure what woke him. The rain beating against the windowpanes? A distant rumble of thunder?
Or was it the faint scent of lavender that seemed to whisper his name?
Too wide awake to sleep, he threw back the covers, swung his legs over the side of the bed, and then was forced to wait until his head stopped whirling.
What he wanted was a hot toddy, but it was not fair to wake up either of the Brignalls at this hour. After so many nights of sitting up with him, they had earned their rest. If he went slowly and rested frequently along the way, he could make it to the kitchen and back, and Mrs. Brignall would never find out he had made an illicit midnight excursion.
Pulling on his breeches and taking but a single candle with him, he set off through the corridors, steadying himself with his free hand against the wall, and cursing the weakness in his legs and the dizziness in his head.
He did not realize at first that he was lost—well, not actually very lost since he was still inside his own castle. Yet somehow he had taken a wrong turn, and now he was not precisely certain where he was in relation to the kitchen or in respect to his bedroom.
So much for taking the risk of disobeying Mrs. Brig-nail. She was bound to scold him unmercifully if she discovered him wandering around.
Coming to a place where the corridors branched, one going to the right and the other continuing straight ahead for a short distance and then veering off to the left, he considered which way he should logically go. Reviewing in his mind the general layout of the castle, he realized that the kitchen was more than likely to the right.
What was not as obvious was why he chose instead to take the left-branching corridor, which was clearly leading him farther away from the kitchen. He was about to turn and retrace his steps, when his attention was caught by the faint sound of music from somewhere ahead.
Hearing it, he could not have turned back if a platoon of French grenadiers had been blocking his way. With each step he took, the music became clearer and more haunting, and soon he was close enough to tell that someone was playing expertly on a pianoforte. To his way of thinking, the notes being drawn out of that prosaic instrument were so heavenly, one could easily have imagined the musician was no mortal being but an angel, playing on a celestial harp.
At last he reached his goal. Standing in the doorway of a room that should have been empty, he lifted his candle, straining to see, wishing he had brought a pair of candelabra with a dozen candles in each.
Just for a moment he caught a glimpse of a black-haired woman bent over the keys, and then an errant draft danced over his shoulder and capriciously blew out his candle.
Out of the darkness still came the rippling melody, blending with the rain outside, catching at him, pulling him forward.
“I have been searching for you,” he said softly, stepping into the room. “Who are you? Why did you leave me?”
The music swirled around him, the tempo increasing, but instead of answers, all it brought him were more questions.
“My name is Cheyne,” he said, “and this is my castle—my room—my pianoforte.”
The music changed, became mocking, as if the woman were laughing at him for thinking he was master here—for thinking he had any control over her—for thinking he could stop her from going wherever she desired to go, from doing whatever she wished to do.
Wanting to get close enough to touch her, he took another step, then paused, finding it increasingly difficult to walk forward blindly. With the rational part of his mind, he knew the stones beneath his feet were solid, yet still he could not entirely rid himself of the feeling that if he took even one more step he would plunge into a deep abyss.
“Will you not talk to me?” he asked. “I want to be your friend.”
Again only the music answered him, becoming so filled with melancholy, expressing such painful longing, it seemed as if the woman were weeping, as if tears were welling up out of her soul.
“You held me and comforted me when I was suffering,” he said. “Will you not let me hold you now?”
The music became angry—no, the violence it was expressing was not anger, but passion. She was making it quite plain that she did not wish to be comforted—she wanted to be loved. The sheer intensity of her desire made his blood heat up and roused in him an answering passion.
“I need you, too,” he said, but his words were sucked into the maelstrom of sound, becoming part of the music. “You belong in my arms, in my bed. I want to see your face again, caress your breasts, feel your heart beating against mine.”
The music became wilder, almost out of control.
“I want to lose myself in you,” he cried out, determined that she should hear him, that she should acknowledge his presence. “I want to join our bodies and our souls for all eternity.”
His entire being caught up in the intensity of the sound, he took another step forward, and it was worse than he had feared. The stone floor remained solid under his feet, but the music stopped so abruptly, he staggered and almost fell.
Gradually he became aware that the silence around him was now cold and empty, and though he listened intently, all he could hear was the echo of the last crashing chord.
“Don’t leave me,” he begged in despair, but he knew it was already too late. A flash of lightning lit up the room, showing him quite clearly that he was alone.
Chilled to the bone, overwhelmed by his loss, he knew he had to find her, had to discover where she had gone. Retracing his steps, he groped along the wall until he found the doorway. Then he blundered along the corridor, cursing his lack of light and refusing to admit what any sensible person would know immediately, namely that he had no chance of finding his mysterious lady love.
All too soon his physical weakness forced him to abandon the attempt entirely, and it took the last of his energy to push the memories of the strange encounter out of his mind enough that he could sleep.
* * * *
Rowena was still shaking by the time she reached the safety of her own room and turned the key in the lock.
Lord Cheyne had attracted her even when he had been feverish and unconscious. Awake and standing only a few feet away from her, he had been overwhelming.
His words had made her feel things she had never felt before—his simple questions had awakened parts of her she had never known existed.
The need he had aroused inside her had been so strong, so overwhelming, she had panicked and run away.
And now?
Now she was too drained of energy to stand up, but too agitated to lie down.
Now she could not seem to make up her mind whether to laugh or to cry.
Even while she was berating herself for being too much a coward to speak openly to Lord Cheyne, she was relieved that she had managed to escape from him.
Her fascination with Lord Cheyne was doubtless going to drive her stark, raving mad—or perhaps she was already crazy?
Moving to the window, she pushed aside the heavy draperies and looked out. The rain had stopped, but dark clouds still scudded across the sky. The silvery light from the full moon was not sufficient to illuminate her heart and show her what she must do.
