SEDUCTION

He kissed her. There was no preamble, no sweet and tentative approach. There was only the heat of his body and the strength of his hands on her arms, holding her as his mouth pressed to hers, hard, hungry. For an instant, she responded. The silk of his tongue, the mingling of breath, the scent of his skin, faintly citrus, filled her. There was pleasure here. Primitive, savage pleasure.

Oh, God, how long since she had felt this?

Never. The truth of that was irrefutable.

Whatever stirrings of passion she had felt in her past, it was a mere prelude to the sensations that drowned her now. She had never been kissed so thoroughly, so savagely. So beautifully.

With only a kiss he had found the part of her she thought she had killed and sliced out with surgical precision. She had been wrong.

Under the press of his lips and the stroke of his tongue she unfurled, the air around them so still it quivered, the storm inside her building until she kissed him back, openmouthed and hungry. Her fingers twisted in his hair, tugging him down to her as she fed on his strength, his passion, the physical comfort of his hard body and sheltering embrace…

Books by Eve Silver

DARK DESIRES

HIS DARK KISS

DARK PRINCE

HIS WICKED SINS

SEDUCED BY A STRANGER

NATURE OF THE BEAST
(with Hannah Howell and Adrienne Basso)

Published by Zebra Books

SEDUCED BY A STRANGER

EVE SILVER

ZEBRA BOOKS

Kensington Publishing Corp.

http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

This book is for Aida, for so many reasons

Acknowledgments

Many thanks to my editor, John Scognamiglio. To Nancy Frost and Brenda Hammond for the many years of support, friendship, and guidance. To Michelle Rowen, for lunches and laughter when I needed it most. To Ann Christopher, Caroline Linden, Kristi Astor/Kristina Cook, Laura Drewry, Lori Devoti, and Sally MacKenzie for holding my hand through the bleak, frozen winter.

And, as always, to Sheridan, my joy; Dylan, my light; and Henning, my forever love.

Contents

Part One

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Part Two

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter Ten

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Part Three

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Part Four

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Epilogue

Part One

Chapter 1

Marlow, Buckinghamshire, October 1812

At the age of eleven, Catherine Weston was buried alive in a shallow, wet grave.

Two months before that, she had stood in the cemetery beside the ancient stone church, clutching her mother’s hand as the tiny coffin containing her brother’s remains was lowered into the ground. All four of her infant brothers had been buried this way. Sent to the warmth and light of Heaven, her mother said.

But now, on this miserable, gray October day, as the damp earth weighed impossibly heavy on her chest and forced her to struggle for every breath, Catherine realized her mother had lied. There was no light or warmth. There was only the cold, pungent mud and the choking terror that made her heart beat so hard she was certain it would burst.

She wondered how long it would be until someone missed her. Too long, for though she had been at Browning School for Girls for nearly a month, she had not formed any close friendships. No one would note her absence with any alacrity. She was the only child of two only children, and she had spent the first decade of her life entertaining herself while her parents grieved for their four infant sons and grew distant and tired and old before their time. Solitude was a state she knew best. The constant noise and hubbub at Browning unnerved her. As she lay panting in her grave, she thought with bitter regret that her preference for solitude had come with a terrible price.

The morning had been stormy, the rain pounding, the boom of thunder loud and near. By the afternoon, the downpour abated and as soon as lessons were over, Catherine left the school and sneaked off to gather smooth, cool stones like the ones she and her mother took to her brothers’ graves and left there to mark the fact that they had come and gone. In the spring and summer, they left flowers. In the autumn and winter, stones. There was a welcome familiarity to the task.

The large pocket at the front of her pinafore was already heavy with a dozen small rocks when she bent at the edge of a low embankment to pick up one more. Without warning or sound, the earth gave way beneath her feet. One moment she stood on wet ground, the next, she slipped down to the muddy riverbank and sank in the fetid mire as a good chunk of the embankment came sliding down atop her.

And there she was. Buried as her brothers were buried, though they were dead and she was not. Not yet.

Numb, she lay there at an odd incline, her head closer to the surface than her feet. The first thought that came to her mind was that she would die here and her mother would cry a river of tears and her father would have cried if she had been a son, but since she was a daughter he would remain stoically silent. Then all thoughts were swept aside by a roaring, surging panic.

Seized by horror and fear, Catherine tried to scream, but the weight of the earth did not let her put any force in the sound, and the effort robbed her of what little breath she could summon.

The more she cried and wriggled, the deeper she sank, the muck taking on a sucking, greedy life of its own, pulling her in. Beneath her, the slime parted and oozed to make her grave more secure, cold and dark and so foul that she retched and gagged. Above her, the weight of the fallen embankment pressed down and down, growing heavier by the moment.

She was dying. She knew it and she fought and struggled with all she was because she wanted to live.

Whatever the price, she wanted to live.

Her struggles grew weaker, her movements sluggish, and after a time, she simply lay there, taking shallow little breaths, trapped like a fly in honey.

Luck and happenstance had determined that her right hand was squashed in the space directly before her face, held fast in the posture she had taken as she tumbled, with her hand raised in a futile gesture of protection. Willing herself to hold still and quiet, she wriggled only her fingers, pushing aside the earth before her face, creating a pocket that allowed her to breathe. Then she moved her whole hand at the wrist, sweeping dirt from before her mouth and nose and eyes until finally a tiny opening let the gray of the sky peep through.

The sight of the sky, so welcome and sweet, overwhelmed her. A seedling of hope unfurled. She took a moment then to breathe, just breathe. Or perhaps she took an hour. There was no way to know.

More wriggling and waving of her hand, more inching of her forearm side to side, and the hole grew large enough that she thrust her hand and part of her forearm out of the ground like a dirt-covered branch sticking up toward the heavens.

With careful movements she pushed the earth aside as best she could, large clumps falling on her face, into her eyes and mouth. But the hole grew larger, and it was that she held on to, the sight of the ever-expanding edges of the opening and the hope that she could dig her way free.

A sound reached her, faint and distant, a squelching noise like footsteps in mud. It grew louder, then stopped, then started again. Catherine thrust her hand through the hole once more, waggling it to and fro and calling out in a hoarse, dry croak to make what paltry ruckus she could until she was forced to seal her lips against the earth that sprinkled on her face, loosened by her movements.

The footsteps stopped entirely, and Catherine’s heart stopped right along with them. Then louder, faster, they pounded toward her. From nowhere a face appeared in place of the patch of gray sky, pale cheeks and dull skin, scraggly yellow ringlets and wide blue eyes.

Catherine blinked against the soil that clung to her lids, and after a moment of hazy desperation, she recognized the face above her. Madeline. The strange, quiet girl from Browning who kept to herself, the girl the others whispered about. She was a little older than Catherine, perhaps three years or four, but her odd nature made her seem younger.

Madeline stood a distance away, her position causing her face to be neatly framed by the margins of the hole. Leaning in a bit, she peered deeper into Catherine’s grave, her brow furrowed. Then she reared back as though struck and made a startled sound. “Catherine?”

“Help,” Catherine wheezed, the single word all she could summon.

She heard sounds of swishing cloth, and a faint dull thud, and she realized that Madeline had gotten down on her belly and inched forward to push aside the wet earth at the edges of the hole. A cascade of soil tumbled onto Catherine’s face.

“No!” she cried, desperately afraid that these attempts at aid would only serve to bury her completely. They needed adults and more than just Madeline’s two hands to dig her free. “Get help!”

Tipping her head to the side, Madeline did nothing, and Catherine ran her dry tongue over dryer lips and struggled to find the breath to explain. But there was no need. Madeline offered an awkward nod.

“I shall return,” she said, then squirmed back, straightened, and finally, disappeared.

Catherine longed to call her back. Do not leave me. I beg of you, do not leave me alone in my grave. But she knew there was no other way, and Madeline was already gone.

It was a very long while—her despair and terror making time tick away all the more slowly—before Catherine heard the sounds of pounding feet and the shouts of the headmistress and others, and it was even longer until they dug away all the dirt and pulled her free.

She felt arms wrap around her and her body lifted. She cried, racking, dry sobs that faded to nothing, and she was only dimly aware of being bathed and clothed in a nightrail that smelled of soap, and then tucked in her bed. The headmistress made her drink something that was warm and smelled like cloves and milk and her father’s brandy.

Much later, she woke from an uneasy doze, her throat raw and dry. There was almost no light, and for a fraught instant she thought she was dead. Buried. Then she recognized the sliver of moonlight that drew a thin line on the floor and the smooth softness of the sheets that covered her, and she realized that she lay in her bed at Browning. Sounds became recognizable. The beating of her own heart, made loud and strong by her fear. The wind whistling through chinks in the wall. The rattle of the windowpanes. And the huff of steady, soft breathing.

She turned her head. Someone stood at her bedside, cloaked in shadow.

Madeline.

The girl stared at her, eyes glittering with the reflection of what paltry light bled through the darkness. She glided closer, reached out, and laid her palm flat across Catherine’s chest, above her heart.

“Tell me,” she whispered urgently. “What does it feel like to die?”

Catherine struggled to form a reply. She had not died. She lived. She lived. And she was so grateful for that.

Just then, the headmistress came with a candle, the flame dancing and bright against the blackness. Mesmerized, Catherine stared at the orange glow, so beautiful, so warm, and she wondered how to answer her friend, her savior.

What does it feel like to die?

Chapter 2

Cairncroft Abbey, March 1813

The boy made his way through the woods, purposeful and quick, his breath showing white before his lips, for the morning was unseasonably chilly. He knew exactly where he headed, and when he reached the place, he wrapped his strong young arms around the thick trunk and shimmied up, the bark rough beneath his hands. The nest before him held three young birds. They were not newly hatched, but rather almost ready for flight. The sight of them made him smile.

Three. He found their number auspicious.

With care, he eased the nest from the crook of the heavy branch, balancing it with one hand as he clambered back down the tree, using his thighs and his one free hand to guide his descent.

Though the day was winter-cold, the sun shone overhead, peeking through branches and leaves, bright and hot. Like a fire. He liked fires, the sight of the flames, leaping and dancing, the heat, the powerful and unpredictable nature. The destruction left in its wake. In the autumn, he had found a quiet place in the wood and brought a fagot to light the dry sticks. With wonder and awe, he had watched as the flames roared and spread so fast that even had he wished to stop them, he would not have been able.

If his parents knew he was the one who had started the fire that took half the south woods, they had never said. Even if they suspected it, he knew they could not be certain. He was a very good liar, able to hide the truth from almost anyone, except perhaps his cousin Sebastian, who seemed to know things that no one else ever did. But Sebastian did not live with them anymore, and that was for the best.

With the nest carefully held in one hand, and the other arm stretched high where he curled his fingers round an overhead branch, the boy pointed his toes, seeking the ground. At last, they touched and he lowered himself, checking the nest with a sigh of relief. The birds chirped wildly as he turned and walked a brisk pace deeper into the woods.

The foliage grew thicker, blocking the sun, leaving him in cold, dark shadow. It was quiet, save for the clamor of the baby birds. There was no one here. Only him.

Setting the nest on an old, desiccated log, he hunkered down beside it to eye level, staring at the tiny creatures. Their short, high-pitched cries tumbled one against the next.

They were orphaned things. He had poked at the bodies of two adult birds where they had lain near the base of the tree. The nestlings were alone, as his cousin Madeline was alone.

Only…she was not truly alone, though her parents were dead now as the nestlings’ were.

Madeline had family here. She had returned to the abbey, and now there were three, instead of only two as they had been before. He was still not quite certain how he felt about that. Madeline was a strange, quiet thing who glided noiselessly in his shadow, adoring and desperate for any attention he bestowed. At times, he enjoyed that, though he did find it odd, for she was the elder and he the younger by a full three years. Mostly he found her more irritating than anything else.

“Are you afraid?” the boy whispered, reaching out and almost touching one of the birds, only to stop short and draw his hand back as the tiny creature opened its beak and made a piteous sound.

He rose and glanced about. There were twigs aplenty littering the forest floor, and old, brown leaves that smelled like moist rot, piled in a thick, carpeting layer. Picking up a stick, he used it to poke around a bit, until the end clacked against something solid—a rock tucked tight against the log.

Prying loose the rock, then rooting beneath to search for bugs, he caught a fat worm and brought it to the nest. For a moment, he gazed between the single worm and the three open beaks. Then he smiled. Squeezing the squirming, wriggling flesh, he dug deep with his nails and carefully tore the worm into three parts. A shiver of delight wriggled up his spine. He fed a bit into each seeking beak.

“Are you afraid?” he whispered again, reaching down to close his hand around one small, feathered body and lift the bird from its nest.

He stroked his index finger along its head. The creature’s heart fluttered violently and it struggled in his grasp. It turned its head toward him, eyes glossy and black, and he wondered if it knew.

Could it sense his intent?

Smiling, he stroked its head once more. A sensation of unutterable power surged, and with a giddy laugh he twisted the nestling’s head clear around.

Bright and sharp, the snap echoed through the woods. Or perhaps his joy in the act only served to amplify the sound.

There was no more fluttering heart, no more frightened twitching. There was nothing. Only the still-warm body in his hand. And he owned that body. It was his.

The pleasure that bathed him, warm and liquid, nearly sent him to his knees.

He took a slow, deep breath, savoring the moment, enjoying the nuances of scent and touch and sound. He wanted to remember this frozen instant, this feeling. His first time. In the cold, dark forest, he was the master, the king. He was powerful, all-powerful. He claimed this creature’s very life.

The remaining two birds began to chirp madly, a crescendo of sound, and he jerked his head to the side, pinning his full attention on them. They peeped louder and faster as he carefully set the little corpse on the log and reached into the nest for the next.

To his right, a twig snapped.

He whirled, fury biting deep. Someone watched him. Someone dared to disturb his play.

There.

He saw a flash of pale hair. Madeline, or someone else?

Following instinct rather than design, determined to protect his secrets, he snatched a stick from the ground. The heft was just right, the end pointed and sharp.

With a snarl he lunged for the shadows.

Night crept in on silent feet. Dark shapes twisted and writhed along the walls, slashed by the flickering tongues of amber and gold cast out by the fire that burned in the hearth. The door to the chamber was cracked open just wide enough for a rat to squirm through, or a sly lad to peer in unnoticed. Curling his fingers around the edge of the door, the boy eased closer and breathed deeply. The fragrance of blood drifted lightly on the current of cold air, a subtle perfume, inviting and mysterious.

Enthralled, he held very still, his body quivering like that of a hound after a scent.

Beside the bed, on a hard, straight chair, sat a woman. His mother. Her back was hunched, her thin shoulders sagging. She sobbed, the sounds grating and harsh, dragging across the boy’s senses like a file. At her back—stone-faced and silent—stood her husband, his hands fisted by his sides, for at last he had recognized the futility of his efforts to comfort her. Shadow and light played over the pair, actors in a twisted tableau.

But this scene was part of no fictional play. The participants were real; their torment was real, and the boy found joy in their suffering, pleasure in their pain. The thrill of it danced through him.

After a time, a different sensation invaded, the prickling unease of unseen eyes watching him. From behind came a faint sound, a sigh or a footfall. The rustle of fabric.

Someone there.

Madeline.

Anger surged. He was the watcher. He was the dweller of darkened doorways and niches.

He turned slowly, narrowed his eyes, and searched for some sign of movement. His heart pounded a hard, steady rhythm as he held his rage in rigid check. The long, empty hallway unfurled like a black ribbon, and the skulking shadows swallowed him whole.

But his cousin was not there. No one was there.

Feeling foolish and liking that not at all, he faced forward once more to peer into the fire-kissed gloom of the bedchamber, careful to make no noise that might alert those inside to his presence. His gaze slid to the bed.

The sheets were a pristine white, the bed frame dark cherry. A boy lay there, his head nestled on a soft pillow, his spun gold hair matted, his skin a paler shade of chalk tinged with gray. His nightshirt flowered crimson where blood seeped through the bandages the housekeeper had wrapped about his limp form hours past when the sun had been a bright ball in the sky.

Ever the interloper, the outcast, the boy at the door leaned in a little, lured by the lovely sight of the blood.

A shiver of delight chased across his skin, raising the fine hairs on his forearms.

The darkness shifted and breathed, a cloud crossing the moon. He glanced at the windows that were set high in the far wall. They were long and narrow as had been the style when this place, Cairncroft Abbey, was built. The cloud passed and cool pale light leaked through the warped panes, past the heavy curtains, but not so far as the dim corners or the recesses of the high ceiling. He liked that, the way the moonlight struggled—and failed—to puncture the suffocating gloom.

The darkness won. It always won.

In the hearth, a log popped, sending a spray of bright sparks dancing through the air. The woman gasped.

Clenching his fists against the urge to push the door fully ajar, to step into the bedchamber where wretched despair played out in perfect melodrama, the boy held his place, apart, separate. Alone.

“I cannot bear it. I cannot,” the woman whispered on a dry croak. “Geoffrey”—her voice broke—“Gabriel.” She raised her head and turned her face toward the open door, toward him, but her eyes were hazy, unfocused. She saw not what was before her.

That was ever the way of things. She never saw him.

With a sob, she collapsed forward and buried her face in her hands. Her husband stood at her back, staring straight ahead, until finally, as the sound of her cries burgeoned and grew, he moved to kneel before her. His face was close to hers and he whispered useless words meant to comfort.

Until that moment, the man’s broad shoulders had obscured the looking glass that hung above the mantel. Now, his movement left a clear path to the door.

From his place outside the chamber, the boy lifted his gaze and stared into the silvered, dark depths of the mirror. The partially open door was reflected there, and the jamb framing the ghostly oval of his face. His own wide, almond-tipped eyes stared back at him.

‘Twas a face identical to that of the cold, motionless boy on the bed.

And the reflection was smiling with dark, secret glee.

Part Two

Chapter 3

Cambridge, England, March 1828

What does it feel like to die?

The question haunted her still. As she lurched to and fro in the swaying coach, Catherine Weston recalled every nuance of the long-ago night when Madeline had climbed onto the bed and stretched out beside her, her mere presence offering solace. She recalled the flare of emotion when the headmistress had come, carrying a single candle with its dancing flame. Catherine had stared at that tiny flickering light, thinking she had never seen anything more beautiful, more comforting.

A few short months later, Madeline’s parents were dead, taken by a fever, and Madeline was removed from Browning, never to return. But that night had been the first step on the path to this day.

Within the fetid confines of the hired carriage, Catherine sat in damp discomfort, listening to the wild patter of the rain and staring at the wet stain that darkened the far side of the seat as drop after drop seeped through a crack in the roof and plopped against the velvet in a steady drip. The ancient carriage jerked and jolted, the horses slogging through rivers of mud that overtook the roads and sucked at the wheels. More than once the conveyance lurched to an unwelcome halt, and from her place inside, Catherine heard the coachman’s curses and the crack of his whip urging the beasts to pull free.

The sounds were muffled but not completely obscured by the drumming of the storm.

Rage and frustration laced the driver’s tone, conjuring less than pleasant memories of another man, his voice taut with fury as he cursed fate. Cursed her.

She curled her fingers, digging the tips of her nails into her palms. That man was dead, but the things he had said and done haunted her still.

Resolutely, she turned her thoughts to nothing at all, locking away the memories and the pain.

Soon, the carriage stopped at a small coaching inn and Catherine went gratefully to a retiring room before making her way to the public dining room where she settled at a small table as close to the fire as possible. She stared into the flames for a long moment, rousing herself when a plate was set before her. She poked at the unpalatable meal—underdone leg of mutton that smelled gamey, and a boiled potato, hot and soft on the outside but hard and uncooked within. Travel weary and bedraggled, she could not deflect the instant of melancholy that touched her, or the thought that her heart was a little like that potato, cold and hard at its core.

Best it stay that way. A soft heart was a certain road to torment.

“’Tis inedible,” grumbled a portly man at the adjacent table.

“Inexcusable,” groused his companion. “A crime, I tell you, to take good coin for this slop. A heinous crime.”

Catherine pressed her lips together, holding back the unsolicited observation that there were things in this life one could label both heinous and criminal. A poorly prepared meal was not one of them.

She sipped her tea, letting the warmth cheer her, grateful for the brief respite from the commingled scents of rot and sweat and old perfume that clung to the walls and seats of the hired carriage. Grateful, too, to sit on a chair that did not sway and jolt.

Almost there, now. And was she not fortunate to have a destination to go to?

From the corner of her eye, she saw the coachman stalk past the door. He had been pacing like that for several minutes, pausing intermittently to stare hard at her as though willing her to hurry.

She finished her tea and set the chipped cup on its mismatched saucer, nostalgia creeping up on her. There had been a time when she had lived in a house with only the finest china, when her tea had been poured from a silver pot. Funny, the things she pined for. Not the china or the silver, but the lemon squares that Cook used to make with such loving care. She wondered what had become of Cook. What had become of all the servants, especially those who had helped her after the fire.

She shivered and again gathered her thoughts, all the more determined to keep the past locked away in its dusty box. That was the only safe place for it to be.

Squaring her shoulders, Catherine took up her reticule and rose from the small table.

Moments later, she climbed into the rank carriage once more. From his ugly glare and muttered complaints, Catherine thought that the driver might have preferred to remain at the inn and find himself a tankard and a chair, or perhaps leave her there and hie himself back to London. But she had promised him an extra coin at the end of the journey if he brought her to her destination before nightfall. Both foresight and frugality underpinned her promise. The cost of his reward was far less than the cost of overnighting at a coaching inn.

The door slammed shut behind her; the springs creaked and groaned as the driver climbed up. A moment later, the carriage jolted and the horses plodded on.

Time passed, and in the end the downpour stopped, but the sky did not clear. Catherine was unprepared when the carriage made a sharp turn, and she slid across the rain-dampened squabs with a gasp. Bracing one hand on the worn velvet of the seat, she scooted forward and looked out the window to catch her first sight of her destination.

Cairncroft Abbey.

Well, there it was. She knew not what she had expected; she only knew it was not this.

Tipping her head, she contemplated the massive array of limestone and clunch that loomed gray and cold and bleak before her. So many chimneys. They poked up from the steeply pitched tile roof, three on the left, then a single, a double, another single on the far right, dark silhouettes against the suffocating mantle of charcoal cloud. One of the chimneys sent up a thin, whitish curl of weak smoke. No light glimmered in the windows. Instead, they stared, blank and vacant and utterly dark, reflecting the image of the grim sky. Grim as the letter Madeline had written, telling of her desperation and despair.

Please come. I beg of you. Please come.

And what reply could Catherine offer to the girl who had saved her life other than, “I will come.”

Her curiosity piqued, she continued to study the place even after the coach rocked to a halt.

“Perhaps the abbey looks better in the sunshine,” she muttered, and pushed open the carriage door. She could only hope such was the case, for this dreary dwelling did not bode well for the improvement of Madeline’s mood.

Climbing down onto the graveled drive, Catherine looked up at the windows once more. For an instant she thought she saw a flicker of movement, a pale form shimmering, wraithlike, behind the glass, there one moment, gone the next. When she saw nothing more, she dropped her gaze and stepped forward only to stop short, for directly in her path lay a small, dark shape.

Peripherally aware of the coachman muttering and huffing behind her as he fetched her things, she took another step, thinking the shape was a clod of dirt.

She blinked.

Not dirt. A blackbird. It must have hit one of the windows and fallen to the ground.

A dead thing in a dead place.

She stared at the feathered little carcass on the drive with its skinny, twiglike legs stretched toward the sky, and for an instant saw something entirely different, a memory of a human form, rigid and—

“Here you are.” The driver’s voice drew her attention, scattering her dark memories like smoke. With a grunt, he pulled her trunk down and heaved it to the ground at her feet, then cast a narrow-eyed look first at the uninviting abbey, then at the forest that encroached from the north.

Catherine followed his gaze. The trees grew tightly, one against the next, their limbs twining together as though blocking any unwelcome visitor from entering there. A feeling of unease slunk through her. She shivered and turned away.

“An inhospitable place, bounded by cursed woods on all sides,” the driver muttered, and sidled back toward the carriage with a last dubious look toward the door of the abbey. “You certain they’re expecting you?”

“They are,” Catherine replied. She watched in silence as he clambered up to his perch, the springs creaking beneath his weight. He was leaving her. The realization knifed through her, and she raised her hand in an unintended plea. “Wait—”

“You paid me to bring you, and bring you I did. I’ve a way to go before dark.” He gave a last, nervous glance at the off-putting facade of Cairncroft Abbey. “I’ll take that promised reward now, miss.”

“Yes, of course.” Catherine fetched a precious coin from her reticule and handed it up to him, then stepped back, feeling oddly disconcerted that he did not remain even to see her greeted by a housekeeper or maid.

Taking up the reins in a practiced grip, he released the brake and shouted a command to his horses. The coach groaned and gave a prolonged squeak as it rolled away down the long drive, picking up speed as it went. In time, both conveyance and driver were gone and Catherine was alone.

She turned to face the house once more. Her gaze slid past the dead bird and she froze, taken aback. From this angle, there was something disturbing—unnatural—about the way the wings were spread wide as though still in flight, too contrived, too posed.

The bird’s yellow-ringed eyes stared up at her, unseeing.

But something saw her. Slowly she raised her head. Eerie certainty tickled the fine hairs at her nape and made her skin crawl. She took a short breath, a wash of dismay chilling her. Something watched her with focused intent.

She looked about, first to the windows that showed no light, then to the tangled woods. She was about to turn away when she saw a shadow shifting amongst the thick trunks. It was enough to convince her that there was something there in the forest. Perhaps someone. She could not say with certainty.

Watched from the window. Watched from the woods. But greeted by no one.

The wind howled down and tunneled into the lee created by the abutting angles of the abbey, twirling and biting, tearing at her cloak and skirt. Wariness dragged forth a shiver that had nothing to do with the chilly clime.

Rubbing her hands along her arms, Catherine faced the abbey once more. Exhaustion, she decided. There was no other explanation for the apprehension that bit at her like a thousand ants. A dead blackbird and shifting shadows were hardly cause for dismay.

She made her way to the heavy wooden front door, but before she could knock, it opened on well-oiled hinges. A woman stood there, her arms folded beneath her ample bosom, her expression utterly blank. She wore a white apron over a dark blue dress, and a white cap on her head. Though her red hair was faded and shot with gray, her face was smooth and unlined. The contradiction left Catherine unable to gauge her age. Perhaps forty, though she might have been a decade older or younger. About her waist was a chain, and a ring of keys hung heavy upon it.

“Come along, Miss Weston,” the woman said, her tone flat. “The wind is bitter, and we would both be better off out of it.”

For an instant, Catherine did not move, taken unawares by the housekeeper’s tone and words. The woman looked over her shoulder and said something in a quiet voice. After a moment a young man came out, his head bowed, his steps plodding. He hefted Catherine’s trunk and carried it off without a word or even a glance in her direction.

“Well?” the housekeeper prodded, leaving Catherine to wonder at her hostility. She was an invited guest, not some vagrant hovering on the doorstep in search of charity. But she made no comment on the oddity of the woman’s behavior. Perhaps things were different—less formal—here at Cairncroft Abbey than at other houses. Perhaps there were fewer rules.

The thought of rules and regulations and rigid control made her edgy, and as she stared at the housekeeper who stared back with blatant hostility, Catherine felt her temper spark. So she retreated into the frosty façade that had protected her for so long.

“Are you aware that there is a dead bird on the drive?” she asked, her tone chilly and proper as ever her mother’s had been.

“A dead bird,” the housekeeper echoed, her posture grown more rigid still.

“Yes. There.” With a dip of her chin and an arch of her brows, Catherine indicated the spot and said, “I suspect it hit the window.” But that was untrue. She did not suspect that at all now, but rather had the nagging thought that the unfortunate creature had expired by some other, more sinister, means. And that was simply ridiculous, a play of her imagination. Surely it was.

“I’ll see to it.” The silence stretched and the housekeeper said nothing more, only opened the door wider and waited with obvious impatience. Catherine crossed the last of the space between them and stepped inside, insulted, appalled, and faintly amused by the strange welcome.

The door swung shut behind her, silent save for the final, pronounced thud. Smells drifted to her. Beeswax. A faded overlay of lye soap. Even fainter than that, a hint of tallow.

She found herself in a vast open hall with tiles of cold, gray slate. At the far end was a narrow set of stairs that led to an open archway, beyond which were only shadows and darkness. On one wall was a wide fireplace flanked by two long, stiff-looking couches covered in burgundy velvet. They stood out in harsh contrast to the stark backdrop of pale stone.

“Look up,” said the housekeeper.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Look up,” she repeated, and Catherine did, staring in amazement at the high, domed ceiling, painted in hues of black and brown and red to depict a scene of the hunt in all its brutal and gory detail. The artist was one of surpassing skill. She almost expected a fat drop of blood to plop on her head.

After a moment, she lowered her gaze and noticed that above the couches the walls were covered with enormous tapestries. They appeared quite old, perhaps hundreds of years, but they were in fine condition, neither frayed nor faded. Each portrayed a scene of war, the one more violent than the next. Both repulsed and lured by the macabre depictions, she walked several paces forward and stared. Moments passed before Catherine turned and saw that the housekeeper watched her with ill-concealed anticipation, waiting for some reaction.

“Well,” Catherine said brightly, “the colors are quite rich.”

The housekeeper threw back her head and laughed, a harsh sound that echoed through the cavernous space.

“And I suppose that if you cut off a limb you’d say it was fine luck that you still had three attached,” the woman observed in a brittle tone.

Catherine made no show of distress, no indication that the housekeeper’s words and behavior disturbed her in any way. She had faced barbs and nettles aimed at her by a master. This woman’s acrimony barely warranted notice.

She imbued her tone with a shade of hauteur as she asked, “You are the housekeeper, Mrs….?”

“Bell.” The woman’s eyes narrowed.

“Mrs. Bell”—Catherine allowed herself a tight smile—“I thank you for this most unique welcome.” Her tone hardened. “But my journey has been long and I should like to see my friend now.”

The housekeeper opened her mouth, closed it, and pressed her lips tight. She appeared to be engaged in some personal struggle. Then she heaved a sigh and said, “Miss Madeline sleeps poorly, and she is ever agitated during the day. Your being so late has only made it worse. You were expected by midday. She was up and fretting over you with the dawn.” She paused. “Given that it is her habit to remain abed past noon, rising at that hour has only added to her distress.”

Catherine offered no explanation. She owed none. That was a lesson learned and treasured. No longer did she allow herself to rush into stuttered apologies and desperate, convoluted excuses. That part of her was dead. She had murdered it with careful purpose.

“Then I suggest we attend Miss Madeline to straightaway,” she offered crisply.

The housekeeper sniffed, then stalked toward the stairs at the end of the vast hall. Catherine followed. She wondered at the woman’s manner. Perhaps it was mere habit. Mrs. Bell had probably been the housekeeper at the abbey for many years.

They climbed the stairs at the end of the open hall, traversed a dimly lit passage, then took two more flights, the way shadowed and gloomy, for the housekeeper carried neither lamp nor candle. The house was utterly silent. Only the faint shush of their footsteps on the thick carpets disturbed the quiet. A wide passage opened before them. The doors on both sides were shut tight, the atmosphere heavy, the air stale.

“Miss Madeline likes to be private.” Mrs. Bell cast a glance over her shoulder. “But she has determined that you are to be roomed in this wing. You will sleep here.” She gestured to a door on her right that was slightly ajar, revealing a glimpse of canopied bed. “Do you wish to stop for a moment? Perhaps splash water on your face?”

The kindness of the suggestion made Catherine wary. The housekeeper had been unfailingly rude since her arrival and the sudden concern seemed false. Too, she found it odd that Mrs. Bell had fussed about Madeline’s anxious state, yet failed to convey her to her friend with all haste.

“Thank you, no. I should like to see Madeline now.” Having stopped at the inn only a few hours past, Catherine felt no immediate need to find a moment’s privacy.

“As you please.” The housekeeper walked on. At the farthest end of the hallway she stopped before a closed door and rapped sharply. “Miss Madeline?”

There came no reply, but the woman turned the handle and pushed open the paneled door as if an invitation to enter had been issued.

The portal swung inward revealing a deep, cavernous room, quiet and still. An empty church had more noise. There was no light save the embers of a dying fire. Catherine looked past the housekeeper’s shoulder into the gloom, able to see only the heavy velvet draperies that were pulled across the windows and the outlines of a table and two chairs.

“Has Catherine come?” A whisper. A plea.

“I am here,” she said, making her voice gentle though her inclination was to berate Mrs. Bell, march forward, and drag the velvet curtain from across the window to let in what little light remained of the waning day.

Sidling past the housekeeper, Catherine entered the room and turned toward the bed. Madeline was propped on a mountain of white pillows, her pale hair spread in a bright nimbus. The massive, ornate headboard dwarfed her small frame, and Catherine felt a pang of dismay to see the purple shadows beneath her eyes, the near-translucent quality of her skin, the fretful plucking of her fingers at the coverlet.

The air was flavored with the scent of liniment; she could discern the faint traces of turpentine and perhaps mustard. She was torn between the urge to rush to Madeline’s side and the longing to fling open the window and let the wind swirl through the chamber to carry off the stink of sickness and despair.

Madeline’s eyes widened as she saw Catherine and in an effort to draw herself to a more upright posture, she wriggled on the pillows like a worm on a hook, twisting this way then that, and in the end, going nowhere. Then she simply flopped back and lay blinking, her exertions turning her cheeks bright crimson in her pale face. Catherine had seen similar coloring in a woman stricken by consumption. She wondered if that was the malady that laid her friend low, for Madeline had not been forthcoming in her letters other than to say she was in ill health.

Stepping close to the bed, Catherine reached down and took Madeline’s icy hand between both of her own.

“I am certain Mrs. Bell has been most welcoming,” Madeline whispered, turning her face toward the open door where Mrs. Bell stood with her hands folded beneath her bosom. In Madeline’s gaze, Catherine read both wariness and recrimination, and she knew then that Madeline was aware of exactly how the housekeeper had greeted her. She wondered, too, if the woman was less than kind to Madeline in her time of need.

Mrs. Bell drew a deep breath through her nose and backed from the chamber, leaving Catherine and Madeline alone. Madeline stared at the open doorway for a long while, saying nothing, her eyes burning in her pale face, her lips rolled inward and pressed tight together.

“She does not like me,” she offered at last, her gaze darting to Catherine, then back to the empty doorway. “She has never liked me.” The assertion made Madeline sound both petulant and very young. “You were the only one, Catherine. They never liked me. Not any of them. You were my only friend.”

Catherine offered no demur, for the assertion might well be rooted in truth. The girls at Browning had viewed Madeline askance. Even the teachers had regarded her with wary disdain. She was different, odd, unsettling. She asked troubling questions that had no easy answers.

What does it feel like to die? Time and experience had offered Catherine at least part of the answer.

It felt like pure terror. Icy fear. Desperation and horror that went on and on. Or it felt like escape, freedom, a shedding of pain and suffering. She supposed it depended on the person doing the dying. But that knowledge had come to her with time. She had offered no answers when Madeline had asked so many years ago, for she had had none to give.

Now, she knew far too much of death and dying.

She closed her eyes for a moment, seeking strength. She would not think of that now, would not allow brutal recollections to claw her. Resolutely, she pictured a little black box, pushed the horror and the memories inside, slammed the lid and turned the key.

Opening her eyes, Catherine glanced about for somewhere to sit. There were books everywhere, stacks of them, covered in dust. They were piled on the floor, on the stiff brocade settee, on the round table in the corner. On the two chairs by the table. And everything was dark. The wood-paneled walls. The floor.

In the end, she eased down on the edge of the bed, rubbing Madeline’s hand between her own, trying to warm her icy skin.

“The girls at Browning…they feared me. Hated me,” Madeline whispered, her gaze darting again to the door.

“Browning was long ago, Madeline.” Catherine smoothed Madeline’s lank hair back from her brow. “Things that happened so far in the past cannot hurt you now,” she lied.

There were voices coming from his cousin’s chamber. One was a dreamy whisper, weak and soft. His cousin’s voice. But the mellifluous tone of the second speaker arrested Gabriel St. Aubyn in his path. The sound was modulated and pleasing to the ear, the voice of a woman confident of her words, the diction and enunciation clean and crisp. A decisive individual, if her tone was any indication.

Gabriel paused in the shadowed hallway and simply listened as the woman continued to speak, reassuring Madeline and coaxing her into conversation. Something stirred inside him, a mild curiosity that was so foreign and rare it caught him off guard. He was interested in very little of late, save his own personal demons, and they had grown frightfully tedious.

‘Twas time for a change of venue, a trip to London, even for a short while. There were all manner of distractions and entertainments there.

Stepping forward, he paused in the hallway outside the open door. He had an excellent view of the piles of books, the dark draperies, and the dying fire. But not the woman who spoke once more in that perfectly modulated voice.

He shifted a little and saw her then. First, her boot and the pale blue-gray sweep of her skirt. Another small shift and he saw her hand, her arm, and then the whole of her.

She was not at all what he had expected.

From her voice, he had already formed a picture in his mind. A woman cool and fair, tall and thin, ramrod straight in her bearing. But her appearance did not match the image he had conjured.

Tipping his head a bit to the side, he studied her from his shielded place. If she rose from where she sat at the edge of his cousin’s sickbed, she would not be tall and thin and straight. No, not at all. His lips quirked. The top of her head would reach perhaps to his shoulder. In direct opposition to his expectations, she was well curved and in slight disarray, the hem of her skirt a shade darker than the rest, damp and mud splattered. Her hair was coffee brown, pulled back in a simple style. A single long, waving tendril had escaped and slid over her shoulder to curl over her collarbone and along the full curve of her breast.

Interest stirred. He should like to brush that curl from its place. The inclination surprised him.

He recalled then that she was expected. Catherine Weston, his cousin’s childhood friend.

She stopped mid-sentence, as though her words were reined in with a sharp tug. Slowly, she raised her head, and her gaze fixed on the place he stood. Liquid dark eyes, veiled by a thick fringe of lashes that were very long and very straight. Seconds crept past, and her attention did not waver. She knew he was there, watching, though he was certain the shadows cloaked him from view.

“What is it?” Madeline asked, her tone high with fear, her fingers moving restlessly, plumping the coverlet into a lump. She would work herself into a state in a matter of seconds. He knew that from experience.

There was no help for it. He must don the mask of host, bow in greeting to their guest, exchange worthless pleasantries. The opportunity to further observe their visitor was welcome. His cousin’s company was not. For that reason only, he would have preferred to step back, feet silent on the thick carpet, and retreat unnoticed. Such cowardice—for that it was in bold truth—would allow his path and Madeline’s to continue traveling parallel to each other, never crossing. But if he departed now, his cousin would let the flames of her secret terrors rage. She would raise a hue and cry until her fears were assuaged.

And if he left now, he would not hear the wonderful music of Miss Weston’s voice once more.

Gabriel stepped forward, making his presence known. Or, more accurately, allowing Catherine Weston’s eyes to confirm what her other senses had already alerted her to. An interloper. A watcher in the shadows.

She stared at him as he paused in the doorway, her expression utterly blank, her features composed. There was no widening of her eyes at his unannounced appearance, no change in her expression, no movement at all, which led to the realization that she, too, wore a mask. He knew his own well enough to recognize such a thing in another.

Madeline was her usual distraught self, in no condition to offer polite introductions, so he took the task upon himself.

“Gabriel St. Aubyn.” He offered the words crisply, along with a shallow bow, leaving off the “Sir” and “Baronet” he might have used. Having spent so many years believing the appellations would never be his to claim, he had never become comfortable with them when they finally passed to him.