What did she want?
If she wanted Lord Cheyne, why was she now shivering here alone in her room? Why was she not back in his arms—back in his warm bed?
And if she wanted to be free of him, why did she not leave the castle entirely? Find someplace else to hide for the last two weeks until her birthday? Someplace where there would be no chance of encountering him—where the sound of his voice would not be heard at odd times of the day or night?
Leave him? She could never leave him. She was bound to him by an unbreakable bond—a bond that was stronger than marriage vows.
But could she stay with him?
Oh, dear. It was all Lord Cheyne’s fault that her thoughts were so muddled. Obviously he was the one responsible for her addled brain. That devilish man had clearly bewitched her until she could not think properly.
She covered her mouth with both hands to hold back her laughter; then, abruptly, tears were streaming down her face.
Whatever was she going to do?
* * * *
“And just what do you think you are doing?” Caught in his nightshirt with his breeches in his hands, Marcus looked around to see Mrs. Brignall scowling at him, her hands on her hips.
“It should be obvious that I have decided to get up today,” he answered mildly.
“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re not at all fit to be out of bed so climb right back under the covers this instant,” she ordered in a voice that a master sergeant would have envied.
“I am really quite determined to have my own way,” he said with a smile. “So either you may help me get dressed or you may send Brignall up to do the honors.”
She blustered for a few more minutes, but when he made it clear that with or without help he was determined to abandon his sickbed, she left him, muttering imprecations on the foolishness of all men.
Brignall, when he appeared a short time later, was not only willing to aid and abet Marcus in disobeying Mrs. Brignall’s direct orders, but he was also a good source of information.
“A pianoforte, m’lord? Why, in the music room, of course, m’lord.” Brignall’s tone of voice was patient, as if he were humoring a small child.
“And where might the music room be?” Marcus asked a trifle sharply.
Brignall was quite willing to give detailed directions, but after the third or fourth turning, Marcus called a halt to the recital. “If you have no objections, Brignall, I think it might be best if you were to show me the way.”
“Aye, m’lord, doubtless you’re right. ‘Tis remarkably easy for a stranger to miss a turning and go hopelessly astray.”
With great effort Marcus resisted the impulse to point out that as owner of the castle, he could hardly be classified as a stranger.
It was even harder to be patient with the weakness of his own body. Luckily the music room, which the night before had seemed so far from his bedroom, turned out to be only a short distance away.
“Here we are, m’lord,” Brignall said, opening the door and standing aside for Marcus to enter.
The room was dark and filled with pale shapes crouching in the shadows like sleeping ghosts.
“If I had known you were musically inclined, I’d have readied this room for you, m’lord,” Brignall said, moving to the window and opening the draperies.
Sunlight spilled into the room, chasing away the gloom and transforming the ghosts into nothing more alarming than sheet-shrouded furniture.
To his surprise, Marcus realized he had seen this room briefly when Mrs. Brignall was giving him a tour of the castle, but at the time he had not paid it any particular attention.
“Here is the piano you were asking about,” Brignall said, grabbing one of the sheets and pulling it away.
Marcus crossed the few feet to the gleaming rosewood instrument and tentatively touched the ivory and ebony keys, but his uneducated fingers could not produce the enchanting music he had listened to the night before.
Glancing around, he could see no sign that anyone had been in the room for months. “Is this the only piano in the castle?” he asked.
“There was never a need for two,” Brignall replied, and again his condescending tone was mildly irritating to Marcus. “Miss Rowena was the only one who ever played. His lordship had this instrument sent up from London just for her.’’
“Miss Rowena?’’ Marcus asked, his heart speeding up. Could it be that he was actually going to discover the identity of the nocturnal musician?
Brignall waved his hand toward the fireplace. Looking where he was pointing, Marcus saw a small portrait hanging above the mantel. Eagerly he moved forward, then reached up and took the painting down. “Who is she?”
“Well, his lordship had one brother—that’d be your grandfather, m’lord—and one sister, who was Miss Rowena’s grandmother. So by my reckoning, that’d make her your second cousin.”
Staring down at the picture in his hands, Marcus felt dizzy with relief. It was she—the hauntingly beautiful young woman who had saved his life and then enchanted him with her music. Her eyes, her smile—everything about her face was as familiar to him as his own. Even the painted image of her was so compelling that every fiber of his being cried out that she belonged to him and he belonged to her.
How had he been so lucky? What had he done that the gods had blessed him so? Rowena—an angel’s name and an angel’s face. The two of them belonged together, and now that he had found her at last, nothing and no one would ever separate them again.
“Where is Miss Rowena? I wish to meet her at once.” The need to hold her again in his arms was too strong to be denied—even a second’s delay was too painful to be endured. But Brignall did not immediately answer, and when Marcus turned to look at him, the old man was red-faced with embarrassment.
“Come, come, Brignall, I know she must be staying here in the castle, or at least nearby. I heard her playing the piano in this room only last night.’’
“I am afraid, m’lord, that—that she is dead.”
Marcus was stunned. Dead? How could she be dead? No, he would not—could not—accept that. She had to be alive. She had to be!
“Maybe you had best sit down, m’lord,” Brignall said solicitously, uncovering a comfortable-looking chair. “You’re looking as pale as this sheet.”
Slowly Marcus sank down onto the proffered chair. But Rowena could not be dead. She had saved his life. When he was dying, she had pulled him back into the world of the living... or had she?
The question tormented him. Had she called him back from the grave... or had she sent him back?
If she had already crossed over to the other side, that would mean only her spirit was left here in the castle—that she was now a ghost, without real form or substance.
That thought was too impossible to accept, too painful to contemplate.
“Tell me what happened,” he said hoarsely. “How did she die—and when?”
“She drowned last year about this time—on All Hallows’ Eve.” The old man’s voice was filled with ancient rage. “Death by misadventure, they said at the inquest, but I say it was all his fault. If they’d asked me, I could have told them how he was persecuting her, how he was trying night and day to force her to marry him—”
“Who? Tell me who you are talking about.”
“Why, her guardian, of course. That flashy London coxcomb, Mr. Neville Hewley. Determined to marry above his station, he was. Testified under oath that he went to bed early that evening, but I wouldn’t believe a word that miserable worm said, no, not even if he were to swear on a stack of Bibles.”
Marcus had never seen the normally taciturn old man display so much emotion.
“‘Tis my suspicion,” Brignall continued, pacing back and forth, his fists clenched as if ready to punch the deceitful Mr. Hewley in the face, “that he tried to force his attentions on the poor girl. Why else would she have fled the castle on such a night, when all manner of spirits walk abroad? The trouble is, m’lord, no one else was awake to witness Hewley’s foul deeds so no one will ever be able to prove he was lying.”
Marcus, who had survived numerous campaigns only because he always kept his head in the thick of battle, was now filled with such murderous rage he could scarcely see the portrait he held in his hands.
Then his vision cleared, and he knew what he had to do—he knew why the tormented soul of this innocent girl had come to him in the guise of a ghost.
“I shall avenge your death, fair Rowena,” he whispered in a voice too low for Brignall to hear. “I swear on the graves of my comrades that the man who persecuted you shall not escape his just punishment.”
Then, in a louder voice, Marcus said, “Tell me more about this Mr. Hewley. How did my uncle come to appoint him guardian of my cousin?”
* * * *
“I cannot believe you told his lordship that Mr. Hewley was no better than a murderer,” Mrs. Brignall said, slamming a plate of food down in front of her husband. “Especially when you know good and well that no one even died.”
Rowena could not hold back a chuckle, which unfortunately only made her the next target for Mrs. Brignall’s wrath.
“And as for you, young lady, I’d like a proper explanation of what you were doing in the music room in the middle of the night.”
“I was playing the piano,” Rowena said in her meekest voice. “I was having trouble sleeping, what with the storm. Really, Mrs. Brignall, there was no reason for me to anticipate that Lord Cheyne would be so foolish as to leave his sickbed in the middle of the night after you had given him orders to rest for another week.”
Thrusting a plate of food at Rowena, Mrs. Brignall began to animadvert on the irresponsibility of certain grown men who obviously were so accustomed to risking life and limb on the battlefield that they would not even listen to the very best advice.
Brignall winked at Rowena, and she smiled back at him while Mrs. Brignall continued to fuss.
“Sometimes I think I am the only person in this castle who has a particle of common sense, and I vow, if things continue in this manner much longer, I shall also be driven to do something singularly foolish. Then how will you all manage, I ask you?”
The old woman was truly upset, Rowena realized. Standing up, she gave Mrs. Brignall a hug. “Now, I will agree that we have not always shown good judgment, and we are sorry for that, but you must admit that no harm has been done.”
Mrs. Brignall snorted, clearly not appeased by Rowena’s attempt to mollify her. “So it’s sorry that you are? Then why are you not taking your meal on a tray in your room? Are you secretly hoping that Lord Cheyne will discover you sitting here as bold as brass in the kitchen?”
Before Rowena could deny having any such thought in her head, Brignall spoke up. “Now cease your fretting, old woman, and let us eat our food in peace. His lordship is safely napping in his own bed, so there is no danger except in your foolish head. You have always been too inclined to see disaster where none exists.”
No sooner were the words out of his mouth than footsteps were heard on the stairs, and Rowena barely had time to duck under the table before Lord Cheyne entered the kitchen.
Without preamble he announced, “Brignall, I wish you to ride into the village immediately and post this letter off to London.’’
A moment later Rowena heard Mrs. Brignall ask, “To Mr. Neville Hewley? Oh, m’lord, you shouldn’t do anything rash just because Brignall spilled his budget.”
“I have thought it all out quite clearly, Mrs. Brig-nail,” Lord Cheyne’s deep voice replied, “and I am determined to conduct my own investigation into the events of last year. To that end, I have cordially invited Mr. Hewley to come here and discuss various papers my uncle left behind. Once he is here, he shall not leave until I am satisfied that I have learned the truth about Miss Rowena’s death.”
In the dead silence that followed his speech, Rowena’s heart was pounding so loudly in her ears that she feared Lord Cheyne must hear and discover her hiding like a little child under the table.
But after what seemed like an eternity, she could hear his footsteps receding and the sound of a door closing.
“Well, now we are truly in the suds,” Mrs. Brignall said.
Crawling out from under the table, Rowena was inclined to agree with her. “At least if Mr. Hewley discovers I am still alive, he will not be able to drag me off to London. Not while Lord Cheyne is here to protect me.”
“That is little enough to be thankful for,” Mrs. Brignall said with a sniff. “His lordship may certainly be counted on to protect you from your wicked guardian, but who is going to protect you from his lordship? He will not be overly pleased to discover how you have deceived him.”
After admitting to the housekeeper that she had been right about the dangers of wandering around the castle, Rowena hurried back to her own room. Even with the door locked securely behind her, however, she could not feel completely safe.
Would Lord Cheyne be angry when he found out she had been living in his castle? Remembering the things he had said to her in the darkness of the music room, she rather thought he would be delighted to discover she was not a ghost.
On the other hand, just thinking about the things he wanted to do to her sent frissons of fear up her spine, while at the same time her toes curled up in anticipation of the delights to be found in Lord Cheyne’s arms.
The few days until her birthday now seemed an eternity. How could she hide in her room until All Saints’ Day? How could she bear not seeing Lord Cheyne for so many days—not hearing his voice, not feeling his lips touch hers?