“Catherine Weston,” she replied with her crisp diction, so at odds with her lush, full mouth. Dusky rose lips, forming all those lovely consonants and vowels. Porcelain-pale skin. Brown hair, so dark it appeared black in this poor light. He had the inappropriate urge to thrust his fingers through her neatly pinned hair and set it free to tumble over her shoulders. Such an odd thing. He was not usually so fanciful.

As they watched each other in the dim, quiet room, the silence punctuated by the sound of Madeline’s nervous, panting breaths, Gabriel recognized a primitive part of himself uncoiling in a slow, sinuous stretch. He ran the pad of his thumb along the length of his index finger, though he truly wanted to run it along her full lower lip.

The urge stunned him. He was far closer to the edge of control than he had thought, and he rapidly shifted his plans. He had intended to wait until dawn on the morrow to leave for London, but as he held Catherine Weston’s calm gaze, he recognized his acute awareness of her, the danger of it, and he thought he ought to leave at once.

Because Miss Weston, with her cool gaze and cultured tone, her wide, lush mouth and carefully cultivated veneer, recognized it as well.

And there was danger in that.

Chapter 4

Sir Gabriel St. Aubyn stayed for tea.

He had no wish to. Catherine discerned his distaste in the rigid set of his jaw and the way he stayed to the far corner of the room, near the open door, after he rang for the maid and instructed that a tray be brought up.

“Frightful weather,” Catherine murmured to fill the stilted silence as she fluffed Madeline’s pillows and helped her to sit up against them.

Madeline made no reply, but St. Aubyn offered the unusual opinion, “I prefer rain to sun,” in a bland, bored tone. He leaned one shoulder against the paneled wall, arms folded across his chest. His pose was casual, but Catherine read leashed tension in the long, lithe lines of his form. A fencer’s frame. Not heavy and bulky, but muscled nonetheless.

The silence returned, stifling in its weight. Madeline cast repeated, agitated glances in St. Aubyn’s direction, and then quickly looked away if his gaze rested upon her even for an instant. Catherine wondered at the obvious strain between them, wondered, too, if it was perversity that made him inflict his presence on his cousin. She was clearly uncomfortable when he was about.

No, she was more than uncomfortable. She was afraid. Which left Catherine unable to fathom his reasons for remaining. Perhaps he gained pleasure from Madeline’s unease. A disturbing possibility.

“Quite a downpour we had earlier,” she said, with a glance toward the curtained window, and knew at once that she ought not to have bothered.

St. Aubyn pushed off the wall and turned his attention full upon her. “Shall we venture into the exciting territory of the difference between a drizzle and a mist? Or perhaps between a torrent and a downpour?”

“You dislike the weather as a topic of conversation?” Catherine met his gaze. It would take more than a man’s disdain to cow her.

“I dislike conversation without purpose.”

“A great majority of conversation has no purpose other than to acquaint the participants with each other in some small measure and perhaps lead to further intimacy as that acquaintance blossoms and grows.”

His brows rose. “Intimacy, Miss Weston?” His tone was shaded with multilayered nuance.

Catherine kept her expression neutral, refusing to recoil and look away. Let him imply what he would. He knew perfectly well the intent of her statement.

He offered a spare smile, and then crossed to a small table piled high with books. Leaning down, he blew some of the dust away with three short, sharp puffs. Then he deftly removed the stacks of books to the floor.

“You must let the maid in to clean, Madeline,” he chided in a hard tone.

Madeline glanced at him with a quick, frightened shift of her eyes, then resumed her frantic plucking at the coverlet.

“I do not like the servants to poke about my things,” she whispered, her voice so low that Catherine needed to lean in to catch her words. “They watch me and judge me. They wait only for the opportunity to—” She gave a shaky exhalation and said nothing more.

Tension permeated the cousins’ exchange. Catherine wondered if Madeline’s unease was justified. Time enough to ask her later, when St. Aubyn left them and she was more relaxed. Closing her fingers over Madeline’s, Catherine stilled her movements and sent her a reassuring smile, though a tumult of questions danced through her thoughts.

Another stack of books slammed to the floor, and for an instant, Catherine was tempted to laugh at the bizarre nature of the situation. Here she was, ensconced in a dim chamber filled with dusty books and unspoken—but poorly concealed—enmities. Her introduction to Cairncroft Abbey verged on the ridiculous.

“Your trip was pleasant?” St. Aubyn asked, and it took Catherine a moment to understand that his low-voiced query was addressed to her.

“Pointless discourse, sir?”

“Genuine interest,” he replied. His tone was polite, but there was an undercurrent of solicitousness, as though he actually cared whether or not the journey had passed in comfort. His attention and consideration disturbed her far more than his thinly veiled disdain had. He seemed able to don the countenance of sincere regard at will. Such a skill was common in the polite world, but St. Aubyn managed it with uncanny talent. Somehow, he imbued his query with sincerity, though he had already made it plain that such dialogue did not interest him in the slightest.

He was either addled, or an excellent actor.

Had she even tuppence to spare, she would bet it on the latter.

“My journey was most pleasant, thank you.” If one enjoyed the smell of stale sweat and damp rot and a swaying, jolting ride that brought about a steady wave of nausea. “Most pleasant, indeed.”

St. Aubyn dragged the table close to the bed. The pedestal’s feet shushed across the carpet.

“You prevaricate well.” He leaned in and whispered as he passed her, his arm brushing her side, his breath fanning her cheek, his low-voiced observation telling her that he had intended the query as a means of finding out something about her.

Her heart stuttered.

Yes, she did prevaricate well, but she was not pleased that he had noticed, nor that he was so wily as to have discovered it with such ease. She was even less pleased that the scent of his skin lingered after he passed, faintly citrus. Fresh. Quite lovely.

She pressed her lips tight. There could be no doubt that he had deliberately set out to unnerve her, but she was clever enough not to let him see any sign of his success. Had she not been trained by a master…a monster?

She glanced at Madeline to gauge her response to their interplay, but her eyes were closed, her head tipped back on her pillows.

“So you see, Miss Weston,” St. Aubyn said, straightening from his task, “you disprove your own assertion and prove mine. Your prevarication prevents all hope of intimacy.”

He turned and stalked to a chair in the corner and began removing the stack of books from the seat, saving Catherine from the need to reply. As if there was any appropriate reply to that.

With his attention otherwise occupied, Catherine was free to study him from beneath her lashes. He was neither clean-shaven nor bearded, but rather had a disreputable, dark gold stubble glazing his strong jaw.

His hair was damp, falling in an attractive tumble of thick, messy waves, honey-hued and overlong. The front strands fell to his cheekbones, accentuating their high, curved line; the back strands were longer, the ends curling slightly outward at his nape.

His hair is damp.

A fleeting recollection of the shadow in the woods touched her, and she wondered if it was Gabriel St. Aubyn she had seen upon her arrival at the abbey, if his hair was wet from the rain. If he had stood hidden by the tangle of trunks and limbs and watched her. As she now watched him.

He was beautiful. Alluring.

Distrust flickered and bloomed. In her experience, handsome men were neither pleasant nor good.

He removed a stack of books from a second chair, then dragged both to the table.

“Please,” he said, resting his hands on the back of the chair closer to the bed. The tone of his voice made a queer unease flip in her belly. Not a request. An order. Catherine sat, and St. Aubyn settled his long frame in the seat closest to the door, knees splayed in a posture that was anything but proper.

He blocked the only exit.

Her gaze flashed to his. His eyes were liquid topaz with thick, curled lashes, his nose straight and narrow, his mouth a hard, masculine line, the lower lip slightly fuller than the upper. There was a complete lack of expression in his features.

“You must be talented at cards, Sir Gabriel,” she murmured. “I suspect you never betray your advantage.”

He inclined his head in acknowledgment. “I suspect the same of you, Miss Weston.”

“Touché,” she allowed with a small smile.

A quick glance at Madeline showed that she yet reclined on her pillows with eyes closed. Catherine doubted she was asleep, and wondered if she simply played at slumber as a means to avoid conversation with her cousin. She pondered an appropriate way to ask him to leave, and stumbled upon none.

A faint rattling announced the arrival of a maid carrying a tray laden with a silver teapot, cups, and a plate of small cakes. The girl paused, stared down at the tabletop, still marked with dust, and hesitated with the tray hovering above the surface.

With a sound of impatience, St. Aubyn took the thing from her and set it down himself. She gave a nervous squeak, bobbed a quick curtsy, and departed in quiet haste. Behind her came a footman with a tea caddy, hot water urn, and a heater. After putting these in place, he followed the maid, closing the door behind him with a soft snick, leaving the room gloomy and silent as it had been a moment past.

A crypt would have more warmth and cheer.

St. Aubyn rose with lithe grace, stalked to the door, and flung it open once more. Startled, Catherine wondered what it was about closed doors that distressed him.

“I dislike the scent of old liniment,” he said as he resumed his seat. But she thought that was not the reason he had opened the door. She suspected it was a dislike of the closed door itself. No, not suspected…she was certain of it.

No longer feigning slumber, Madeline made a mewling sound of distress and wriggled back on the bed, as far from St. Aubyn as she could. Shadows hugged the corners and fell across her face, accentuating angles and hollows until she appeared a ghostly incarnation of herself, with blue eyes burning in a chalk white face.

Her patience frayed, Catherine gestured toward the single candle that battled the gloom, turned to St. Aubyn, and said, “Oh, do light more candles.”

He blinked.

“Please,” she added as an afterthought. ’Twas a word she despised, but polite conversation could not be had without it. Ask nicely, my cat. Say please.

She suppressed a shudder at the memory, reminding herself that he was gone. Dead. She was free of him now, and she would never again allow herself to be in a position where she would be forced to plead.

St. Aubyn rose from his seat and did as she bid while Madeline made soft sounds of dismay that were merely noise without form. The tiny, freshly lit flames did little to ease the dimness. They only served to make the dust more apparent and lend the stacks of books a faintly menacing cast.

Taking his seat once more, St. Aubyn leaned forward and warmed the silver pot with hot water, his actions competent and sure. He had done this before, and that in itself amazed Catherine, for it was a hostess’s duty to brew the tea, not a host’s. But then, Madeline did not appear up to the task, so perhaps St. Aubyn had had some practice. She found it both unsettling and oddly appealing to watch him make his selection from the tea caddy, discard the water from the pot, and pour fresh boiling water over the leaves.

Catherine made several attempts to engage Madeline in conversation, but they only earned her monosyllabic replies and hasty glances. In the end, they sat in stilted silence as the tea steeped…five minutes…seven…an agony of uncomfortable quiet. And all the while, St. Aubyn’s gaze was fixed upon her. Catherine suspected that he orchestrated this fraught interlude to elicit her response. Perhaps he wished to see her squirm. He would be disappointed, then. Awkward silence was a mere inconvenience when measured against so many other possible trials.

“Shall I pour, Sir Gabriel?” Catherine offered when the tea was steeped, choosing not to wait for him to make the request, preferring to take control of the situation.

Madeline shifted restlessly, casting nervous glances at her cousin from beneath her lashes.

“Call me Gabriel,” he said, his tone cool and bored. But he watched her with a peculiar interest. Not lust. She was familiar enough with that to recognize it. No, it was something else, a puzzled intensity, as though he wanted to study the parts that made up the whole. One side of his mouth lifted in the hint of a smile. “Or St. Aubyn, if you prefer.”

She would prefer that he leave her alone with Madeline and take his masculine presence elsewhere. He made her uncomfortable. But she said none of that. Instead, she said in an equally cool, even tone, “I shall take that response as an affirmative.”

She left off the address altogether and grasped the handle of the pot before he could make his preference known one way or the other. She had neither the patience for nor the interest in whatever game he played.

“By all means, do.” St. Aubyn’s straight brows rose and his smile edged a little tighter.

She lifted the tea strainer to hold it atop the china cup, then poured and passed out the tea. Madeline’s hand trembled as she accepted the saucer, but Catherine was glad to see that she managed to steady it and even raise the cup to her lips for a sip.

“Raspberry tart?” she offered.

St. Aubyn stared at the plate of small cakes and tarts, revulsion crossing his features so fleetingly that she thought she must have imagined it.

“No, thank you,” both he and Madeline murmured, their replies so well timed as to overlap in perfect synchrony.

In the silence that followed, a dull thud sounded against the window, a blow from without, hard enough to rattle the pane. Catherine’s head jerked toward the sound.

“Oh, no. Not another,” she exclaimed, setting her cup on the table.

“Another?” St. Aubyn inquired, his attention snared.

“There was a blackbird on the drive, its wings spread wide as though frozen in flight,” Catherine replied as she rose and crossed to the window to draw the heavy draperies aside and peer down to the drive below. Of course, she could see nothing from this distance. “It must have flown hard against the window and fallen. I wonder if the blow we just heard was another such unfortunate creature.”

“No! A bird? A blackbird? Posed in flight?” Madeline’s cup rattled in its saucer. Catherine hastened to return to the bedside and take it from her. “Was it dead?”

“Yes. I mentioned it to Mrs. Bell.” Catherine could not imagine why a bird would cause such anxiety. Her gaze flashed to St. Aubyn. He sat in his stiff-backed chair exactly as he had a moment past, his teacup held in an easy grasp. There was nothing to make her think he regarded them with anything but meager interest. Yet, something…He was too posed, too controlled, his topaz eyes veiled by thick lashes, betraying nothing. It was the very lack of expression that made her wary.

Madeline was breathing hard, her shoulders and chest moving with each inhalation. She stared straight ahead and then her head jerked to the side and she looked to her cousin with wide, horrified eyes.

“Gabriel, why?” she cried, her skin paler than the bleached sheets, her eyes shimmering. “It has been so long. Do not deny—”

“Do you make a formal accusation, cousin?” St. Aubyn cut her off with soft-voiced menace and she fell into abrupt silence, dropping her gaze, panting now in shallow little gasps.

Baffled and dismayed, Catherine watched the interplay, wanting to intervene, uncertain what she could possibly say. She had no understanding of the history and undercurrents between these two, could not be certain precisely what Madeline’s implication was.

Did she think St. Aubyn had killed the bird? And what if he had? Though it was not an activity she herself preferred, people hunted all the time. But why leave the thing on the drive?

The air hummed with tension.

“More tea?” Catherine asked as she resumed her seat, her skirt brushing St. Aubyn’s knee as she passed.

He studied her for a moment, then set his cup on the tray and rose. His expression did not change, yet Catherine recognized something dark swimming just beneath the surface. It gave her pause.

“No, thank you. I have overstayed my welcome,” he murmured, his voice taut. “Please excuse me.”

There was something frightening there, something at odds with his controlled manner and golden good looks. He appeared for the moment to be a creature of mystery and shadow, and Catherine watched him with the caution she would afford a predator, half expecting him to burst into a tumult of energy and power.

But her expectations were not met. Instead, he strode from the room without a backward glance, leaving her alone with Madeline. She had wanted exactly this, yet she felt oddly out of sorts as she watched him depart. His presence had been a stimulant, though in all truth, not a pleasant one. She was left wondering why in heaven’s name she would regret its loss.

As the faint shush of his footfalls on the carpet faded away, she had the incongruous realization that his hair had dried and lightened during their strange, tense time together. It was not so dark as honey, after all.

Madeline stared at St. Aubyn’s now empty chair and shuddered. “I am glad he is gone. We…” She shook her head and sighed. “We do not get on well.”

An understatement. It was apparent that they loathed each other, could not bear to be in the same room. The question was, why? A mystery Catherine meant to investigate. But now was not the time to force inquiry on Madeline. She would wait for a moment of calm and amiability.

Striving for normalcy, she arranged a choice of small cakes on a plate and attempted to entice Madeline to sample the fare. Her friend looked at her in somber silence, and then shook her head, a tear trickling from the corner of her eye.

“I dare not,” she whispered.

“Dare not have a tart?” Catherine asked, instilling the question with cajoling good humor. “Not even one? I thought I recalled a fondness for sweets…”

Madeline cast a glance at the open door, and lowered her voice further still. “Poison. They lace my food with poison. Some days it is there, the bitter almond taste so strong on my tongue that it makes me retch. Other days, there is nothing. They only try to keep me guessing, to confuse me and make me question my own perceptions.”

A chill crawled across her skin, but not by word or manner did Catherine betray her shock. Surely such accusation was fueled by fiction rather than fact. What had happened to make Madeline so afraid, so distant from the world, so lost in her own terrible imaginings?

“But I would like more tea,” Madeline murmured.

Catherine set the plate on the bed and turned to pour Madeline another cup of tea. Madeline accepted it with thanks, and Catherine lifted the plate once more. Determined to show Madeline that there was nothing to fear, she lifted a tart from the plate, sniffed it and, sensing naught amiss, took a dainty bite.

“No!” Madeline reached out, her hand fluttering weakly, the cup rattling, tea sloshing over the rim onto the saucer.

Catherine took the cup from her and set it aside, then took another bite of the tart. She was not particularly hungry, but she thought perhaps seeing her eat the offered cake might entice Madeline to do the same. She looked so small and frail and weak lying on the wide bed. So afraid.

“It is quite tasty,” Catherine said. “There is nothing to fear.”

With a sharp cry, Madeline crushed the coverlet in her curled fingers. “Oh, but there is. I tell you, there is.”

Her gaze holding Madeline’s as she chewed and swallowed, Catherine finished the tart. It tasted of raspberry.

Only after a moment did she wet her lips and frown, wondering if a faint bitter taste of almond did, in fact, linger on her tongue. Resisting the urge to cross to the washstand and rinse her mouth, she silently remonstrated herself for allowing her thoughts to follow this path.

She schooled her features to display none of her concern. No good could come from feeding Madeline’s desperate anxieties.

After a brief consideration, she rose and rang for the maid and once the girl arrived, gave her instructions in clear detail. The maid gazed at her in confusion, but lifted the tea tray and took it off with her as she set out to fill Catherine’s request.

Some time later, she returned with a bowl of apples and a knife. These she set on the table, then bobbed a quick curtsy and left the room with only a single quizzical look sent back over her shoulder.

“Come, Madeline,” Catherine said, taking up an apple and a knife. Madeline watched her warily. “There can be no threat in this apple. You see me peel and slice it before your eyes, and here”—she popped a bit in her mouth, chewed it and swallowed—“you see there is nothing but apple to be tasted. No almonds.” No poison. But this last she did not say aloud, for she could not see the benefit of giving voice and power to Madeline’s fears.

“You ate the tart,” Madeline accused, her voice soft and childlike.

“I did. And you see me hale and hearty before you.” She took another bite of apple, then offered a slice to Madeline, who studied her for a long moment, and at last reached out and took the bit of fruit from her hand. She ate that slice, then another and another until the first apple and a second were consumed.

“I am sorry,” Madeline whispered, turning her face away. “Sorry that I drew you here to this miserable place, sorry that I am such a poor excuse for a hostess. Tomorrow. Tomorrow will be better. The clouds will ease and my mood will shift.” She pressed her lips together. “Tomorrow.”

Catherine took such assurance as hopeful, though she could not help but wonder how many bright tomorrows Madeline had waited for, only to have her hopes dashed. Through the years, Catherine had faced her own despair again and again, a rock-strewn path that ended in a dark and tangled wood. Trapped there, she had known the deepest desolation, but somehow, she had spied the dancing flame and followed it back into the light.

Always, the flame gave her comfort.

Her gaze slid to the last embers that glowed in the hearth, then away. “Tell me—”

“I want to sleep,” Madeline interjected, forestalling Catherine’s questions. “I want so badly to sleep and dream. Sweet dreams, not the nightmares that haunt my rest.”

Curiosity swelled.

“Read to me, Catherine.” Madeline turned her face away. “A happy tale.”

Looking about, Catherine spied the nearest stack of books and selected the one at the very top. She lifted the tome and blew on the cover to dispel the dust from the leather binding, then opened to the first page and began to read. She knew not what she recited, her thoughts swirling with the many questions she had about Cairncroft Abbey and Madeline and St. Aubyn…about the nightmares that spilled into Madeline’s waking hours. But this was not the moment to ask. No good could come of questioning Madeline at a time when she was disinclined to answer.

Long years of practice at veiling her thoughts kept Catherine’s tone even and controlled as she read, the words flowing in a smooth stream. After a time, Madeline’s lids drooped again and again, though she fought her exhaustion and roused herself more than once. In the end, her eyes closed and she slept.

Careful to make no noise, Catherine exited the chamber, snuffing candles as she went. Taking up the last one burning to light her way, she walked through inky blackness, the small flame a timid soldier in the face of the fallen night. She glanced about trying to recall exactly which chamber Mrs. Bell had said was to be hers. There were many doors along this corridor.

Sounds filtered through the quiet. A windowpane shaking in the wind. The creak of wood, perhaps a stair or a beam. Unease was a many-legged bug creeping up her spine. She paused and looked about.

“Hello,” she called, not really expecting a reply, and none was forthcoming. Still, wariness crept across her skin, raising gooseflesh and setting her pulse racing.

Walking on, she found the chamber that had been assigned to her, recognizable because the door was the only one ajar along the entire corridor. She pushed it fully open and stepped inside. To her surprise, the velvet draperies were pulled back, the window flung wide. A gust of wind swirled through the space, making the flame of her candle plunge this way and that, sending the shadows shifting in a menacing dance. Then the flame guttered, snuffed, leaving her in near-complete darkness, for the moon was obscured by a thick cloud that allowed only a thin gray glow to bleed through the night.

Another gust came, ruffling her skirt and the curling tendrils that had escaped her pins.

A faint shush came from behind her.

The fine hairs at her nape prickled and rose, and her heart slammed hard against her ribs. She spun fast enough that she nearly lost her balance, expecting to see St. Aubyn there, in all his golden and menacing glory.

But she was alone.

Her breath hissed through her teeth as she pressed her open palm to the base of her throat, annoyed with herself. She knew better than to let such things unsettle her. There were true monsters in the night. The wind and shadows did not qualify.

Keeping her pace slow and careful lest she bump against furniture in this unfamiliar place, she moved to the window and pulled it closed, shutting out the cold wind. Then she eased back against the wall, feeling for the bell-pull that would summon a maid to bring a candle and a fagot to light a fire in the grate. Her fingers closed on nothing more than air. She made a slow circuit of the chamber, and her hand brushed against a long, narrow ribbon dangling in the corner. With a sigh of relief, she took hold of it, her thumb pressing on the embroidered surface as she gave a tug. Now there was nothing to do but wait.

Turning, she drifted back toward the window and stood looking out at the empty drive. The cloud cover of the stormy day had carried over into the night, obscuring stars and moon alike. Purple tinged and cool, what little light eked through was just enough that she could discern the grim outline of the encroaching forest, a dark mass that threatened to swallow the abbey whole.

Blackness before her and behind.

Strange, that she was not afraid of the dark. She had been before that terrifying day when the embankment came down on her and buried her alive. But not after. After that day, she had come to think that the darkness was the least of all possible threats.

Pity that time and experience had proved her right.

Almost did she turn from the window then and go to sit on the corner of the bed to await the maid, but something stilled her steps, and she stood, rooted in place, aware of some subtle change. The clouds shifted and the moon broke free as a faint sound, rhythmic and even, carried to her through the glass, growing ever louder.

A moment later, a groom led a horse onto the drive and a second man came out the front door to meet him, moving with lithe, easy grace. He was garbed all in black, and the horse was dark as well. Man and beast blended with the shadows, both blowing white puffs of warm breath into the cold night.

She knew it was he. Gabriel St. Aubyn. He was hatless, and his lovely pale hair caught the moonlight that drizzled now through the shifting clouds.

Conflicted, she stood by the window as he spoke with the groom. She wanted to turn away. But more than that, she wanted to watch him. Because he was beautiful. Because he was dangerous. Both elements caught her interest, for vastly different reasons.

Warm candlelight spilled through the room then, making her glance back over her shoulder.

“Miss, I am so sorry,” came a mumbled apology from a newly arrived maid. A quick inspection revealed that she was the same girl who had brought both the tea and—later—the bowl of apples to Madeline’s chamber. “I should have had the fire started and a lamp lit. Mrs. Bell never said…” She shook her head and hurried forward to set her candle on a low table.

So the lack of a fire was no oversight. The housekeeper had orchestrated the paltry discomfort of a chilly, dark room. A gauntlet thrown down. Catherine’s lips turned in an ironic smile.

“You are here now. A little moonlight never harmed anyone,” she replied as the maid moved to the fireplace with the glowing fagot she carried. Catherine frowned as she watched the girl kneel to her task. “How did you know I needed a fire? I rang, but I could have wanted anything…”

“Oh”—the maid glanced back over her shoulder—“did you ring, miss? I never knew. Probably, I was already on my way. It was the master who bid me see to things. I passed him near the library moments ago. He said he had just come down and that your hearth wanted a fire.”

Unease stirred. Moments ago. Yet St. Aubyn had left Madeline’s chamber some time past. Had he lurked in the hallway, listening to their conversation? Or had he gone off and then returned to stand and watch her? Had her instincts been true when she had turned expecting to see him behind her only to find darkness and shadow?

The possibility was both infinitely disturbing and utterly absurd.

Turning her face to the window once more, Catherine leaned close and gazed out while from behind her came the scraping and scratching of the maid’s efforts to light the fire.

Below, on the drive, St. Aubyn mounted the great, black beast, his movements elegant and spare. The horse tossed its head and lifted one massive hoof before clopping it down once more, but St. Aubyn settled it with a practiced hand, leaning forward a bit as he spoke to the animal. Whatever he said, the horse appeared to like the sound of it.

Abruptly, St. Aubyn twisted in the saddle, looking up, his face tipped to her window. She felt the weight and intensity of his gaze. The irony of that did not escape her. A moment ago, he would not have seen her standing here, for the chamber behind her would have been completely dark, making her form in the window only shadow on shadow. But now the maid had come with her candle, leaving Catherine backlit by the glow. Vulnerable to his gaze.

She knew St. Aubyn saw her here, watching him.

He made no overt sign of that, did not incline his head or raise a hand in a farewell wave. But he did see her. How confounding that the thought both rattled and pleased her.

Holding her place, she watched him ride away.

“Sir Gabriel takes his leave of the abbey at a late hour,” Catherine murmured, turning from the window at last.

“Yes, miss.” The kindling had caught under the maid’s deft hand and a small blaze already flared to life. The girl stoked it expertly.

Catherine stared at the flames, entranced. She wanted to move closer, to hold her fingers outstretched until the fire danced toward them, but not close enough to singe. She had no desire to court injury. Dragging her gaze away, she smiled at the maid as she rose from the place she knelt.

“I am sorry, miss,” the girl said again. “Sorry there was no fire. Of course, the master knows of it, but he’ll forget by the time he returns. He’s like that. His mind ever on other things. But Mrs. Bell is one who never forgets.” Reaching up, she adjusted the skewed mopcap on her limp brown hair. “Please, say nothing to Mrs. Bell. I won’t let it happen again. I promise.”

“What is your name?”

The girl gnawed at her lower lip, then said, “Susan, miss. Susan Parker.”

“There is no reason for me to mention it to Mrs. Bell, Susan.” Especially since Catherine suspected that the housekeeper had planned it this way and would take particular glee in Catherine’s acknowledgment of any inconvenience.

Susan sagged with relief. Taking up her candle, she held the flame to the wick of the one Catherine had set down after the wind snuffed it. The wick caught and flared. With her free hand, she again fixed her cap and chewed anxiously at her lower lip, then said, “Thank you, miss. Mrs. Corkle—she’s the cook—she’ll make a supper tray for you and I’ll bring it up straightaway.”

“That would be lovely. Oh, and do you have a key to this room? There was none in the door.”

The maid frowned, and reached for her apron. She had a small ring of keys similar to Mrs. Bell’s larger one. Carefully, she toyed with one, then hesitated and reached for another. “Mrs. Bell don’t like to come to this wing, so she gave me the keys to all the rooms…Is it this one? No…this one? One of them’s the master key for this wing,” she said, and frowned down at the two. “Not this one”—she let the key drop and lifted the first—“this one”—then she dropped it and lifted the other once more to slide it free of the ring as she gave a decisive nod—“this is the one for your door.”

Catherine accepted the key and offered her thanks, then waited until the girl was nearly to the door before she spoke again. “Where does Sir Gabriel go at this hour of the night?”

The maid paused but did not turn. “I couldn’t say, miss.”

A twinge of guilt speared Catherine as she contemplated her next words, but she ignored it and said in a gentle voice, “I could ask Mrs. Bell. I am certain she would enjoy a chat.”

The unspoken implication sent the maid spinning back to face her, the candle dish trembling in her hand. Catherine felt low indeed for perpetrating such a foul trick. Of course, she would never report the girl to the housekeeper. And of course, the girl had no way to know that.

“Tell me,” Catherine said softly. “Where does he go?” Even as she repeated the question, she could not say why she felt such urgency to know the answer.

Susan made a moan of distress. Her eyes were wide, her brows raised. Catherine noted that the right one was bald in the center, bisected by what appeared to be an old scar.

More lip chewing, and then Susan blurted in a rush, “To London. He goes to London, miss. He says he likes to travel at night. I heard Mr. Norton, the butler, say once that the way is not safe and is riddled with thieves. Sir Gabriel laughed. I remember it clear as day because the sound of it was off. Harsh and ruthless. Sir Gabriel said he would like to meet a thief on the road, that it would justify any actions, and Mr. Norton went white in the face and said nothing more.” Susan dropped her gaze, and Catherine thought that was the end of her story, but then she whispered, “There was a man found dead by the road the following day. People say he was a thief.” She shook her head. “’Course, it’s all talk. No one hereabouts ever saw the body. It was all just talk.”

Catherine stared at her, amazed by such an outpouring of information. She had wanted only to know where St. Aubyn went. She had not expected such panoply of fact and opinion.

“Thank you.” She smiled, and felt lower still when the girl did not smile in return, but stared at her with frightened dark eyes, and said bitterly, “Does that buy your silence then, miss?”

“Yes.” Catherine wanted to say more, but could summon no appropriate words, and so she held silent as, with a huff of despair, Susan scooted out the door and away.

Interesting that Susan Parker thought her master ruthless. Catherine had heard some similar gossip in London. That Gabriel St. Aubyn had run to ground a thief who had dared to pick his pocket and dragged him to the gaol himself. At the time, she had thought the story exaggeration, but having now met the man, she wondered if the outlandish tale held a kernel of truth.

Later, it was a different girl who brought the supper tray, and Catherine regretted how unkind she had been. But she did not regret the information she had gleaned. In knowledge lay safety. That lesson was hard learned.

She lifted the cover from her supper plate. Roasted beef and cauliflower in cream and a ragout of some sort. The food did not appeal, though it was prettily arranged and aromatic. Catherine left the meal untouched, thinking it was the exhaustion of the journey that stole her appetite and left her with an aching, dizzy head and a dry, tight throat.

But late in the night, when she awoke with a pain in her belly, so hard and sharp that she gasped and pressed her hands tight against the shock of it, she realized she must have eaten something that was off. She recalled the underdone mutton from the coaching inn, and the recollection of that greasy fare was enough to make her moan.

Then the pain twisted even tighter and she recalled Madeline’s wild fears of poison and the faint, bitter taste of almond that had flavored the tart. She recalled too the revulsion on Gabriel St. Aubyn’s face when she had offered him the plate.

Horror chilled her as she lay panting in her bed, unable to believe that Madeline was right, that someone in this house was trying to kill her, but unable to discount it out of hand in the face of her current suffering.

Mutton or poison.

As Catherine tossed and turned through the endless night, her head swimming, her belly cramping, she was hard-pressed to choose the more likely culprit of the two.

Chapter 5

St. Giles, England, March 1828

Martha Grimsby sat alone in a shabby little room in Church Lane, St. Giles. Her tiny chamber was at the very top of a decrepit three-story building that was so ancient and broken it was forced to lean on the building next door to keep from toppling over. There was a window directly across from where she sat, the glass blackened and cracked, with a board nailed over half of it to keep the rain out.

A piss-poor job it did.

The sleet and rain beat on the glass sending a frigid torrent through the crack at the edge where the board met the window. The night was colder than it ought to have been at this time of year. Martha drew her patched and mended shawl tight around her shoulders and huddled on the soiled bed that was putrefied with old sweat and damp rot. Her single tallow candle burned low, the flame dancing and swaying, painting silhouettes of monsters and gnomes against her wall. Once, in a time long past, she had fancied the shadows as ponies and swans. She knew better now.

With a sigh, she tipped her head back and stared at the candle-darkened ceiling as she pondered the life that was hers. The instant her thoughts swayed toward the dangerous slope of regret, she dragged them back and forced herself to think of nothing at all. A different girl had grown up in Yorkshire where her father was head groom at a nearby estate. A different girl had been foolish enough to run off to London. A different girl lived this hell on earth.

Not her. She could not think of that rosy-cheeked innocent and imagine it had ever been her. That was a sure path to madness.

Pushing her palms against the mattress, she heaved herself from the bed. She was low on funds and down to the stub of her last candle and a dry crust of bread. She would have to brave the weather and try her luck at finding a willing gent on the nearest streets, close to home. She had little choice, not if she wanted to eat.

The decision made, she moved briskly lest she be tempted to change her mind. She left her sad chamber and went down the flights of creaking, rotted stairs to a narrow corridor at the back of the house. The door there was skewed on its hinges and she had to put her shoulder to it to make it open, then turn and put her shoulder to it again to force it shut.

The wind slapped her, a cold, brutal hand, but the rain had eased to a trickle and she was grateful for that. Head bowed, she made her way to Carrier Street and lounged against a building, glad to see there was only one other girl out, far up the street. Competition on a night like this was unwelcome, for the pickings were slim with people driven indoors by the chill and the damp.

For a long while, no likely candidate arrived. There was a group of drunken laborers who spewed from the alehouse, but they were the type of laborers who never did much work and so had little coin. Martha suspected that what funds they had had were already spent on drink, so she shrank into the shadows and let them pass.

Some time later, the rain stopped altogether and a stocky gent sauntered along. He wasn’t a swell. Not by half, for his coat showed shabby at the sleeves with a patch on the elbow, but he looked like he might have a coin or two, so Martha stepped forward with a smile.

Then he turned his face toward her, and she shrank back. He had small eyes, mean eyes, narrowed in contemplation. She knew what sort he was right off.

“Fancy some company?” he asked with an ugly grin, offering the greeting she usually used.

She shivered and backed up a step. She was a smart girl now. She’d learned after a broken bone or two how to be a smart girl. Some men liked it rough, and she had no doubt he was one of ’em.

“Not tonight,” she murmured. She spun on her heel and hurried off, skidding and sliding along the wet street, anxious to be away.

Heart racing, she rounded the corner and let one shoulder sag against the wall. He had not followed.

“Hello.” The voice came from behind her, low and rich.

With a squeak she jumped and turned, her eyes widening in amazement. A swell stood there, looking at her questioningly. A real swell such as one never saw here, for the whores on these streets were not the sort a gentleman would deign to touch. But there was no question. He was a gentleman with a fine coat and polished boots and spun gold hair that framed a truly wonderful face.

“Hello,” she managed to reply.

“Had a fright?” he asked with a small smile.

She pressed her palm to her chest and nodded. “I have.” For an instant, she felt shy, an odd, overwhelming emotion that she hadn’t known in years and years, an emotion she had thought never to know again. Then she summoned her courage and grabbed hold of her opportunity and asked, “Up for some company, sir?”

He studied her in silence, his gaze traveling leisurely from her crown to her toes, and back again. His perusal made her feel both terrible and wonderful. She held her breath, waiting.

Then he smiled, and she thought the sun had come out, though the night was black as Old Mag’s rotting toe before they hacked it off.

“You’ll do,” he said, still smiling. With a twirl of his fingers he offered her a gleaming gold coin. “Come with me.”

And like a lamb, Martha followed where he led.

Cairncroft Abbey

A week after her arrival at the abbey, Catherine sat with Madeline on a cold stone bench in the south garden. The sun peeked from between the clouds and the breeze made stray wisps of her hair dance. With her face tipped down, she watched the hem of her dress lift and billow, then settle once more as the gust died. There was little else to watch here at Cairncroft, where time moved at a languid pace.

Madeline’s mood had improved with the passing days. Catherine wondered if it was St. Aubyn’s absence or her own presence that contributed to the lightening of her friend’s spirits. Probably it was some combination of the two, but she did not ask. She had no wish to hamper Madeline’s progress or distress her in any way, for Madeline had become almost reasonable. No longer did she turn her face aside when food was brought to her, but instead ate a bite or two, providing that Catherine sampled the fare first and assured her of its palatability.

On Catherine’s first morning at Cairncroft, Madeline had refused to eat. With the memory of the previous night’s torment—the way her stomach had knotted and cramped, the pain a jagged knife slicing through her—fresh in Catherine’s mind, she had been hard-pressed to fault her. In the clear light of day, she had assessed the matter of her nocturnal illness and determined that it was the horrid meal at the coaching inn that had made her unwell rather than the tart she had taken from the tea tray. Nonetheless, that afternoon the sight of a plate of small crumpets and cakes had made her wary. She had thrust aside her qualms, convinced the stomach pains had been mere happenstance, and she had sampled an iced cake, thrilled to detect no hint of almond. Madeline had followed her lead.

But Catherine had avoided the tarts on the tea tray that afternoon and the next, and the following day, Mrs. Corkle left them off entirely.

Madeline had noticed their absence. “My cousin despises raspberry tarts,” she had said. “I wonder that Mrs. Corkle does not know it, that she serves them when he is here and leaves them off when he is not.”

Her observations made Catherine conjure an image of Gabriel St. Aubyn’s expression of revulsion when she had offered him the plate that first day in Madeline’s chamber. As though he had known there was something off about those tarts. The memory continued to nag at her like a stone in her boot.

“Are you very bored?” Madeline asked now as a cloud drifted across the sun.

“Not at all,” Catherine replied with a smile. She was both surprised by Madeline’s perceptiveness—she seemed far too buried in her own misery to notice aught around her—and dismayed that she had lowered her defenses enough to allow Madeline to peek through. “I am very pleased to be here with you, Madeline. These past days have been restful, and your companionship a balm to my soul.”

She was pleased to be here. She owed Madeline a debt she could never repay and she was grateful to have the opportunity to offer her a kindness, even if it was only the hand of friendship. Besides, the alternatives to Cairncroft Abbey were few, so in effect, Madeline was doing her a service.

Madeline made a face. “I know you are pleased to be here, but you are so careful with your words, as though you fear overexciting me. I do wish you would tell me something. Anything.” She paused. “What was London like? Certainly more exciting than this.” She made a vague gesture toward the looming gray face of the house. “What was your life like before?”

For an instant, Catherine could not speak, the question triggering a moment of horror. Before. Before her parents died. Before the horrors of the years that followed their loss. Before the fire.

Memories surged in a sickening, swirling tide that grabbed hold of her and threatened to pull her deep. With rigid determination, she gathered the frayed strands of her control.

“My life was…” Her life had been a type of death, cold and dark and bleak, and each time she had been raised up with hope, she had been dashed back against the ground. How many times could hope be squashed beneath a heavy, booted heel before it raised up no more?

But Madeline would not wish to know of that. What was your life like before?

She did not mean before the fire, she meant after…in London, before coming here to Cairncroft Abbey.

“My life was busy,” Catherine continued in a carefully modulated tone. “My employer, Mrs. Northrop, spent a great deal of time at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital ministering to the less fortunate. As her paid companion, I was expected to spend my time there, as well. And she was very involved in the opening of a lodging house for the deserving poor in St. Giles. The hours we did not spend at Bart’s, we spent working toward the opening of that house.”

“And was that a great success? Were there speeches and crowds and baskets of food handed out, all with much fanfare and glee?” Madeline asked, her eyes sparking with uncharacteristic animation.

Catherine had not the heart to squelch her excitement. The venture—in Mrs. Northrop’s opinion—was a wretched failure. More than once after the house had opened, Mrs. Northrop had bemoaned the fact that there were only disreputable creatures in St. Giles and not a single deserving soul in the bunch. But Catherine was a far less rigid judge. She understood that desperation could force one to make all manner of horrific choices.

Had she herself not been poised on the razored edge of just such a sword?

“And do you mean to say you actually went to St. Giles?” Madeline continued.

“I did, almost every day. And I met some lovely women there. Strong women and kind.”

“Other women of good works. I recall you mentioned one woman in your letters…she runs a school, does she not?” Madeline murmured.

“Yes.” Among other pursuits, for in St. Giles, running a school was not something that put food in one’s belly or a roof overhead.

“But what terrible wretches you must have seen, as well! Fallen women who are surely bound for Hell.”

Catherine cast her a glance through her lashes, and saw that Madeline’s pale cheeks were bright with two spots of color, her eyes sparkling and clear. Religious fervor? She had not expected such. But perhaps it was only simple conversation that brought liveliness to her words.

“Is there a Hell that is worse than what those women have endured?” she asked, thinking of the girls who were pale and broken, dying of vile disease, their every word and action laced with clear regret that ever they had been born.

Did their transgressions truly destine them for damnation? If so, then she shared their fate, for her crimes were far worse.

Madeline’s brows rose at Catherine’s somewhat heretical question. “Do you not believe in Hell?” she whispered, leaning close to peer into Catherine’s eyes, her expression intent.

For an instant, Catherine recalled an enormous, bright fire, smelled burning wood and flesh, heard the screams that carried, high and piercing, through the night. She had seen a version of Hell, felt its heat, known the endless despair that surely those wretches thus consigned felt. All the more reason to grab what she could of life, to make what she could of any circumstance.

“I do not know,” she temporized. “Perhaps death is all there is.”

Madeline recoiled as though struck, and Catherine immediately regretted allowing their conversation to travel this thorny path. She cast about for some other topic to introduce, but Madeline unexpectedly filled the breach.

“Tell me, then, about your time in the hospital,” she urged. “You tended to the sick at…Bart’s, was it? Oh, how awful that must have been.” She shuddered. “I had imagined you accompanying Mrs. Northrop on rounds of afternoon visits and walks in Hyde Park. Perhaps a carriage ride or a shopping excursion…”

“No.” Catherine laughed in a short burst of genuine humor. “That would have been awful. I enjoyed working with her at the hospital.” She had not liked Mrs. Northrop, with her sour demeanor and ever-woeful predictions, but she had liked the way the woman ensured that Catherine’s hours were consumed by the needs of the desperately poor and ill. It gave her less time to dwell on her own sorrows, and she preferred that. What value was there in bemoaning the past?

Madeline was silent for a long moment, two faint, vertical lines drawn between her brows. Finally, she whispered, “Did you see many people die in that hospital? Were you there by their bedsides when they breathed their last?”

There was something dark and desperate in her tone.

“No. Never,” Catherine lied, determined not to distress Madeline further. Yes. Far too many times. And each time, in her mind’s eye she had seen different faces, different deaths, ones that would haunt her until she herself went to her grave.

With her chin dipped down, Madeline cast her a sidelong glance, then looked away quickly as her gaze met Catherine’s. She bit her lip and plucked at her skirt. “I have seen death. A girl. Killed not far from here.”

“Killed? How?”

“I do not know.” Madeline shook her head, her expression one of confusion. “My cousin took me away so quickly…” A shudder shook her. “He did not want me to see. But I looked back. Like Lot’s wife. Only I am not turned to a pillar of salt.” She paused, frowned, as though she had lost what she meant to say, then her brow cleared and she continued. “There was blood, so much blood, and I saw that she was cut open…or did I only hear that after, from one of the maids?”

Catherine stared at her, appalled. “Madeline, who was the girl who died? A servant? A friend?”

“No…no…I don’t think so. I don’t know.” Her voice rose in agitation and she began anew to pluck at her skirt. Then she grabbed Catherine’s hand and held it tight between both of her own, drawing it to her breast. “I am so very glad you came here. You have done me a service. You will probably never know the magnitude of what you have done for me.”

There was such sincerity in her tone that it took Catherine aback. Before she could form a rejoinder, Madeline whispered, “And I think you are safe here, for you are not…” She stared into the distance, her expression blank as a marble slab. “Well, I believe he likes to play with a different sort entirely. But have a care…” A sigh escaped her and she released Catherine’s hand. “Try not to be caught alone or unawares.”

Catherine recoiled, the implication of those words knifing through her. Did Madeline refer to the fate of the dead girl and express her concern that there lurked some danger? Her admonition did not make it sound so. Her word choice implied something else. Did Madeline dare to voice aloud St. Aubyn’s preferences in female companionship? The first possibility horrified, while the second mortified. But what else could she mean by such an odd observation? The inflection on the word play sounded almost…sinister, and the warning could be construed as nothing else.

“Madeline, do you—” Catherine hesitated. Do you believe your cousin killed that girl? No, of course such fancy was ridiculous. Whatever ill feelings hounded her relationship with Sir Gabriel, Madeline could not mean to imply that he was a murderer.

Rubbing her palms along her upper arms, Catherine mastered her confusion. She knew well that monsters hid behind any façade, but she must not let her own memories color the meanings she heard in the words of others.

Madeline sat unmoving for a moment, and then she whispered, “Do nothing to draw yourself to his attention.” She took a shuddering breath. “I cannot say more.”

“I see,” Catherine murmured, though she did not see at all. But she did know that she had no wish for St. Aubyn to turn his attention to her. No wish for any man to notice her in that way. The very thought made a greasy sickness roll in her belly.

She must have made some outward show of her musings, for Madeline made a sound of dismay, and cried, “Oh, I never meant…that is…well, he is away now, and that is for the best.”

For the best, indeed.

Catherine allowed herself to conjure an image of him in her mind’s eye, Gabriel St. Aubyn, with his perfect features and thick, pale hair, the breadth of his shoulders, his long fingers holding the cup of tea with such perfect grace. Deceptive grace. She had seen the way lean muscle shifted beneath perfectly tailored cloth. He could have shattered the delicate china with those strong fingers. Crushed it in his fist.

She shuddered, and beside her, Madeline shuddered as well.

“The sun has gone behind a cloud,” Madeline observed.

Arranging her expression in a serene smile, Catherine reached over and laid her hand on Madeline’s. She thought that even through the gloves she could feel how cold her friend’s hands were.

“Come, let us go and have a cup of tea and find a warm fire,” she said, and like a child, Madeline rose and did as she was bidden.

St. James’s Street, London, March 1828

The position of the moon in the clear night sky left no shadowed niche to cling to. No matter. Gabriel was not here to hide, but rather to be seen by as many as cared to look. He stood on the far side of the street, across and a little down the way from his club, studying the moon in all its bright and pale detail. It made him think of her. Catherine Weston. Of her midnight hair and porcelain skin, and the smooth, cool sound of her voice. He was both surprised and faintly annoyed that his thoughts turned to such whimsy, for his was not a nature inclined to contemplate the poetry found in the curve of a woman’s cheek. He was more inclined to the analytical and the focus of the moment.

The focus of this moment was the need to walk into White’s and pretend interest in gambling and gossip, because that was what gentlemen did. And Gabriel knew the value of doing exactly what was expected. There was no better shield than the mundane.

His gaze dropped and lingered on the club’s famous bow window. Several men sat there, backlit by the lamps in the room. They were chatting and laughing, their heads turned subtly so that any who passed could not help but recognize them, but more than that, they wanted to watch those in the street, to judge them, betimes poke fun at them. It was a game of sorts, one Gabriel neither understood nor enjoyed.

Even from this distance, it was not difficult to place names to silhouettes. Bodley and Ashton and Hale, and two others on the opposite side of the table whose faces were in shadow. A few steps closer and he would know their identities, as well. Those steps were difficult to take tonight, for there were other entertainments he would rather seek out. Still, he could not come to London and avoid the club altogether. That would cause talk, speculation, perhaps even a ridiculous wager to be recorded in the betting book that lay open on the table. He preferred not to draw that sort of attention; he preferred to draw no attention at all.

As a matter of course, he was careful to blend into the background, smiling and nodding when others did the same, dragging forth an appropriate quip at an appropriate time. Mimicking his peers had become an easy thing, though in the beginning it had taken some attention and care. Over the years he had become quite adept at appearing to be exactly as they were, to share similar thoughts and emotions. They thought him genial enough, if rather dull, a situation that he found amusing.

He was nothing like them. His thoughts were a twisted maze, what emotions he had a dark, fetid pool.

He was anything but genial. To know it, they had only to ask the companion he had left a mere hour past.

But they would never know of his companion, and so they would never ask.

He was careful about such things. Methodical.

No one ever saw past the mask.

Except he thought that given even a hint of opportunity, Catherine Weston, with her perceptive gaze and quick tongue, might. And here he was, back to thinking about her. Wondering at the workings of her mind. Pondering the mysteries she hid. He half imagined that spending any length of time with her, catching hold of the chance to search out her secrets, might be worth the risk that she would see him for exactly what he was.

Just then, the front door of the club opened, spilling light across the stairs and cobbles. Two likely fellows sauntered down the steps, Newton and Pratt, a pair of harmless fools. They laughed too loudly and cuffed each other on the shoulder. Pratt’s aim was off and his fist glanced across Newton’s chest, unbalancing him as he stepped down, his foot sliding on the last stair. He spun, tipped to one side then lurched to the other, swaying and laughing, fighting for balance.

Gabriel moved quickly, thrusting his shoulder forward to bolster Newton as he wove and dipped again, dangerously close to landing on his drink-sodden rump. He had little care if the man sprawled in drunken ignominy, but appearances must be maintained. A gentleman would not fail a friend in need, especially not one who was so clearly foxed.

Of course, Gabriel was no true gentleman. No chivalrous heart beat at his core. But no one knew the man obscured by the veneer he cultivated, and he preferred to keep it that way.

“Careful,” he warned as Newton blinked at him blearily.

“Who’s that?” Newton demanded, peering up into Gabriel’s face. “Ah, St. Aubyn. Impeccable timing. Impeccable.” He caught hold of Gabriel’s forearm just long enough to steady himself and then straightened and let go, weaving slightly where he stood. “Saw your cousin earlier this evening. Didn’t know he was back on English soil.”

An interesting tidbit of news.

“Neither did I.” Gabriel could feel the eyes of those in the bow window, and he suppressed a smile. He could not have wished for a more perfect circumstance. His presence on the steps would be noticed by all and sundry, but the auspicious timing of Newton and Pratt had saved him the bother of going inside the club. He could wander off with them and all would assume they had gone together to sample a fine brandy or to find a game of chance. Perhaps he would indulge in exactly that for an hour or two, before returning to his other, more interesting pursuits.

Pratt stared at him a moment and then blurted sheepishly, “I must confess…I wagered against you, old man.”

“Did you?” Gabriel murmured, but asked nothing more. Clearly, he had not escaped the betting book. His name was part of some wager or other, but he could not summon enough interest to inquire what it was. On his last visit to White’s, the odds were for Miss L. wearing blue to the Featherstone ball, and against Lord F. marrying Lady B.

“I did. Wagered a nice sum.” Pratt bobbed his head up and down. “But I hope I am wrong. ’Twould be a sad thing for her to burn Cairncroft to the ground.”

“I beg your pardon?” Gabriel asked, suddenly interested despite himself. “Burn Cairncroft?”

“Surprised you dared leave her there unsupervised.” Newton slurred his observation enough that it took Gabriel an instant to understand the words.

He narrowed his eyes and turned his gaze to Pratt, the less inebriated of the two. “Explain.” Both men appeared startled by his tone. “If you please,” he added, an afterthought.

“Miss Weston. Baron’s daughter, though which one”—he pressed his lips together and squinted his eyes as he tried to recall—“Ah, it was the Lord Sunderley,” Pratt said. “Word is, she’s visiting Cairncroft. I heard it from my sister, who heard it from Mrs. Foxx, who heard it from Mrs. Northrop herself.”

“So she is there, and you are here. In London,” Newton supplied helpfully. “Which means there’s no one there watching her.”

Gabriel studied the two, his patience stretched taut. What game were they about? Their words circled around to nothing. “Sunderley died unmarried and without issue. In a fire, as I recall,” he said.

“Yes, exactly.” Newton beamed up at him, as though he had offered some unique and brilliant insight.

“Terrible thing.” Pratt shook his head. “But he was not Miss Weston’s father. The Right Honorable Lord Sunderley, Aubrey Weston, was. He and his wife died in a carriage accident some years back. His daughter is Miss Weston. Miss Catherine Weston.”

Gabriel was silent a moment, trying to understand their inebriated logic. “You imply that Miss Weston is somehow responsible for the fire that killed the most recent Baron Sunderley?”

“Well, yes…She didn’t kill her father…or perhaps she did…can’t be certain about any of that.” Pratt frowned and muttered under his breath as though trying to work out the logistics of the relationships. His expression brightened. “But she did turn the next Sunderley into a torch.”

“After Sunderley died, then Sunderley…er…the newer…let her stay on. There was some issue of”—Newton lowered his voice—“financial constraint.”

“She was left destitute,” Pratt offered. “Sunderley was a good sort. Let her remain in her childhood home, somewhere north…perhaps Derby or Durham or Lancashire…” He waved one hand dismissively. “Then came the fire and circumstances being what they were, there was little doubt that Miss Weston was to blame.”

“What circumstances would those be?” Gabriel inquired, tamping down the anger that settled in his gut like a lump of coal. The reaction was odd. Unfamiliar. Unwelcome. What matter was it to him if they gossiped about Catherine Weston? Why did their casual accusation send rage pounding through him? He was never one to succumb to temper. Not in nearly a score of years.

“Well, they were…that is…she was there when the fire began…” Newton shook his head in confusion.

“As was Sunderley and probably a houseful of servants,” Gabriel pointed out in clipped tones. “Why blame Miss Weston?”

“Well…” Newton looked at Pratt and Pratt looked at Newton, confounded. Then Newton continued as though the question was irrelevant. “Sunderley died. Burned. The servants formed a bucket line but there was no hope. He was trapped. They saw him in the window, begging and writhing, but none could reach him. He lived for two days after that, alternately screaming or passed out cold.”

“And they say she stood there, watching, calm as you please,” Pratt added. “Some say she smiled as he burned. Some say she smiled the entire two days he screamed.”

Not to be outdone, Newton leaned in and spoke in a low, fervent tone. “They say she was not right in the head. There was talk of sending her to a private hospital near York.”

That whispered tidbit edged Gabriel’s rage up a notch. He knew far too much of such places. The thought of her there—with her hair shorn or plaited and sewn to her head, her nails cut short, her body subject to the tortures they called treatments—made him want to reach out and close his fingers around Newton’s throat. Instead, he glanced down, veiling his thoughts, and flicked an imaginary bit of lint from his sleeve.

“Given that she was free to travel to Cairncroft rather than incarcerated or hung by the neck until dead,” he observed, “may I assume that the authorities were in disagreement with your suppositions, gentlemen?”

His companions exchanged baffled looks.

“Hadn’t thought of it—”

“Couldn’t say—”

Pratt shrugged and reached up to sling an arm across Gabriel’s shoulders. It took particular concentration not to recoil from the contact.

“I met her once.” Newton frowned in recollection. “At Mrs. Northrop’s soirée. She said very little. I can’t recall…fair hair? No, more mousy brown…She was utterly forgettable.” He shrugged, and let the memory go, uninterested. The topic had already exhausted his attention.

Mousy. The description made Gabriel smile, his earlier anger dulling to a slow simmer. An image of Catherine Weston flashed in his mind’s eye, her features composed, her mask perfectly in place.

She was anything but utterly forgettable.

In fact, thoughts of her had haunted him the entire week he had been in London.

And now he knew a great deal about her.

Gabriel was inordinately glad that he had come to his club tonight. Newton and Pratt had been founts of information. Suddenly, he was driven to return to Cairncroft with even greater urgency than he had felt to leave it. London and all its dark lure paled now next to his curiosity about Catherine Weston. He had been right. There was far more to her than the face she presented to the world. Her mask was polished and perfected, her veil secure.

Unless a storm wrenched it free.

He could be that storm.

Carefully disengaging Pratt’s arm from across his shoulder, he cast an assessing glance at the window of White’s. Several sets of eyes watched their every move. Swallowing his distaste for prolonging his present company, Gabriel smiled and said, “Gentlemen, I have a fine bottle of brandy awaiting us in Berkeley Square. Shall we retire there and sample it?”

But already his thoughts had drifted to Cairncroft and Catherine Weston. He had only to conclude his time with his current companions, then pay a brief visit to the companion who had occupied him earlier in the evening. Once that business was complete, he could be away.

Likely, it would be close to dawn.

Generally, he preferred to travel at night, on horseback. Enclosed coaches and bright sunshine brought back memories he would have preferred to excise with a surgical blade.

But just this once, he found that first light could not come soon enough.

Chapter 6

He returned to the place he had left her. Martha. She had laughed when he asked her name as they had walked through St. Giles, and said that he could call her anything he pleased. But he had wanted her name and so she gave it. Of course, he had known it before he asked, known she was the one, carefully chosen and watched for two days before he approached her. Luck had set her in his path, but if it had not, he would have found her nonetheless because of who she was and what her death would mean.

He used her name now, calling out a singsong greeting as he let himself into the empty warehouse by the river and listened for the faint, frightened whimper that told him she had heard. Dust stirred as he walked briskly to the back of the building, to the room beneath the teetering, rotted stairs. He dragged open the door, paused to turn up the lamp, and savored the sight before him.

She lay on the makeshift table—a plank stretched over two wooden kegs—tracking him with wild, desperate eyes. She was clad only in her thin shift, so much of her skin bare to his touch and the kiss of his blade. Her hands were bound, as were her feet, and the rags he had stuffed in her mouth muffled her cries as he took up his knife and began to play. He would have preferred to let her scream, to free her limbs and let her flail. But London offered little privacy, and so he made do with less than ideal circumstances and the relative seclusion of an empty warehouse, the last in a long row of empty warehouses.

He reveled in her muffled grunts and moans and the tears that tracked down her cheeks.

It was not that he hurt her. Well, not more than a little. It was the fear that built and grew and he could feel it shimmering in the rank air, taste it and smell it. That was the thing he craved. Her terror. The ability to control her and elicit what emotion he wanted.

There were points that she even accepted his comfort. No, not merely accepted it. Begged for it with her eyes. Such was his control over her and in so short a time.

He enjoyed their game as long as he dared in this vacant warehouse filled with the mingled scents of the spices that had once been stored here and the fetid stink of the river.

Time had little meaning. Moments or, perhaps, hours later, he stared down at her with febrile excitement. Sweat beaded his brow and trickled in an itchy line down his back. But he felt…right. For the first time in a long time, he felt right.

She was quiet now. No more struggles or frantic mewling pleas lost behind the greasy gag. Emotion—terror, horror, the swell of her panic, or perhaps only the magnitude of her suffering—had overwhelmed her more than once, sending her across the boundary of consciousness. He had been forced to dip a ladleful of water from the bucket on the floor and splash her face to rouse her. The last time, he had left the ladle where it rested and left her in her swoon, for though he had enjoyed every moment of their association, it was time to bring about the grand end.

This encounter had been better than his last. He was more controlled, better prepared for the tide of delight that crashed through him as he worked. And Martha, his partner in this macabre dance, had been more appealing than her predecessor—younger, cleaner, and more worldly wise—which had allowed her to suffer far more before she broke.

He was quite pleased to have been guided to her.

Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew the letter that had detailed Martha Grimsby’s name and general whereabouts, written in a lovely, crisp hand. He brought the corner of it to the candle and let the flame catch. A dark swirl of smoke twisted upward and then the paper flared with tongues of orange and gold. He held it as long as he could, finally dropping it to the floor and watching it burn to ash before scattering the remains with the toe of his boot.

Then he turned back to Martha. Sweet, desperate, frightened Martha. She was barely conscious now, her eyes rolled back, her body still save for the occasional twitch or groan.

Stepping close beside her, he stroked her hair back from her damp forehead, and waited until she roused enough to turn her head. She blinked, her eyes hazy and unfocused. Seconds ticked past, and she came around a little more, her brow furrowing, a moan sounding behind the gag.

She saw him then. Truly saw him. The connection between them was gossamer as a spider’s web and stronger than forged steel. She was his. His.

Placing a single, perfect white feather in her hand, he closed her fingers around it, curling his own tight to hers until she grasped the quill and held it. He suspected her hands were numb, for they had been bound for many hours now.

Her vision had cleared and focused, and she stared at his face, her eyes wide, rolling in fright. He caught her hair in his fist and yanked her head back, administering two deep slashes across her throat so that the arteries and veins were cut clean through and the bones of the spine revealed.

The wounds were fatal. He made certain of that this time. It would not do to repeat the debacle of his first foray so many years ago, when he had acted precipitously and, thinking the creature dead, had set to bury her body only to be confronted by a living corpse when she groaned and sat up straight in the grave.

No, this time, he acted with forethought and care.

Copper sweet, the smell of her blood was delicious, tantalizing. He set a wooden tub beneath the table to catch it, but some sprayed in a spurting arc as her heart pulsed and pumped in her breast for nearly a minute in a futile fight until the end. That blood was left to decorate the walls and floor.

He found it lovely.

Memories surged, of long-ago times and long-ago pleasures. A bird. A cat. Child’s play.

He simply stood by her side, arms hanging loose, his full attention leveled on her form. He watched. He breathed. He reveled in the joy of this kill.

At length, he roused and touched her wrists, her forearms. Cool, but not stiff. He moved his hand beneath the blood-dampened edge of her shift to the skin above her collarbone where the flesh was warmer, then ran his palms along her arms, her hair. Bending low, he buried his face in the curve of her shoulder and inhaled the fragrances of her skin and her blood. He straightened and stared down at her, memorizing every nuance of her face.

For a time, he stood in quiet contemplation. The air was perfumed by the metallic flavor of blood, the only sound the quiet huff of his own breathing. This was the time that the beauty of her being belonged to him, solely to him.

His. She was his.

This body was his to control, to touch, to pose. She was subject to his will. The certainty of that filled him with delight. His lips curved in a smile, lazy, satisfied. The intense euphoria of the kill had faded, leaving him relaxed, almost sleepy, affected by a pleased and sated detachment.

From a great distance came a boom of sound, and somewhat later a clatter and shout. Far away. The sounds had no meaning in this place. But at length, he recognized the change in the noise; it became louder, closer, the waking of the wharf, and he roused himself, for there was work to be done, bounty to be gathered.

Reaching down, he opened the lids of the four wide-mouthed ceramic jars he had set on the floor by the table. Then he lifted his knife and turned to his task.

Pinching the cloth of her shift between his thumb and forefinger, he drew it from her skin where the blood made it cling with damp tenacity, and slit the cloth neatly down the middle, baring her torso and abdomen. He stroked the skin, still pliable, but not for long. That was the disappointing thing. They never stayed like this, so perfect, so smooth and warm. Never. A handful of hours and she would be stiff, a handful after that and she would be cold as marble; the heat of her leaked away as the seconds ticked past.

But he would love her still. Even cold and stiff, and after that, soft and wet and rotted in the shallow grave he would prepare for her…even then he would love her. Because she was his.

He wanted to linger, to extend each moment so it slid past in slow, silky brilliance. But as he saw the first whisper of dawn’s light snake through the crack beneath the door, he acknowledged that his time in London was limited. He could stay away only so long.

Because, in the end, Cairncroft Abbey always called him home.

Cairncroft Abbey, March 1828

Catherine descended to the dining room, her hand gliding along the polished banister as she walked. Madeline, as always, eschewed breakfast; she would keep to her bed until past noon.

It was more than a week since Catherine had come to Cairncroft, and the house was more familiar to her now, though she was not inclined to explore. The place was large enough to get lost in, and she had already been warned that parts were showing their age with crumbling walls and rotting wood.

“How do you do, Miss Weston?”

Startled by the unexpected greeting, Catherine paused in her descent. Mrs. Bell crossed the wide hallway and waited for her at the foot of the stairs, her brow furrowed, her posture tense. She turned the large ring of keys that hung from her apron again and again, the clank of metal on metal loud in the quiet space. They had shared no discourse since the day Catherine had arrived at Cairncroft Abbey. Any contact between them had been limited to a brief look or distant nod. But today, the woman appeared bent on conversation.

Catherine proceeded down the remaining steps and said, “Very well, thank you, Mrs. Bell. And you?”

The housekeeper huffed a breath before mirroring Catherine’s reply. “Very well, thank you.” She glanced toward the open door of the breakfast room. Sunlight streamed through the portal and danced toward them across the slate floor. “The day is fair and bright.”

“So it appears. I have not been outdoors as yet,” Catherine offered warily, unable to discern the conversation’s purpose. That thought led to recollection of Gabriel St. Aubyn and his disdain of pointless polite discourse. She did not like to think of him, to recall the way his lips shaped words, or the way his amber gold eyes watched her so intently. But for some inexplicable, perverse reason, she had been unable to completely expunge him from her mind, and since his departure, such recollections had occupied far more of her thoughts than she liked.

She focused her attention on Mrs. Bell and continued. “I thought perhaps to take Madeline into the garden.”

The housekeeper nodded, but her expression tightened at the mention of Madeline’s name. “The south garden has a stone bench overlooking the lake.”

“Oh…” The lake was a shallow, greenish swamp that smelled like something dead. But perhaps the bench was not very close to the water, and the change of scenery from their usual spot might do Madeline good. “Thank you for the suggestion.”

Mrs. Bell pursed her lips. “I am sure this is no concern of mine, Miss Weston,” she said, then leaned back a bit and glanced first to her right and then to her left, as though to make certain they were alone. There was a footman standing by the door to the breakfast room, but he was far enough away that he would not overhear if Mrs. Bell kept her voice low. Apparently satisfied, she straightened and blurted in a tense whisper, “I wonder if you are aware of the nature of this place, the dangers you may encounter…”

“Dangers?” Catherine kept her voice low as well, but did not bother to hide her incredulity.

“Softly!” Mrs. Bell admonished with a quick glance at the footman who stared straight ahead, his expression blank. “What do you know of the St. Aubyns?”

“Very little. Their affairs are none of mine,” Catherine replied carefully. She had expected a verbal assault, either veiled or outright, but Mrs. Bell’s dialogue was neither. Catherine was ever wary of the unexpected.

Again the housekeeper glanced about, a quick, darting look. “The St. Aubyns are a family cursed.” She held her hand up to stay Catherine’s objection. “Oh, say nothing to deny it before you hear the tale. I myself have no belief in curses and such. Nonsense, really. But in this case, it is a word apt and true, for the family has known only ill luck and hardship passed from father to son. They have never flourished. For generations they have been plagued by malady and madness. I can tell you what passed in the time of Sir Gabriel’s great-grandfather. First, the youngest son died. Drowned. Then the oldest. And finally, the middle son, leaving the children without parents, without anyone to ensure that they grow straight toward the sun rather than bent and crooked.”

“Mrs. Bell,” Catherine said, wedging her opposition into the brief silence. “I have no fondness for gossip.”

The housekeeper clenched her fists and drew a fortifying breath, and Catherine could clearly see that this conversation caused her discomfort.

“Nor do I. Nor do I. This is not tittle-tattle, Miss Weston,” she continued, urgent and low. “There is a history here, do you see? The house…it is slowly crumbling about us. The lake is dead. No fish swim there now. And the gardens are filled with nettles, though the groundskeeper tends to everything as best as he can. There is a terrible malady to this place, and to the people who live here. When none of them were in residence, the lake was clear and the woods green and welcoming. The tenants flourished. But no longer. They have returned.” She shot a glance over her shoulder. “They have all returned, the living and the spirits of the dead, and their curse has returned with them. They are doomed. The St. Aubyns are doomed. Do you see?”

Catherine saw quite well. Mrs. Bell was unhinged.

She drew a slow breath, measuring every possible response to such revelation, and deciding a question was best.

“And why tell me this now?” she asked, making no effort to conceal the suspicion in her tone. Mrs. Bell had originally greeted her with hostility, then set about avoiding her for days. Now she wished to confide the deepest, darkest secrets of the St. Aubyn family. Catherine could not imagine putting her trust in any confidences the woman shared.

But more than that, she knew far too much of rumors and whispers and gossip of all sorts. There was always a story beneath the story, one that might be far different than what was whispered about with vicious titillation. And if one cared to dig deeper, there would be yet another story underlying the others. Layers upon layers. Lies upon lies.

Unbidden, a vicious memory leaped out to bite her. They whisper about you, you know. Catherine knew. Mrs. Northrop saying it had not make it any better or worse. They whisper about you and wonder if you did it. If it was your candle that fell over first…if you killed him…

Did it matter whose candle had done the deed? Whose hand had begun the disastrous events? The Right Honorable Lord Sunderley, Jasper Hunt, was dead and buried, and with him, her vile secrets.

But not her culpability. That, Catherine could never bury.

“I tell you this now,” Mrs. Bell said, “because you show every indication of remaining here for some time. I thought perhaps you would stay a week. But now the week has passed and you make no preparation to leave, and so it falls upon me to warn you.”

She pressed her lips together and wrapped her arms across her apron-swathed belly, as though to hold parts of herself together. Catherine recognized that posture. She had used it herself for months and months after the fire, but her best efforts had failed her. She had not held the jagged bits of herself together. Instead, in the end, she had shattered into a million razored shards.

Then, with no choice left to her, she had picked up all the jagged fragments and forced their poorly fitting edges to approximate in a new self, or rather, a reflection of a self that others could bear.

She had been forced to go on, to live, for she was too much of a coward to take her own life, though she had pondered it more times than she could count. Or perhaps she had been too brave to give up. Either way, the end result was the same. She was here, hiding within herself, behind the person she allowed others to see.

“And I tell you this because I have seen him,” Mrs. Bell continued. “He has come back to wreak his vengeance, or perhaps to drive us mad, those of us who let events unfold as they did.”

Him? Catherine stared at her in confusion, a horrid thrill of alarm chasing through her. For an instant, she thought Mrs. Bell referred to Sunderley—or his ghost—and then she realized that was impossible. The breath she had not even known she was holding expelled in a rush.

“Whom have you seen?” she asked. “What events do you speak of?”

“I have already said more than I should.”

“But you have said nothing useful.” Or coherent.

Mrs. Bell stepped close, the scents of starched apron and sweat tickling Catherine’s nose. The housekeeper lowered her voice even further. “No good thing can come of living in this place. You would be wise to see yourself away from here with all haste.”

“You live in this place,” Catherine pointed out, fairly certain now that Mrs. Bell had been destined for a career as an actress and instead had been waylaid to her position here.

“Yes, I do live in this place.” Mrs. Bell made an ugly sound that might have been a laugh. “And who ever said that any good came from that?”

“Then why do you not leave if Cairncroft is so abhorrent to you?”

“There are ghosts that follow no matter where one runs and hides.” The housekeeper’s harshly voiced words made Catherine’s blood chill. Did she refer to Catherine’s secrets, to the ghosts that haunted her? Were they bared for all to see?

No, of course not. The woman spoke of her own regrets and torments.

Distress gave way to curiosity, but she could see no way to question Mrs. Bell without opening herself to similar unwanted query. She was saved from any reply when the housekeeper continued, “Go to the graveyard. Then ask your Madeline about the stone. You’ll know the one when you see it.” She nodded. “We shall see how tranquil you are then.”

With that last, provocative sally, the housekeeper excused herself to see to her duties.

Catherine watched her go, completely baffled by the exchange. She could not fathom what possible outcome Mrs. Bell had anticipated. Her shared secrets had been all intimation without substance, oblique references to ghosts and curses and terrible things. What was Catherine to do with that? Run screaming down the drive in her nightdress?

With a shake of her head and a perplexed sigh, she proceeded to the breakfast room. The footman stood silent and still by the door, not even blinking when she passed. His presence was a familiar thing, for she had spent many years in a home filled with unobtrusive servants. She wondered if he had heard anything of her exchange with Mrs. Bell, despite their caution. It was a distinct possibility, for she was certain that he and the other servants of Cairncroft Abbey saw things…knew things.

She thought again that she had not done well to alienate the little maid, Susan Parker, that first night, that she would have been better served to cultivate her association to some small degree.

Stepping inside the breakfast room, Catherine was greeted by the tantalizing aromas of breakfast fare that wafted from the covered silver servers on the sideboard. Eggs. Meats. And…coffee. Odd. This was the first morning that coffee was offered.

She crossed to the large windows at the far end of the room. The gold brocade draperies were tied back to let the sunlight stream through the clear panes, and the warmth of it on her face was lovely. Mrs. Bell had been right. The day was fine and clear.

Idly, she studied the expanse of lawn and the portion of the drive that was visible from this angle, noting that Mrs. Bell was correct in this, as well. The gardens did look rather overgrown and scruffy, though she had seen the occasional worker digging and trimming since her arrival. Perhaps they simply lacked a firm, guiding hand, with Madeline so ill and unable to see to even the most rudimentary duties of the lady of the house. Even the daily menus proved too much for her. She left everything to Mrs. Bell.

Catherine’s gaze traveled to the dark and tangled forest that grew at the northern edge of the manicured lawn, threatening to creep forward and swallow whole the abbey and its civilized surroundings. There were woods to the south, as well, though half the trees there were gray and ghostly, burned at some point in the past. She had learned from Madeline that to the southwest of them was Huntingdon and to the east, Thetford, though she was not exactly certain how far either of them lay. Probably too far to walk, though the prospect of an outing was beginning to appeal.

She was about to turn and fetch her breakfast when something at the edge of the woods caught her eye. Did she see a flash of movement there? A glimpse of something pale? A shadow shifting?

Surely not. It was only the housekeeper’s talk of ghosts and curses that had conjured an imaginary specter. But as she watched, the shadow moved between the trees and finally, disengaged altogether. In the spill of sunlight, the shadow became a man, dressed in black, tall and broad, fair of hair.

Was it Gabriel St. Aubyn, returned from his journey?

He turned his face to her and she thought he saw her here at the window, that he watched her with intense concentration.

Distance and the angle of the sun made definitive identification impossible. It could be St. Aubyn, or any other blond man. But something in the way he watched the house, watched the window where she stood, made the fine hairs on her forearms prickle and rise.

Wrapping her arms about her waist, she backed away from the glass. Her heel caught the edge of the rug, and she glanced down, then up once more.

He was gone.

Her gaze darted all along the dark line of the woods, but there truly was no one there. So what had she seen? A fantastical conjuring? An illusion summoned from the depths of her mind by Mrs. Bell’s sinister intimations?

Silly, to let her imagination run wild. She was not prone to such behavior. Not since she had outgrown her pinafores.

Gathering herself, she refused to allow unfounded suppositions to surface, certain that it was a restless night’s sleep combined with boredom and isolation that sent her mind wandering in the direction of ghostly threat. She turned from the window, crossed to the sideboard, and helped herself to a plate. Eggs. Buttered toast. That was a luxury. Mrs. Corkle warmed the bread in the fire until it was golden, then slathered it with butter. The aroma was delicious, and Catherine was thrilled that this invention was included daily with the morning fare.

She chose a seat in the band of sunshine that splashed through the window and set her plate on the table. After fetching a cup of tea, she settled in the chair—a heavy mahogany affair that required the strength of both her hands to draw it from beneath the table. The warmth of the sun bathed her even through the glass panes as she began her meal. She had taken only a few bites when a faint sound from the doorway made her look up.

Her heart slammed against her ribs.

Gabriel St. Aubyn had returned. He stood framed in the doorway, dressed in a dark blue coat and white shirt, the cut and quality of which proclaimed his place in the world. The cost of that coat would probably feed a hundred hungry toddlers in St. Giles for a month.

A slurry of thoughts swirled one into the next. Mrs. Bell’s oddly verbose behavior earlier undoubtedly had something to do with the baronet’s return. His sudden appearance made her certain that she had indeed seen a man step from the woods. This man? She thought so. But how had he gone from there to here with such speed? He was not disheveled or out of breath, so he could not have run, and the distance was too great for him to have traversed it at a leisurely pace and arrive here, in the doorway of the breakfast room, so quickly.

“Good morning, Miss Weston,” he said, and offered a bland smile, his lips curved in perfect symmetry baring just a hint of white teeth. A welcoming and pleasant expression. She trusted it not at all.

“Good morning, Sir Gabriel.” She kept her greeting crisp and brief.

“Gabriel, or St. Aubyn if you prefer,” he said, echoing the words and tone he had used the day they took tea in Madeline’s chamber.

He crossed to the sideboard and poured himself coffee. So here was the reason for its inclusion this morning. Apparently, Gabriel St. Aubyn preferred coffee to tea.

His eyes met hers as he turned back, the morning light turning them more gold than amber brown, unutterably beautiful. She found his splendor disconcerting; she had no liking for attractive men. No, not so. She had no liking for men in general, least of all a confounding, enigmatic man who treated his own cousin with such shabby disregard. Though she had spent over a week in Madeline’s company, subtle prodding had not revealed the reason for the discord between the cousins, and Catherine had not wished to disturb Madeline by escalating gentle query to outright inquisition.

St. Aubyn stared at a spot above her left shoulder, and she glanced up, wondering what it was he studied with such interest. The dust motes dancing in the sunlight?

He set his coffee on the table.

“Your trip was pleasant?” she inquired, and immediately realized she ought not to have bothered.

His brows arched up and she caught a flicker of amusement as he turned away without offering a reply. She supposed that was a reply in itself. He deemed the topic purposeless and, hence, unworthy of discourse. It seemed that St. Aubyn was nothing if not consistent.

Catherine took a bite of toast, chewed, swallowed, tasting nothing, her movements mechanical. She watched from the corner of her eye as he filled a plate.

He moved back to the table, choosing the seat out of direct light, at right angles with hers, too close for her pleasure. The effort of an exchange of small talk with a man who refused to participate was an unappealing prospect. She would have preferred he seat himself at the far end, away from her, and that he read a newspaper while he ate, holding it up to form a wall between them.

On the pretext of eating a meal she no longer desired, she looked down at her plate and sliced a bit of ham.

“Why did you come here?” he asked with neither finesse nor veiled words. He wielded inquiry like a precisely honed blade.

Catherine almost choked, managing to chew and swallow only by dint of will. Gathering herself, she decided to proceed in exactly the tone he set.

“I was invited.”

“Yes, of course. But I inquire about your motivations, your thoughts”—he paused, sipped his coffee, then finished in a low tone—“your desires.”

His voice touched her like a caress and for the span of a heartbeat she could form no reply. Annoyance surged. At him. At herself. With a sampling of words, he roused a place inside her that she had felt certain was dead.

She would not allow him such power over her.

“My motivation was a letter I received,” she said coldly. “It was importunate in nature, desperate, as I am certain you already know. Madeline, a dear friend of my youth, cried out to me in her melancholy and despair. Was I to deny her? To decline her invitation? I am not so cold as that.”

“Are you not?” His inquiry slapped her.

But that was his intent. She had no doubt he wished to unsettle her, though she could not begin to imagine his reasons. His gaze slid over her at his leisure, rising to her hair—twisted in a loose knot at her nape—then dropping to her eyes, her nose, her lips, and finally dipping lower.

Did he dare to linger on her breasts?

She felt the heat of her blood in her cheeks, and that startled her. She had not blushed since her early encounters with the new Baron Sunderley after her parents had died.