The prudent thing to do was to wait patiently in her room until she was twenty-one, at which time she would be free to do whatever she pleased.
Unfortunately, her longing to be near Lord Cheyne was so strong that such circumspection was totally beyond her capabilities, which meant her only other alternative was to be extremely careful when she spied on him.
Again she decried the lack of secret passages, but then she consoled herself with the knowledge that the castle did offer an infinite number of nooks and crannies where she could conceal herself. Moreover, the walls of the castle were hung with dozens of tapestries for her to hide behind, and the corridors were so crooked that there would always be a bend she could duck around if she inadvertently allowed him to spot her.
And she had a set of keys for every door in the castle.
* * * *
His beloved Rowena had come back to him. Marcus caught her in his arms, felt her lips brush against his—
No, no, she was fading away, dissolving into cold mist even while he tried to hold her fast—
Marcus awoke with a start, his heart pounding. It was still dark in his room, and his bed was empty. As always when he woke up from this dream, he could detect the tantalizing scent of lavender.
Knowing if he lay in bed he would only toss and turn for hours, he threw back the covers and got up. Walking bare-chested over to the window, he stared out into the night. The full moon was setting, but it still gave sufficient light to illuminate the landscape below.
Not that he needed light to see beyond the path leading down the hill to the perfectly round pool where his love had drowned—its image was burned forever on his memory.
He cursed its still waters, swore a thousand oaths at the fate that had kept him away from the castle until too late.
But even while railing against the circumstances that had taken Rowena away from him, he knew in his heart that he had no power to alter the reality of his situation.
He had fallen in love with a beautiful ghost, and nothing he might do could bring her back to life. The satisfaction he would receive from avenging her death was small consolation indeed.
Especially since he was not at all sure he wanted to rid Castle Ravenswych of its ghost. His soul was in torment also—why should the fair Rowena’s spirit find peace when there could be no peace for him?
But such selfish and ignoble thoughts were not worthy of him, and he knew that when Hewley arrived from London—which should be any day now—he would somehow force the man to confess his guilt.
And then he would devise a suitable punishment for the villain, who should have protected Rowena, but who had instead apparently hounded her to her death.
* * * *
Seeing Lord Cheyne was not enough, Rowena acknowledged. Hiding in the shadows beside his chiffonier, she fought against the almost irresistible temptation to cross the few steps to where he stood silhouetted in front of the window.
She longed to caress his bare chest—yearned to kiss his lips again—needed to press herself against him.
Hardest to resist was the desire to take him by the hand and lead him back to his bed, which she already knew was large enough for two. With every fiber of her being, she wanted to pull the covers up over both of them, wanted to feel the heat from his body warming hers, wanted to join her soul with his.
In less than forty-eight hours she would be one-and-twenty and could reveal her presence to Lord Cheyne.
So short a time until she would discover if he could forgive her for her deceit, or whether he would banish her forever from the castle.
Would she ever be this close to him again? So close only a few steps would take her into his arms?
But in truth, at this moment he was as far away from her as if he were on the moon, whose light was not sufficient for her to see the expression on his face.
Was he happy or unhappy? More important, was he thinking about her, or were his thoughts more prosaic? She had to bite her tongue to keep from asking him.
* * * *
As soon as his visitor was ushered into the library by a disapproving Brignall, Marcus knew his task was not going to be easy.
In outward appearance Neville Hewley was the quintessential London gentleman. From the top of his pomaded locks to the tips of his polished Hessians, he was dressed to perfection in a way that Marcus could never hope to emulate, even were he to hire himself a London valet and pay thousands of guineas to the best London tailors and haberdashers.
Moreover, Hewley’s handshake was cordial, his manner affable, his expression sincere. No one meeting him could doubt that he was an honorable man.
No one would distrust him—except, of course, an officer like Marcus, who had vast experience interrogating captured French soldiers. He was an expert at reading the signs that proclaimed more loudly than words that a man was lying.
In this case he could see quite clearly that Hewley was ill at ease, nervous, and hiding some guilty secret.
Proving that Hewley was directly or indirectly responsible for Rowena’s death would be another matter altogether.
“Won’t you be seated?” Marcus asked, indicating the larger of the two wing-backed chairs.
Hewley started toward the proffered seat, but then he paused, and after a short hesitation he moved a small ribband-back chair closer to the fire and settled himself upon it.
It was clear that Hewley had been in this room before, because he had obviously discovered for himself how uncomfortable the late earl’s favorite chair was.
“You said you have some documents among your uncle’s papers that concern me,” Hewley said without preamble. “Could you tell me what they pertain to?” The flame of greed burned quite clearly in his eyes.
“Tomorrow will be time enough for such things,” Marcus said, playing the role of congenial host. “You are doubtless fatigued from your long journey. Would you care for a little reviving brandy?” He raised the heavy glass decanter, and to his surprise his guest grew pale at the sight of it.
“No, thank you,” Hewley said, rising to his feet. “As you have surmised, I am quite tired, and I believe it would be best if I retired early this evening.”
“You make a habit of retiring early, do you not?” Marcus asked.
Hewley looked puzzled. “Why no, not as a general rule, my lord. I wonder where you got that impression.”
“You testified at the inquest that you had retired to your room hours before Miss Rowena drowned.”
Hewley stiffened, then made a conscious effort to relax. “Ah, yes, that unfortunate incident.”
Incident? Marcus thought. You can dismiss a lovely young woman’s unnecessary death as an unfortunate incident? A gentleman Hewley might appear to be, but in truth he had the soul of a Philistine.
“I deeply regret that I allowed such a situation to develop. Rest assured,” he said, “that if I had had any idea my ward was in such a state of melancholy, I would have secured the very best medical treatment available for her.”
“So you think she deliberately killed herself?” Marcus asked, feeling a strong urge to close his fingers around Hewley’s neck and choke the truth out of him.
“Of course! Given the circumstances, there was really no other conclusion possible. To be sure, the verdict was death by misadventure, but I am quite sure it was only feelings of loyalty for our family which caused the magistrate to ignore the evidence that indicated suicide.”
“Our family?” Marcus asked coldly. “I was unaware that you were in any way related to me or to my cousin.”
The telltale signs of nervousness were becoming easier to read in Hewley’s countenance. “Well, as to that, although I admittedly have no actual blood relationship with the Cheynes, still Uncle Timothy—that is to say, the late earl—always treated me as if I were his nephew, so I have been accustomed to thinking myself part of the family.’’
When Marcus did not immediately respond, Hewley gave a weak titter, then visibly pulled himself together. “I would not presume, of course, to lay any claims against the estate, nor would I expect you to acknowledge such a tenuous connection when you go about in society. I am quite satisfied to know that your great-uncle felt such affection and trust for me that he appointed me guardian of his grand-niece, and I do not need any public recognition of that fact.’’
Marcus stared at Hewley until the other man’s forehead glistened with sweat. Curse the lying little worm! Was there no way to force him to tell the truth?
It was unfortunate that Castle Ravenswych did not come equipped with dungeons filled with instruments of torture. A firing squad would also be handy, Marcus thought with regret.
“So you were fast asleep when Miss Rowena left the castle?” he inquired abruptly.
“I could not swear to that,” Hewley replied smoothly, rapidly regaining the composure he had lost. “No one is quite sure when she went out so it is impossible for me to say if I was already asleep or if I was still awake. All I can swear to is that when I retired for the night, she was reading in the library. Then in the morning I was informed that she had drowned at some undetermined hour.’’
Although his speech was conciliatory, there was a look of challenge in Hewley’s eyes, and Marcus realized he had lost the advantage when he had made his questioning too obvious. It was clear that Hewley knew what he was trying to do, and therefore he would be doubly on his guard lest a slip of the tongue betray him.
* * * *
She should have made a peephole in the tapestry, Rowena decided, so that she could watch the interrogation taking place right under her nose, so to speak.
Not that she needed to see her guardian’s face to know that he was lying. It was also obvious from his tone of voice that Lord Cheyne had reached that same conclusion.
Unfortunately, as laudable as it was for Lord Cheyne to try to discover the truth, it was clearly an impossible task he had set for himself. Hewley was prepared to lie about the events of a year ago until he was blue in his face.
Unless ...
A plan sprang full-blown into Rowena’s mind. All she needed was to secure Brignall’s cooperation, and twenty-four hours from now, on All Hallows’ Eve, Hewley’s bravado would crumble.
* * * *
“The thing to do, m’lord,” the old man said earnestly while helping Marcus on with his jacket, “is force that mealy-mouthed Hewley to go out with you this evening—at eleven of the clock if you can arrange it. Even London society folk know that tonight is the night when ghosts and spirits and haunts are free to walk abroad. And Mr. Hewley being such a coward, you have but to drag him down that path where Miss Rowena fled in terror a year ago and force him to look at the Drowning Pool in the moonlight, and you’ll easily scare him into confessing his guilt.’’
Would it work? Marcus wondered. Perhaps if Hewley was superstitious enough—or perhaps if his lies did not rest easy on his conscience. “Eleven o’clock?”
“‘Tis the hour when we discovered Miss Rowena was missing,” Brignall said, holding out a perfectly ironed neckcloth.
“Hewley claims he was already in his room by then,” Marcus pointed out, taking the cravat and winding it around his neck.
“Bah, he is like a cur trying to persuade its master that a fox has raided the chicken house when there are feathers all around its mouth.” The look the old man gave him said more clearly than words that if Marcus was taken in by Hewley’s lies, then he was seven times a fool.
“Do you wish to accompany us on this expedition?” Marcus asked, wondering why Brignall looked as if he were still concealing something.
“Now then, you won’t be needing no witnesses to what you’ll be doing, and Mrs. Brignall will suspicion something if I’m not lying beside her in bed.”
With shock mingled with amusement, Marcus realized the true motives behind the old man’s suggestion. Brignall was hoping that in the morning people would discover that Neville Hewley had come to the same end as had Miss Rowena a year earlier.
“I am not going to push him into the pool, you know,” Marcus said mildly, checking his appearance in the cheval glass. “No matter how fitting such a punishment would be.”
The old man was quick to deny any such notions, but Marcus could not tell if the indignation was real or feigned. On the other hand, since it was easily apparent that the old man would have no qualms at all about holding Hewley’s head underwater, it would indeed be a good idea for Marcus and Hewley to go alone into the woods that evening.
Leaving his room and going in search of his guest, Marcus began to plan just how he would persuade—coerce?—Hewley into taking part in the evening’s entertainment.
* * * *
One thing Rowena knew for certain: There was no way she was going to go out into the crisp October night wearing a dress that was dripping wet. There was no point, after all, in pretending to be a ghost only to end up actually dying of a chill.
Surveying herself in her cheval glass, she also began to wonder at the efficacy of her ghost costume. The only light, after all, would be the moon, which was not as full as it had been a year ago.
On the eve before All Saints’ Day last year, wearing this same black dress, she had vanished from Hewley’s sight by the simple expediency of standing very still next to a tree and turning away from him so that he could not see her pale hands and face. If she wanted to scare him on this night, she had better wear something more noticeable.
Besides which, she admitted as she rummaged through her wardrobe, the black dress covered with green yarn was not a garment that flattered her at all... and this evening Lord Cheyne would discover she was not a ghost. Did she want him to see her looking absolutely ridiculous?