“We shall work from that premise, then,” he continued, his gaze meeting hers. “You are not so cold as to ignore Madeline’s pleas. Nor so foolish. I believe you are a woman of intelligence, Miss Weston, one who spies opportunity and leaps upon it like a jaguar upon its prey.”

She allowed neither action nor tenor to betray her fury. Her hands did not tremble as she set her cutlery aside.

“Your words are insulting, sir.”

“Are they?” He appeared genuinely startled by her accusation. “I meant them to be complimentary. To have the intelligence to exploit one’s advantages is a wonderful thing.”

She stared at him, both repelled and intrigued to realize that he told nothing but the truth. He did mean these insulting observations as praise. How dreadful. All the more so because he was partially correct. Though she had not developed a mercenary nature by choice, there was a part of her that had—by necessity—grown opportunistic, a part that grabbed hold of any prospect with vastly unladylike tenacity and refused to let go. Madeline’s letter had been just such a chance.

But these were not truths she would share with him.

Catherine glared at St. Aubyn as he continued his breakfast, his table manners impeccable, his attention now on his meal.

“Excuse me,” she said, and pushed her chair back from the table.

He glanced at her, but made no move to rise as common courtesy dictated. “I had not thought you so meek as to flee at the first sign of interesting conversation.”

Interesting conversation? She held her serene expression, refusing to be baited. She could not begin to fathom his reasons, but she did not doubt he was bound and determined to elicit a show of temper.

Reaching over, he nudged her plate back toward her. “Finish your breakfast,” he said, an instruction, not a request. He did not cajole. She could not imagine him even trying.

After studying him for a moment, she decided a head-on approach was best. “If it is interesting conversation you wish, then perhaps we could discuss why you were watching me from the woods this morning. And how you crossed the vast lawn so quickly, managing to join me without exhibiting any effects of the vigorous activity you must have indulged in to arrive here so precipitously. Do you not find it rather juvenile to slink about?”

He swallowed his food, sipped his coffee, and then settled the cup back in the saucer. His movements were clean and precise. Finally, he looked directly at her. “I was not in the woods this morning, Miss Weston. I enjoyed no activity more vigorous than descending from my chamber on the second floor.”

“I saw you at the edge of the woods.”

“Did you? You have wonderful visual acuity to recognize me at”—he shot a glance at the window and the distant encroaching trees—“some ten score yards away. Tell me exactly what you saw.”

She pondered that a moment, camouflaging her hesitation behind with the overt action of shifting her chair close to the table once more. Exactly what had she seen? A man, or only a man-shaped shadow? A clear view of St. Aubyn, or someone she mistook for him because she expected it to be him?

“I saw a shape shift between the trees. Then it moved into the light and I saw a dark coat and pale hair. A man watching me.”

At that, his attention sharpened. There was no explicit sign of that. No tension in his frame or change in his demeanor. But she sensed an alteration and she had learned to trust such instincts.

“Offhand, I can think of at least seven employees of this estate who have blond hair. Perhaps you saw a gardener or a groomsman.” He took another sip of coffee. “I have no doubt you saw something, but it was not me.”

“As you say.” She lifted her fork and poked at the remains of her breakfast, loath to allow him to read her disbelief. A part of her meant to rise and walk away. A part of her was lured to stay. She ate another bite of toast and a sliver of ham, lingering over her tea as St. Aubyn finished his meal, apparently perfectly at ease with the silence.

Only once did he break it, saying, “Have you read Frankenstein, the Modern Prometheus?”

Startled by the inquiry, she shook her head. “I have heard of it, but have not had the opportunity to read it.”

“You may borrow my copy.”

“I…” She hesitated, but could think of no reason to decline. “Thank you.”

“I look forward to hearing your thoughts.” And with that, he returned to his meal, the discussion clearly at end.

But the sincerity of his words did not escape her. I look forward to hearing your thoughts. He actually meant it. He was interested in her opinion; a man interested in a woman’s opinion, her opinion. The novelty of that was startling.

At length, he set aside his napkin and rose.

“Come,” he said, and moved to hold her chair. He was too close, too big, too male. She stared at the tips of his boots. Black. Shiny. Speckled with dry dirt in a fine layer, like dust.

If, as he asserted, he had not been outdoors this morning, then someone in his employ had failed to shine the baronet’s boots last night.

Was he such a lax employer that he did not notice? She could not imagine such negligence. Not from this man.

“Where do we go?” she asked as she rose.

“Walking.” He cast her a sidelong look through his lashes. “The weather is fair, the sun bright.”

“It was my understanding that you disdain the weather as a topic of conversation.”

His lips curved in private humor. “Only when it is conversation without purpose. I mention the perfection of the day to lure you outdoors. Hence, there is purpose to such conversation.”

“Lure me? Like a spider lures the fly?” she murmured.

His smile widened, white teeth, cold eyes. She could read nothing of his true thoughts. “Without a doubt. But which of us is the spider, Miss Weston?”

He offered his arm. Energy crackled between them, the air fairly shimmering with it. Catherine stared at the tailored sleeve of his dark blue coat, and she wanted to tell him to step back, step away. She had no wish to lay her hand there, to touch him. It was too close a contact.

“Are you afraid of me?” he asked.

She examined his expression. There was no humor there, no deviltry or teasing. Not that she had expected such from him. He was neither a gallant nor a rake. In fact, she had never met anyone at all like him.

She wet her lips, floundering for a reply. Yes, she was afraid, of him, of any man who was larger and stronger than she. But she was far more disturbed by her own reaction to him, the confused eddy of attraction and repulsion that made her common sense war with the arousal she felt in his presence. Arousal of both mind and body; he stoked her ire and snared her curiosity, and perhaps even made her want to hit him. He made her want to break down the safe wall she had erected. To press her mouth to his. To reach up and touch her fingers to the softness of his hair. To feel the hardness of his body, defined beneath his tailored coat. But she would do none of those things. She would remain calm and poised, and he would be none the wiser.

“Afraid of you? Without a doubt,” she replied, echoing his earlier words.

“Wise of you. You should be.”

She inclined her head in acknowledgment of the warning and pondered her options. There was no polite way to decline his less than polite invitation. But that was not the source of her indecision; she was not so very concerned with manners. It was more that he was her host, master of Cairncroft Abbey, and he suffered her presence here at his whim. She could deny him—a dangerous choice, for he might decide then to revoke his acceptance of her in his home—or she could accompany him at his pleasure. It was a small enough task to walk in the sunshine with him for a few moments and pander to whatever whim made him seek out her company. Besides, it would afford her an opportunity to question him about Mrs. Bell’s earlier insinuations.

She realized that he found both her hesitation and their dialogue amusing. He allowed her to read it in his smile, genuine now, carving a crease in his cheek and fanning fine lines from the corners of his eyes.

“You find my fear entertaining?” she asked.

“No.” His gaze raked her, and were he a different man, she might have imagined the look held interest of a carnal nature. But he was St. Aubyn—cold, controlled—and she decided that any interest sparking in his eyes must surely be analytical. A collector admiring a pinned bug. “But I do find you entertaining, Miss Weston. Proper. Restrained. What do you hide?”

Nothing you will ever discover. She made no audible reply. None was necessary.

Then she changed her mind and said, “Interesting that you pose that question, sir. I could ask the same of you. What do you hide”—she paused long enough to lend her next words additional weight—“besides a dislike of closed spaces?”

She had expected a reaction to her observations. A look of startlement, a blink, a gasp. There was none. He merely inclined his head and asked, “What led you to that conclusion?”

“I noticed the first day, in Madeline’s chamber. When you stepped into the room, you chose to stand as close to the door as possible. And you never fully closed it behind you. When the footman closed it upon his departure, you immediately remedied the situation. Similarly, this morning. You left the door to the breakfast room ajar. Finally, you rode to London rather than taking a closed carriage.”

“And from those small observations you deduced that I dislike closed spaces?” His tone derided her assertion, but somehow, she knew it was true. Whether he admitted it or not, Gabriel St. Aubyn did not like to be caged. A sentiment she shared, though she would not reveal it.

“But we were not speaking of me, Miss Weston.” He ran the tip of his finger along the lace trim of her collar, touching only the cloth. Still, it made her shiver as though the contact had been skin to skin. “We were speaking of you and what it is you seek to hide.”

Stepping back, she lifted her chin a notch and sent him the frostiest look she could summon. “Do you intend your inquisition and intimations to unsettle me, perhaps even to terrify me, sir? To send me running from this place at first opportunity? Do you hate your cousin so much that you begrudge her even the barest human companionship and kindness, a friend by her bedside to ease her suffering?”

“My inquisition has nothing to do with her,” he said. And everything to do with you, he didn’t say.

It was the unspoken that made her wary.

He laughed, an unexpected, dark sound of mirth that coiled through her.

“Do you think you know me? That you understand my motivations? You know nothing of me, Miss Weston. Nothing at all.” He caught her hand and drew it up even as he lowered his face, his nose grazing the tender skin on the inside of her wrist. She gasped and jerked away, but he held fast. Her heart slammed hard against her ribs.

His head lifted, his gaze met hers. “You do not wear heavy perfumes.”

She stared at him dumbstruck, her nerves coiled tight.

“No,” she replied on a quick exhale.

“I like the way you smell.”

Before she could even begin to formulate a reply to that, he settled her hand in the crook of his arm, holding it there when she again tried to pull away.

“We will walk.”

Her choices fanned out like a hand of cards, but when she examined them for variety, they were all identical and equally foul. Escape was not worth her effort.

And so walk they did.

Chapter 7

Outside, in the sunshine, St. Aubyn appeared slightly less threatening. Perhaps it was illusion; his height and breadth filled the confines of the breakfast room, but were rendered less imposing by the vast, blue sky overhead. Catherine thought he was more at ease outdoors, though, in truth, he made no indication of that by action or word. Certainly his expression was as enigmatic as ever.

They skirted the crumbling part of the abbey and walked along a path made dim by an overgrown hedgerow some seven feet high. St. Aubyn offered no conversation as he measured his pace to her comfort, and Catherine was not inclined to mine the depths of her forbearance and search for a topic that might interest him.

Contrary, confounding man.

Casting him only the occasional sidelong glance, she otherwise ignored him, and instead memorized the path they took. Experience had taught her to always know the best route of escape.

Finally, they cleared the maze—she could think of no more apt description for the tangle of paths they traversed, walled on either side by the high, overgrown hedge—and came upon a graveyard. Catherine had no doubt it was the exact place Mrs. Bell had directed her to that very morning. Coincidence was unlikely.

“Did you choose this destination with particular purpose?” she asked.

His eyes glittered, polished amber. “Perhaps I eavesdropped on Mrs. Bell offering her dire warnings and directing you to visit this very spot.” He shrugged. “Or perhaps I sent her to speak with you this morning, to set the stage for this encounter. Either way, my actions are suspect.”

His logic was infallible, his motivations questionable—a situation he appeared perfectly comfortable with.

She was befuddled as to exactly what he admitted. Had he overheard the housekeeper’s remarks or had he sent her to act as messenger? Either choice was distasteful. Either way, he could lie.

And that appeared to be exactly his point.

Which brought her full circle back to nowhere.

“You admit that choosing this graveyard as your destination is no coincidence?” She tugged at her hand where he yet held it securely in the crook of his arm.

“Most assuredly.” He did not let her go. His grip was not rough, only firm enough to hold her in place, to exert dominion.

“It appears that I cannot count dishonesty among your flaws.” She changed tactics, leaving her hand limp against his arm.

“Is dishonesty a flaw?” he mused. “I rather think the ability to lie well is an asset. Do you lie well, Miss Weston?”

Exasperated, she stared at him. “If I say yes, then I am a liar. If I say no, then I might be a liar. If I say nothing, I lie by omission.” She shook her head. “What in heaven’s name is your purpose in pursuing such nonsense, sir? I can only wonder at your intent. It appears you seek to cause me distress.”

“I have no wish to distress you, Miss Weston. Merely to walk with you.” St. Aubyn released his grip then, and she drew her hand away without haste, satisfied that she had won this small skirmish. But not the war. She did not delude herself into imagining that he acquiesced and released her as a concession to anyone but himself.

He stepped away, a blessing, for she found his close proximity disturbing. He had asked her earlier if he frightened her. He did. But it was not because she truly believed he would raise a hand to her in physical brutality. No, his was a subtler form of warfare. It was his manner, his words, his hidden thoughts and—unflinching self-awareness made her admit—his physical self that made her pulse beat a little faster and wariness slide through her veins.

“You asked a question,” he continued. “I offered an answer. Then I asked a follow-up question…and so on. Is that not what you wanted? Conversation?”

“This is not conversation. It is an exercise in frustration,” she muttered.

For an instant, she thought she saw him frown, thought she saw a flicker of hurt in his eyes. Then it was gone and she was certain she deluded herself. A trick of the light.

Turning, she looked about curiously. Behind them was the overgrown hedge that extended to cage the entire graveyard, and before them were two stark and barren trees growing close together, branches twisting and mingling. Sparse tufts of grass dotted the bare brown earth. The sun hit only a single headstone in the far corner of the graveyard, leaving the rest wreathed in shadow. All the headstones—save that solitary one—tilted at precarious inclines, leaving Catherine with the feeling that a simple push with a fingertip would topple them altogether.

“Most of these are very old,” she murmured, glancing back at St. Aubyn over her shoulder. He, too, was in the shadows, the hollows beneath his cheeks and the masculine line of his jaw made harder in this light, the dimness darkening his hair to the color of ale. She did not wish to notice these things about him. That path was fraught with danger.

“Yes. Some over two hundred years. Perhaps even more than that. My ancestors, and Madeline’s.”

She walked between the graves, aware of St. Aubyn’s interested regard, a predator studying his dinner. The thought made her shiver.

Some of the stones were marked by dark stains, as though fire had roared through this place and left a trail of soot in its wake. Or perhaps it was the grime of centuries, layered on the cold granite.

“It strikes me that you do nothing without purpose, Sir Gabriel.” She turned back to face him. He stood in exactly the place she had left him by the overgrown hedge. “Why did you bring me here?”

“To grant you insight. Some of those buried here died of a similar miasma to what plagues my cousin. Tales passed down from parent to child tell of a ghastly acuity of the senses where even bland food sears the tongue, cloth feels like knives flaying the skin, scents become unbearable. Flowers or aromatic spice or perfume become a torment.” He shrugged, a fluid movement, muscle contracting under perfectly tailored cloth. “Some days, Madeline complains of all these things and more. Others, she appears to be in perfect health.”

“And did this acuity of the senses kill them?” She made a vague gesture toward the nearest gravestone.

He did not answer her question. Instead he observed, “You are so blunt and forthright, your voice modulated and perfectly cool, lovely even in your irritation.” He paused. “I do not misread, do I, Miss Weston? You are irritated with me.”

She stared at him, at a loss. Given the events of the morning and the bizarre interchange that had passed as dialogue between them, how could he imagine she was anything but irritated? He made no sense to her at all, and she had no idea how to address that. Such a strange man. Beautiful but troubled. Aloof. Cold. His appearance spoke of summer, his demeanor of winter. Yet somehow, she found him vastly interesting despite his odd ways. That terrified her, that spark of interest. She did not want to know him, spend time with him, feel fascination for him. Not for any man, for her experiences had made her wary. But least of all him. He was too…much. Too complicated by far.

“I do not know what it is you want of me,” she answered at last.

He turned his face away, and she wished he had not. He was a most difficult man to understand, to read, and she wanted at that moment to see his eyes, to try to know his thoughts.

“I want your company. Only that.” And as he said it, she believed him. For some inexplicable reason, Gabriel St. Aubyn wanted to spend time with her. How dreadful.

She answered with unaccustomed honesty, braving much. “I do not want yours.”

He laughed, head tipped back, shoulders shaking. A short burst of genuine mirth. The sound danced between the graves, startling her. She had not expected any emotion from him, least of all unfettered humor. For an unguarded instant, he allowed a hint of surprise to reflect in his features and she realized he had not expected it, either.

Then his gaze pinned her and he stepped toward her, all humor fading. “It appears we are at an impasse, Miss Weston, my desires in direct opposition to yours.”

There was no question in her mind that this man had little interest in her preferences or desires. She thought of the story the maid, Susan, had shared that first night, the implication that he killed a highwayman and left the body by the road. It mattered not if she believed the truth of that. It only mattered that others thought it might be true, for something must have made those who knew him inclined to accept the worst. She thought that perhaps he was ruthless. Or perhaps he only allowed others to believe he was.

A breeze kicked up then, catching her skirt and making it billow.

“Do you think Madeline has succumbed to the same malady as your ancestors?” She steered the conversation to their earlier topic, more comfortable with a discussion of death and malady than any reference to St. Aubyn’s desires.

“I do not know for certain that anyone succumbed to anything. Perhaps it was suggestion that laid the seeds of illness. Perhaps it is something particular to the St. Aubyn family”—he paused—“or to this place.”

He did not believe that. She knew he only toyed with her, spoke in maddening circles to see what her responses would be. For some inexplicable reason, he found her entertaining. With a shake of her head, she tried a more direct question. “Do you believe she will continue her decline as they did?”

“I think not, but there is no way for me to know for certain. Unless, of course, she dies.” He sent her a sardonic look. “That would close the matter.”

“You think her mad.” Catherine stepped away from the old, cracked headstones, toward the newer one in the corner, the one that caught the sunlight and deflected it back in bright glory. The one that made her think of Mrs. Bell’s odd, circuitous revelations, and Madeline’s garbled talk of a dead woman drenched in blood.

“I did not say so, though I cannot negate the possibility. I do know there is a vein of madness in our blood.” He strode forward only far enough to block her path as she inched toward the grave. “Mad as a hatter, or perfectly sane. She could be either.”

She edged to one side and took another step, wondering what it was that he did not wish her to see. Wondering why he had brought her in the first place if he meant to guard his secrets. “Why have you not sent her away? To a madhouse?”

His gaze chilled, winter cold. No, colder than that. Cold and dark like the earth that had buried her when she lay in her grave as a girl of eleven.

“I have seen such places. I know more of them than I care to.” His tone was frigid. She felt the touch of it like snow on her skin.

His answer only served to whet her curiosity. Almost did she press him, but in the end she decided that honey was better suited to catching this particular fly.

“And that grave?” She gestured to the lone sunlit stone, abruptly changing the subject in the hope of catching him unprepared. “Who is buried there?”

“No one whom you need concern yourself with.”

Of course not.

“Well, Sir Gabriel, I fail to see the purpose of this interlude. You have given me all manner of suppositions and queries to mull over in the dark of night, but you have given me no detail, no meat to chew on.”

She had no idea what image her words conjured for him, but the look he turned on her was disturbing in its intensity.

“The purpose?” he murmured. “To walk in the light.”

“But we are standing in the shadows.”

The intensity of his gaze made her breath catch. “Sunlight holds…memories for me.” He spoke utterly without inflection, but she was left with the certainty that those memories were not fond.

She stepped back, immensely aware of him, his height, the breadth of his shoulders, his long, strong fingers. Retreat seemed the wisest option, and she took it, shuffling back. For each inch she ceded, he moved into the breach, stalking her.

Enough. She had granted him what leeway a host deserved. More than what he deserved. She was done with allowing herself to be manipulated so easily.

“Do you seek to frighten me away? Is that your intent?” She held her ground now, retreating no more. “You believe your tour of an ancient graveyard and your stories of some sort of disease or curse will send me running back to London with all haste? Or perhaps your intimations of unseemly interest in my person? Let me assure you, sir, they will not.”

“Because you are so very brave?”

“No, of course not. I am not brave at all. I am a coward to the tips of my toes. But I am also pragmatic. My decisions are woven and twined with my past, my admitted cowardice, and my follies. I shall say it, though I do not doubt you know it already. I have nowhere else to go.”

The words hung in the graveyard, weighty and stark. St. Aubyn simply stared at her with his usual controlled mask, one she knew was a mirror of her own. Despite the import of the revelations she had shared, she allowed nothing of her true thoughts to leak into either her expression or her tone. St. Aubyn would know only what she permitted him to know. That was the best way to play the game. Lull him into confidence by offering mere snippets of truth.

It would have been an easy thing for him to make inquiries while he was in London. Likely, he already knew the entire unpleasant story, and merely wished to ascertain the honesty of her replies. So she fed him a generous serving of the information that she suspected he already knew, trimmed of fat.

“I am mercenary to the core, as you so politely pointed out earlier,” she continued. “Madeline’s invitation came at a most opportune time. Mrs. Northrop was put out with me and relieved me of my duties, declining my request for a character. I cannot return to London, for I have no resources, no place to go, no family to speak of. And then there is the question of the rumors that dog me like stink after a garbage scow.” She tipped her head back, until she could look in his eyes and read his expression, or rather the lack thereof. He gave her no inkling of his thoughts. “But the most important factor in my decision to stay is Madeline. She is my friend. I owe her my life.”

Interest uncoiled in his amber gold gaze.

“Why was Mrs. Northrop put out with you?”

She opened her mouth to reply, then closed it, nonplussed. Of all the questions she had expected him to ask—about her, about Madeline, about the past—he had asked the one that she had not anticipated, the one that had no bearing whatsoever on their current discourse.

Assessing the situation, she contemplated how much to reveal. She had learned that when mixed with truth, falsehoods were swallowed with ease. A measure of truth it would be, then, a stone skipping along the surface of her lies. She had no wish for anyone to look deeper, least of all a perceptive, predatory man with a blatant interest in her secrets.

“Mrs. Northrop was involved in charitable work, and so I was involved, as well. Our time at Bart’s passed without difficulty, but when she turned her attention to the newly formed Society for the Care and Reform of Women and Girls, our differences surfaced. She was appalled and outraged when I behaved in a manner most unseemly.”

The interest in his gaze sparked and grew.

“Did you?” he murmured. “In what way?”

“I had a”—she hesitated on the word friendship, for it implied depth of emotion and shared history, and she did not wish him to know of those, so she said instead—“an acquaintance with a woman she deemed unsuitable. A young woman I knew fleetingly in childhood, now a widow fallen on the hardest of times. She runs a school of sorts in a room in St. Giles.” And at night, she whored, because teaching in a stinking, crowded schoolroom in St. Giles did not put a candle on the table or food in one’s belly. But Catherine had no intention of telling him that. “We corresponded on occasion. Mrs. Northrop found out and questioned my moral fiber. In her opinion, it was one thing to offer charity to those ‘poor unfortunates,’ as she called them. Quite another to view them as individuals of value. It marked the end of my employment, and she declined to provide a reference, for she deemed me morally corrupt.”

Ah, if Mrs. Northrop had only known the true depth of her moral corruption. The thought was darkly amusing. “Madeline’s invitation came that same day.”

He offered a single nod, his attention focused on her face in close scrutiny. “But you would have come to her regardless,” he observed softly, the words precise and so true they made her ache. “Even if it had cost you your position, you would have left Mrs. Northrop at Madeline’s summons.” He reached out and touched the single strand of pearls at her neck—her mother’s pearls. Only by dint of will did she manage not to flinch away. “You would have sold an heirloom or something else of value to procure funds, and you would have found a way. You would have come because that is who you are.”

She felt violated by the accuracy of his observations. He had spent a handful of moments in her company the day of her arrival and again this morning, yet he was so perceptive that he divined that truth. Or perhaps he merely guessed at it and waited for her to reveal all.

“Yes, I would have come,” she acknowledged, a safe enough admission, given that he already knew she had come.

“Because you honor your debts.”

She stared at him, unable to fathom how he understood so much about her after such brief acquaintanceship. She did not feel that she could claim such depth of knowledge of him, and that was dangerous. He was dangerous.

“What is the debt that you owe my cousin, Miss Weston?”

“She never told you?”

“No. Enlighten me.” He bared his teeth in a smile that was neither nice nor comforting.

Catherine raised her chin and told him in the briefest possible terms exactly what had transpired that long-ago day. She left out the heart-pounding terror, the press of the earth on her chest, the certainty she would die. Instead, she used only the most simple and direct of terms to paint a picture of a child in distress and another who ran to summon help. To share more than that with this cold, enigmatic man went beyond her comfort.

“She saved you, and so you rushed to her bedside with the intent to save her.” Stepping forward, he laid the backs of his fingers against her cheek. A gentle touch, all the power and dominance of his nature held in rigid constraint. His action was improper, imposing, too intimate for her comfort. She wondered if he was always so controlled, if there was ever a time he let loose the rigid hold he maintained. The mere fact that she devoted thought and curiosity to that left her confused and cautious.

“You cannot save her,” he continued, and she wanted to ask why, to demand that he offer explanation for his assertion. But her mouth was dry, her tongue thick, the feel of his fingers on her skin too intimate to be borne.

With a sharp exhalation, she reared back, only there was nowhere for her to go. One of the two gnarled trees was directly at her back. She had trapped herself without realizing it. Her heart fluttered and raced, and she looked about for an avenue of escape.

As though he understood her anxiety, St. Aubyn dropped his hand and took a step away, offering her enough space to let her breathe, but not enough to allow her to bolt. She resented that he could read her emotions when she had no inkling of his. She resented it doubly that he seemed to outmaneuver her at every turn. In truth, she was not even certain of the layout of the game board or what pieces were in play.

“I brought you a gift,” he said, abruptly steering the conversation in an entirely unexpected direction.

“A gift? That is very…”

“Kind?” he supplied with an ironic smile.

She shook her head. “I was going to say improper. I hardly know you.”

“Well”—he slanted her an unreadable glance—“it is a small gift.”

Pressing her lips together, she stared at him, waiting.

He reached into his pocket and withdrew an odd tin, oval at the top, long and narrow. The tin was painted red with a gold crest on the front. When he placed it in her hand, she studied it curiously.

“How…interesting.”

“So polite. But you have no idea what it is.”

“No.” She shook her head, tracing her index finger over the crest. “What is it?”

“The tin is incidental. It is what lies within that will capture your interest. I saw it my first day in London and bought it out of curiosity after watching its inventor carry out a fascinating demonstration. But by the time I was ready to begin my journey home, I had determined that it could belong to no one but you.” He paused, and she knew he was watching her reaction as he said, “It is a fire-making device, Miss Weston.”

Her breath left her in a rush and something deep within her chest twisted in a tight knot. A fire-making device.

Dear God. He knew.

He had somehow ferreted out her secrets. How? Her limbs felt heavy, frozen, her thoughts muddy.

…by the time I was ready to begin my journey home, I had determined that it could belong to no one but you.

She examined his words for hidden implications and found none. Calm settled over her. She was overreacting. He had been in London. He had heard the gossip. That was all he knew. Nothing more. Not the truth. He determined to give her this device merely to unsettle her, to tell her he had heard about the fire. Of course, everyone knew of it. It was in fact old and tired news.

She was both alarmed and surprised that he had bothered to make inquiries about her. Their initial encounter had left her with the impression that she was almost beneath his notice—a circumstance she would have preferred.

In knowledge lay power, and she had little knowledge of him. The scales were far from balanced.

Careful not to betray her panic, she forced a reply, her tone flat. “How interesting.”

“So you have said already,” he murmured and stepped closer to take the tin from her hands. She had not brought her gloves down to breakfast, not having anticipated a need for them, and so her skin was bare as his long, beautiful fingers brushed her own. His were hot. Hers felt like ice.

“You see,” he said, carefully prying up the lid to reveal the strange contents, “inside each spill—”

“Spill?” she asked, unfamiliar with the term.

“These twists of paper.” He slid one free to demonstrate. “Inside the paper is a tiny glass vesicle that contains a drop of vitriol. The paper wrapped about it is primed with chlorate of potash, gum Arabic, and sugar. When you wish to have fire, you use these”—he withdrew a tiny pair of pliers from the tin—“to nip off the end and break the vesicle.” He did exactly as he described and Catherine gasped as fire bloomed.

Fire. In a tin.

Her vision narrowed until all she saw, all she knew was the red tin in his hand with its yellow-gold crest and the fire that danced at the end of the paper twist.

He huffed a breath and the flame snuffed. She wanted to snatch the tin from his hand and snip the end of another match herself with the tiny pliers, to see if indeed each one had this wonderful capacity to burn with spontaneous beauty.

“Why do you give me this?” she whispered, wondering anew exactly how much he had managed to discern of her secrets and how he had ferreted them out.

“Because Mrs. Bell forgot your fire the first night you came to us.” He paused. “This tin makes you mistress of your own comfort.”

Mistress of her own comfort. His motivations for even considering such a thing were difficult to comprehend. Her head jerked up. He was too close, his dark gold eyes intent upon her. And she knew he lied. His reasons were other than he claimed.

“May I?” he asked in the quietest of tones, but she had no idea what it was he wanted.

Then he moved closer still. Her breath caught, her heart tripped. Her head tipped back and she stared up at him, so close, the scent of his skin purely delicious, beckoning her to lean close and inhale. The intensity of his perusal seared her.

“The first time I saw you, a curl had escaped your pins and lay across your shoulder”—he brushed his fingers along the curve of her collarbone—“here.” Slowly, he traced his fingers up the side of her neck to the base of her skull where she had pinned the mass of hair in a loose knot. “May I?” he asked again.

She was beguiled. Every rational thought bid her step away, decline his request, flee this graveyard and not look back. Instead, she nodded, closing her eyes as his warm fingers slid free one of her pins and drew a lock of hair from the knot.

Heat licked at her, and her breath came in sharp, shallow rasps. She opened her eyes to see him before her, head bowed, her hair lying flat on his fingers, his thumb stroking the gently curled end. Feeling as though someone unfamiliar inhabited her skin, she stood there, allowing him to pet her, wariness, perhaps even fear, leaving her light-headed.

But, no, that was a lie.

If she would be honest with no one else, she ought to at least be honest with herself. It was not fear that left her dizzy, but his nearness, the faintly citrus scent of his skin, the way he tipped his head to look at her. She was light-headed because he touched her with his beautiful hands. Because she knew exactly what pleasure a man’s touch could bring and it had been so long, so very long.

But more than that, it was because St. Aubyn—Gabriel—was elementally and wholly attractive to her, his cold shell making him intriguing, making her wonder what warmth might lurk beneath the surface. And because sometimes, when he looked at her, he was not cold at all. What sort of lover would such a man be? Would passion free the sinuous beast that prowled just beneath his skin?

If she was afraid of anything in this moment, it was her own unacceptable reaction to him. The breeze made her shiver. Or perhaps it was the way he looked at her as he raised his head.

She was no stranger to a man’s lust, nor was she a stranger to her own. But dangerously perceptive and intractable as he was, Gabriel St. Aubyn was the last man on earth she should feel hunger for. Perhaps that was exactly why she did. The knowledge horrified her. She had thought never to feel such a thing, never again to know physical yearning. How could she? What sort of monster did it make her that after all that had passed, she would want a man, this man especially, with his cold heart and perfect, chiseled beauty?

If she took a lover, she ought to take a weak man, a man she could control. Not a man such as St. Aubyn, dangerous and enigmatic and rapier sharp.

Tension held her in place, her skin humming from the charge in the air.

“Your hair is very thick,” he murmured. For an instant, she did not understand what he meant by such an observation. And then she did. He meant it as a compliment, the way another man might tell a woman she was beautiful.

“I must go.” She delved deep for the calm demeanor that was her norm as she pulled her hair from his grasp and deftly twined it back into place. Sidling away, she detoured the tree at her back and the man that faced her, ending up behind a teetering gravestone. She shook out her skirt as an excuse to look away, to gather herself into the woman she habitually let others see.

But not for a moment did she delude herself into believing it was what he saw. No, he was too astute to easily accept the image she conveyed. To think otherwise would be a strategic error.

“Take the tin, Miss Weston.” He held it out to her. “It was meant for you.”

“And here I thought you said you purchased it on a whim,” she replied, deliberately misunderstanding his meaning. Still, she accepted the tin, lured despite her better judgment, the metal cool and smooth in her hand.

She moved toward the hedge and the path there, shaking her head when he stepped forward to escort her. “Do not let me waylay you from your morning’s pursuits, Sir Gabriel. I can find my way perfectly well.”

She was already at the mouth of the overgrown maze when he replied. “Of that I have no doubt, Miss Weston. It is part of your appeal.”

And that, more than any flowery words, was a compliment that warmed her to her core.

Lifting her skirt, she hurried off, confident in the certainty that she would have been far better off if Gabriel St. Aubyn had never imagined she held any appeal at all.

“Miss Weston,” he called from behind her. She paused, but did not turn. “Tacking ‘Sir’ before my name will not create distance anywhere but in your imagination.”

Of course, he was correct. And what was she to say to that?

Chapter 8

The way was dim and dark, the stone stairs slick, even on this fine and sunny day. Gabriel carried no lantern, no candle, his feet shaping the familiar path that would pose no challenge even if he closed his eyes and saw nothing at all. As a child, this had been his private place. As a man grown and shaped by the events of his past, he had forced himself to reclaim it. On either side, the stone walls drew close, barely wider than the span of his shoulders, and the stairs turned and twisted as he climbed. There were no windows, which left the air stale and dank, though he had left the iron-girded wooden door at the foot of the stairs open behind him.

He took care not to breathe too deeply, not to think of the narrowness of the passage as he ascended the spiraling stairs that wended to the crumbling tower. Behaviors honed in an eternity of captivity slowed his breathing and moderated his steps. He tolerated no weakness in himself.

Finally, he reached the top, the dark staircase opening into a vast, empty space. He took a deep breath then, letting the air fill his lungs, smelling stone and tallow and mildew.

It made him long for the scent of Catherine’s skin, of her hair. Roses and—he paused, considered, and after a moment it came to him—buttered toast.

No wonder he had wanted to touch his tongue to the place her pulse beat in her neck and lick his way along her vein. The urge had startled him then, as the recollection of it confounded him now. He was not a fanciful man. What was it about her that almost succeeded in making him one?

He had erred in the graveyard. He should not have touched her, stroked the silky length of her hair, conversed with her. It felt too much like a connection. What was he thinking to foster that? To join her at breakfast and encourage discourse? He was not capable of any sort of relationship, least of all one with a woman who would—justifiably—expect some permanent commitment as befitted her station.

That was an impossibility. He would never marry. Never sire an heir. These were inviolable facts.

She was a woman who, despite her current genteel poverty, had been raised to expect all the things he would never offer. Did he imagine he could have her at his whim, on his terms? He did not. He only knew that he wanted her. Naked and panting. Legs wrapped about his waist. Fingers curled, nails digging into his back.

Had he no honor at all left that he entertained such thoughts about her?

No, none at all.

And what was it about her that called to him? He knew better than to try and dissect his attraction into parts of the whole. It was only the sum total that mattered. He wanted her, and in the years since his escape from hell, he had made a habit to take what he wanted. To deny himself nothing in recompense for the time that had been stolen from him, the time where he had been denied everything, even his basic dignity.

Oddly, he rarely wanted anything more than a cloudy day, a good book, a decent meal, and a hot bath. Simple needs. He supposed he had never learned to yearn for anything complicated.

So why did he hesitate? Why did he woo with gentle care what he might have by other means? He had noted the change in her breathing, the darkening of her eyes, the parting of her lips when he was near. He could have her if he pushed just a little. Or perhaps more than a little.

But, somehow, he preferred that she come to him.

The thought drew a dark smile. She was already wary of him, mistrustful, and he suspected his actions this morning had not warmed her to his cause. But he knew no other way to be than the way he was. He was nothing other than the vessel his experiences had shaped, coupled with the efforts he had made to learn what it was that made a man similar to his peers.

Those efforts, though considerable, had yielded paltry results. Shallow results.

Annoyance surged. Enough introspection. He had spent more time on it today than he normally would in a year.

He did not turn and draw the heavy wooden door at the top of the stairs—a twin to the one at the bottom—shut behind him. He had no need to. No one would dare trespass here.

And he had no wish to be confined. Closed doors were for captives, held against their will or desire, not for his home, the place he could roam where he liked.

He crossed to the large mahogany desk by the windows. Taking a leather thong from about his neck, he withdrew the two keys that hung on it from beneath his shirt. He inserted one in the lock of the drawer on the right side of the desk and drew forth a metal box. It, too, was locked.

The second key slid into the lock, and turned with a faint click. Lifting the lid, he stared down at the contents: three leather-bound journals and a packet of letters tied with a string, each addressed to Geoffrey St. Aubyn, Hanham House.

The letters were all sent by his cousin, Sebastian, who had spent his life roaming to all manner of interesting places with his guardian.

Gabriel’s hand did not tremble as he lifted the packet. He would not permit it to tremble.

Carefully, he rifled through the corners of the stack with his index finger, then set it aside. The letter he wanted was from an earlier time. He removed a second, smaller packet, these addressed to Gabriel St. Aubyn, Cairncroft Abbey. He slid one letter free of the group, unfolded it, scanned to the bit he wanted and read the words penned there in a neat, childish hand. Sebastian had been so young when he wrote these, and Gabriel even younger.

I have heard talk that a mummy is to be sent home to England to be unwrapped before an audience of physicians. I should like to be there when they do, to see for myself the places they made the cuts in order to remove the lungs, liver, intestine, and stomach. These the ancient Egyptians stored in jars made of stone or ceramic or even wood. If only you could see them, carved and decorated. You would think them wondrous things of fascination, I am sure. I find them mysterious. I wonder at the purpose of such deliberate dissection. I wonder, too, that the heart, they did not take. Gabriel, it would be wonderful if you were here. Perhaps we could even try to make a mummy ourselves using a dead bird or other small creature.

Folding the letter once more, Gabriel slid it back in place, set both bundles in the metal box, locked it, and placed the box in the drawer. He locked that as well, then tucked the keys away beneath his shirt once more.

Sebastian was back on English soil. Gabriel had managed to confirm that much but, so far, his efforts to track his cousin had failed. He had Newton’s and Pratt’s assertions, and a dozen others, but wherever Sebastian had got to, Gabriel was a step behind.

Memories squirmed and wriggled, but he held them at bay, refusing to set them free. Instead, he crossed to the far wall where tall, narrow panes of leaded glass were set among the stones. They overlooked the path that meandered by the lake. He should have been surprised to see Catherine there. Was he to believe it coincidence that she chose to walk exactly where he looked?

Coincidence or not, there she was.

She walked with Madeline by her side, their arms linked, their heads bowed close together. Slowly, they made their way to a stone bench and settled there, overlooking the lake. The scenery was unlovely, the lake covered in green slime.

For some moments he watched them, then leaned closer to the glass as Catherine drew forth something red and gold, the colors catching the sun. Slowly, she slid the lid free and drew out a single spill, then the tiny pliers. Pleasure warmed him to see his gift in her hands.

Madeline turned on the bench so she was looking full at Catherine.

He could not see either woman’s face, could not hear what they said, but as Catherine snipped the tip off the paper spill and watched the fire flare, he had no trouble reading her delight. It was there in every line of her lovely, lush form, and in the faint sound of her laughter that carried up and up until it came to him through the glass.

Closing his eyes, he savored the sound, and for a single shimmering second, he thought that this must be joy.

St. Aubyn’s return changed little in Catherine’s routine. She attempted to avoid him at breakfast the following day, waking exceptionally early, hoping he would sleep exceptionally late. She was not so fortunate, and ended up in his company for the morning meal. As it turned out, she enjoyed their discussion, though she admitted that only to herself.

The day was gloomy, and Madeline’s mood, once she roused at noon, matched the heavy, cloud-laden sky. She was petulant and cranky, but Catherine coaxed her into a game of chess and made certain Madeline won. After that, her mood improved.

It was late in the day when, seeking something to read, Catherine wandered to the library. She had been there only once before, and the way was not easy to retrace. She ended up at the rear of the house, near a narrow, dark staircase—the servants’ stairs.

She was lost. There was nothing to do but go back the way she had come. She turned and took but a single step, when the sound of voices drifted up the stairs. One masculine and low, and after a long moment, a higher feminine one, thick with tears.

She recognized the first voice. It was Gabriel St. Aubyn. Again he spoke, his tone firm, the inflection suggesting that he questioned someone. But she could not clearly make out the words.

The only reply he received was a muffled sob.

His business was none of hers, yet curiosity surged and she wondered to whom he spoke and what he did that elicited the woman’s tears.

Slowly, she crept down the stairs, placing her foot with care. One step, the next, and another, until she was not careful enough and, beneath her toes, a stair creaked. She froze, aware that what she did was beyond acceptable behavior. She took the servants’ stairs to spy on the master of Cairncroft. It was a reckless act, doubly so because she could not imagine that Gabriel St. Aubyn would be pleased to know that anyone spied upon him, least of all a woman whose place in his home was tenuous at best. Almost did she turn back, when the woman gave a sharp cry, cut off as though she slapped a palm across her lips—or someone else did.

A shiver crawled along Catherine’s spine.

The next step was silent, and the next, and slowly she made her way down one flight, then a second, where she froze. Though the stairwell was dark, she could see a little of the passage below, for a lit sconce, or perhaps a lamp, threw dancing shadows and flickering light across the form of a woman huddled at the bottom of the stairs. She was dressed all in gray with a white cap on her head, her brown hair tied in a single plait that snaked over her shoulder.

She knelt on the floor, choking back sobs, her body curled forward as though she protected something.

And towering over her was Gabriel St. Aubyn.

Catherine shrank back against the wall, clutched by horror, all manner of terrible possibilities running through her mind. Her own experiences shaped her suspicions. She knew that. Yet she could not imagine this frightening tableau could be anything other than what it appeared: a man misusing his position of power. Her thoughts whirled as she tried to decide how best to proceed, what to do to help this poor girl.

“Please,” the maid whispered, the word coiling through Catherine’s veins like a poison. How many times had Catherine begged, at times on her knees as this woman was? How many times had she whispered that tearstained plea, to no avail?

Her belly churned, and she drew a shuddering breath.

“Stand up,” St. Aubyn said, his tone void of any emotion. He did not touch the maid, did not take even a single step toward her, but the command in his tone was impossible to disobey.

Reaching out to press her palm against the wall, the girl pushed herself to her feet, her head bowed, and Catherine saw then that her other hand was cradled against her belly, the fingers swollen and twisted. She stood there, sobbing and weaving side to side.

Had he done this? Had St. Aubyn hurt her?

Horror congealed in Catherine’s gut as she mentally tallied the last of her limited funds. Was there enough to see that this woman received care for her hand, and enough to travel? Enough for her to escape this terrible place?

But then what would Catherine have left for herself?

A confusion of possible outcomes flashed through her mind as she inched down yet another stair, summoning her courage and determination to stand up for this maid as she had never dared stand up for herself. She felt chilled to the bone, her limbs rubbery, her own horrific past colliding with her present.

She was not that terrified girl anymore. She was not.

She recognized that her own experiences were shadowing her ability to judge the situation before her, and she measured her reactions, holding herself back from leaping into the fray before she truly knew what the battle was.

Of course, the maid might have stumbled, hand outstretched, and injured herself. But somehow, Catherine did not think so. Her imagination conjured a horrific scenario of a booted heel hammering on tender flesh, or a brutal hand twisting muscle and bone.

With a shudder, she pressed her palms against the wall and slunk down another stair, intent on speaking up, whatever the personal consequence. A loud scuffling and an angry male voice came from a distant part of the passage, the interruption stilling her movements and interfering with her intent. A moment later, two footmen arrived, and between them swaggered a stocky man dressed in fine clothes, worn at the elbows and knees. A gentleman down on his luck, Catherine suspected.

The maid cried out and shrank back against the wall, her eyes wide with terror.

That terror acted as the catalyst for Catherine’s courage. She hurried down the last of the stairs to step forward and speak in her coldest tone. “What is going on here?”

St. Aubyn did not so much as glance her way, though she felt the eyes of everyone else there fix upon her.

“Nothing that concerns you,” he said. “Stay, or go. But do not interfere.”

His tone was quiet, the words laced with steel.

Ghosts and memories wove a dark spell, making her tremble, making her feel as though she was once more that cowering girl who had no hope, no family, no friends. No way to escape. Horror seized her. She was determined to help this unfortunate maid, to save her from whatever vile thing St. Aubyn meant to visit upon her. But first, she must determine exactly what that was and so she held her place and her silence, her fists clenched by her sides.

He turned toward the maid then and asked, “Is this the man?”

She was crying so hard she could not speak. St. Aubyn stepped toward her and she shrank away. Without thought, Catherine insinuated herself between them, her back to the girl, her entire body shaking as she faced him down. She was dimly aware that the two footmen stood silent, and the man in the faded finery snorted in derision.

St. Aubyn pinned her with a gaze that was barely human, so cold and knowing that she felt sick from it.

“Step aside, Miss Weston.”

An order.

She held her ground, feeling the weight of his stare and the stares of the maid and the men who stood a short way down the dim passage.

“Please, miss,” the maid whispered, and sidled around her to face her fate. “I don’t want you to take my trouble as your own.”

“Is this the man?” St. Aubyn asked again, his frigid gaze turned to the maid once more.

“Yes,” she said, so low that Catherine could barely hear her. Then the girl raised her head and stared down the hallway, fear and loathing glittering in her gaze.

“What? You going to believe her?” the man asked with an ugly laugh. “A lightskirt like her?”

St. Aubyn was before him in three short strides. Without preamble, he took the man’s left hand in his and snapped his baby finger. The man cried out, a short, ugly sound that echoed in the narrow hallway, along with the maid’s gasp.

Catherine jerked forward, then froze in place, her world tilting as she tried to make sense of what she had witnessed here.

There was violence in the air. She could taste it, smell it. She looked at St. Aubyn’s face and realized it came from him, barely leashed. He wanted this man to defend himself. Wanted a reason to unleash the full fury of his rage. He wanted to hurt him.

And in the instant, she finally understood exactly what transpired here. Justice. Or at least, St. Aubyn’s definition of it.

The fellow stood rigid, cradling his injured hand, cursing and snarling like the beast he was.

“Be glad I broke only one,” St. Aubyn said. “You broke three of hers. Get off my land. Do not return.” He bared his teeth in a terrible smile. “Take an unwilling woman again, and I will hear of it. Touch anything of mine again, and I will kill you.”

The man’s mouth opened and closed, his eyes wide with fear. The two footmen grabbed his elbows and dragged him away down the passage, while the maid slumped against the wall, sobbing wildly.

St. Aubyn turned toward her and stared at her in silence, his expression utterly blank. It was not marked in his features, not expressed by any means, but Catherine could swear that in the face of the maid’s tears, he was befuddled. He reached out, paused, drew back, and then finally took the maid’s hand at the wrist, not touching her damaged fingers at all as he looked at her injury.

The maid cried all the harder.

“You cannot work in the scullery,” he said, letting go his hold.

Her sobs froze, and Catherine’s own breath caught. What would this girl do if he turned her out with her hand broken and battered? How would she survive?

“Until your hand heals, you will—” His lips drew taut and he stared straight ahead, as though pondering what instruction to offer. Then he gave a quick shake of his head and in what could only be described as an exasperated tone, continued, “You will dust. Every book in the library. You will take each one down from the shelf and dust it thoroughly.”

“There are so many books, sir,” the maid said, ending on a hiccupping sob.

“Quite,” St. Aubyn replied with a sardonic edge, and the glance he cast her told Catherine that that was exactly the point. “Come along. We will find Mrs. Bell.”

He stalked away, tossing over his shoulder, “Not you, Miss Weston. You may return to whatever it was that had you skulking about in the shadows before you stumbled upon our little melodrama. I would in no way wish to inconvenience you.” Three steps more, and he stopped, glanced back, and said in a strangely gentle tone, “Come along, Peg.”

“Yes, sir.” She gave a mighty sniff. “I’m sorry, sir.” The maid scurried after him, leaving Catherine alone in the gloom, only now fully realizing that Gabriel St. Aubyn had just played the role of Peg’s knight in shining armor.

She recalled the way he had snapped the man’s finger, utterly without emotion, seemingly without effort. Judge and executioner.

She supposed that made him more a knight in tarnished armor.

The following morning, Gabriel sipped his coffee and glanced through an outdated copy of the Times.

“Oh!” A soft exclamation dusted the silence and he looked up to see Miss Weston frozen in the doorway of the breakfast room. The hour was early, barely past dawn. No doubt she had timed her arrival with care, intending to finish her meal before he came, and thus avoid him altogether. He found it entertaining to confound her. And that confounded him.

“You are an early riser,” she observed, stepping inside and crossing to the sideboard. Her voice betrayed no emotion whatsoever, though he suspected she silently cursed him to Hades.

She filled a plate, then joined him, hesitating almost imperceptibly as she selected a seat. Finally she opted for the same one she had chosen the previous day, though she might have moved to the far end of the table and taken a place there.

“It is customary to rise when a lady enters a room,” she observed primly.

“Do you chastise me for my appalling manners, Miss Weston?”

She stared at him with cool aplomb. “Someone must.”

And that made him laugh, though he had no idea why. The sound startled her. Her brows rose, giving her away before she mastered her responses and turned her attention to her meal.

In truth, the sound startled him, as well. Something about her freed a more primitive part of his nature, a part that was less controlled and rigid.

The silence wove about them like smoke, interrupted only by the nearly absent scrape of silverware on china, the rattle of a cup being set on a saucer, the crinkle of paper as he turned a page of the Times.

He thought she must be ruffled by the tension that hummed, vivid and alive, in the air. But she betrayed that not at all. She was cool and poised. Lovely.

He wanted to shake her composure.

Why? Such an uncharacteristic urge.

She had witnessed the episode yesterday by the servants’ stairs. For some reason, that made him…uncomfortable. He was unaccustomed to anyone gainsaying him. But Catherine Weston had done just that, insinuating herself between him and Peg when she thought the girl was in danger. From him. That, too, made him uncomfortable. That even for a moment, she had thought him capable of brutalizing someone smaller, weaker.

She had seen the violence surge through him, witnessed the cold brutality of his actions. He’d broken the bastard’s finger.

As though she sensed the direction of his thoughts, she murmured, “Why did you do it? Break his finger? You might have simply chastised him and sent him on his way.”

No, he could not have done that.

Slowly, she raised her gaze to his, a world of knowledge shimmering in her dark, lovely eyes.

“It was less than he deserved.” That was explanation enough. But for some reason, he could not let it be, he felt compelled to answer more fully. Peg was a servant girl with no protection, and no way to fight back. “I despise inequity.”

“Yes,” she said. Only that. Nothing more.

It was enough.

They began to converse, stilted at first, then more easily. Almost comfortably. They discussed philosophy and literature and science.

She was unexpectedly well read, but when he asked her about that, she evaded and danced about the topic, an expert at avoidance. He let it pass. For now.

He had lent her his copy of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, and they spoke of that as well, though she had only read the first bit to date, constrained as she was by her need to care for Madeline.

When she rose and took her leave, he was not pleased to see her go.

The following morning, she came to take her meal a full two hours late. A new tactic, the truce of the previous morning having been destroyed by the passage of time.

He delighted in the complete lack of surprise she evinced at finding him waiting for her, drinking yet another cup of coffee. His third? Fifth? She was composed and controlled, her mask perfectly in place. She presented such a wonderful challenge.

“I trust you slept well,” he said.

“Very well, thank you,” she replied. Her eyes narrowed as she assessed him, likely wondering why he engaged her in pointless discourse. He wondered that himself. “And you?”

Watching the sway of her hips as she made her way to the sideboard, he murmured an appropriate reply. He kept the inappropriate reply to himself, saying nothing of how, with the night a dark cave around him, he had lain between his cool sheets and tossed and dreamed. Of her. Naked. Of her lustrous hair fanning loose about her porcelain-pale shoulders, and her dusky pink lips open to accept him into her mouth. Of her dark eyes, slumberous with need; of her cries, high and loud, as she found her release.

What would she think to know that each night since his return, he had dreamed of her? Restless, wild dreams, sensual and vivid.

He ached to catch her hair in his fist and drag her head back so he could feast on her mouth, her throat, her breasts. He ached to knead the flesh of her sweet, round bottom and watch the pale skin of her buttocks pinken beneath his touch. He wanted to mark her as his.

He wanted her to take her pleasure of him, to lose control for him, to claw and bite and climax for him, again and again. He wanted nothing gentle with her, nothing subject to rigid control.

What was it about her that spoke to him on such a primitive level? He had known many beautiful women. Known many bright women. None had invaded his dreams. But Catherine did.

He tried to dissect her, to understand the allure, but she was something more than the sum of mere parts.

And so they met at breakfast each morning after that. He offered no clue of his private thoughts and lascivious dreams; he only sipped his coffee and watched her sip her tea, and listened to her perfect diction and lovely voice.

And each night, he dreamed. Fierce, dark dreams.

Chapter 9

Susan Parker trudged along the road making practical use of her half-day free from her duties at Cairncroft Abbey. The master had been back from London for more than a week now, and Susan was glad. It seemed Mrs. Bell worked them all harder when he was away, which made no sense, but that was the way of it.

Her thoughts turned to Peg and the gossip that was flying among the servants. What had happened to her the day after Sir Gabriel’s return? No one knew for certain and Peg wasn’t saying. They only knew that one day, she’d been a scullery maid who’d gone and gotten her hand broke, and in the week since, she had been dusting books.

Susan snorted. Easy work, that. Maybe she ought to go and get her hand broke, as well.

The sun was high in the sky, beating down hotter than Susan had a liking for. She wore her heavy cloak over her plain brown dress. When she had set off promptly at noon, the day had been overcast and there had been a nip in the air. The cloak had seemed like a fine idea. The walk to the village had been pleasant, the spring breeze stroking her skin, the birds chirping in the adjacent woods.

Now, with the clouds burned away and the full heat of the day upon her, she saw that the cloak had been a terrible idea. She was hot and sweaty, her hair hanging lank against her forehead, itching where it lay plastered to her skin.

And her toes and the backs of her heels pinched.

That was the whole reason she was on the road at all. She had put her half-day to good use, walking to the village to be measured for new shoes. When that business was done, she had left the shoemaker, turned right around, and begun the trek back to Cairncroft Abbey, for she meant to return in time for supper, and the walk was almost two hours each way.

Her thoughts wandered, revisiting the events of that morning. She’d been tasked to deliver a letter to Miss Weston. She had carried it up on the silver tray, bobbed a curtsy, and mumbled a brief reply when Miss Weston had tried to engage her in conversation. She thought Miss Weston felt bad now for her threats about carrying tales to Mrs. Bell that first night, and her pleasantries were a way of making amends.

Well, Susan was having none of it.

Though she had managed to avoid conversation with Miss Weston since the night she had first arrived, she hadn’t been able to avoid tidying the woman’s chamber. Duties were duties, after all. She didn’t like her. Didn’t trust her. What sort of nasty woman wielded threats just to ferret out information?

A smart, nasty woman, that’s who.

Susan shook her head, annoyed with herself as she recalled the way she had rambled on about the master and the time they’d found that highwayman dead by the road. What had she been thinking? There was fodder enough to see her dismissed if Miss Weston had had that in her mind.

Shoving a hank of hair off her face, she wiped the back of her hand across her brow as she walked. Truth was…she knew Miss Weston wouldn’t have ratted her out. Not because she was so very nice, but because she hadn’t said anything to anyone about the things Susan had divulged. At least, not that Susan knew of. Besides, she didn’t like Mrs. Bell any better than Susan did. And Mrs. Bell seemed to loathe Miss Weston.

Susan knew she’d been duped by the threat, and she’d spilled all in a rambling surge, terrified that if she didn’t, she would lose her place. Which made no sense when she thought about it later. She would have been wiser to keep her mouth closed tight if she meant to protect her position. Well, she’d learned a lesson from that. She’d bite her tongue clean through before she would make the same mistake again.

She closed her eyes, recalling again the letter she’d delivered just this morning and Miss Weston’s reaction to it. The interesting thing, the bit that made Susan think on it again and again, was the look on Miss Weston’s face when she’d flipped the letter over and seen the name of the person what sent it. Whoever it was, Miss Weston clearly had not expected them to write. She’d been gripped by surprise. Her raised brows and open mouth had betrayed her, doubly so because Susan had come to notice that it was not her usual fashion to show any emotion at all.

This letter had caught Miss Weston unawares, and that made Susan curious as a cat.

Maybe one of the other maids would have heard something by the time she got back. Susan was doubtful of that. Miss Weston was a private type, talking about the weather and such to the other girls, but never anything more than that. And though they’d quickly looked through her things a time or two, there hadn’t been anything interesting to find. Oh, except the pretty red tin with the gold crest, but Susan had no idea what those twisted papers inside were for. She’d carefully set the tin back where she’d found it, placing it exactly where it had been so Miss Weston wouldn’t see it had been touched.

Susan trudged on a bit, the discomfort of the heat and her shoes and the long walk so tedious, made worse by the growing need to piddle.

With a sigh, she paused and peered about. The road had curved, and to her left was a narrow river. The sound of the water rushing over the rocks made the pressing urgency that had plagued her for the past mile even worse. She was close to Cairncroft. Less than another hour to go. But, oh, she did need to piddle. She had thought to wait, but now decided against it.

To her right were the woods, the trees budding and green. There wasn’t another soul to be seen, and there was privacy enough to satisfy. Lifting her skirt, she left the road and scooted behind a thick tree trunk, hidden from any who might pass as she did what nature demanded.

There. That was much better. She thought even her pinched feet felt better now that the other discomfort was relieved. Settling her skirt, she then stepped around the tree and was about to resume her walk when she heard the pounding of hooves approaching.

Loath to step directly into the path of a racing horse—hadn’t she seen that child trampled before her very eyes five years ago at the Newmarket Fair?—she held her place until horse and rider rounded the bend. She waited there, thinking the rider would simply continue past.

But he did not.

He saw her and reined in the great black beast. It stood, sides heaving, head tossing, and she watched it warily, for horses frightened her.

The sun was at his back, and she squinted up at him, unable to make out his features. A strange disquiet trickled through her, and she took a step back. He eased the horse forward, one step, two. Clop. Clop. The jingle of the bridle seemed so loud in the quiet.

The movement shifted his relation to the sun, and she saw his face now, her unease evaporating like dew.

“Oh, sir, ’tis you.” She pressed her hand to her breast, and gave a nervous laugh. She blinked, unable to fathom why he had stopped to speak with her at all. Other than a directive to her duties, he had never said a conversational word to her. Not a single word.

“Did I give you a fright?” He offered a warm, slow smile. She’d never seen him do that. Not in the three years she’d been at Cairncroft.

“A bit,” she admitted shyly, staggered that he bothered to stop and speak with her, that he paid such attention to her.

He studied her at his leisure, his gaze raking her from crown to toes. It left her feeling oddly flustered, like the time Tom the footman had winked at her and tugged on her plait.

“You can’t mean to walk in this heat. Let me take you up behind me.” Leaning forward, he held out his hand.

She gawped at him, mouth open, thoughts muzzy. He meant to take her up behind him? To have her ride back to Cairncroft with him?

Well, that was something to tell the other girls. Wouldn’t they be amazed?

Scrambling forward, she looked up and reached for his hand, the sun in her eyes once more, blinding her.

Slapping his brown leather gloves against his thigh, Gabriel strode across the slate tiles of the entry hall. Despite his lengthy outing earlier in the afternoon, he was filled with an uncharacteristic restless tension. Because, as happened more and more of late, his thoughts were filled with her—Catherine Weston—and he had no desire to put a halt to where his imagination took him.

“Sir Gabriel.” Her voice came to him now, drawing him from his musings. Her words echoed in the vast empty hallway, crisp and precise. She was slightly breathless, as though she had hurried to catch him.

“Catherine,” he returned her greeting, pausing to look up, finding her at the top of the stairs, framed by the open arch.

He wondered if she was debating whether to chastise him for his unseemly forwardness, for she had never invited him to use her given name. In the end, she let it pass. It told him much, that acquiescence. Catherine Weston chose her battles with care, and he suspected she had sought him out to fight one of greater import than his unauthorized use of her given name.

She stood on the top step, unmoving. Her dress was the color of smoke, the color of sadness, of mourning. She ought to have looked plain. Instead, the hint of lavender in the gray made her skin gleam like one of the pearls on the strand she wore about her neck.

Waiting and watching, he held his place as she descended the stairs and approached, grace and beauty, each step measured to the last. Perhaps—no, assuredly—a true gentleman would have gone to her. The thought amused him.

“If you have a moment, I wish to speak with you about Madeline.” She paused, as though waiting for some reaction. He offered none. He merely watched her in silence, letting her have her say. As always, her composure was impeccable, but some small detail of her appearance was left in disarray. Today, as it had been the very first time he saw her, it was a lock of hair that had come free from her twist, curling over her shoulder and along her breast.

“Your cousin is poorly,” she said, the mistress of understatement. “I wonder what means have been employed in the past to encourage her from her melancholy.”

“Do you?”

A fleeting frown creased her brow. “Do I what?”

“Wonder.” He slapped his gloves against his thigh, once. “Or do you obliquely inquire if I have coaxed her and coddled her in the past? If you have a question, ask it outright, Catherine.”

She sent him a glance that might have held annoyance. Or disdain. He would prefer the former.

“Have you coaxed and coddled her in the past?”

“I have hired staff to do exactly that.”

“Why do you not visit her?” she fired, her expression tranquil once more, her tone sharp as a blade. “Why do you do nothing to help her?”

“I do not visit her because she despises me as I despise her. We mix as well as oil and water.” There. Let her mull on that. “And how do you know what I do and do not do to help her? Or what I have done in the past. You do not know me at all, Catherine.” He took a step closer, letting the subtle rose scent of her wash over him, letting his action say what his words did not. We could remedy that. We could know each other as well as you please.

Only in that moment, with her scent filling him, did he think to regret that his afternoon’s activities had left him smelling of horse, with dust on his boots and a splatter of mud on his sleeve.

She did not step away. Not his Catherine. She would not give an inch. Instead, she tipped her head back to glare at him and said, “I do know you, sir. I know that you have a brilliant mind and a cold heart. You have shown me that much of yourself. You answer questions with questions or with answers so oblique they have no value at all. At times, you offer only silence. What else would you like me to know?”

She was so close, he could see the beat of her pulse just beneath the pale skin of her throat.

Clearly, they applied different definitions and nuances to the concept of knowing.

He bent his head a little. She froze, the rise and fall of her breasts belying the cool gaze she leveled upon him. He affected her. There was no question of it. But she was poised, icy, her demeanor cultivated and planned to project a very specific impression.

“I did not seek you out to speak of nonsense,” she said in her frostiest tone, the sound of her voice only serving to stoke the heat in his loins. “I believe a visit from the doctor is in order. Your cousin has eaten almost nothing in days, and she does not sleep. I fear for her health.” She pressed her lips together, contemplating her next words, perhaps debating whether or not to set them free, and then she finished, “I fear for her sanity.”

“Ah.” And how was he to respond to that? There was nothing to fear. Madeline’s sanity had fled years past. And his own, as well. He imagined that if he said so, Catherine’s ire would be raised. She might turn and walk away. He was not ready to let her go, and so he settled for the less objectionable observation, “Madeline despises Dr. Graves.”

“Then send for someone else.”

“There is no one else capable within a day’s ride, and the afternoon is nigh over, evening drawing near. Unless you would have her seen by Dr. Jayne. He is close by, but he is a drunk. Last year, he performed an amputation. Quite proud he was, bragging that he’d done it in three minutes flat. Unfortunately, he’d cut off the wrong limb.” He let a heartbeat pass for her to digest that, then asked, “Shall I summon him? He could arrive within the hour, unless he is too inebriated to walk.”

She stared at him, and he saw a flicker of anger before she composed her expression into one of calm. “Do not make light of this. She needs help. She needs something to steady her nerves.”

“She has laudanum.”

Catherine shook her head, and the scent of her hair carried to him. A hint of roses. He inhaled, and held it, savoring the moment.

“She has none. I suspect she used what she had some time past. Or perhaps she spilled it. Either way, the bottle is empty.” She met his gaze full on, the light hitting her in such a way that the thick, straight veil of her lashes painted faint shadows on her cheeks. “I dislike laudanum. I believe it is a poison,” she continued. “At the very least, it does as much harm as good, but in this I feel the choice is clear. She is overset. Frantic. I cannot think what else to do for her.”

He heard all she did not say. That Madeline had worsened with his return from London. It was ever so. She did better when he was away. Just as he did better away from her, away from the memories the sight of her stirred and the dark slurry of emotions those memories evoked. He despised those feelings, despised himself for having them.

Because after so many years, he still hated her for what she had done.

Catherine shook her head. “Send for whoever set the splints on Peg’s fingers.”

“That would be unwise.”

“Why? You cannot accuse him of incompetence. The splints were perfectly applied.”

“Madeline would not like it.”

“Oh, you are impossible. Why ever not?”

“Because I set the splints on Peg’s fingers. Without a doubt, I am the last person Madeline would wish to attend her.” He shrugged. “Besides, I have no laudanum.”

Nor would he ever. Laudanum. Opium. He would rather suffer the pain of a thousand knives than take something that would steal his rational thoughts.

Her brows lifted and she slanted him a look, as though measuring the truth of his words. “You set Peg’s broken hand? How did you learn to do that?”

I read about it. Any book I could find. It was the only way to hold fast to my sanity. I can set a break and—theoretically—apply any number of poultices. I even know the names of every bone in the body. And I am versed in the best way to rotate crops, and the theoretical process of treating a hatband with mercury. I am a veritable fount of information. But he told her none of that.

Instead, he said, “Madeline will not want to see Dr. Graves. She is terrified of him. With just reason.” He recalled that Mrs. Bell had last summoned Dr. Graves without Gabriel’s knowledge or presence here at Cairncroft. There had been no one to speak for his cousin, except Madeline herself, and that had been a road to certain disaster. “On his last visit, the good doctor applied his lancets with great zeal and bled her enough to fill three saucers. She was insensate for a day and a night. I almost believed she would not awaken.”

A part of me hoped she would not. How perverse that he both hoped his cousin would wither and die, and felt responsible for keeping her alive and well.

The fact that she had been bled—a knife inserted in her flesh to slit her vein—troubled him. He had a particular abhorrence for that specific treatment, and though he bore her no love, he despised the fact that such quackery had been carried out in his home, on his cousin, without his knowledge or permission. It would not happen again.

Catherine was silent a moment, and then, her words echoing his thoughts, she said, “Then we shall have to make certain he does not do so again.”

“We? Are we a unit, then, Catherine?” Gabriel challenged her for the pure enjoyment of watching flames spark in her night-dark eyes. He lowered his voice. “A team?”

He had meant only to unsettle her with that proposition, but oddly, it appealed. For a solitary creature, he was illogically drawn to the idea of a pairing with Catherine Weston.

Catherine coaxed a little tea through Madeline’s dry, chapped lips, tipping the silver teaspoon so the milky, warm liquid poured through. Madeline swallowed, staring straight ahead. Some of the tea dribbled down the side of her chin and dripped to the pristine white sheets that were pulled up above her breasts.

Earlier in the day, the maid, Susan, had brought an unexpected letter from Mrs. Northrop. But Madeline had required Catherine’s full attention, for she had been fretful and plaintive. Catherine was loath to leave her unattended, and so she had not had opportunity to sit down and read the missive as yet. She had had only a moment to hurry to her own chamber, tuck the letter in the front of a book for safekeeping, then return to Madeline’s side. There she had remained all day, save for a quick foray downstairs to waylay St. Aubyn when she had spied him from the window late in the afternoon, riding back from an outing.

Thoughts of that encounter were disturbing in the extreme. There had been desire, blatant lust, in St. Aubyn’s amber gaze, and in response, a disturbing awareness had uncoiled in her belly.

In future, she would be wiser and make a greater effort to avoid him.

Setting aside the tea, she glanced at the window. Dusk was upon them, fingers of red and orange creeping across the sky, heralding the night. She could only hope Dr. Graves would come soon.

“They come through the walls,” Madeline whispered, drawing Catherine’s attention.

“What comes through the walls, dear? The noise of the servants?”

“No.” Madeline turned her face to the side, and Catherine thought that was the end of it, but then she spoke once more, her tone forlorn. “Dark creatures. All manner of horned and hooved things. They crawl through openings in the walls when you are not here. They poke me and prod me. They pinch. You see?” Madeline dragged her arm from beneath the covers and feebly pushed at the sleeve of her nightrail until her forearm was bare. “Do you see?” she asked again.

Catherine stared at the smooth, unmarked skin. There was no bruise, no evidence of a pinch. What to say?

Madeline’s gaze locked on hers and for a moment she did not appear lost in madness. She appeared perfectly coherent and lucid. “They are his minions. His army of demons that crawls about and does his bidding.”

“Whose army?” But Catherine already suspected Madeline’s answer.

“Gabriel’s. He wants to punish me.”

“Punish you for what?” Catherine asked, her tone hushed.

“For what I did to him.” Madeline closed her eyes, and let her head fall back. “For the tales I told.”

A chill raised the fine hairs at Catherine’s nape. The tales she told. What tales might those be?

As she had done more than once since that day in the garden, Catherine thought of Madeline’s garbled story about a dead girl covered in blood.

“What tales?”

Madeline opened her eyes. “It was my fault they sent him away, but what was I to do? I only told what I saw. The terrible things I saw. He killed them. Those tiny, helpless birds. And then—” She broke off and pressed her lips together, her gaze darting to the door.

Catherine stared at her, appalled. “Tell me about the birds, Madeline,” she prodded gently, choosing the least probing question to open her inquiry.

But Madeline fell silent then, her breathing rapid and shallow. Catherine lifted the teacup and spoon.

“No more,” Madeline murmured, turning her face away from Catherine’s attempts to coax the tepid liquid past her lips. “I am so tired. Only let me sleep a little.”

“I shall close the drape.”

“No. I can sleep better in the light. I told you, at night or in the gloom they come, crawling from the shadows and I am too afraid to even close my eyes. I only lie here and wait for them to become brave enough to take me. They will feed upon me. Gnaw at my bones.”

Recognizing the futility of any attempt to convince Madeline that nothing crawled through the walls, Catherine drew near and vowed instead, “I shall not let them. I shall stay right there”—she gestured at a chair beside the window—“and guard you as you sleep.”

“Will you?” Madeline asked, her eyes widening, hope sparking. “Will you keep me safe?”

The question twisted in Catherine’s heart like a dull blade. She could keep no one safe. She had not even kept herself safe. She had failed to keep—

No. She would not let those thoughts surface to destroy her.

“Of course I shall keep you safe,” she lied. She was very good at it now. Lying. Funny, as a child, she had held assiduously to the truth. The one constant in her life. Her honesty. Now she did not even have that.

A soft knock sounded at the door and Catherine crossed to open it.

“I brought the broth, miss, just as you asked,” the maid said. “Where would you like it?”

Catherine glanced back over her shoulder. Madeline did not stir. “Set it on the table, please.”

The maid did as she was bidden, then left, closing the door softly behind her.

Madeline’s chest rose and fell in shallow, huffing breaths. If she was not yet fully asleep, she was on her way to it. Catherine let her be, knowing that Madeline would not be convinced to taste the broth even if she tried to rouse her. And by the time she awoke, the broth would be cold. She would use that as her reason not to eat it. If Catherine summoned a maid to bring a fresh, hot bowl later, Madeline would claim it was too late in the day, or too early, that she was either too tired or too anxious. She was ever ready with an array of excuses.

Her friend’s despair gnawed at Catherine, for Madeline had done so well during St. Aubyn’s absence. His return had brought this heavy melancholy that did not dissipate, and Catherine was almost tempted to suggest to him that he travel to London once more and leave them in peace.

His mere presence unsettled her almost as much as it did Madeline, but in a far different way. How horrific was it that she had come to anticipate the moments of conversation she had with him? To savor the glances she stole. To drink in the play of light across his features that painted his dark brown lashes gold, and accented the hollows of his cheeks and the clean line of his jaw. To watch his lips form words. To wonder what his mouth would feel like, moving on her own.

What did that say about her nature? She did not want to think on it too carefully.

Leaning her shoulder against the window frame, she folded her arms and stared out, the last of the day giving way to the darkening night, the outline of the moon and the first evening stars winking to life.

What tales had Madeline told, and what tragic consequences had resulted in the burden of guilt she carried?

Catherine wanted to shake her friend awake and demand answers, but she would never do such an unkind thing. She must wait on Madeline’s whim for explanations. Impatience would not serve her in this, but she found she could not squelch it. It seemed that when it came to Gabriel St. Aubyn, she was parched for information and insights.

A short time later, a closed carriage rolled slowly up the drive, the cool moonlight illuminating its progress, dancing off the shiny black surface. The doctor had come. She was glad of it.

She watched the carriage for a moment more and then her gaze drifted to the dark line of the woods. Were the trees thicker tonight? More sinister? She made an odd sound between a huff and a laugh, deriding herself for her ridiculous notions.

Then, perhaps conjured by her mood and expectations, a man stepped from the woods. No, not stepped. Glided. As though he slid on ice or floated on air. His tall frame was clothed in dark garb, a long coat or a cloak that billowed slightly as the breeze lifted the hem, his head covered by a low crowned hat. He was shadow on shadow, barely there.

Catherine blinked and blinked again, certain that she had summoned a specter simply because she expected one. Her time at Cairncroft Abbey and Madeline’s half-formed tales had made her overly imaginative. How many times now had she seen this wraith that lurked at the edge of the wood, then took on the guise of Gabriel St. Aubyn?

In her absurd fancy, she was akin to Madeline with her talk of demons and monsters that crawled out of the walls. Only Catherine’s monsters crawled out of the woods.

Then the man removed his hat and turned his face toward her. He was far away. Far enough that she could be certain only of the color of his hair—blond—and the fact that it was either cut short or tied back. From this distance she could not tell with any degree of confidence.

Was it St. Aubyn? Did this game of peek-a-boo in the forest have some purpose?

The carriage rolled closer, distracting her and blocking her view, and after it passed the point where the man had stood, she saw he was there no longer.

Perhaps he never had been.

In that moment, she wondered if Mrs. Bell’s whispered warnings had borne fruit, if she was now subject to the same malady that afflicted Madeline, or simply newly prone to illogical imaginings.

At length, the coach rocked to a stop and an older man climbed down, illuminated by the spill of light from the lantern on the side of his conveyance. He was rail thin and very tall, dressed all in black, his pate bald and bare to the elements. She wondered that he did not wear a hat.

He paused there and looked about, and it was then that Catherine noticed a black leather bag in his hand.

Wrapping her arms about herself, Catherine shuddered. The sight of that bag elicited a slew of unpleasant memories, for she knew only too well the instruments of torture it held. After her parents’ deaths, Jasper Hunt had come and taken his inherited and rightful place as the new Baron Sunderley. He had taken her home from her, and anything that was entailed. The creditors had taken the rest. It seemed her father had not been particularly good at managing the family fortune. Fortunately for Jasper, he had money of his own, and the title had simply been the jewel in his crown. How kind she had thought him when he let her stay on in the room of her childhood.

He had claimed that he took his responsibilities seriously. All his responsibilities, including her, the destitute daughter of the previous baron. She was family, after all. His distant cousin.

At first, she had only been grateful. Then she had thought she was in love. It was not until much later that she had learned to be afraid. Of him. Of the cadaverous doctor he summoned when he deemed her in need of care. Or discipline.

With a sharp breath, she dragged her thoughts to the present. She must not allow her own prejudices to hamper Madeline’s recovery. She had no reason to think ill of Dr. Graves—who turned now to close the carriage door—no reason to assume he was other than professional and even kind.

Still, she meant to be there every moment that the doctor was with Madeline, just as she had promised. It would take an act of force to make her leave the room, and even then, she would claw and fight against removal. She could only hope it did not come to that.

She was about to turn from the window when St. Aubyn exited the front of the house and strode across the drive. The two men shook hands and spoke. The doctor’s pinched expression was clear to her, illuminated by the carriage light, but she could see only a bit of the side of St. Aubyn’s face, not enough to gather anything his features might betray.

Of course, in all likelihood, he would betray nothing at all. He never did…except earlier that afternoon, when his expression had betrayed his lust. That recollection made her uneasy.

Her gaze slid to the place she had seen the unidentified watcher at the edge of the woods. There was no one there now. But as she had done once before, she made mental measure of the distance, and felt certain that St. Aubyn could not have traversed it in time to be at the front door now, nor could he have crossed the open space unseen.

Which left her with a puzzle.

Angled toward each other, deep in conversation, the two men stood by the carriage for a few moments. Then St. Aubyn nodded at something the doctor said and both turned their faces toward Madeline’s window. Of course, it was perfectly reasonable for them to be discussing Madeline. The doctor had come specifically to see her, after all.

Yet Catherine could not help but feel suspicious of exactly what it was they discussed.

The doctor turned away, but St. Aubyn stared up for a moment more. He saw her there. She had no doubt of it. He spoke in reply to the doctor’s words, but his gaze remained fixed upon her where she stood framed by the heavy drapery, backlit by the light of the fire and the candle flame that writhed and jumped.

A step to the side and she was shielded by the curtain, unseen from below but able to continue watching the two of them, unobserved. St. Aubyn stared at the place she had stood for a slow count of ten, then he spoke to the doctor once more and together they walked toward the front door.

Turning from the window, Catherine found that Madeline was awake. She had levered herself to a sitting position and her eyes were fever bright.

“Do not let him hurt me,” she pleaded, though her tone suggested that she believed nothing could save her from that.

“No, I will let no one hurt you,” Catherine reassured her again.

“You will not leave me?”

“Not for a moment.”

Masculine voices echoed from the hallway moments later. A knock sounded on the door and Catherine opened it to find that both the doctor and St. Aubyn waited there.

“May we?” St. Aubyn asked.

She drew the door fully open and stepped aside to let them enter. Her nose twitched as Dr. Graves passed. He smelled of sweat and camphor, and she saw that his hands were not clean.

“Here is Dr. Graves,” St. Aubyn said, though it was apparent that Madeline knew very well who he was and had no need for this introduction.

Dr. Graves made a short bow, first to Madeline, then to Catherine. He set his black case on the small table beside the bed, and Madeline turned her head to stare at it, her blue eyes shimmering with horror and fear.

The doctor reached out and made to take her wrist in his hand, but she flinched away. He froze with arm outstretched, exchanging a glance with St. Aubyn.

“Will you be so kind as to afford us a little privacy?” the doctor asked. His tone was clipped, his voice rough. Impatience hung on every syllable.

Catherine was not certain if the doctor spoke to her, to St. Aubyn, or to the both of them, but she moved only as far as the foot of the bed while St. Aubyn inclined his head and went to stand by the open door.

Dr. Graves looked at her with a startled expression. “If you please…”

“I do not please,” Catherine replied. “Madeline has requested my presence. I am a comfort to her. I shall remain exactly where I am.”

The doctor blinked and cast a look at St. Aubyn, who was half turned toward them, watching. His expression was as bland as boiled custard, but his eyes glittered with interest. His gaze slid to Catherine’s and he raised a straight, tawny brow.

“I must object,” the doctor blustered.

“I must insist,” St. Aubyn interjected, darkly soft. “Please, proceed, but I will stay here and Miss Weston will stay there and there will be no discussion about it.”