No, she did not, she decided, pulling from the wardrobe a beautiful silvery gown that she had made shortly before her great-uncle’s last illness.
Holding it up in front of her, she could see it would suit both her purposes: It would be easy to see in the moonlight, and more important, it was very flattering and set off her black hair to perfection. Surely Lord Cheyne would find himself attracted to her if she was wearing such a lovely dress... would he not?
Stepping out of her black dress, Rowena pulled on the silvery one instead. If he would only give her a chance to explain why she had deceived him, she was certain she could persuade him to be reasonable.
Actually, she was not certain at all. To be sure, any reasonable person would understand and sympathize with her, but everyone knew men were not always swayed by sense and logic.
If his self-esteem was threatened, if his masculine pride was wounded, might he not act out of anger and do something rash? Such as banish her forever from Castle Ravenswych?
On the other hand, she thought with a smile, she did not have to go meekly away just because he commanded her to. She could simply refuse to comply with his wishes, and there would be nothing he could do to force her to leave—except pick her up bodily and remove her.
Her smile became wider. If he picked her up, she would wrap her arms around his neck and kiss him again, and she was willing to wager he would not be able to put her down unless it was in his bed.
Humming cheerfully, she picked up her black cloak and draped it over her shoulders, then pulled the hood up over her head. Wearing it, all she had to do was crouch down, and she would easily be mistaken for a bush or a large rock, allowing her to make a dramatic appearance at the proper time.
Really, this promised to be a most exciting evening—and if she was clever, it would be even more exciting for her after she frightened off the obnoxious Mr. Hewley.
* * * *
Marcus stood at the window of the library, staring out into the night. The moon was waning, and clouds raced across the sky as if pursued by demons. Even so, there was sufficient light to see the path that led down to the Drowning Pool. Behind him, he could hear his London visitor fidgeting impatiently in his chair.
“It is clear to me, my lord, that you have gotten me here under false pretenses,” Mr. Hewley said with determination.
“How so?” Marcus asked, turning around to face his guest.
“I have asked repeatedly to see the documents pertaining to me that your uncle supposedly left, but this entire day you have managed to avoid producing any such papers. Therefore, I am forced to conclude that no such documents exist.’’
“I admire your powers of deduction,” Marcus said, not trying to hide his amusement, which only angered the other man even more.
“It may seem like a clever joke to you, my lord, but I find nothing funny about being dragged away from my business in London to travel for two days, only to discover when I get here that it is nothing but a hum. And now I am facing another two days of being jounced about in a coach before I am back in London. Really, it is inexcusable behavior on your part.” Standing up, he glared at Marcus. “So now if you will excuse me, my lord, I shall instruct my valet to begin packing my things so that I may leave in the morning.”
“But I will not,” Marcus said, keeping his voice carefully bland.
“Will not what, my lord?”
“Will not excuse you. We still have things that must be settled before I allow you to leave.”
Hewley began to bluster, but his words carried no real conviction. “Really, my lord, you are becoming impertinent. Allow me? I am not one of your minions, that I must await your permission before I act. I intend to set out tomorrow morning early for London, and you can do nothing to prevent me.”
“Actually, there are any number of things I could do,” Marcus said. “I could, for example, lock you and your valet up in the dungeon in the cellar—or would you prefer to be locked up in the tower, where the view is better? Alternatively, I could chain you to your bedposts.”
His hands shaking, Hewley forced a tremulous smile. “Really, my lord, I find you most amusing. But I am feeling a trifle fatigued, so with or without your leave, I shall now retire to my room.”
“Just as you did a year ago? Was that before or after you caused a young girl to drown herself?”
Fear and guilt obvious in every line of his body, Hewley began to edge toward the door, but Marcus casually moved to cut him off. “What happened last year on All Hallows’ Eve, Hewley? According to the Brignalls, you had been harassing Miss Rowena ever since Uncle Timothy’s funeral.”
“Indeed not. To be sure, I did extend a formal proposal of marriage, but I never tried to force her to accept,” Hewley said, his eyes shifting back and forth rather nervously, as if he were seeking a way to escape the trap he now found himself in.
“Force? What an odd word to use. So you did not try to force your attentions on Miss Rowena? Methinks the gentleman doth protest too much.”
Visibly pulling himself together, Hewley said indignantly, “You may play around with words all you wish, my lord, but you will find no one who can rightly accuse me of improper behavior. There was a formal inquest, as you very well know, and Miss Rowena’s death was ruled an accident.”
“Perhaps no one accused you of—how did you phrase it?—improper behavior because no one went looking in the right place. Perhaps no one thought to ask Miss Rowena?’’
Hewley laughed. “Now I see what it is. You are clearly deranged, my lord. How can someone ask Miss Rowena anything when she is dead?”
“Did you not know? Her ghost still walks these halls. Her soul is too tormented to find peace in the grave.”
“Do not be absurd. There are no ghosts, only silly people with vivid imaginations.”
“Does this mean you do not believe in demons and banshees and bogles either?’’
“Of course not. Despite what you apparently think, I am not a gullible yokel from the provinces.”
“Then surely, being a sophisticated London gentleman who is too modern to believe in ancient superstitions, you can have no objections to strolling down to the Drowning Pool with me to visit the scene of the, uh, incident as you called it?”
“First thing in the morning,” Hewley said, trying to brush past Marcus.
“Tonight,” Marcus said, catching hold of his guest’s arm. He looked down into the other man’s eyes, wordlessly daring him to attempt to break free, but Hewley capitulated immediately.
“Whenever you wish,” he said, curling his lip with contempt. “I believe the experts are in agreement that it is wise to humor deranged people.”
His show of bravado was not very convincing because the sweat on his forehead betrayed him.
Keeping a firm grip on Hewley’s arm, Marcus led the way outside. “I believe the moon was full last year, and the sky was clear, was it not, my dear sir?’’
“I could not say,’’ Hewley said flatly, his voice betraying no emotion. “As I have told you repeatedly, I did not go out that evening.”
They reached the path, and Marcus could detect a holding back on Hewley’s part—a reluctance to proceed down the hill. “Have you ever seen the Drowning Pool?”
“Once—during daylight, of course,” Hewley was quick to reply. “The day after the unfortunate incident.”
“I shall have the truth out of you one way or another,” Marcus said mildly when they reached the halfway point.
“I have told you nothing but the truth,” Hewley replied. “Over and over I have told you, and sooner or later you will have to accept it.”
“Perhaps.”
The pool was even more alluring in the moonlight than it had been when Marcus had seen it in broad daylight, as if it were in truth enchanted.
“Well, we are here, my lord, but I do not see any ghosts.”
As if his words had conjured up the spirit, a silvery apparition rose from the ground and pointed an accusing finger at Hewley.
“You sent me to my grave,” the ghost wailed in an unearthly voice. “In my uncle’s study, you tried to assault me.”
Whimpering in terror, Hewley tried to pry Marcus’s fingers away from his arm, but Marcus only tightened his grip.
“You chased me down the hill,” the lovely spirit accused mournfully, “laughing at my terror.”
“I meant you no harm,” Hewley said, his voice rising hysterically. “There was no reason to run away—it was not my fault!”
“You forced me to choose death before dishonor, and now I have come to demand your soul in payment,” the ghost said, taking a step forward.
With a terrified shriek, Hewley managed to jerk his arm free and Marcus could hear him blundering his way back up the hill.
There was no point in chasing him, Marcus realized. As appealing as it was to envision tossing Hewley into the pond, such action might mean losing his only opportunity to converse further with the ghost, who until now had only spoken to him in his dreams.
But what did one say to a ghost? How could he explain that even if they had to wait through all the long years until he was an old man and could join her in the grave, they would still be together for all eternity?
The spirit took a step away from him, and he cried out frantically, “Rowena—don’t go! Don’t leave me with nothing.”
Instead of vanishing, the ghost bent and picked up something dark from the ground. “I am not leaving,” she said matter-of-factly. “But it is a trifle chilly out this evening, and I see no reason to stand here shivering.”
Could a ghost feel the cold? How odd....
Without pausing to consider the possible consequences of his actions, Marcus took two steps forward and grasped the ghost’s arm.
To his astonishment, he found himself holding onto a real live woman. There was nothing the least bit ethereal about her.
For a brief moment, it almost seemed as if his intense longing for Rowena had brought her back from the grave. “What the devil is going on here?”
Without making any effort to free herself, the previously silent “ghost” became remarkably talkative. “I know it was a silly thing to have done,” she said, “but really, that man was impossible. I simply could not face an entire year of fighting off his unwelcome advances, and he refused to listen to reason.”
“I am not interested in hearing explanations,” Marcus said.
“You are not?” she asked, her voice no longer matter-of-fact.
“Definitely not.” With trembling hands, he pulled her into his arms. The scent of lavender washed over him, weakening his knees, and her curves fit against him as if she had been created especially for that purpose.
Surely he had died and gone to heaven, because such ecstasy was not of this world. Nothing he had experienced in life could equal the satisfaction of holding her in his embrace.
Then, with a delightful laugh, she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him, but instead of her kisses satisfying his desire, he found himself wanting more—needing more.
They had been apart a lifetime, and now they had to be together.
“Rowena,” he whispered between frantic kisses. “My love,” he said, running his hands over her curves, pulling her even closer to him. His spirit was already one with hers, and now his body cried out to join with hers also.
His hunger for her became so great he started to lower her to the ground, impatient to cover her body with his own.
Just in time he realized what he was about to do. “No!” he cried out hoarsely.
Rowena became still in his arms, looking up at him in the moonlight, her pale face betraying no emotion. Then suddenly she wrenched herself free and began to dash up the hill.
With an anguished cry, he ran after her, but so swift was she that he would not have caught her had not her cloak become entangled in a bramble bush.
With scarcely a pause, she undid the ties and ran on, leaving the garment behind, but the delay was sufficient to allow him to catch her just as she reached the top of the hill.
His momentum carried them both to the ground, and she lay panting beside him.
“Don’t ever leave me—promise you will never leave me again,” he managed to gasp out. Then, holding her head with both hands, he kissed her.
She made no effort to move out of his embrace, but her face was wet with her tears, and she said not a word.
Feeling as if he were damned for all eternity, he rolled over onto his back, taking her with him. “Rowena, promise me you will never leave me,” he repeated. “I cannot live without you. We belong together.” Words were inadequate to explain, and he had just lost the chance to show her by his touch—by his kisses—how much he loved her.
Her tears were soaking through his shirt, burning his flesh, causing unbearable agony in his soul. Nothing he had suffered as a soldier was equal to this pain.
“You said no,” she whispered, and her voice was filled with an anguish equal to his own.
“I can explain,” he began, but she shook her head.
“You said no explanations,” she said angrily, “and now you wish to explain?’’
Her past had not mattered to him—even his own past had no longer mattered. Once she was in his arms, he had needed no explanations... but unfortunately he had not recognized her need to explain.
Stroking her hair gently with one hand, he said quietly and calmly, “I’m sorry. Tell me now. I want to know what happened, why you pretended to be dead.’’
She told him everything that Hewley had done a year earlier, and everything she had done, and he suffered the months of her loneliness with her.
“And so you see, until my birthday I was still legally under his control.” She paused, then went on. “I would have asked for your help, but I was not sure what you would do when you discovered my deception. I was not sure you would listen,” she said.