The unflinching assertion should have been a comfort. Instead, it sent horror crawling along Catherine’s spine. No discussion. Of course. St. Aubyn could do almost anything he wished with Madeline, and no one would gainsay him. There was no one to protect her, just as there had been no one to protect Catherine when she was similarly ensconced in a powerful and autocratic man’s home. A home that had once been her own.

The similarities were chilling.

Dr. Graves altered his expression then, molding it into a parody of kindness and concern, one that rang purely false. Catherine did not trust him, did not believe the persona he projected, but she made no indication of that by gesture or expression, wary of unsettling Madeline who watched her with frightened eyes.

“Now,” said Dr. Graves, putting down the sheet enough that he could grasp Madeline’s wrist and hold it. She let him do it, though her muscles were rigid beneath her skin, and her jaw set tense and hard. “Your cousin says you are not eating, and that you sleep poorly. Is that so?”

Madeline said nothing, merely stared straight ahead, small shudders racking her frame.

“She was in fine health for the full week after I arrived,” Catherine said, drawing the doctor’s attention. Her gaze flicked to St. Aubyn. “Then she began to decline the week after that until she has come to this point.”

The doctor frowned. “Does she eat in your presence?”

“She did. But now she does not.”

“I see,” Dr. Graves said and nodded, as though the information was of great import. Again, he and St. Aubyn exchanged a look. “Well, she must be eating at some time, for she is well fleshed.” He reached up and dragged the neck of her nightrail a bit to one side, baring her collarbone. “Her cheeks are not sunken, and her clavicles do not protrude.”

Instinctively, Catherine stepped forward as Madeline flinched from the doctor’s touch. But she saw the point he made: Madeline was pale and wan, but she did not appear malnourished, for there was some flesh on her bones. Catherine was glad of it.

“She ate well while”—she cast a glance at St. Aubyn—“Sir Gabriel was away.”

“Hmm.” Dr. Graves turned to his bag and withdrew a black box. Catherine regarded it in distaste. A scarificator. Inside the box were dozens of sharp blades that would cut Madeline’s skin and make her bleed. With an involuntary movement, Catherine’s hand shifted to her own arm where she yet wore the faint marks of her experience with that particular instrument of torture. Reaching into the bag once more, the doctor removed a shallow glass cup.

“I’ll need the fire stoked,” he said. “The cup must be warmed to draw out the blood.”

Catherine’s gaze jerked to Madeline’s face. She lay there, eyes closed, lips taut and white. Unable to fathom the benefit of cutting and bleeding her, Catherine stepped forward, intent on arguing with the doctor. To her shock, St. Aubyn was there first.

“No,” he said, his tone brooking no argument. His expression was as cool and blank as ever she had seen it, but somehow, though she could see no evidence of it, she sensed his fury.

The doctor glanced up at him, pausing in his preparations. “I beg your pardon?”

“I do not wish you to bleed my cousin. Only give her something to help her sleep.”

“She must be bled, Sir Gabriel. If it is the scarificator you object to, I shall use the lancet or the leech.”

“You will use none of them. I abhor this ridiculous process, and I will not allow it in my home,” St. Aubyn murmured, the very softness of his tone bolstering the words with steel. He did not need to bluster and shout. A whisper from his lips was effective enough. The doctor took a step back.

Catherine wondered if St. Aubyn would simply reach over and snap the man’s fingers if he refused to acquiesce. She did not doubt that St. Aubyn would have his way by whatever means necessary. The thought ought to horrify. And, to a degree, it did. But there was comfort, too, in the knowledge that he would stick to his word and not allow the doctor free rein in Madeline’s care.

“Why did you summon me if you do not intend to let me treat her?” Dr. Graves asked peevishly.

“I intend to let you treat her. I do not intend to let you bleed her or otherwise perpetrate quackery upon her person.”

“Quackery!” Dr. Graves drew himself to his full height, two spots of color burning in his pasty cheeks.

A long moment passed where neither man spoke, and then with a sound that was somewhere between a grunt and an oath, the doctor dropped all he had removed back into the bag. He delved deep to draw out a brown bottle, and set it on the table with a definite thud.

“A few drops in a glass of water or wine is enough,” he said through tight lips. “More than that and she may sleep entirely too long. Sleep her life away. I have seen it often enough.”

“Thank you,” St. Aubyn said. “I shall see you out.”

They left without any further conversation, the doctor’s posture stiff and unyielding, fury sparking in his gaze.

Catherine watched them go and listened until the sound of their footsteps faded away. Then she stepped close to the bed and brushed Madeline’s hair back from her forehead. Her skin was clammy.

“I was afraid.” Madeline shuddered. “I hate to be bled. I hate the sight of it dripping into the bowl. I hate the smell of it, like old pennies.” She shuddered again. “I thought he would let Dr. Graves do it. He has let him before.”

Catherine stared at her a moment, noting that her words conflicted with the story St. Aubyn had offered. According to Madeline, he had let her be bled. But according to what he had said earlier in the day, it was Mrs. Bell who had summoned the doctor while St. Aubyn was away.

Crossing to the washstand, Catherine pondered the contradiction. She poured water into the bowl and carried it to the bed, along with a small towel. She dipped the cloth and wrung it out, then smoothed it across Madeline’s brow.

“Are you certain it was Sir Gabriel who allowed the doctor to bleed you on his last visit? It was my understanding that Mrs. Bell summoned him that day.”

Madeline only stared at her, a wounded look in her eyes, as though Catherine’s questions somehow breached her trust.

After a moment and some consideration, Catherine tried a different tack. “Dr. Graves appears to be a man who is used to taking charge. I suspect he is unaccustomed to being gainsaid.”

Madeline continued to stare at her, guileless blue eyes, wide and clear. “He is my cousin’s minion. As is the housekeeper and the groundskeeper and the head groom. They watch me. They keep me here against my will. They torment me at every turn.” Closing her eyes, she was quiet for a moment, then she said in a whisper, “One day they will kill me. If not by poison then by some other means.”

The certainty in her tone made Catherine wary. Not because she necessarily believed such a thing, but because Madeline clearly believed it.

“Madeline, I am here now. I will let no one harm you.” She paused, formulating the questions in her mind, wishing to pose them in a way that would do the least harm. At length, she asked, “Why do you think such a thing? Why would your cousin do you harm? What benefit to him?”

“Why would he do me harm?” The words came low and hard, and Madeline panted sharply as though struggling for control. Then one side of her mouth quirked in an unpleasant smirk. “Revenge for what I did to him. And as to the benefit…Cairncroft Abbey is entailed and so it is his, but the fortune is not. He has funds only because he is trustee of what is mine. My cousin is poor as a church mouse and, though I despise lending voice to such crass truth, I am rich, Catherine. What better reason for murder than greed?” Her tone was calm, matter-of-fact, making her assertions all the more dreadful. Catherine searched for some words of comfort, a way to convince Madeline that surely she was mistaken, but a part of her could not completely discount the possibility that she was not mistaken at all.

Was it only a form of madness talking?

“He only bides his time,” Madeline continued, her gaze never wavering, “and waits for the perfect opportunity, one that will paint my death in a believable and credulous light.”

Her eyes were clear, her words lucid, and in that moment, Catherine thought Madeline perfectly sane.

Chapter Ten

Alone in her chamber at last, Catherine set her candle on the table. Troubling thoughts gnawed at her. Madeline’s assertions. The doctor’s visit. The way St. Aubyn had looked at her with something primitive alive in his gaze—unveiled lust. The recollection made her shiver even now. What was she to do with that, and with the answering call she felt singing in her blood? She was not such a fool as to repeat the mistakes of her past, to allow a man, any man, such power over her ever again. Least of all a man who was so shrouded in mystery that she could not hope to see clearly through the fog.

Madeline’s accusations against him, her assertions that he would commit murder to gain a fortune, were distressing in the extreme. There were many people who would do exactly that. Kill for money. Kill for pleasure. Kill for revenge.

People killed for any number of reasons. She knew that only too well. But were Madeline’s accusations true, or the fancies of a troubled mind?

At the moment, Catherine had no way to know with any confidence. And what sort of creature did it make her that she was attracted to such a man? Fascinated by him?

Seeking to divert her thoughts, she opened the cover of the book where she had secreted Mrs. Northrop’s neglected letter. It was the volume of Frankenstein that St. Aubyn had lent her. The letter from Mrs. Northrop lay there, innocuous and inoffensive. But only because it was as yet unopened. Catherine had no doubt that the contents would be far from dull, for what purpose could such a venomous woman have in writing to her, other than to cause some sort of distress?

Should she open it now, or wait for morning?

The thought made a short huff of laughter erupt. As if she could find it in herself to wait. Perhaps the contents would provide a necessary diversion and keep her from spending the night tossing and turning and pursuing avenues of contemplation that invariably led back to her enigmatic host.

Lifting the letter, she flipped it over and traced the tip of her index finger along the flowing script of Mrs. Northrop’s name and direction, stark against the pale paper. Their acrimonious parting had been accompanied by Mrs. Northrop’s insistence that if she never saw Catherine again, it would be a fine thing. She had refused to provide a reference and had only grudgingly provided the last of Catherine’s wages. There was no imaginable reason for her to send a correspondence. Which left only an unimaginable one.

With a shudder, Catherine set the letter down, then reached over and drew back the curtains, letting the moonlight come through the panes. She stepped around the small table, unlatched the window, and pushed it open a hair, enough to let the fresh night air kiss her skin. The maids thought her preference for open windows to be exceedingly odd. The bravest one had warned her that outdoor air carried miasma and evil humors that would only make her ill. Catherine disdained the possibility. She could not see how it was perfectly acceptable to walk outdoors, but not acceptable to allow a bit of the outdoors in.

Besides, she had spent enough time as a prisoner in a locked room, working the window latches until her nails tore and her fingers bled. She had never succeeded in getting them open, for they had been painted shut with exactly that purpose in mind.

She cringed away from the memory, and the tumult of other, darker recollections that would tumble free if she let them. The experience had left her with a distinct aversion to closed doors, closed windows, heavy draperies, and stale air—which was why it had made it so easy to recognize the same aversion in Gabriel St. Aubyn. Had she not known the signs so well, she likely would have missed them.

Settling in a chair, she moved the candle so it was away from the draft, then opened the letter from Mrs. Northrop, noticing that a newspaper clipping had been included. She unfolded the single page, revealing script that was clear and precise, if slightly slanted.

Dear Miss Weston,

Our parting was less than convivial, yet I do not have the temperament to carry a grudge.

Only one sentence in, and already a lie. During the term of her employment, Catherine had been subjected to Mrs. Northrop’s endless list of grievances against all those who had wronged her since childhood. It was fascinating how often people saw themselves completely in opposition to how others saw them.

For some reason, that thought made an image of Gabriel St. Aubyn fill her mind. Did he see himself as she saw him, cold, aloof, his secrets hidden beneath layers of rigid control? And why did such a man appeal to her so? Perhaps because the only man she had ever believed she loved had been prone to fits of passion and terrifying, deadly rage.

Memories broke over her like a crashing, storm-stirred surf. She wrapped her arms about herself, holding the waves at bay, her determination a dam against the flood. After a moment, she made a conscious effort to relax her shoulders and the rigid muscles of her back, to uncoil her arms and force her attention to the page once more.

I forgive you your impertinence and poor judgment, and as a gesture of goodwill, I write you with news that must surely be of interest. Please do not trouble yourself to reply.

Martha Grimsby is dead. She was murdered.

“Wha—?” Catherine read the sentences a second time and a third, the letters like little black bugs on the page. Martha? Dead?

No. Surely it could not be true. She had seen Martha shortly before she had departed London.

The letter fluttered as her hand trembled, horror sinking its talons bone deep. She felt ill, shaken and clammy, nausea roiling in her belly. What ugly game did Mrs. Northrop play at? Why would she write such a foul thing?

Heart hammering, Catherine reread that line a fourth time, then continued on, searching for some indication that the assertion was a macabre joke.

Martha Grimsby is dead. She was murdered.

There, I have said it outright. The quickest cut is the kindest. Do you not think so? I recall having a rather horrid Affliction of the skin as a child, a vile, weeping Carbuncle. Dr. Marks was quite decisive in his action and his insistence that the lancing be done with all haste and precision. I never forgot that lesson, and consider it one of great value. Hence, I share it with you.

I have taken the clipping from the Times and included it herein.

Cordially,
Agnes Northrop

Catherine swallowed convulsively, her throat tight, her chest twisted in a knot. She could not breathe. Could not think. Martha dead. Murdered. Why? How?

It took a moment for her to realize that the low, plaintive moan she heard was coming from her own lips, that she had crumpled the letter into a little ball in her fist. With meticulous care, she smoothed the hated paper flat on the table, her palm stroking the creases until it lay before her like a dried leaf, the edges curled and bent.

She took the newspaper clipping and unfolded it, her hands shaking as though she were struck by a palsy. Almost did she tear the paper, so jerky were her movements. She glanced at the date—March 29, 1828—and the headline—WATERSIDE MURDER. With her vision blurred by tears, she read the whole of it, blinking again and again as the letters swam before her eyes.

Henry Day, Deputy Coroner, opened an inquiry respecting the death of one Martha Grimsby, the woman who was discovered on Friday last, at the London Docks, Wapping, with multiple stabs to her body.

Catherine jerked as though a knife had been stabbed in her own breast. In that moment, she saw Martha as a child, laughing as she and Catherine ran through the garden a lifetime past, when Martha’s father had been a groom at Catherine’s father’s estate.

Closing her eyes against the pain that twisted inside her like a wrung-out rag, Catherine struggled to make sense of this horrific news. Was it not enough that Martha’s life had carried her to St. Giles, to poverty and desperation, by day running a school for the local children in a dingy room, at night facing the need to sell her body to survive? Did she have to die like this?

Like this?

Feeling as though a hard blow had been struck to the center of her back and all the air driven from her lungs, she opened her eyes and forced herself to read on.

Alfred Barrett, waterside laborer, came upon the place when he went to seek for work. He passed the spot even as George Reese arrived and the two found the deceased, lying on her back in a shallow grave, the soil of which had been washed away in a particularly violent downpour. Both men believe they would not have noticed her there save for the fact that early in the morning, a load of timber was moved unexpectedly, baring the place she lay to passersby. There was no blood, that they could see. Frightened, they did not examine her but instead immediately gave notice to the police. The witnesses saw no footmarks in the mud, nor did they find any weapon.

Dr. J.R. Cuddy, of 73, House-lane, said that he was called to the deceased, and found her dead. Her clothes had been cut away from the torso, and the chest and abdominal cavities opened with a sharp instrument, without precision. On postmortem examination of the body, he found the lungs, liver, stomach, and intestine removed, again, without precision. The heart was untouched. Dr. Cuddy thought these wounds had not been inflicted during life.

Catherine forced herself to inhale against the oppressive weight that bore down on her. The wounds had not been inflicted during life. Martha had suffered so much, but she had not been alive to feel her organs sliced from her body.

That was Catherine’s one comfort, that her friend’s body had been mutilated only after her death. Cold comfort it was.

Tears welled over, trickling down her cheeks, dripping onto the backs of her hands. She stared down at them, aghast, knowing the battle was lost even as she fought to hold back the torrent, to remain composed. Her efforts were to no avail.

Grief swelled beyond the confines she imposed, oozing through cracks in her façade, and for the first time in six long years, Catherine allowed herself to cry. Not only for Martha, but for the child Catherine had borne and never allowed herself to mourn. And for the man she had killed because he had killed her son.

In the dark hallway, Gabriel stood outside Catherine’s door. She was crying. The sounds were muffled, as though she struggled to suffocate them into silence. Something inside him shifted and turned, an unpleasant and wholly uncharacteristic instinct of chivalry that insisted he step inside and offer comfort of some sort.

He had no idea how.

What did one offer in the face of another’s pain? Here was a lesson he had failed to learn…no…a lesson he had never been taught. In the place where he had grown from boy to young man, there had been only lessons in survival. Hide behind an emotionless mask. Evade. Lie. Show only what they expected. The level of his suffering had been determined by his ability to guess exactly what they wished to see and hear. If he was right, they left him alone. If he was wrong, there were all manner of tortures and deprivation. He had striven to be right more often than wrong.

The sound of Catherine’s sobs confused him. He wanted to comfort her as much as he wanted to avoid the necessity of doing so.

Almost did he turn and walk away. She would never be the wiser, never know he had heard her private sorrow. But some intangible force drew him to stay. His knock went unanswered, and so he went beyond any acceptable boundary of propriety, turned the knob and opened the door, freezing in place at the sight that greeted him.

Catherine sat in a chair by the window, her back hunched, her head resting in her bent arms, supported by a small table. A single candle sent shadows dipping and swaying along the walls. Through the open curtains streamed a cool, pale swath of moonlight that fell across her upper body, leaving the rest of her in shadow. Her shoulders shook as she sobbed, her grief curling her fingers against the tabletop, straining her muscles, carving her in stark, tense lines.

He crossed the room until he stood behind her, his hand outstretched, palm down. He hesitated, not touching, and finally simply rested his hand on her nape.

She jerked and snuffled and raised her head, gasping to see him looming over her. In this moment, she was not beautiful. Her nose was red, her eyes and lips puffy, her cheeks wet with her tears. In this moment, her mask did not slip. It was ripped away, leaving her naked and bare.

In her wide, shimmering eyes, he saw all the unfettered emotions he would never know in himself—grief, horror, desperation, myriad sentiments, vast as the stars—and he was fascinated, both attracted and repelled. He had thought her exactly like him. Damaged. Flawed. Unable to feel.

But she was not. He could see now that she was not.

She was something far more intriguing than that, for she obviously experienced emotion on a deep, visceral level, but somehow managed to control it to an outstanding degree.

In contrast, what little he felt was like a world viewed through sheer fabric. Fear, joy, sadness…all were tempered by the walls he erected. He knew such emotions existed. He knew they could be felt, saw the expressions on the faces of others, recognized the situations that summoned specific responses. He analyzed them, but he did not feel them, not to any significant degree. His emotions were not buried, not hidden; they had never had the opportunity to evolve. The feelings he saw in others were not part of what he was.

For a long moment, he simply stared down at her, saying nothing, aware that she studied him as he studied her. Reaching out, he touched his thumb to her wet cheek.

Tears. She had shed enough to fill a bucket. He stepped away as she watched him with wary uncertainty, crossed to the washstand and poured a glass of water from the pitcher. Then he took up a folded cloth, wet it, and wrung it out.

Three strides took him back to her side. She was exactly where he had left her, sitting in the stripe of moonlight, her porcelain skin made all the paler by the cool light. He offered her first the cloth—she swiped it over her face and handed it back to him—and then the glass. She drank the water greedily, in thirsty gulps, and set the empty glass on the table with precise, careful movements, as though she feared slamming it down and shattering it into a million shards.

Dropping her hands to her lap, she stared straight ahead, her posture brittle. He thought that the wrong word would shatter her into a million shards.

“Catherine,” he murmured, reaching down, braceleting her wrist with his fingers. His thumb traced the delicate bumps and dips of her bones, the softness of her skin.

He tightened his grip and drew her to her feet. She allowed this liberty, unresisting, the silence disturbed only by the rustle of her skirt as she rose.

Then, as though waking from a daze, she did resist, tugging on her wrist, trying to pull away. He could not say why he did not let her go.

Her head tipped back; her lashes lifted. The moon painted a pale wash on her face, leaving her eyes too dark, too big, shimmering with the tears that had yet to dry. But she did not cry now. She gathered herself, her chin angling up, her posture adjusting as she visibly called forth her inner reserves of strength. Her back arched a little as she strained away, and her arm was stiff and straight against his. Only the quick, hard pulse at her throat betrayed her unease.

Her eyes narrowed, and her features changed from open to guarded. Her mask slid into place. He found he regretted that, though he would not have expected such.

With a last sharp tug, she tried again to pull free.

And this time, he let her go, let her step away, though it went fully against the unfamiliar instinct to draw her close, wrap her in his embrace, and hold her safe from anything that would harm her. Even himself.

Like a slumbering beast, something deep inside him unfurled, a need to claim, to mark, to protect. Primitive. Dark. He understood it not at all. Glancing down, he took refuge in the simple act of lifting the scrap of newspaper from the table, tilting it to the light, and reading the first bit. He saw immediately that he had no need to read it all. He already knew a great deal about Martha Grimsby’s murder.

“Is it the murder itself that has you upset, or something more?” He looked up. “The method of it? The organs taken?”

She took a sharp breath.

Ah. His questions only served to distress her more. A tactical error on his part.

He stepped toward her only the single pace that she had stepped away earlier, and when she did not retreat, another pace. They were so close that all that separated them was their clothing and a thin span of night-cooled air. So close that he could feel the graze of her breasts against his chest with each breath she took, feel the trembling in her body as he took her hand in his, drew it down to his side and held it there, shifting them closer still.

Her breathing grew short and rapid. Her head tipped down so she stared straight ahead at his chest rather than his face.

“How do you know there were organs taken? You barely glanced at the page…certainly you could not have read it in its entirety.” Her voice was roughened by the violence of the sobs that had racked her earlier. He wondered how long she had sat here in the near dark, sobbing her heart out before he had found her.

For a moment, he said nothing, weighing all possible answers, and finally decided on, “This clipping is from a paper days old.” He let it flutter to the tabletop once more. “But there is little new information in the more recent reports.”

“Oh.” She blinked and shook her head mere inches to either side. Then she wet her lips and gave a soft sniffle. “I knew her. The murdered woman. Martha Grimsby. I knew her as a child.”

Seconds ticked past. Tipping her head back, she met his gaze, waiting for him to respond, to offer some appropriate rejoinder.

“You feel her loss. You regret it.” The words were not enough. He saw it in her eyes. For an instant, the silence roared as he searched…and then he came away with the fitting response, the exact words that had been said to him at a time of loss. “My condolences.”

She swallowed. Nodded. “Thank you.”

Dark lashes swept down, veiling her thoughts. But he knew what they were, read her pain in every tense line of her lush form. He wanted to take her suffering, pull it from her, swallow it into himself where it would not matter anymore.

Her lashes lifted and she looked directly at him, into his eyes. Perhaps even deeper than that.

He wanted to kiss her, to drag her against him and put his lips on hers, to know the hot, sweet taste of her mouth, her tongue.

It was not the right time. Even he, with his shallow grasp of the nuances of emotion, understood that it was the wrong time. But he let instinct guide his hand as he reached out to draw the pins from her hair, letting the thick, heavy waves tumble free over her shoulders and down her back.

There. He liked that, the feel of her silky hair against his palm, the look of her with her hair loose and mussed.

Her eyes and lips were still puffy from her tears, and he ached to kiss her lids, her mouth, her throat. To lick the salt from her skin. He thought she would not welcome it. But still the urge swelled and grew. He knew nothing of comfort, but he thought that were their positions reversed, were he the one to feel pain, he would crave the succor of her touch. A shocking realization, for he could not recall having such a thought in all his adult life.

Catherine fisted her hands in her skirt and stepped away, suddenly wary. St. Aubyn filled the space, inhabiting it, owning it. Even in the dimness, he was painted in shades of gold and honey and finely brewed ale. Yet the meager light suited him, for he was more akin to shadow than light, regardless of his sun-bright beauty. He was a man who looked nothing like he ought to. If appearance reflected inner self, he would be cast in the smoke and pewter of shadows rather than the gilded gold of sunlight.

That thought was enough to stir fear in her gut, to rouse memories of another man whose appearance had so poorly matched his temperament and secrets. A man who had cost her everything. The worst of it was, she had chosen to trust Jasper Hunt, to love him. In the end, he had broken her, shaped her to obey. By the time she had understood that, it was too late for her. For her baby.

The woman she was now had risen from the ashes of the girl she had been. The woman she was now would not be lulled and tricked by anyone. She was wiser than that. She would force herself to be wiser than that.

“What are you doing here, in my chamber?” she asked, aware even as she did so that the question was belated. She ought to have bid him leave the second he pushed open the door. And now it was too late, because even if he turned and left now, she would still have knowledge of the well-hidden part of him that had been driven to offer his own rather restrained form of comfort—a glass of water for her parched throat, a cool cloth for her fevered brow. He had taken liberties, crossed boundaries, created an intimacy she did not wish to have with him.

“I heard you. From the hallway.” His lips curved in a faint, sardonic smile. “We seem to alternate roles skulking about in the shadows, you and I.”

There was that. Strangely, his odd attempt at levity eased the ache in her heart just a little.

“Why were you in the hallway? Only Madeline and I are housed in this wing, and I have doubts that you were on your way for a pleasant visit with your cousin.”

He watched her for a moment, assessing, measuring. “I was on my way to make certain that Madeline took the laudanum Graves supplied. A night’s rest would benefit her.”

His solicitous concern for the cousin he freely admitted he despised seemed odd. She studied him, trying to judge his sincerity.

In the meager light of the moon and the single flickering candle, his hair was gilded, his eyes shadowed. But not so shadowed that she did not read the glint of desire that flared in their amber depths as he dropped his gaze to her lips, her breasts.

“I gave her a dose in a glass of Madeira,” she said in a rush, startled and appalled by the answering spark of attraction that flickered in her belly, sending hot tendrils snaking through her limbs. No. She dared not feel this. To give a man such power over her once more—

He kissed her. There was no preamble, no sweet and tentative approach. There was only the heat of his body and the strength of his hands on her arms, holding her as his mouth pressed to hers, hard, hungry. For an instant, she responded. The silk of his tongue in her mouth, the mingling of breath, the scent of his skin, faintly citrus, filled her. There was pleasure here. Primitive, savage pleasure.

Oh, God, how long since she had felt this?

Never. The truth of that was irrefutable.

Whatever stirrings of passion she had felt in her past, it was a mere prelude to the sensations that drowned her now. She had never been kissed so thoroughly, so savagely. So beautifully.

With only a kiss he had found the part of her she thought she had killed. She had been wrong. Her passion was not dead, only sleeping.

Under the press of his lips and the stroke of his tongue she unfurled, the air around them so still it quivered, the storm inside her building until she kissed him back, openmouthed and hungry. Her fingers twisted in his hair, tugging him down to her as she fed on his strength, his passion, the physical comfort of his hard body and sheltering embrace.

He protected what was his. Coldly. Ruthlessly. She had witnessed that with her own eyes. He would protect her if she were his.

And it was that realization that chilled her, drowning the sharp flare of her passion as quickly as it had come.

She would not do this. Would not put herself in this place. Would never again be any man’s possession. His property.

With a gasp, she turned her face away and pressed hard against his chest.

“Catherine,” he murmured, his voice low and rough, his lips moving against her throat. “I want you.”

I want you.

Memories surged. A man’s voice, hard with rage. I want you. Now. On your knees, my cat.

She felt sick. Dizzy. The room spinning. It was too much. Too many memories. Too many secrets.

Too many losses and regrets.

She worked so hard to hold them at bay, to cage them where they could not harm her anymore. But with a single kiss, Gabriel St. Aubyn freed them, freed the power of her sexual need, and other things. The need for closeness and comfort and human warmth. All things she no longer deserved.

All things she knew better than to imagine that this man, this particular man, could ever want or provide.

The tumult of her passion, too hard, too swift, died as quickly as it had swelled, replaced by a cold knot of dread. What would he do if she refused?

Break her fingers as that man had broken Peg’s? No. She could not imagine that of him.

Break her will, then, as Sunderley had tried to do in the end?

The thought made her ill.

With a desperate cry, she ripped herself from Gabriel’s embrace and backed away until she felt the cold wall against her back. Pressing her open palms against the wall, she stood there, panting, wishing he would go, just go. Uncertain what she would do if he stayed, if he bid her disrobe, if he ordered her—

Panic swelled, and she battled it with all she was. She would not succumb. She would never again be so weak and helpless.

And then it came to her, the knowledge of how she could deny him that power. She would initiate the interlude, get it over with, on her terms, and she would hold all emotion at bay, make herself safe.

He watched her with an expression that betrayed nothing of his thoughts. Was he disappointed? Angry? Not even by the faintest flicker of his lashes did he offer insight.

Feeling as though she was not at all herself, as though she were dreaming or had drunk a measure of Madeline’s laudanum, she stared past Gabriel’s shoulder, straight ahead at the looking glass above the mantel. She saw her reflection there, her expression blank, her face pale.

Gabriel wanted her? Well, she would let him have her. She would let him take her and then it would be over. The anticipation, the heart-pounding lust. The terror that this act of physical joining would dissolve her, dissolve everything she had worked so hard to become.

She could participate in the physical without offering even a bit of her secret self.

She was stronger now, a different woman. Yes. The phoenix risen from the ashes. And she would do this, face this, and come away stronger still. Men did it all the time. Made physical use of a woman they neither knew nor cared about. She suspected many women did that, as well.

There was her answer. She would become one of those women. He would have her body but nothing more. Those were her terms. It was the most she could offer. And she did not dare examine too closely her reasons for even offering this.

Her anticipation had died with the abrupt slice of a guillotine. But neither was there horror of the coming act, and that was an improvement. She had thought never again to face physical intimacy without clammy palms and cold sweat and roiling nausea deep in her gut.

Reaching up behind her neck, she unclasped her mother’s pearls and laid them carefully on the polished mahogany of the table. Next, she tunneled her fingers into her hair, taking the few pins he had missed from the thick mass, setting them down side by side like little soldiers in formation. Another pin and another. Heavy hanks of dark hair tumbled down her back to join the ones Gabriel had freed earlier.

He was watching her. She did not look at him, but she could sense his eyes upon her.

She concentrated on each breath, slow and easy, the pattern of inhalation and exhalation relaxing her. She felt as though she was not there, as though some other person inhabited her skin and went through these motions.

The sexual thrill that had electrified her earlier had disappeared, swallowed by the wave of memories that sucked emotion from her, sopping it up like a bone-dry sponge. There was only the rushing of her blood—was it really loud enough that she could hear it?—and the veil that draped her, insulating her from what was to come.

She knew that only a moment past, she had been frenzied with the need for Gabriel to touch her, ached for the feel of his hands and lips on her. That was gone now, buried beneath the defenses she had taken years to build.

The defenses he had almost breached with a single kiss. She had known from the first moment she saw him that he was dangerous to her.

“What are you doing?” Gabriel’s voice came as though from a great distance, low, calm. She liked to hear him speak. There was pleasure in that, at least. She wondered if he would talk as he took her, whisper against her ear, cry out in passion. Or if he would be silent. She thought she might not be able to bear the silence, but she could not imagine him as anything but coldly controlled.

“Removing my clothing,” she replied, feeling numb and dead and removed, uncertain she could face this any other way. “Isn’t that what you want?”

Gabriel crossed the space between them then, and she forced herself to look in his face. His expression was blank. Distant. He stopped, not touching her at all, and their eyes met.

“No,” he said.

She glanced down, opened her fingers. The sound of the last pin dropping to the table was inordinately loud.

“I—”

“No,” he said again, cutting her off.

She stared at the row of neatly arranged hairpins, using the tip of her finger to push one into place in the line.

“This is not what I want,” he whispered, stepping closer, until she could feel the hard, cold wall at her back and the heat of him before her, until he could lower his face to her hair. She heard him inhale, a long, slow breath, and it made her shudder. Not in fear. Not in revulsion. That realization surprised her, though it was tempered by the fog that had come over her, the ghosts of her past hovering, always hovering.

“If this is not what you want, then what is it you do want?” she asked, her voice breaking as the memories twitched in their chains, threatening to overcome her.

He lifted his head, stepped away, his jaw tight, his amber eyes chilled to ice. “Your placid acquiescence is…distasteful to me. To have you simply offer yourself—”

Again, she saw his jaw tighten, and she had the sudden, shocking insight that he was enraged, controlling the force of his anger by sheer will.

“You are angry at me,” she observed, deflated, a little afraid. How long would his wall hold before the storm tore free?

“I am angry at him, at whoever did this to you, made you so—” He made a slashing gesture, clearly frustrated by the turn of events and her response, showing the most emotion she had seen in the time she had known him. “Tell me his name. I will kill him.”

I already did. A harsh, choking laugh escaped her.

“Did he force you?” he asked deliberately, cadence and tone icily controlled.

Yes. No. The worst part is…no. “Not in the way you mean. My parents were dead, the estate entailed. They left no separate funds for me, and there was no relative, no friend to take me in. A distant cousin I had never met, Jasper Hunt, became the new Baron Sunderley.” She swallowed, remembering the first time she had seen him, dark hair arranged in the current style, blue eyes catching the color of the sky. “He was so kind. Handsome. Young. He let me stay on, and with his mother living there as chaperone, who could say anything against his generosity?”

Strange how the words flowed so easily, how she trusted Gabriel to hear them, this cold, hard, enigmatic man. “I was desperately grateful. And he wooed me. Made promises any young girl would believe”—she cast him an assessing glance through her lashes—“especially a desperate young girl with nowhere else to turn. In the secret hours of the night, he came to me…”

Her words trailed away, the ease of her confessions suddenly constrained. She could not go on, could not bare herself so fully to his scrutiny. He stayed exactly where he was, unmoving, unblinking. Jasper had wooed her, and she had succumbed. She had believed his promises of marriage and a life together, and when he had begun to choose her clothing, the foods she would eat, the friends she would correspond with, she thought it only the interest of a prospective husband, as smitten with her as she was with him.

“I allowed him liberties. I allowed him to…” To do everything he did. To chasten her. To break her will. To turn her into a pathetic creature wholly under his control.

But she said none of that, only pressed her lips together and shook her head.

Gabriel nodded slowly. She thought he would say nothing at all, that she had shocked him, though the very idea of shocking Gabriel St. Aubyn seemed absurd.

Then he spoke, his tone cool and remote as ever she had heard, but his words, oh, his words reached deep inside her and twisted her in knots. “Some people take joy in breaking others, take pleasure in the pain and humiliation of those in their care.”

She gasped, horrified that he saw so much, that he clearly suspected all the things she did not say.

Lifting his hand, he stroked her cheek. “I understand.”

Of course, he did not. Could not. What did a man such as Gabriel St. Aubyn understand of being broken…shattered?

His stare dropped to her lips, and she saw his naked lust, knew he wanted her still, despite her strange behavior.

He lifted his eyes to hers once more, and when he spoke, his words were a rough whisper. “When we lie together, Catherine—and make no mistake, we will lie together—it will be because you want me. Because you are parched and I am water, because you are breathless and I am air. And until then, until you come to me with hunger and need”—he gave a dark smile—“I shall make do with my solitary bed.”

With that, he offered a shallow bow and left her there, alone and shaken, both grateful and bereft to see him go.

Chapter 11

Catherine had no idea how long she sat in the chair by the window and stared out at the moon. After a time, she saw Gabriel ride away. She had chased him out into the night.

As soon as the thought formed, she squelched it. No. She would not take responsibility for his choices, his actions, his moods. He chose to ride out.

Lucky him.

A part of her wished she could do the same. Ride through the night with the wind slapping her face.

She shook her head. Her thoughts were in turmoil, even as they were wiped clean. She revisited every moment with Gabriel, then she thrust aside any thought of their time together. She did not recognize herself, as though his mere proximity was somehow transforming her, changing her. Freeing her? The thought terrified. She did not want to be free. She wanted to be the woman she had created, controlled, safe behind her walls.

She did not want to remember the wonder of his kiss, the feel of his mouth on hers, the passion that swelled, monstrous and terrifying and beautiful. He frightened her. He soothed her.

She did not want that.

Sleep seemed an impossibility, but she craved the normalcy of routine, and so she rose, removed her clothing, changed to her nightrail. She crossed to the washstand, used her tooth powder, washed her face and hands.

Turning, she spied Mrs. Northrop’s letter and the vile clipping she had sent. Rage and pain swelled and she wanted them gone, wanted them never to have been. She wanted to purge the pain of this loss, and all those that had preceded it.

Of course, that could never be. The holes in her heart, her soul, could never fully mend. But she could do something. Something symbolic.

Taking up the letter and the clipping, she fetched the tin Gabriel had gifted her with. She had used only a single spill, the morning he had given it to her. She had taken Madeline walking by the lake and showed her the wonder of this marvelous thing. Madeline had recoiled from the flames, but Catherine’s joy in the gift had not abated.

The lid pulled open with ease now, and she slowly withdrew a solitary spill and the tiny pliers. Her first attempt failed, for her hands were shaking, her breath too fast. But her second attempt succeeded, the snip of the pliers igniting a small, lovely flame. She stared at it for an instant, feeling the glow reach inside her, warming her, lighting her way. Then she held the flame to the edge of the papers in her hand. A swell of heat. Licking tongues that curled and twined. Hungry.

Almost did she singe her fingers, but at the last, she tossed the tiny glowing remnant into the fire that already burned in the hearth.

“Good-bye, Martha,” she whispered. “Rest easy.” Easier in death than she had in life.

There were no tears now. She had cried herself dry.

Crossing to the window once more, she took up her silver-backed brush and settled in the chair. There, she stared out at the moon and drew the brush through her hair in long slow strokes.

From the hallway came a sound, the faint clank of metal on metal and the shush of footsteps on the carpet. She paused in what she was doing, listening as the clanking moved along the passage in the direction of Madeline’s chamber, the sounds finally fading away.

With her fingers curled around the brush, she sat there a moment more, something gnawing at her, unsettling. And then she knew. The clank of metal on metal. Mrs. Bell carried a large ring of keys that made that exact sound when she walked.

What purpose did the housekeeper have in making a late-night visit to Madeline’s chamber?

Catherine set down the brush, rose, and draped a shawl over her shoulders. She left the room, taking her candle to light the way. The hallway was empty now, but at the end, Madeline’s door was cracked open and a narrow shard of candlelight bled through into the darkness.

The murmur of voices sounded, one low and firm, the other higher, anxious.

Catherine stepped closer.

“Nnno,” Madeline’s voice was hazy, confused. “I had—” She broke off and exhaled a long, sighing breath. “Did I not have some? I thought I did.”

There came a tapping sound, like a spoon clinking against glass. “Drink it now,” Mrs. Bell said. “Your cousin was quite insistent that I dose you with your medicine.”

Catherine gasped and hurried forward, pushing open the door to reveal Madeline propped on her pillows, looking sleep rumpled and confused, and Mrs. Bell standing over her with a crystal goblet of wine. The brown bottle of laudanum was open on the bedside table.

Her arrival drew the gazes of both women.

“What exactly are you doing, Mrs. Bell?” she demanded, summoning her frostiest tone.

“Following instructions,” Mrs. Bell clipped out in return. “Sir Gabriel bid me see to Miss Madeline’s medicine.”

Catherine stared at her in confusion, a recollection of her discussion with Gabriel from earlier in the evening leaping to the forefront of her thoughts. She clearly recalled telling him that she had dosed Madeline with laudanum in a glass of Madeira.

But perhaps he had given Mrs. Bell his instruction before he had come to her chamber, before she had told him the task was already complete.

“When did Sir Gabriel give you that directive?” she asked.

Mrs. Bell’s eyes narrowed and her expression grew mutinous, her lips compressed, his nostrils pinched. Catherine felt certain it would be a battle of wits to gather what information she could.

Then the housekeeper surprised her, setting the glass down on the table and folding her arms across her belly.

“Perhaps if you tell me the reason you ask then I’ll know if I ought to answer,” she said.

A fair enough observation. “I ask because I already gave Madeline her medicine earlier this evening.” And I am certain I mentioned that fact to Gabriel. She did not voice the last bit aloud, wary of what trust she should place in the housekeeper. Catherine vacillated between disbelieving Madeline’s outlandish assertions that someone here wished her harm, and believing they were not so outlandish at all. There was something very wrong in this household, and Catherine dared not make a mistake. She had the horrible suspicion that Madeline’s life might depend on it. But who posed the danger? Mrs. Bell? Gabriel? Some as yet undisclosed pawn or bishop on the board? How was she to know?