He laughed and kissed her lightly. “And now are you willing to listen to my explanation too, instead of running away?” She moved against his chest, and he took it to mean an assent. “The ‘no’ was intended for me, not for you. When you kissed me, I wanted nothing more than to throw you to the ground and love you, but that would have meant I was no better than Hewley.”
She explored his face, caressing his cheeks and his chin and his lips gently with her fingers, her touch as delicate as a butterfly’s wings. Then, with a smile in her voice, she said, “But there is a vast difference between the two of you. You see, I want very much for you to love me—right here, right now.” She shifted her weight on top of him, and he felt his blood heat up even more.
“No!” he said, sitting up with her still held fast on his lap. “Never think that I do not love you, because you have my heart and my soul, and I would die if you ever left me. I love you, Rowena, and I want you to be my wife. Will you marry me?’’ Even knowing what her answer must be, he felt as if his very life hung in the balance.
Her cheek pressed against him, she whispered, “Of course I shall marry you, Marcus,” and her breath warmed his ear even while her words warmed his heart. “And I promise I shall never run away from you again. To leave you would be to die, for I have loved you throughout all time and eternity. I was not truly alive before I met you, and having found you, I know I shall never truly die, because our love is too strong ever to end.”
“You are so perfect—I want everything to be perfect for you.”
“There is nothing easier,” she said with a light laugh. “Your bed is much warmer and softer than the ground, and a perfect place for making love.” She scrambled off his lap and stood up, then held out her hand to him.
Taking it, he stood up, and just the touch of her fingers on his own was enough to make his resolution weaken. Somehow he found the fortitude to say, “I want us to be married before we sleep together.’’
“I am afraid it is too late for propriety. We have already spent too many hours together in your bed.”
At her words, his dreams of her shifted and rearranged themselves, and he realized they were in truth memories—beautiful memories of holding her in his arms, of feeling her warmth beside him, of feeling her lips caress him.
Leaning against him, she said, “If I had not already tasted your lips—if I had not already felt your naked flesh against mine—perhaps then I would be content to wait. But having sampled such delights, I cannot wait another day, nor even another hour. Indeed, it would be most selfish of you to expect me to do so.”
Reaching up, she pulled his head down as if she were going to kiss him again, but instead she nipped him on the neck with her teeth, making him give a startled yelp. “Just a reminder, my love, that I have been known to employ drastic measures when someone attempts to coerce me into doing something I do not wish to do.”
Laughing, he picked her up in his arms and swung her around. “I can tell I am going to be living under the cat’s paw.”
“More than likely,” she said, linking her arms around his neck. “But I shall see that you enjoy every minute of it.’’
The hour was late, the guests had all gone home, and the study was quiet at last. Sitting there on Marcus’s lap in front of a crackling fire, Rowena was so comfortable she saw no need to move.
Although the celebration afterward had lasted for hours, with toast after toast drunk in honor of the Lord of Castle Ravenswych and his new Lady, the wedding itself had been quick—a matter of driving to Newcastle for a license, and then exchanging their vows in the parish church.
To be sure, it had taken a week of loving before either of them had been willing to leave his bed, which was now definitely their bed, but none of their guests had known that interesting little detail.
Drowsily, Rowena watched the flickering flames dancing in front of her. Never the same, the images formed and reformed themselves.
Out of the corner of her eye she noticed Uncle Timothy sitting beside her in his chair, and she felt an overwhelming contentment with life.
Uncle Timothy?
Turning her head, she stared at his chair, which of course was empty.
“What’s wrong?” Marcus murmured sleepily, his arms tightening around her.
“I must have been dreaming,” she said. “I was looking at the fire, and out of the corner of my eye I saw—I mean I thought I saw—Uncle Timothy sitting in his chair.”
Feeling a twinge of regret that it had all been a fantasy, she turned her head back and stared once more at the fire.
Once again she was positive she could see Uncle Timothy out of the corner of her eye. Jerking around to see, she was disappointed anew.
“If you are going to keep fidgeting, you will have to find another place to sit,” Marcus said, making no move to release her.
“Marcus,” she whispered, “it is so very odd—every time I stare at the flames, I can see Uncle Timothy out of the corner of my eye, but when I turn my head, he is not there.”
Marcus shifted position slightly, and then gave a low whistle. “I can see him, too. Good lord, there is a ghost here in the castle after all.”
“What do you suppose he wants?” Rowena whispered, and then the words came into her mind as if she were actually hearing them.
I want to apologize, dearest child, for having made such a terrible mistake—for having so misjudged Hewley’s character. Will you forgive me?’’
“Of course I forgive you, Uncle,” she said, not feeling the least bit ridiculous talking to a ghost.
I did the best I could to rectify my error.
Vivid images filled Rowena’s mind—an image of Hewley’s sash coming untied while he was chasing her down the hill, an image of Marcus’s candle being blown out when he discovered her in the music room, an image of a bramble bush reaching out to catch her cloak.
With a smile, she related it all to Marcus. “Did Uncle Timothy speak to you, too?” she asked.
To her surprise, Marcus looked somewhat abashed.
“Well, did he?” she said, wondering if Uncle Timothy had decided to play the role of heavy-handed chaperone. Had he, for example, berated Marcus for anticipating their wedding?
“All he said was—” Marcus paused, then continued ruefully, “that, someday I shall have his permission to sit in his chair, but only after I have filled the castle with sons to carry on the tradition of the Cheynes.”
Laughing, he stood up with her in his arms. “Since I have long coveted that chair, I advise you to cooperate, wife.”
“So long as you are able to fulfill your husbandly duties, my love, you will find I am all amiability.”
Copyright © 1992 by Charlotte Louise Dolan
Originally published by Signet in novella collection
Electronically published in 2013 by Belgrave House/Regency Reads
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This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.