Each time she thought she had her answers, something else happened to make her question all she had already gleaned.

“Did I not tell you so?” Madeline offered in a reedy whisper, as though driven to participate in some small way in this conversation that pertained to her. Her words were a paltry challenge to Mrs. Bell’s overwhelming personality.

“Thank you for your solicitude, Mrs. Bell,” Catherine said, reaching out to lift the glass of wine from where the housekeeper had placed it on the table, intending to pour out the contents. She had no desire for Madeline to reach for it in a stuporous state and ingest more of the medicine than was safe. “I can only imagine how vast your duties already are. Surely you do not need yet another to add weight to your burdens. I shall take full responsibility for administering Madeline’s medicine from here on out.”

The housekeeper’s lips thinned and she looked positively furious. “I tell you, Sir Gabriel bid me see to her. Only a short time ago I saw him below, and he was very clear in his instruction.”

“A short time ago?”

“A matter of moments,” Mrs. Bell insisted.

But Catherine knew she was lying. Or perhaps only confused. For she had seen Gabriel ride away at least a half hour past.

“I believe you are mistaken, Mrs. Bell.”

The color drained from the woman’s cheeks, then rushed back in a crimson flush, but she held her tongue, spun, and stalked from the room. Catherine turned to watch her go.

With a shake of her head, Catherine sniffed at the wine in her hand, curious to see if the scent would suggest the dosage the housekeeper had doled out. She froze in place. The smell was…wrong.

Again she sniffed the glass. There was the sweet scent of the Madeira, and another aroma blending with it. But not the distinctive smell of laudanum that she expected. She had enough experience with the noxious stuff to know there was often a smell of alcohol, perhaps sassafras or cloves, and always the heavy, cloying, distinctive aroma of the laudanum itself.

None of them was present now.

The drink smelled of wine and—she sniffed again—almonds.

The air left her in a rush.

“Madeline,” she said, keeping her tone even and smooth as she shifted to face the bed once more. Her friend’s eyes were closed, her cheeks pale. At the sound of her name, she roused and turned her head, lifting her lids halfway. “Madeline, did you watch Mrs. Bell pour this wine for you?”

“Wine?” Madeline murmured with a frown. Her lids drifted shut, then opened once more. “Is there wine?”

With a sigh, Catherine realized that Madeline would be no help in solving this mystery. Recollection of laudanum’s effects—the dulling lethargy, the weightless floating—came to her, and she knew the state that Madeline was in. The helpless, drugged state.

Carrying the full glass, Catherine crossed to the window, undid the latch, and pushed open the sash. She glanced down to make certain there was no one below, and then she poured the contents of the crystal glass out the window. With a shudder, she pushed it shut and drew the curtains.

Whatever had been mixed with that wine, she suspected it had not been laudanum. What, then? Poison? Did she really believe that? And who was the poisoner? Mrs. Bell? To what purpose?

Her gaze lit on the brown bottle that sat on the bedside table. Quickly, she closed the space, lifted the bottle, removed the lid and sniffed the contents. Cloves, alcohol, and laudanum.

Whatever had been poured into the wine had not come from this bottle. She was certain of it.

But that was her only certainty. Other than that, all she had were questions without answers, for she had no idea if Mrs. Bell had prepared that wine herself or simply brought a glass prepared by another. If Gabriel had misheard when she said she had already given Madeline a dose of her medicine. If he had forgotten, or—horrific as the possibility was—if he had intended to see Madeline receive a second dose, perhaps an amount large enough to kill her. Or had Mrs. Bell fabricated the story altogether, attributing instructions to Gabriel when he had given her none?

She shuddered and went to the washstand where she rinsed the crystal goblet before setting it down. Crossing to the bed, she stayed there for several moments, watching the steady rise and fall of Madeline’s chest. Certain that her friend slept, Catherine took the bottle of laudanum and left the room.

It was only later, as she lay in her own bed on the edge of slumber, that her muzzy thoughts revisited the events in Madeline’s chamber. She was certain the bottle of laudanum had been open on the table when she had first entered the room to confront Mrs. Bell, but it had been closed when she went to sniff the contents.

Such a small thing to note, but note it she did, though what possible significance there could be to such an observation escaped her. The tendrils of sleep that had begun to wrap around her evaporated like a mist, and she was left restless and troubled, certain that there was something here she had missed.

This one had disappointed him.

Sweat stained his shirt, prickling at the small of his back and under his arms, beading on his forehead and lip.

He had wanted her to moan, to scream against the gag, to thrash as he played. She’d done none of those things. She had only stared at him, eyes blank and glassy, as though she had left her body long before he ended her life. He had broken her before he had truly begun, and that made a cold knot of rage glow in his belly.

Susan Parker had cheated him of the game.

He wanted one who was strong, stubborn. Even brave. The longer they thrashed and moaned and struggled, the better he enjoyed his play. He decided when they cried out. He decided when they writhed and moaned. He decided when the game was done.

But Susan had broken as soon as he slit her dress and peeled it from her shivering form. Where was the fun in that? The challenge? The joy he derived was intricately twined in the knowledge that he controlled them. Their thoughts. Their hopes. One of his favorite parts was when he offered comfort and his chosen victim turned her face to his hand, seeking warmth, seeking succor.

Susan had denied him that. She had denied him the most delicious part.

Her mind had collapsed, and in the end, she had never truly seen him. She was supposed to see him, truly see him. They always did in the end. But Susan had not been there anymore; she had gone somewhere else, somewhere he could not reach.

In his rage, he had cut her head clean off. He had shoved his blade deep, sawing back and forth without finesse or delicacy, cutting skin and muscle, artery and vein. He had slashed her windpipe, the white cartilage bright against the river of blood. But his fury had not been assuaged. In the end, he had hacked at her until her head pulled free, slid from his fingers, and hit the floor with a dull thud. Then it had rolled to the side and lain there, glazed eyes staring up at him.

Where was the pleasure in that?

Instead of being the one in control, he had lost control, visiting his fury upon her. His arms were completely drenched in blood nearly to the shoulder. The rest of him was splattered with it, dark, glistening splotches.

He licked his lips, tasted her blood on his tongue.

It was then he realized he had forgotten the feather.

Breathing heavily, he stood over the body, rage swelling anew. She had made him forget the feather. Bitch.

He must salvage what he could of this. He must follow his routine. Lifting his knife once more, he plunged it deep and cut open her belly, pulling out loop upon loop of glistening intestine. Ripping it free, he shoved it in the open jar at his feet, then turned his attention to her stomach.

The following morning, Catherine breakfasted alone. She was not certain how she felt about that, for she both missed Gabriel’s unique brand of conversation and felt relieved not to have to face him in the aftermath of the kiss they had shared.

Last night, they had both taken their masks off, but she had been far more naked than he. The thought was unsettling.

A part of her felt certain he absented himself today out of consideration for her, that he offered her a respite from the raw emotions his presence stirred. The larger part of her felt certain that the sole reason she ate alone was because he had business elsewhere, for he had never struck her as an overly empathetic individual. In all likelihood, contemplation of her emotions and her comfort had never entered his mind.

With her meal complete, she rose and took her book to the small yellow sitting room at the front of the house. The light there was wonderful for reading and she was quite enthralled with Dr. Frankenstein’s story now, anxious to see where it would take him. And her. In a way, she felt as though she accompanied him on his journey, as though she was the one questing for dangerous knowledge.

The story engrossed and provided a respite from her thoughts. She was restless, tired, for her night had passed in tossing and turning and battling haunting memories. But the fresh light of day had brought renewed determination to bury all the things that had no place in her life now, to lock them away in the box she assigned them, and to build distance between herself and Gabriel St. Aubyn.

That was the only safe option. To let him burrow beneath her defenses was a mistake she would undoubtedly pay for. She felt certain of that.

For a time, she read, immersing herself in the story. Her heart bled for Justine, accused of a murder she did not commit. And though she abhorred his weakness, she understood Victor’s hesitance to reveal the reasons Justine could not have killed William, for that would have seen Victor judged insane. There were things in this book that made her shudder, made her feel like weeping, not only for the characters within, but for the parallels to her own secrets.

Had Gabriel known when he gave her this book that the story would reach inside her and pluck at old wounds? Did it do the same for him? Or was it mere entertainment he sought when he read this?

She would know those answers only if she delved into his thoughts. She doubted he would allow such intrusion. Not by her. Not by anyone. And she was not certain if she even wanted to know what tragedies had shaped him, what secrets he held. That could only serve to make her more confused. Better to hold him at a distance, to learn nothing of his secrets and share none of her own. She had already given him far too many glimpses of her private truths.

At length, she rose and crossed to the window, the one that gave her a clear view of the grounds and the distant woods, and a part of the long, graveled drive. Sweeping aside the yellow velvet curtain, she stared out at the world beyond the glass. The sky was overcast, heavy with charcoal-limned clouds, but at brief intervals a bright shaft of sunlight would break through to dance across the grass and trees, then disappear once more.

She heard the sound of hoofbeats before the horse came into view, for her position allowed a glimpse of only the far end of the long drive. She waited, and after a moment, she saw Gabriel, mounted on his great black beast, cantering away from the house.

As she watched, his path crossed that of a carriage that turned into the drive and came toward the abbey. He did not stop, nor did the carriage; they simply passed on the drive, each continuing on their way.

Curiosity stirred. She wondered who came to Cairncroft that they did not warrant even a brief greeting from the master.

She turned from the window and hurried out of the sitting room, returning to the breakfast room where the window offered a clear view of the section of the drive that was nearer the house. She was just in time to see the gleaming black coach rock to a halt and the door swing open.

A man, tall and broad, stepped down, his face turned away from her. What little she might have seen of his features was obscured by the brim of his hat. A black greatcoat billowed about him as he moved away from the coach, and Catherine felt a stirring of familiarity. Something in the way he walked…his height…something…

He stopped, his posture relaxed, then he turned fully toward her. The face was one she knew well now. Beautiful. Severe.

With a gasp, Catherine shrank into the shadows.

The man was St. Aubyn.

But how? She had seen him only moments past, riding away from the abbey on his great black beast, garbed in tan cord breeches and a dark brown, square-cut riding coat. It was impossible that he could be this man, newly emerged from the carriage, standing on the drive in black greatcoat and hat.

Yet here he was.

Determined to get to the root of this, Catherine lifted her skirt and rushed from the room, tearing along the long, dim hallway in a most unladylike fashion. She was breathing rapidly, her pulse racing as she skidded to a stop on the narrow set of stairs that led to the main entry hall. She paused some five risers from the bottom.

The front door was open, held that way by Mrs. Bell, and through the portal stepped the man she had seen through the window.

For a moment, her head spun at the impossibility of what she saw. Gabriel, standing in a place he could not possibly be. How? How had she seen him only moments past riding away from Cairncroft, even crossing the path of the carriage, only to have him emerge from within it? What manner of illusion was this?

Mrs. Bell smiled in greeting, even offering her hand, which the newcomer closed in his own black-gloved one and gave a quick squeeze. The oddity of that greeting struck Catherine, as did the bright smile he flashed.

An open, happy smile.

White teeth and crinkles at the corners of his eyes.

It was then she realized the newcomer could not possibly be Gabriel, who never smiled like that and certainly never interacted with the housekeeper in such an easy, friendly manner. No, more than friendly. Affectionate.

She saw the differences now. The height and build were similar, the color of his hair, even the angle of his jaw and the slant of his cheeks. But this man had a slight bump at the bridge of his nose, and as he took his hat from his head, she saw that his hair, while thick and honey-hued, was far shorter than Gabriel’s and a shade or two darker. Then he turned his face toward her and any doubt she might have harbored evaporated entirely, for his eyes were a clear and vivid green, while Gabriel’s were amber gold.

His gaze raked her in a leisurely assessment, his mouth curving in a far different sort of smile than the one he had offered Mrs. Bell, and Catherine understood from that perusal quite a bit about him. This man knew women and liked them very much. He was not the aloof, cold creature that Gabriel was.

Which made him far less intriguing.

“Are you his brother?” Catherine asked, not bothering with niceties, certain he would not be surprised by the question. But she was surprised, for in all her time here at Cairncroft, and in all the years she and Madeline had corresponded, she had never heard mention that Gabriel had a brother. Not a word. Not a whisper.

Mrs. Bell gasped and pressed her hand to her mouth, as though the query was horrific in some manner. Catherine might have ignored that reaction except the stranger’s eyes narrowed and his expression closed in clear indication that her question crossed some unseen boundary.

“No,” he replied, recovering his aplomb so quickly Catherine almost believed she had imagined the telltale signs of caginess. He offered a perfectly executed bow with a flourish. “I am Mr. Sebastian St. Aubyn, the black sheep cousin, the wastrel, the wanderer”—he winked, and added audaciously—“come home for a visit. Haven’t I, Mrs. Bell?” He turned to the housekeeper, and to Catherine’s utter amazement Mrs. Bell fluttered her lashes like a girl.

Catherine introduced herself, and with the formalities taken care of, she asked, “Where were you wandering, Mr. St. Aubyn?”

“Egypt,” he said with a grin, then addressed the housekeeper. “Mrs. Bell, can you offer a starving man some sustenance? In the blue parlor? You know I favor the size and comfort of the chairs in there.” He cocked his head to the side. “And Miss Weston, can you offer this lonely soul some company? I shall regale you with stories of my travels and I promise you will be entertained.”

He shed his greatcoat and offered her his arm.

“I should be delighted to join you,” Catherine murmured, curious about more than his travels. She thought he might be persuaded to answer some questions about Gabriel and Madeline and the pall that hung over the abbey. And if not persuaded, tricked.

Taking his arm, she accompanied him to the blue parlor. She could see why he liked it; the size was cozy rather than imposing, the chairs comfortable, the windows opening to a small, walled garden that was pretty if slightly wild.

At first they exchanged small pleasantries. Catherine bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing as they discussed the weather at some length. If she had required any further proof that this man was not Gabriel, the turn of their conversation would have provided it beyond a shadow of a doubt.

A maid brought tea and cakes, along with a cold pheasant pie and some fruit.

Sebastian St. Aubyn polished off a healthy portion as they conversed. She noticed that he did not ask after Madeline or Gabriel, and she wondered why, but did not ask. Good manners prevented it, but more than that, she felt that such a line of inquiry would give too much away and perhaps put him on his guard. Better to see where he led the discourse and glean what information she could before formulating her questions and coaxing free what answers she might.

When he was done with his meal, Catherine poured more tea, and said, “Mr. St. Aubyn, I will hold you to your word now. Do tell me about Egypt and your travels.”

“There are too many St. Aubyns in this house,” he observed. “You must call me Sebastian. I know it is presumptuous on such short acquaintance”—he held up one hand to forestall any argument—“but confusion will otherwise ensue.” His lashes lowered and he cast her a sidelong glance. “Besides, I should very much like to hear my name from your lips.”

Practiced. Glib. His sultry tone and inappropriate words marked him for a rake. Or perhaps, for a man who wished to be perceived as one.

“Then you must call me Catherine, and we shall both be presumptuous. Now tell me about Egypt.”

“Egypt is hot,” he said with a laugh, “and full of sand.”

“Is it? Only sand? No green river delta? No farms? No cities?” She sipped her tea. “No pyramids or tombs?”

He sent her a sharp look. “You are well read, Catherine. Is it Egypt that fascinates you, or geography in general?”

“I like to read.”

His brows rose. “Books on geography rather than the latest penny dreadful?”

“Books on geography and science and philosophy. Even agriculture.”

“I suspect there is an interesting reason for that…” His voice trailed away into a pregnant pause, and when she made no reply, he leaned back and held both palms forward as he said, “A lady deserves her secrets. I shall not press.” But his tone suggested he wanted to do just that.

Pressed or not, the reason for her eclectic self-education was one she would never reveal. There had been months when the books she had read had been her sole link to her sanity, and she had been so grateful for them. They had carried her away from the home that had become her prison.

But she said none of that. Instead, she asked, “Are you recently returned from your travels?”

“Not so recent, but recent enough.”

Well, there was an answer that was none at all. Perhaps he was more like his cousin than she had thought.

“Have you come from London today? You must have traveled through the night to be here at such an early hour.”

“Not from London, no.”

“Then you have been staying in the area? With friends?”

“Something of the sort.”

He leaned back in his chair and turned his head fully toward her at the exact moment the sun slid behind a cloud. The light in the room dimmed, casting his features in shadow. The set of his shoulders, the tilt of his head, the dark cloth of his square-cut coat and waistcoat…they reminded her of similar shadows painting the man she had seen lurking at the edge of the woods, the one she had mistaken for Gabriel time and again.

Was it Sebastian who prowled and skulked? Did he watch the abbey? For what purpose?

Given the evasive nature of his replies to her questions, she could not discount the possibility. Despite his open, easy manner—or perhaps because of it—there certainly was no reason for her to trust him.

The clouds shifted and the sun broke free once more, shining through the glass panes to refract in a rainbow of color, dispelling the shadows but not the weight of her distrust.

“You chose a lovely day for travel,” Catherine observed. “I arrived under the pall of a rainstorm that had me wondering if the coach would become an ark and float away.”

“Ah, the incomparable smell of a damp, rotting hired carriage. I know it well,” he replied with a small smile.

How had he surmised that she had arrived in a hired carriage? She had never said it.

An accurate guess, or something else? The possibility that Sebastian had been in the area for some time, that he was, in fact, the watcher in the woods—spying on the abbey, spying on her—could not be ignored.

In that moment, she was made certain of two things. First, Sebastian’s easy, charming manner concealed a different character entirely. Everything was evasion and mild flirtation, but his true nature swam beneath the surface, possibly a dark and dangerous thing. It seemed that Gabriel was not the only St. Aubyn to present a false face. She found she preferred his cool mask to Sebastian’s mummery.

Second, Sebastian’s words denoted that he knew far more about her than she had willingly shared, far more about her than she knew of him.

“Tell me about the wonderful things you saw in Egypt,” she prompted, her tone polite and even, betraying none of her thoughts.

“Wonderful things? I suppose there were some. And dreadful things, as well.” He set his cup on the table and shifted forward in his chair, leaning toward her with his forearms on his thighs. “I have been there many times. My most recent travels took me to the tombs of Qurna. There was gold in every tomb. A man could become rich on the treasures buried there.”

“Are you such a man?”

He sat back and shrugged. “I must confess that I was tempted. Gold and jewels aplenty beneath a thousand layers of dust. But I suppose I have some principles left. Robbing the dead lacked appeal.” Again, he grinned, a practiced, engaging smile. “Now, robbing the living is another matter entirely.”

Refusing to be baited, she asked, “What were the tombs like?”

He lifted his cup and saucer once more, and Catherine realized he was always in motion, never still. That in itself was enough to differentiate him from Gabriel, even if there had not been all the other clues. Gabriel was the eye of the storm, motionless, commotionless, but never serene. His was a quivering stillness, like a bowstring drawn taut, while Sebastian was laced with suppressed tension, ever shifting position in a suave, fluid way.

“The tombs,” he mused. “Darkness all about, and narrow passages, stale and dank. In some, we were obliged to get down on our knees and crawl, with the bite of sharp stones beneath us and the stink of death heavy in every breath.” His smile faded and his gaze grew distant. “The torches flickered and failed for want of air, and my nose and mouth and eyes were filled with grit. And all about…I can hardly describe it. Wrapped bodies, ancient and desiccated, stacked one atop the next, and shapes of other things, indistinguishable in the poor light. Statues. Carvings. Things that were half jackal, half man.”

Catherine nodded in mute encouragement, drawn in by his tale, imagining the place he described.

“One of the men in our party sought a moment’s rest. He sat upon a wooden box, when with a crash of bones and wood, he found himself sinking in a sea of mummies as his weight bore down on centuries of remains. So tenuous was his position that we were forced to wait several moments until the bodies settled and we could haul him out without sacrificing ourselves to the same fate. Imagine”—he gave a short laugh—“drowning in a sea of the ancient dead. For a long while after, I looked over my shoulder, certain that ghosts followed. You have no idea.”

Did she not? She had her own ghosts that followed close enough to nip at her heels. “Why would you visit such a place? What is the appeal?”

“I have been visiting such places since I was a child. My guardian, a most unconventional man, had a penchant for travel, and he dragged me along.”

His guardian. She wanted to ask about that, to query his exact relationship to Gabriel, to understand the link that made them cousins, but she was not so forward as that.

“Why do I continue to visit?” He paused, rubbed his fingers along his jaw. “Adventure. Knowledge. To be anywhere but here.”

She sucked in a breath at his blatant admission. “And yet, you return here and call it home.”

“Yes. In the end, Cairncroft always calls us home.” There was bitterness in his tone and a sardonic edge. “Do you know,” he said, lowering his voice as though to share a confidence, “the Egyptians mummified their dead in preparation for another life.” He gave a hard huff of laughter. “We simply bury them and let them rot.”

Or let them burn, Catherine thought.

He slanted her a glance beneath his lashes, and she wondered if she had given herself away by expression or action. But, no, he merely wanted to judge her response to his tale as he continued, “One thing I have always found particularly fascinating are the canopic jars and their gruesome contents.”

“Gruesome?”

He nodded. “They are jars made of limestone or pottery, or even bronze. They hold the entrails.” After a heartbeat, he continued, “The ancient Egyptians cut the organs out and assigned one to each jar. Liver, lungs, stomach, and intestine. Four jars, often decorated with images of their gods.”

He was testing her, watching her, determined to see if she would become missish at such vile description. Why? Was this merely a game for his entertainment, or was there a deeper purpose?

“Liver, lungs, stomach, and intestine…Not the heart?” she inquired coolly, though her attention was split now between his answers and something in his words that nagged at her, disturbed her.

Again, he laughed. “No, the heart they left intact to be weighed at judgment.”

Judgment.

She opened her mouth to ask what the heart was weighed against, but before she could speak a new voice interjected.

“The heart is weighed against a feather.”

Catherine gasped and jerked about in her seat. Gabriel stood in the doorway, one shoulder against the frame, arms crossed over his chest. The cut of his brown riding coat accentuated the breadth of his shoulders, and the color reflected in his eyes, lending them a warm brandy glow. His hair was windblown, his gaze intent. Her heart gave a sharp little kick in her breast. Because she was glad to see him, though she ought not to be.

In that instant she realized that despite the cousins’ resemblance, for her it was Gabriel who made the air sizzle and crack, made her pulse speed up and her breath come a little faster. Beside him, Sebastian paled.

The realization rankled. Of course she would be attracted to the villain rather than the flirt.

“Gabriel.” Sebastian rose from his seat.

“Sebastian.” The cousins clasped hands and then broke apart, Sebastian returning to his place on the settee, Gabriel choosing a chair directly to Catherine’s right, far too close for her peace of mind. The tip of his boot brushed her hem, and she surreptitiously pulled her skirt away, only to look up and find him watching her. It came to her that he had chosen this proximity with the purpose of warning his cousin off, as though demarcating his territory or ownership. She thrust the thought aside as quickly as it materialized. Surely he did not think of her that way. As his.

And what vile malady assailed her that any part of her wanted him to?

“Please, do not let me interrupt,” Gabriel said, his lips curved in the barest hint of a smile. It did not reach his eyes. Had she ever seen him smile openly and fully? Had she seen a smile reach his eyes?

Perhaps…once or twice. She recalled the day at breakfast when he had first returned from London, she had seen his lips curve enough to carve a crease in his cheek and make tiny lines fan from the corners of his eyes. A rare happenstance. The rest of the time he seemed to mirror the expressions he saw in others, or perhaps he attempted an appropriate response, but never felt the emotion he portrayed.

What sort of life had he led to engender such a lack…or was it a trick of birth that had made him this way?

She realized that Sebastian was speaking, filling the silence with some unimportant comment. About the weather. Again. Shooting a glance at Gabriel, she found him watching her with the faintest flicker of shared amusement as she murmured a reply.

Quickly returning her attention to Sebastian, she said, “Do continue with your description of your travels.”

“Yes, do,” Gabriel prompted with a complete lack of inflection. The way the two men had greeted each other was both warm and cool. Was there genuine pleasure in their exchange? She could not say with certainty.

“The Egyptians believe each tomb is sealed with a curse placed there by their ancestors,” Sebastian offered, speaking to her, but looking at Gabriel.

“Of course. A curse,” Gabriel murmured.

Catherine recalled Mrs. Bell’s talk of curses and tragedies, and she wondered if there was some secret the two cousins shared. From the exchange of glances, she thought perhaps there was. “What sort of curse?”

“One that must be nullified with a counter-curse lest the tomb’s opener suffer a vile and painful demise,” Sebastian replied, his tone overly dramatic, as though he poked fun at himself. Or did he poke fun at her? She was not of a mind to ask him. “They say only a handful of Egyptians know the counter-curse. I cannot claim to have faith in such fribble, but I am a cautious fellow. I made certain never to be at the forefront of the charge into the tombs lest I be afflicted.”

Catherine blinked, taken aback at his casual admission of what some might construe as cowardice.

As though he read her thoughts, Sebastian laughed. “Not fear, Catherine. Caution. The difference is subtle, but there nonetheless.” He slanted an unreadable glance at Gabriel. “Cowardice is not a St. Aubyn trait.”

Sebastian used her given name so casually, and she wondered if it was that or the mention of cowardice that had Gabriel stiffening in his seat. The movement was ever so slight and she might have missed it except she was utterly attuned to his presence. His mood. His every breath. The way his lashes swept down to veil his thoughts.

And that made him unutterably dangerous to her.

“Do you believe in curses, Catherine?” Gabriel asked, his tone cool and remote.

Was this the man who had comforted her, kissed her? Yes. Somewhere inside the cold exterior lurked at least a modicum of passion. Perhaps a vast storm of it. She had felt it, shared it. Hadn’t she? Or had she only imagined it, a reflection of the tumult he stirred inside her?

“No, I do not.” But even as she made her reply, she wondered if her words were the truth. Had there not been occasions when she believed her own life had been cursed?

The thought had proven anathema to her nature. She had always regarded her ability to overcome whatever horror was visited upon her—to survive—as a sort of gift. But at the darkest of times, doubt had crept up on her, whispering to her.

“Perhaps you should,” Gabriel said, with an inflection that might have been either humor or derision. Aimed at her? At himself?

Sebastian watched them with blatant interest. He could not have missed the undercurrents in every word they spoke, or the way she subtly shifted her hand away when Gabriel had moved his to brush her own. It was no accident. She did not believe anything Gabriel St. Aubyn did was accidental.

They engaged in innocuous conversation for only a few moments more, when Gabriel abruptly lost patience.

“Enough.” He rose and offered Catherine a shallow bow, then turned to his cousin. “We have things to discuss, Sebastian. Join me.”

With a dark look, quickly masked, Sebastian rose as well and took his leave, far more politely than his cousin. Gabriel gestured for Sebastian to precede him, and only then did he turn back to Catherine, the light from the window touching half his face, painting his hair and the glint of beard on his jaw in shades of glittering gold, leaving the other half of him in shadow. Reaching out, he stroked the backs of his fingers along her cheek, the touch barely there.

She stared at him, her breath frozen. Then he turned and followed his cousin from the room.

For a long while, she sat alone in the parlor with the beam of sunlight slanting across her skirt and her thoughts spinning like a child’s top. It was only when she glanced up and saw a pottery vase on the pedestal table that she again thought that something about Sebastian’s description of the canopic jars nagged at her. Something…

And suddenly, it struck her.

Rising, she stood in the center of the room, seeing nothing, her heart pounding, her mouth dry. Recollection of the words from the newspaper clipping that described Martha’s body slammed her. Coincidence was an impossibility, but perhaps she was wrong, perhaps—

Closing her eyes, she recalled the horrific article, every word branded in her mind though the actual paper was gone, burned to ash.

Her clothes had been cut away from the torso, and the chest and abdominal cavities opened with a sharp instrument, without precision. On postmortem examination of the body, he found the lungs, liver, stomach, and intestine removed, again, without precision. The heart was untouched.

Her legs trembled and she sank down onto the chair once more. Martha was dead. Four of her organs removed, and the heart left behind, exactly as Sebastian described in his blithe recounting of the canopic jars and their purpose.

Had he shared those stories with a particular purpose in mind?

When exactly had he returned from Egypt? Had he been in London when Martha was killed?

Icy dread touched her. She pressed her fingers to her brow, thinking, thinking. Her suspicions were impossible. Ridiculous.

How many people lived in London? Any one of them could be the killer. Why in Heaven’s name did she think there was some significance, some link, between the killer, the organs removed from Martha’s body, and Sebastian’s recounting of the purpose of the canopic jars?

Her thoughts spun in a cacophony of sound and light, and emerging from the melee was the recollection of Gabriel asking her if it was Martha’s death that had her so distressed, or the fact that Martha’s organs had been removed. He had known that fact despite only glancing at the article, not reading it in its entirety. She had noted it then, remembered it now.

For some reason, she thought, too, of Madeline’s story that day in the garden about a girl found covered in blood.

With a shake of her head, she took a deep breath, counted back the days…and realized that although she could not account for Sebastian’s whereabouts, she knew from his own admission that Gabriel had been in London in the days before Martha’s body was found.

Chapter 12

“On a bright and sunny day”—Sebastian paused long enough to glance at the window—“well, somewhat sunny when the clouds break. Either way, here we sit in the gloom.”

“We are not sitting, as yet,” Gabriel pointed out, handing him a glass of brandy.

“But we are shrouded in gloom.” Sebastian shrugged and settled with lazy insouciance in a high-backed leather and gold chair. “You are nothing if not consistent, cousin.”

“It is bright enough,” Gabriel said. The sconces were lit and he had dragged the heavy curtain open a hand span. “Besides, I thought you would have had enough of the sun after Egypt. England’s clouds must be a welcome change.”

“One would think.” Sebastian laughed, but there was a brittle edge to the sound. “We make a pair, don’t we? Skulking about in the shadows like two creatures of the night.”

Gabriel studied him a moment. There was something odd about Sebastian, something hard. A new edge that had not been there the last time Gabriel had seen him, before he left on his latest trip. “Is there a particular reason you are skulking, Sebastian?”

His cousin offered a tight smile, then tossed back half the brandy in his glass.

“I am only restless,” he said, and Gabriel knew it for the lie it was. Then Sebastian laughed and winked. “Perhaps your Miss Weston will entertain me.”

Anger raised its head and snarled, the emotion so raw and sudden that Gabriel almost let it slide free. He was stunned by the force and speed of his rage.

“Perhaps not,” he replied, his tone diamond hard. He turned away and stared into the hearth as the clock on the mantel ticked loud in the quiet. The flames made him think of her, of the light she brought to his world of dim passages and hidden caverns and the darkness of his soul.

He clenched his fist by his side, appalled at his thoughts. He was no romantic fool. Yes, she brought light, but if he let her come too close, she would singe him as surely as any flame.

“Well,” Sebastian observed dryly, “you are as charming a conversationalist as ever, cousin.” He pushed himself from the chair and half rose. “I believe I shall seek out the lovely Miss Weston once more.”

“Stay away from her.” Gabriel spun to face his cousin, his tone frigid, cold-blooded rage raising its saurian head.

Sebastian sat back down, his expression contemplative, and raised his glass as though in a toast.

“Ah,” he mused. “So that is the way of it. I had not imagined that you would ever don the mantle of jealousy, cousin.”

“Do not imagine it now,” Gabriel replied, his tone even, his mask once more in place.

Jealousy. The notion was absurd. Yet the sight of Sebastian and Catherine sitting in cozy camaraderie in the parlor had reached inside him and clenched like a fist, twisting him up tighter than a Gordian knot. Jealousy. He had never known the like. The emotion was unfamiliar. Unpleasant in the extreme.

Lifting the poker, he prodded the log and watched it spit and pop. He thought of Catherine’s night-dark eyes and thick straight lashes, imagined them hooded and lazy with passion. He thought of her lips, forming polite words in conversation. Then he thought of them pressed to his, open and eager. Hungry. As he was hungry.

He wanted her to kiss no other but him, and the fact that he had to leave the choice, the timing, to her was like a blade in his gut. He had wanted her from the start, and grew tired of that wanting. For a patient man, he was remarkably impatient when it came to her, edgy and overeager.

“Stay away from her,” he said again, and finally turned away from the fire to face his cousin once more.

Sebastian sipped his brandy and studied him with raised brows and overblown surprise.

“Do not tell me you are smitten, Gabriel?” His brows lowered and he continued in a musing tone, “Do you know who she is? What they say about her?”

Gabriel almost laughed. “Do you know who I am? What they say about me?” he answered, faintly mocking.

“Gabriel—”

“No,” he said, his tone carrying the rasp of a razor on a strop. “Speak to me of anything but her.” He paused, then offered far more than was his habit, only because he needed to set the thoughts free and Sebastian was as close to holding his trust as any living being. “She haunts my nights. My days. My every thought.” He met his cousin’s gaze and made things as plain as he possibly could. “Catherine Weston is mine.”

The words echoed in the cavernous room, and in that moment, he knew them for utter and complete truth. Catherine was his. She only had not recognized it yet.

“Then I shall find another to play my games with,” Sebastian said. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “Will you marry her?”

The conundrum of that had occurred to him. Would he? The question made Gabriel acutely aware of the differences between himself and a normal man. He knew what the answer ought to be. She was a baron’s daughter. Of course she would expect marriage.

Wouldn’t she?

And if he did marry her, how was he to keep his secrets then? And how was he to explain that he would never give her a child?

On that topic, he was implacable in his resolve. Never would he doom an innocent babe to the taint of the St. Aubyn line.

“Are you afraid I will sire a pup and any hope you have of a baronetcy will be lost?” Gabriel asked, avoiding a direct answer to his cousin’s question because, in truth, he did not have one. “Fear not, cousin. I shall never have a child, and you know my reasons for that. Your right of succession is safe.”

“I care little for that,” Sebastian said with a wave of his hand.

It was the truth. Gabriel knew it. Sebastian was rich in his own right, and a title would likely only tie him down in a way he would despise. He preferred to move about, to travel. To flee the ghosts of his past rather than face them. Gabriel could understand his actions, even envy them to a degree.

There had been years, endless dark years, when he had dreamed of leaving England and roaming the world as his cousin did.

“What did you learn at Hanham House?” he asked, changing the subject to one far less palatable, but necessary.

“Very little. They were not forthcoming when I asked them to produce him in person. They claimed he was too overwrought for visitors. Suggested I should return another time, perhaps in a matter of weeks. They only brought me a letter that appears to be in his hand, but might have been written days, or even weeks past. There is nothing specific. I have it here if you wish to see for yourself.” He dragged the letter from his coat.

Gabriel stared at the thing in revulsion. He did not want to see it or read it or know anything it contained. “Set it there,” he said, jutting his chin toward the desk, careful to keep his tone bland as oatmeal.

For though he trusted Sebastian more than most, if he measured that trust evenly against grains of sand, there would be pathetically few on the scale.

“Do you wonder about my cousin?” Madeline asked as they walked in the garden the following afternoon. Catherine had insisted, certain that a bit of fresh air and healthful exercise could only be beneficial. Their pace was sedate, the day fair. They walked the path that curved along the lake. Madeline had chosen it, though Catherine could not say why. The surface was a dark and putrid green, the breeze churning up small waves and carrying the pungent scent of the brackish water.

“Which cousin?” she asked, for there were now two in residence.

“Gabriel.” Madeline exhaled in a huff. There was a dark edge to her tone as she said his name. “Sebastian will tell you enough without my help. He finds himself to be a fascinating topic indeed. Besides, I think you are not so interested in him.”

Catherine slanted her a sidelong glance, feeling a warm rush of embarrassment at the blunt observation, as though Madeline had somehow peeked into her secret musings. She had been thinking about him. Gabriel. Images came at her, unwanted, unbidden. The touch of his hand on her nape as she sobbed; the small kindnesses he had offered—a cool cloth, a glass of water. Simple things she had not even known she needed until he brought them to her.

The memory of his kiss, hungry, possessive, made her lips tingle even now, and she wondered exactly what Madeline knew that made her raise the topic of her cousin Gabriel.

Nothing. Of course, she knew nothing.

Madeline had been tucked in her bed, cradled in laudanum-induced slumber when Gabriel had come to Catherine’s chamber.

“I do wonder about your cousin,” she replied at last, linking her arm with Madeline’s. “Would you like to talk about him?”

“Not in the slightest.” Madeline pressed her lips together and toed at the dirt with the tip of her boot before walking on. “But I shall because there are things you must know, things I must tell you while my mind is my own and I can speak the words I wish to say rather than the ones that trip to the tip of my tongue and fly free whether I will it or nay.” She paused and drew a ragged breath. “We both know that I am not always lucid now.”

Pity twisted Catherine’s heart. The self-portrait painted by Madeline’s words was horrifying, all the more so because Madeline was brutally aware of her own decline.

“Tell me whatever you wish,” she murmured. “I shall listen.”

“Avidly, I am sure,” Madeline observed with a dull laugh, and Catherine could not deny it.

“Yes. Avidly.” She lowered her head as they walked and stared at the thin, brown grass on either side of the dirt path. A clump of pansies burst from the earth, the color of their petals somewhere between butterscotch and yellow, the centers darker. They made her think of Gabriel’s eyes, liquid topaz in the light, amber gold in the shadows.

“Do not romanticize him, Catherine. He is not a good man, or a kind one. Do not paint him in variegated hues of light.” Madeline stumbled to a stop, clutched her arm all the tighter, and finished with a harsh cry, “He is a monster.”

A handful of black birds that had been pecking at the dirt startled at her cry. Their wings slapped air, the sound like the snap of a rag to shake out the dust. The sight of them reminded Catherine of the night of her arrival and the dead bird on the drive.

She turned her head to find Madeline tracking their flight, her features scrunched tight, as though she battled tears.

A lump clogged her throat as Catherine realized how transparent she was. Even Madeline, with her tenuous grasp on reality, read the yearning that burgeoned in her heart for Gabriel St. Aubyn, a man whose own cousin believed him capable of murder. Her lungs felt tight, each breath a struggle, the weight of her regret heavy on her breast. Once before, she had been blinded by attraction, by gratitude, by the kindness a man showed her that she had believed came from his heart. False kindness. She had paid a horrific price for her folly.

Was she allowing herself to walk the same path once more? Had she learned nothing at all?

No. She was wiser now. Stronger.

Then why did Gabriel’s words haunt her in the dark of night and the light of day? Why could she not thrust aside the things he had whispered to her?

Because you are parched and I am water, because you are breathless and I am air, he had said, the images evoked by his words stroking her already sensitized nerves. He believed she would come to need him.

To ache for him.

He was wrong. She must guard herself and make certain that he was wrong.

It was only in a moment of weakness that she had allowed Gabriel to kiss her. There was her excuse. She would not allow it to happen again. She would never permit herself to need him that way. It was a definite path to heartbreak and ruin. She had learned that much, at least.

Beside her, Madeline swayed in place, her eyes closed, her lips pressed tight together. What paltry color had been in her cheeks leached away now until she was white as bone.

“My tale is long, and I tire so easily,” she said. “Perhaps it would be best if we return to my chamber”—she looked nervously to the left, the right, and lowered her voice—“though it is likely safer to speak out here. The walls have ears.”

Of that, Catherine had no doubt. Mrs. Bell’s ears, or the footman’s or the cook’s. Servants who made themselves invisible, but saw and heard much. But she knew that Madeline spoke of other ears, those belonging to creatures no one but she could see.

They made their way inside, Madeline leaning heavily on Catherine’s arm. The trip up the flights of stairs was laborious; Madeline begged for rest again and again. What would take Catherine a matter of minutes to ascend on her own took the two of them the better part of a half hour. At last, they reached Madeline’s chamber.

“Shall I summon the maid to help you change?” Catherine asked.

“Will you help me?” Madeline sighed. “I only like Susan. She has gentle hands. But she has gone away.”

As Catherine helped Madeline to remove her walking gown and don a fresh nightrail, she was heartened to note that her friend’s form was slender but not wasted despite her poor appetite and the minuscule amount of food she ingested in Catherine’s presence. Perhaps she nibbled a bit when no one was with her.

“Open the curtains so I might see the sky,” Madeline murmured as she settled in her bed.

Catherine did as she requested, then returned to her side and lowered herself to the edge of the bed. A thick ribbon of silence wove about them, interrupted only by the quiet sounds of their breathing. Madeline’s eyes were closed, her features relaxed.

After a moment, the chirping of birds carried through the glass panes, and Catherine turned her face to the window, thinking that Madeline had drifted to sleep, that her opportunity to know more about Gabriel was lost for the moment.

“He killed them.”

Catherine started at the sound of Madeline’s voice, the fine hairs on her arms rising. She bit her tongue against the flood of questions that swelled to her lips like breakers on the shore, agonizingly aware that Madeline would tell her tale at her own pace or not at all. That much she had learned in her time at Cairncroft Abbey. With pounding heart, she waited.

“No, that is not right,” Madeline murmured, sounding perplexed, her eyes remaining closed as she spoke. “He killed only one, lifted it from the nest and twisted its head clear around before he was interrupted. I was there, in the woods, watching though he did not know it. He meant to kill another. I saw it in his face, but there was the snap of a twig. Someone else was there. I heard it, as did he.” Her words had taken on a whispery, breathless quality, as though she ran headlong down a hill and could not stop. “He took up a sharp stick and ran through the forest. I could not keep up. He was bigger and faster, and I was hampered by my skirt.” She sucked in a sharp breath. Her hand fluttered at her throat. “And then there was so much blood. Everywhere. On his hands. On mine.”

“Whose blood was it, Madeline?” Catherine felt the weight of Madeline’s story like a great stone on her breast. “Was it yours? Did he hurt you?”

“Me?” Madeline’s lids opened wide and she appeared startled by the question. “No.” She fell silent, and each second that ticked past made Catherine so anxious for the remainder of the tale that she thought she would jump right out of her skin. But she suspected that Madeline would not be rushed, and to try to press her might well result in no information at all.

Madeline shivered and shifted on the bed and pushed at the covers, writhing to be free of their weight.

“Whose blood was it, Madeline?” Catherine stroked her hand, hoping to ease her distress.

Raising her head, Madeline grew still, her blue eyes wide, her gaze steady and bare.

“She is in the graveyard. Buried under the stone in the corner. No one ever knew her name. There was blood that day, as well. So much blood, and her bodice was split open. I saw it, though they tried to turn me away. I wanted to go closer. To know.”

“To know what?” Catherine tried to make sense of Madeline’s ramblings, her thoughts tumbling one against the next. Though the narration was far from clear, Catherine surmised that Madeline described two different occasions, two different deaths.

And that, somehow, Madeline held Gabriel responsible.

Madeline clutched tightly at her wrist, her fingers cold as ice against Catherine’s skin.

“I should have told that day.” Madeline wet her lips.

Catherine glanced at the pitcher and glass on the washstand. She made to rise and fetch Madeline a drink, but Madeline clung to her like a hawk clinging to its prey, her nails biting tender flesh.

“I should have told them what I saw,” Madeline cried, her eyes grown wild now. “But I was afraid they would not believe me. I was only newly come from Browning, my parents so recently dead. I was the outsider. The unwanted burden. I was afraid to tell them what I saw. Do you understand? I was afraid. And then he killed her. He killed her.”

“Shh, Madeline, shh,” Catherine whispered, and Madeline relaxed a little, enough to release her clawlike grasp of Catherine’s arm.

“How was I to know they would send him away for good?” she pleaded. “I thought they would send me away, and where was I to go? With my father’s death, Cairncroft passed to his brother, my uncle, and I became only a guest here in my own home.” She sighed. “They never came to love me.”

With that admission, Madeline faded, the light in her eyes dulled, the tone of her muscles relaxed. She appeared to sink into the bed, into herself. Even her cheeks grew hollow.

Catherine was at a loss, all the words of comfort she might offer dry and stale on her tongue. She had never known just how closely Madeline’s circumstance paralleled her own. Parents and home lost. Dependent on relatives for kindness and charity. But despite her empathy, she was having difficulty believing Madeline’s assertions. Only parts of her friend’s story made any sense.

Frowning, she tried to follow the tangled threads to some sort of logical conclusion. From what she could patch together, Madeline spoke of two different occasions, perhaps months, or even years apart. One where she had watched someone—presumably Gabriel—kill a bird and then run through the woods with a stick, and ultimate, undefined tragic results.

And a second event, where a girl’s body had been found.

Unease crawled through her like a centipede, making her shiver.

That day when she and Gabriel had walked in the graveyard, when he had gifted her with the red and gold tin, he had blocked her path and kept her from seeing the headstone in the corner. Madeline’s bewildering account made her suspect that the murdered girl was buried there.

But that knowledge only circled back to more questions. Why had Gabriel kept her from seeing the stone? Had he kept her from it? Thinking back on it now, she wondered if she could possibly have misread his actions. Perhaps he had only been intent on holding her attention long enough to offer his gift.

And the girl who was buried there…had she been murdered as Madeline intimated, or had she died in some horrific accident? And what did her death have to do with Gabriel, or with Madeline’s assertion that she had watched him from the woods while he killed a bird?

None of this made sense, and Catherine had no way to tell if all was fact or all was a fantastical nightmare Madeline had carried forward to her waking hours.

Perhaps the truth was some patchwork of the two.

The place to start was the beginning, and so she picked up that thread of Madeline’s ramblings.

“Madeline,” she said, taking her friend’s hand between her own. “What happened to the birds? Tell me about them.”

Turning her head on the pillow, Madeline smiled, serene and calm. “I hear them singing. Such a lovely day. The birds are singing.”

They were. Catherine could hear them through the glass of the window. But it appeared she would hear no more of Madeline’s tale. Not now.

Whatever brief coherence had touched her friend’s mind, it was gone.

Catherine could only wonder when—and if—it would return.

With Madeline fast asleep, Catherine left her for a few moments, intent on retrieving her novel from the sitting room she had visited earlier in the day. Following the maze of stairs down, she came to a sharp corner that she must round to reach the passage that led to the next flight. Voices carried to her, and she hesitated, listening, a feminine voice answered by a masculine; Mrs. Bell and Gabriel engaged in conversation. She could not say what made her remain there, holding her breath, loath to betray her presence.

No, that was not true. She could say exactly what made her do it. She wanted to overhear, to listen, unseen. She wanted to glean any information about Gabriel St. Aubyn that she could. Perhaps if she knew enough, she could convince herself he was a villain, convince herself not to long for his touch. His kiss. The feel of his arms tight about her.

Madeline was afraid of him, perhaps even hated him, but given the multitude of things that made Madeline afraid, Catherine could not blindly trust in that. Was he the monster she claimed, or just a man? A strange, enigmatic, arousing man?

He annoyed her, angered her, fascinated her. Beguiled her. And despite it all, he haunted her every thought.

He had comforted her, been a brief calm place in the storm of her grief. Was that enough to make her believe there were depths to him she had not seen? Was it the tiny foundation on which to build the beginnings of…something? What? An assignation? An association? What exactly did she want of him? Of herself?

“Will that be all, Mrs. Bell?” Gabriel asked, ruthlessly neutral.

“No, Sir Gabriel. I do not wish to overstep—”

“Then by all means, do not,” he interjected.

The housekeeper exhaled noisily, and though Catherine hugged the wall and the shadows and could see them no better than they could see her—which was not at all—she imagined the woman crossing her arms over her belly as she was wont to do, and regarding Gabriel with both wariness and frustration.

“Sir Gabriel,” she began again. “I wish to speak with you about Susan.”

The silence stretched, and Catherine could imagine the exact expression on his face…or rather, lack of expression as he waited for the housekeeper to continue.

“Susan Parker,” she clarified, and still he said nothing.

But the name meant something to Catherine. She knew that name. It was—

“She is one of the upstairs maids,” Mrs. Bell said, at the exact moment that Catherine recalled precisely who Susan Parker was: the maid she had encountered her very first night here at Cairncroft, the one she had intimidated by implying she would report her to the housekeeper. The episode was not one she was proud of.

“Yes, I am aware of who she is.” His assertion surprised Catherine, and then she recalled how he had known Peg’s name, and she thought that perhaps he made it his business to know something about each of his staff. She could certainly believe it of him. “What is it you wish to tell me about her?” Gabriel prompted.

“She walked to the shoemaker the day before last to be measured for new shoes. It was her half-day and she left promptly at noon.” Catherine heard the clink of Mrs. Bell’s key ring, and she thought the housekeeper must have knocked it by accident, or was perhaps worrying it out of nervousness. “Susan never returned.”

“Is she due wages?” Gabriel asked, his tone bland. Yet something in his question made Catherine suspect he was more interested in the matter than he wished Mrs. Bell to know.

“No, sir.”

“She must have run off.”

Mrs. Bell huffed in a breath, loud enough that Catherine could hear it where she stood, far down the corridor and around the corner.

“What if she didn’t? What if the same thing happened to her that happened to—”

“Mrs. Bell,” Gabriel cut her off, his tone silk and steel. “We both know that is an impossibility. Let us not raise the issue.”

“We do not know—”

“We do.” His words, his tone, both absolute in their finality, ended the argument. But again Catherine had the impression that his words masked his true thoughts. “Speak to the other servants. Find out if she had a beau. A sick family member. Any reason that she might have left precipitously.”

“And if there is no reason?” Mrs. Bell asked, oddly forlorn.

“There is always a reason, Mrs. Bell. You know that as well as I. Questions always have answers. Puzzles have solutions. It is only that we do not always like the resolutions and explanations we discover, and so we discount them, though they settle the matter quite satisfactorily”—he paused—“even if not pleasantly.”

Again, a long moment of silence, and then Mrs. Bell asked in a harsh whisper, “Is that what you call murder? A satisfactory resolution?”

Catherine pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, stifling her gasp, her pulse speeding up like a cart on a hill.

“Our discourse is complete, Mrs. Bell,” Gabriel said, his tone calm and even, though Catherine could not imagine how he held his temper in the face of the housekeeper’s temerity. “I expect you will keep me apprised of any information that you uncover regarding Susan Parker.”

Because he expected information to be uncovered. Catherine was convinced of it. But he did not trust the housekeeper with his suspicions.

Mrs. Bell inhaled sharply, and when she spoke, her voice was tight. “Very well, sir.”

A moment later, there came the rapid shush of the housekeeper’s footsteps and the swish of her skirt as she moved in the opposite direction. For a slow count of ten, Catherine stayed exactly where she was, motionless as a hare in a field, straining to hear the sounds of Gabriel’s retreat. But she heard nothing at all. Not a footstep or breathing or anything to indicate whether he had stayed or gone.

There came a dull thud, like a door closing, or a fist knocked against wood.

Warily, she peeked around the corner. The hallway unfurled before her, the dark walls and blood-red carpet disappearing into dim shadow. Of Gabriel St. Aubyn there was no sign.

“Curiosity can be a dangerous thing.” His low voice came from directly behind her right shoulder and she whirled, pressing her palm flat against her chest, her heart twitching and writhing like a landed fish.

“How—” She stumbled away and spun to peer around the wall at the empty hallway where she was certain he had been standing. Of course, the passage was empty. Turning back toward him, she stalked two steps forward, disbelieving. “How did you get there without me seeing you pass?”

He made a hushed laugh, a lush, tantalizing sound she had never before heard him make. It made her shiver. It made her ache.

Deliberately, she took a step back. Equally deliberately, he took a step forward.

Reaching out, he rested his palm against the wall at her back, caging her between wood panel and the length of his body. Her heart slammed against her ribs. Her mouth went dry. He was strong and near, his eyes glittering in the dim light. His gaze dropped to her lips, her breasts, and she stopped breathing entirely.

After a moment, an eternity, his eyes lifted to hers. She gasped at the things she read there: primitive desire, bared and unchained. Bending her knees, she dipped down below his outstretched arm and scooted to the side, away from the threat of him…the temptation of him.

He made no move to stop her.

Leaning to the side, he pressed his weight onto his outstretched hand, touching a particular spot on the heavy wooden panel. It swung open to reveal a yawning tunnel, dark as sin.

Grateful for the distraction, she looked away from his face and peered into the gloom, her nose wrinkling at the stale smell and the cobwebs that hung in long, ghostly pale tendrils, broken where he had passed through them.

“You went in there without a candle?” she blurted.

“I did.”

“I would not like to.” The narrowness of the passage made her shudder.

“Afraid of the dark?” he murmured, too close. He had come up beside her. She wondered that such a tall, powerful man could move with such grace and quiet.

“I am not afraid of the dark,” she demurred. “Not since I was a child. It is the confined space I do not like.”

As soon as the admission left her lips, she regretted it. What was it about him that made her reveal any part of things better left hidden? She had trained herself to do better than this, but every time he asked a question, she felt driven to answer. She did not want him to know any of her secrets. Not a one. And yet, here she was offering them up without even the slightest consideration, as though a part of her wanted to tell him all. There was a sure route to danger.

“I did not like to go in, either,” he mused, “for much the same reason.”

She blinked, startled that he revealed anything private and personal. It went completely against his nature. She knew enough of him by now to be certain of that. It made his admission something of a gift.

Was it payment in kind? She offered a glimpse of her secret soul, and he did the same? An exchange. A connection. The possibility both thrilled her and made her uneasy.

“Then why did you?” she asked, studying him, noticing a single cobweb woven in the spun gold of his hair. Without thought, she reached up and stroked it away, her fingers lingering at the gently curled ends, so silky and soft.

He stiffened, but did not pull away.

“Because I had no way to know who lurked in this hallway, watching, listening.” He offered a tight smile. “I prefer to catch my enemy unawares.”

She stared at him, nonplussed, her fingers still twined in his hair. He had known someone was here, listening. How? She was certain she had not made a sound.

“You must have extremely acute senses,” she observed, drawing her fingers through his hair.

“Extremely.” He looked at her strangely, and it was then she realized what she did: petted and stroked him as though she had a right. Mortified, she pulled her hand away and dropped it to her side.

“You said you like to catch your enemy unawares…Am I your enemy?” she whispered.

“The answer to that question resides entirely with you.” One corner of his mouth curved in a lazy smile, his eyes darkest amber, his head tipped close, his breath soft on her cheek. “I would prefer that you are not.”

Then it was not just his breath on her cheek, but his lips, gliding along her skin to the corner of her mouth. His fingers were warm as they closed on her wrists, and he drew her hands behind his back so she was pulled close against the length of him. Hard muscle beneath perfectly tailored cloth.

She lost her breath, lost her thoughts.

“Why—” She gasped as his tongue traced the edge of her mouth, and turned her face away. Heart pounding, she thought she ought to step away. Run away. But she did not. Instead, she remained exactly where she was. “Why is this tunnel here?” she managed at last.

He shifted his mouth to her ear. “A servants’ tunnel. There is a maze of them behind the walls.”

With a gentle tug, he drew her closer still, his thighs pressed to hers, and she was drowning in him, the enthralling, faintly citrus scent of his skin, the feel of his body, the way his hands circled her wrists, holding her in place, binding her to him, though he had positioned her so that she was the one whose arms held him close, circling about his lower back.

And why did she not pull away?

Even as he loosed his hold on her wrists and brought one hand to her throat so his thumb stroked her pulse, and the other to her nape, she made no move to break free, but held her arms in an easy loop about his body. Holding him.

Slowly, he tipped his head down, his lips soft on hers, the sweetest caress. She hated him for that, for his gentleness, and for the hard, sharp kick of yearning that even that near-innocent brush of his lips on hers drew from deep inside her.

His mouth was slightly open, his breath warm, mingling with her own, but he did not taste her, did not push his tongue inside her. And she wanted that, ached for it. Oh, how desperately she wanted the taste of him in her mouth.

A whimper tore free, and she arched up, drowning, her lungs and veins and limbs filled only with sharp heat.

Breathless. Hungry.

And then she understood.

…because you are breathless and I am air…

His mouth played on hers as he wooed her, tantalized her, made her breathless so he could be all she craved. She pulsed with the need to press herself tighter against him so that there was no space between them, not even air.

He used only his lips, leaving her imagination to conjure and crave the thrust of his tongue. She wanted him to put his hands on her breasts, and his mouth. His teeth. She wanted him to press her down, here, on the floor, to feel his full weight, heavy and heavenly.

With a nearly chaste kiss he stole her will, her reason, and she had no more breath. He was her air.

She bit his lower lip, lightly, then harder, then soothed the place she had nipped with her tongue.

Abruptly, he pulled away, her name—Catherine—no more than a whisper.

No. Do not leave me. She reached for him, her hand pale in the shadows, hovering between them, outstretched.

Chapter 13

“Tell me,” Gabriel demanded, holding himself beyond her touch.

Catherine snatched back her hand and pressed it to the hollow of her throat, though she ached with the need to play her fingers across his lips, to stroke his hair, to curl her hands into smooth cloth overlying steely muscle.

She had never yearned, never ached, the way she did in this moment. And he wanted her to say it, to lay herself bare to him, to trust him with full knowledge of her wanting and need.

No, not full knowledge. He had that already. She saw it in the hard glitter of his gaze and the tight line of his jaw. He wanted her admission, freely given. He wanted to be water for her thirst, food for her hunger. That night in her chamber he had clearly laid out his terms.

“My bed is down this corridor and up a single flight.” His lips curved in a smile dark with promise. “Say it, Catherine. Tell me what you want.”

“Please,” she breathed, wanting it to be enough. Needing it to be enough. The hated word, offered in supplication.

“No.” He frowned and shook his head. “I have no wish to hear you plead. I know it holds dark memories for you.”

He knew that? How?

“I am a keen observer,” he said, faintly sardonic, answering the questions she had never asked. He caught her hand—the one she had held out to him earlier and now clutched against her throat—and brought her fingers to his lips. His tongue tasted the tips, and then his teeth. She swallowed the moan that begged for escape.

“Say only that you want me. That you hunger.” That I am water and you are parched, he did not say, but she heard it nonetheless.

“Only that?” she managed with a strangled laugh.

“For now.” He stroked the backs of his fingers across her cheek, and she was so sensitized to his touch, so raw, that she had to sink her teeth into her lip to keep from crying out.

Shaking her head from side to side, she backed up a step and then another, poised to flee. He made no move to stop her. Not by expression or action did he alter her course. Her choice. With him, it would always be her choice. He had no desire to bend her or break her to his will. She understood that with sudden blinding clarity.

She could give herself to Gabriel without sacrificing who she had become.

Her heart beat, wild and terrible, in her breast. Fear. Lust. Raw, aching need. And then she said it, forced the words through bloodless lips.

“I do. I do want you. I ache for you. I dream of you. I fight it and chain it and lock it behind any boundary I can conjure, and still the wanting steals free.” She lowered her head and stared at the tips of his boots, shiny black, catching the paltry light. Her breath came hard and fast, as though she had run for miles. “What have you done to me?”

“Nothing. Not yet. But soon.” He yanked her hard against him, his mouth open as he tasted her, his tongue sliding the length of hers, his teeth nipping, gently, then harder, enough to make her gasp. Make her moan. He fed on her, claimed her, his kiss sinking through her to leave fire in its wake.

Lifting her in his arms, he cradled her against his chest, bending his head to nip the skin of her throat. Her breathing was uneven and quick, as was his. He strode along the hallway, then took a flight of stairs with rapid, sure steps, and she clung to him and breathed his scent and buried her face in his neck so she could lick his skin.

He tasted of salt. He tasted like heaven.

Hunger such as she had never known pounded through her.

He kicked open a door, then kicked it shut behind them, and she turned her head to see a massive bed canopied in striped silk, blue on blue, a vast room with rich curtains and a hearth that danced with fire. Something made her notice that—the extravagance of fire in a room no one was expected to use at this hour of the day. The strangeness made her ask, “Why do you keep the hearth burning at this time of the day?”

“I dislike being cold.” The words had a sardonic edge. “I keep a fire here and in the library and in any room I expect to spend even a handful of moments.” He paused as though grappling with himself and then continued. “I spent too many years shivering, cold to the marrow of my bones.”

She sucked in a sharp breath at the naked pain in his tone. Such revelation, from Gabriel? She had no idea how to reply other than to tighten her arms about his neck and kiss his throat, then strain up to reach his mouth and kiss him there.

Delight strummed her senses. The taste of him, like chocolate, like wine, left her dizzy and breathless.

Breaking the kiss, he tossed her in the air. She squealed and landed in a billow of skirt, the mattress dipping as she bounced and bounced again. He dropped down beside her with a laugh, the sound wonderful and startling, a rarity. A gift. She closed her eyes and let it pour over her. Then he kissed her once more, demanding, possessing, and she was lost in a tumult of sensation and need.

Deft fingers worked her gown, her undergarments, yanking aside her half-unbuttoned bodice to bare her breasts. Her nipples hardened in the cool air and she arched, aching, wanting his mouth on her as she had never wanted anything before. His lips closed over her, a gentle swirl of his tongue and then a hard, sucking pull that took her to a place between pain and pleasure. She clenched the covers in her fists and cried out, liquid need pouring through her so powerful and quick she was undone by it, left panting and thrashing.

Tracing his tongue along the dip between her breasts, he freed more buttons, tearing delicate cloth in his haste. His mouth took her other nipple in a sharp tug that made her thrust her hands in his hair to pull him away…to drag him closer still. Then he kissed her breast sweetly, his tongue swirling round and round, leaving her wanting—

“Harder,” she whispered.

He closed his teeth on her and she felt it clear to her belly, an erotic kick that made her gasp.

Somehow, she found herself naked while he was yet clothed, the situation both embarrassing and arousing, the scrape of his wool coat on her skin and the press of cold metal buttons only serving to layer sensation upon sensation.

She wanted to touch him, to know him, every masculine line and hard angle. She reached for him and he caught her wrists, braceleting them with one hand, stroking the other up her stocking-clad thigh until his palm met bare skin above her garters. He dragged her hands above her head, held them there, and kissed her once more, tongue and teeth, deep. Wet. As he drew back, she followed him, her lips clinging to his.

“Patience, love. We have all the time in the world, and I intend to savor you.” To prove his point, he brushed his lips lightly over her own. Not enough. Not nearly enough.

She was not patient. She was greedy and eager.

Through his trousers, the hard length of his arousal pressed against her thigh, powerful, thick, promising to stretch her and fill her. There was nothing subtle or sweet in the way he touched her now, his hands cupping and kneading her breasts, her buttocks. He took. He marked. He drew moans and sighs as he rolled her nipple between his fingers, then dipped his head to suck and bite. She cried out, the pleasure keener than she could bear, her legs scissoring against cool silk.

He rose above her, dragging her hands to the intricately carved headboard, curling her fingers around sections of wood.

“Hold tight to this,” he whispered against her ear, “and do not move unless I give you leave.” He let a heartbeat pass. “Or I could bind you.”

Her breath left her in a rush, the image of that both incredibly erotic and frightening all at once. No. She could not. To trust him with this, to give him leave to do this…she could not. She jerked her hands from the headboard and pushed against his chest.

He let her. She knew that. As his weight lifted and he took it on his outstretched arms, she knew he let her push him away.

Then he caught her right wrist and dragged her hand back to the headboard, curling her fingers around the wood once more. Now it was she who let him do this, trembling, panting, wanting him and afraid of what he asked, so many emotions swirling through her she knew not which one swam strongest. He took her other hand, and drew it up the same way, his voice guttural as he repeated his command against her ear.

“Do what I say, Catherine. I will not have him in my bed. Not today, or any other. I will not have you haunted by the dark memories he spawned. There will be only me in your thoughts as I come into your body. Only me there with you.” He buried his face in her neck, inhaling against her skin, his weight resting on one hand while the other held hers trapped against the headboard. “Trust me.”

She had no reason to. She had every reason to.

He would have her no other way. If she denied him, he would leave her here, aching and empty. She knew it with all she was. He would have all or nothing. Of course. Had she not secretly known exactly that all along? Was that not part of what she wanted from him, his perfect, wretched control?

Tightening her grip on the wood, she held fast, and he laughed, a low, sensual slither of sound that wound around her and through her.

“What—” Her question died in a gasp as he kissed his way down her breasts, her belly, clenching his fingers into her thighs to lift her and open her, his tongue tracing the curve of her hip bone, and Gabriel smiled, secretly, darkly pleased.

No one had kissed her here before. The wriggling of her hips and her startled, panting breaths told him that as clearly as if she screamed it aloud, or pushed him away, or leaped from the bed in dismay. No one had kissed her mons or her lovely, swollen folds.

Not yet.

“Do not move,” he rasped, imperative. He would have this of her, the taste of her—warm and wet and female—on his tongue. He breathed in the scent of her, aroused to the point of pain.

“Gabriel.” A soft, plaintive cry.

He held her hips and dipped his head, his tongue stroking her between the folds of her sex, finding moisture and warmth, salt and heaven. His mouth closed over the hot, sensitive core of her. She jerked as though struck.

“No! You—” Her denial died sharply as he nipped her, then licked her. The sounds she made, the way she thrashed, the fact that she held tight to the headboard because he had asked her to and because she chose to accede to his will, gifting him with her trust—all combined to build his own passion, to feed the flame of it. He licked her again, and when she jerked and gasped, he felt the kick of her pleasure low in his own gut.

He took his time with her, stroking her to the razor’s edge, pushing one finger, then two, deep inside her. Tight. She was so tight and wet.

Lost in her, he played and stroked, and she gave herself up to him. His to take as he would.

Soft cries tore from her lips, and her hips rose and fell in a primitive rhythm. Then her whole body went rigid, quivering, frozen in time as her release took her over the edge. The only sounds she made then were a soft catch in her throat, and a series of sighs that could be nothing other than his name.

His name.

A dark smile curved his lips as he raised his head and saw she yet held fast to the bed, her fingers curled so tight her knuckles were white. He crawled up her lush body, kissing her belly, her full, round breasts, her throat, her lips. She made an inarticulate sound and tried to turn away, but he caught her chin in his fingers, a gentle grasp, and kissed her full on the mouth. She tensed, then melted, opening to him with a sensual little moan. He supposed that tasting herself on his tongue was not as horrid as she had expected. In fact, the way she tipped her head and sucked on his tongue, his lips, offering sighs of pleasure, made him certain she had forgotten whatever qualms had assailed her.

This was how he wanted her. Wet and ready and pliable. This was how he wanted their joining. Earthy and messy. Nothing forbidden. Nothing taboo.

She wore only her stockings and as he reared back and looked down at her, he was certain that even one more moment would be a moment too long. Because she was lush and beautiful and there before him, offering herself like a gift.

Her fingers bit into the wooden headboard, and Catherine stared up at Gabriel feeling sultry and sated and aroused all at once. She was fully nude. He was fully clothed. The sensation of being bare and open to him was incredibly erotic.

She had never imagined a man could kiss a woman there. She had never imagined the bliss to be found in that.

“I want—” She broke off, pressed her lips together, wondering how to ask.

“What do you want? Tell me.”

“I”—she shook her head, thrust aside her embarrassment—“I want to taste you. Suck you. Feel you hard and hot in my mouth.” She did. The thought of it put into words made her yearn all the more.

“Your wish. My command.” He moved so that his knees were on either side of her shoulders. Reaching down, he undid his trousers and the long, thick length of his cock sprang free.

Her heart raced. Her belly twisted with lust, and she opened her mouth, taking him inside, and all the while she held her hands where he had placed them, the unenforced captivity only adding an edge to her arousal. She licked the length of him, then sucked him deep. Deeper. And still she did not have the whole of him.

Hot, smooth skin over steel. He impaled her, pumping only deep enough for her comfort and no deeper. She wanted to swallow him, to fill her mouth, her throat with him, and she moaned, arching her back and lifting her head to take more.

With a shaky laugh, he pulled away. “Keep at it, love, and you’ll taste more than skin.”

Dipping his head, he kissed her, sucking on her lips, nipping them, thrusting his tongue into her mouth to dance with her own as he slid down her body. The rasp of his superfine coat against her naked nipples made her gasp and wriggle.

The heat of his erection pressed against the inside of her thigh. He was so hard, so big, the smooth head stretching her as he pushed at her opening, then withdrew, again and again, a little deeper each time. She gasped, wanting him to press in…in…

Then he did. Oh, God, he did. A quick, smooth thrust and he was inside her, filling her, joined so close and tight, his pelvis pressed against the most sensitive part of her. She thought he would pump, hard and fast, seek his own pleasure. But that was not Gabriel’s way. Instead, he rocked his hips only a little. Just a little. Not enough.

She gasped and writhed, but he whispered—“Still. Be still, Catherine”—and continued that maddening, sensual, gentle rocking that wound her tighter and took her higher. But not high enough.

There was carnality in that, in giving herself over to his will, his desires. His control.

She shuddered.

Catching the back of her knee, he bent her leg and lifted it until her ankle rested on his shoulder, then did the same with the other, dipping his head to kiss her neck, her jaw. She clenched her fists tight to the headboard, beguiled, seduced. She wanted this, wanted him. Liked the places he was taking her.

Then he began a new rhythm, a hot, slick pump and slide, fast and rough enough that it left her mindless, left her gasping. She was lost, her hands tearing free of the place she had willingly fettered them, coming to rest on his shoulders, the cloth of his coat scratchy beneath her palms as she fisted and crushed it. She cried out as he pushed deeper, then withdrew, pleasure driving her, driving him.

One arm was outstretched to take his weight, the other cupped around her buttock, kneading roughly as he moved. He was beautiful, flexing and straining above her. She splayed her hands across his buttocks, pulling him closer still.

For an instant, she wished he were naked, wished it was his warm, smooth skin beneath her palms rather than cloth. And then she lost the thought, lost everything but the sensations he evoked.

Tension wound her like a clock key. And then it broke, she broke, a thousand glittering pieces falling apart and coming together with each pulsing wave that crashed over her. She threw back her head and screamed, the pleasure so hard and tight she was certain she would not survive.

Above her, suddenly rigid, Gabriel made no sound, only pulled from her and found his own release, his seed pumping from him, his head bowed, his long, beautiful hair sliding forward to brush her breasts.

She clung to him, her skin smeared with his seed, her heart pounding.

Slowly, he lowered her legs from his shoulders, turning his head to kiss the inside of first one knee, then the other. Then he smiled at her, a satyr’s smile. She could not do other than smile in return.

Rolling to his side, he drew her close, and to her astonishment, he smeared his seed all over her belly with the tips of his fingers, then turned and kissed her on her mouth with leisurely care.

“I—” She glanced down, watching his fingers trace slow swirls, and felt the dark edge of her sadness creep into this moment of joy.

She should tell him that there was no need for him to withdraw and spill his seed outside her body. There as no need for him to fear that she would catch with child. Tears pricked her eyes. She should tell him.

But to say it aloud…She never had before. It would make it real.

Of course it was real. She had known it for some time.

Why did she behave so foolishly now? Tell him.

“What is it, Catherine?” he asked, his voice low, laced with tension. “Do you know regret already?”

Regret? For lying with him? For experiencing what she had only imagined in the past?

“No. Never.” She drew a deep breath, feeling the pull on her lungs that warned her she could inhale no deeper, then she blew out all the air in a rush. “It is only…You need not withdraw like that.” Her voice broke then, and with it, her composure, and she bit hard on her lip to fight back the tears. Finally, she whispered, “I cannot have a child. Not ever. I cannot—”

His hand stilled. His body tensed. For a long moment, he said nothing, and then, “You cannot have another child.”

He knew. Somehow, he knew, though she had not told him.

Of course, she should have expected that, perceptive as he was. Perhaps he saw the subtle signs on her body, though she had come away from her pregnancy with few changes save slightly rounder hips and darker nipples, and two fine, silvery lines that marked the skin above her pubis.

Whatever had given her away, he had seen it and guessed the cause.

“No, I cannot.” Pain twisted her heart until she thought the organ would break or burst or tear from her breast to lie beating on the floor. Old pain. She had thought she had it caged. She swallowed, wet her lips, dizzy with the speed that her emotions had risen high as a bird, then plummeted like a stone. “How did you know?”

“I did not. Not with any certainty. Until now.”

Of course. He had tricked her into revealing all, and he had revealed nothing. Not even his body. He was yet fully clothed.

Had she been the only one to participate here? To feel the things she felt? To feel lo—

No. She would not think that, would not string the letters together to form the word. Not even in her private thoughts. Love was like sand between her fingers, or smoke. Grab hold as tightly as possible, and still it would slip away.

Resting his chin lightly on her crown, he asked, “Where is your baby, Catherine?”

“He died.” Liar. He did not die. He was killed. He was murdered. His life was stolen.

She could not share this. Could trust no one with her pain. With the horrible truths that haunted her. Why would she trust him with any of her secrets when he trusted her with nothing? Nothing at all.

He was her lover, not her friend.

She was mad to do this. Mad to lie here. The physicality of their joining was one thing, the deceptive promise of emotional succor quite another. She needed to get away, to flee. She needed—

“Oh, God!” she cried, and tried to leap from the bed, but Gabriel only tightened his grip and turned her so she curled against his body, his arms wrapped tightly around her as horrible, choking sobs tore free. The torrent was shocking and sudden, a brutal wrenching-away of her walls and defenses that she had not expected, certainly not wanted. But she could not seem to make it stop.

On some level, she understood that she cried and ranted, words flowing like a sea of poison, that she struggled in his embrace, that she hit him, pummeling his chest with her closed fists.

That he let her.

In ragged, agonized spurts she cursed fate and men and the brutal world that cast women as lesser beings without rights, without recourse. And he held her and listened, not saying a word.

At length, she sniffed and scrubbed the back of her hand along her cheek, wiping away her tears, then shivered. She was naked still. Without loosing his hold on her, Gabriel shifted to draw the coverlet out from beneath him and drape it over her.

“It seems I cry more when I am around you than I have cried—” Almost did she say since my son was murdered, but in the end found she could not. “In a very long while,” she said instead, feeling drained and faintly ill.

“And I thank you for that.”

“Thank me?” She tipped her head to study his expression. It was as it had always been, calm, cool. “Why do you thank me? Because you see me at my worst?”

“You have no worst. You are who you are, every bit of you, every part of your present and past. You allow yourself to feel, to grieve when you are with me.” He stroked her hair back from her face. “Trust is a gift, Catherine. You have given me a gift.”

His assertions made her want to cry all over again. And they stole her own words because she knew not what to say. She did not trust him. Not fully. And she certainly did not want to allow such horrific swells of emotion to burst free when she was with him. It only seemed that circumstances arranged for her to behave this way.

The first time he had comforted her as she sobbed out her grief over Martha’s murder, he had stumbled upon her. That was happenstance, nothing more.

But today…perhaps today it was because she trusted him, felt safe with him. At least a little. She had no idea if she would ever trust him enough to tell all.

“What do you know of me?” she asked, certain that he knew all manner of secrets, though not her deepest ones.

“I know you became the ward of Jasper Hunt, Baron Sunderley, when he assumed the title after your father was killed. I know you became his lover, and now I know you bore him a child.”

She swallowed and nodded. “He wooed me. Made me such pretty promises. We would be wed, he said. I believed him. In the beginning, I loved him. With the love that a young girl bestows on her first suitor. Innocent, naïve love in a heart and mind that had no understanding of what might follow a first, chaste kiss. He came to my bed in the darkest hours of the night, and I lay there as he did what he would. Always quickly. Never”—she bit her lip, unwilling to compare, but seeing no other way to make it clear to him how she felt—“not like this. Never like this.

“It was not long before he began to change. He did not like the way I wore my hair and had me fix it in a different style. He did not like the gown I wore to supper and had me return to my chamber and don a different one, then said I was too slow and let me have no supper at all. Then he did not like my tone when I spoke. ‘Can you not be soft, Catherine?’ he would say. ‘Can you not be quieter?’ And other days it would be ‘Can you not speak up? Must you whisper?’ As time passed, he began to grow short and sharp with me all the time. Just the sight of me was enough to turn his temper. I pleased him less and less.”

“There are those in this world that will not be pleased no matter what we do,” Gabriel murmured.

“Yes. I know that now. But I did not know it then. He used to make me beg. ‘Say please, my cat.’ One night, I did not beg prettily enough. He took up a small wooden box from my table. It was a birthday gift from my grandmother the year she died, a small treasure that had not been sold to pay my father’s debts. He used his knife to pry off a bit of the ivory inlay. Then he used the heavy handle of the poker to smash it to dust. I begged, but it only made him angrier. He pried off the next bit and the next, and in the end, he smashed the whole box, bringing the poker down again and again, bidding me reach in and save the damned thing if I wanted it so badly.” She fell silent, shuddering as memories toppled against memories like a line of domino bones.

“You sketch for me a skeleton of your life with him,” Gabriel said. “I suspect the flesh of it was even worse.” There was leashed fury in his tone. She was stunned to hear it. He was normally so calm and even.

“Yes.” The word was no more than a breath as she remembered all, remembered that Jasper had broken her, but that, she would tell no one.

For a long while, they only lay on the bed, wrapped around each other, breathing in unison. Then Gabriel asked in his ever-blunt way, “And your child, Catherine?”

Her child. Her baby.

“When I became pregnant, he locked me away and told the servants I was not to be let free and none were to speak to me. I spent the months of my confinement in a single room. The windows were painted shut.” She could not help but glance at her hands now, remembering the way she had clawed at the frames until she bled. “The solitude was terrible. I think there is nothing so painful as to be alone, completely and utterly alone.”

“Yes,” Gabriel agreed, a wealth of meaning in that single word. She wondered that he understood. That he knew. She could hear it, feel it in the subtle tension that suddenly laced his frame.

“When were you alone?” she asked, certain that they shared this, that he had been locked away as she had been locked away, but unable to see the possibility of how.

“This is your time, Catherine,” Gabriel replied. “There is time enough for my story.”

Was there? Or was he simply avoiding sharing any of his secrets with her?

“Tell me,” he urged.

“Why?”

For an instant he looked nonplussed, and tilted his head in contemplation. “Because I wish to know.”

He was nothing if not consistent. He wished to know and so he expected an answer. Oddly, despite the tension of the moment and the terrible memories that bit at her, she found a measure of comfort, and perhaps even amusement, at his reply.

“Jasper…” She paused, hating to even say his name, hating that he still had that power over her, the power to make any emotion surge in her breast. “Jasper brought a doctor when my pains came, and when it was done, my baby born, the doctor took a”—she swallowed against the horror that swelled at the recollection of the hooked crotchet: cold metal and ripping pain—“he did something inside me, and I sickened after that. I burned with fever. I almost died. I remember him coming again and again, bleeding me, and speaking of scarring to my female parts. He told Jasper I could never again bear a child.”

“I will take you to London,” Gabriel said. “To Germany. To France. There are doctors there.”

She stared at him, not understanding at all. Then it came to her with stunning clarity. “You mean to take me to physicians until you find one that can give me hope?”

“Of course.”

“Why?” She shook her head, her confusion absolute. “Because you want a child?”

She could not misread the appalled horror that crossed his features, a fleeting flicker of expression that faded as quickly as it appeared.

“No.” Then, “I would take away your pain,” he offered gently, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Though it made no sense to her, given that he must surely need an heir, he clearly did not want a child, yet he wanted her to be able to bear one.

“You do understand the contradiction there?” she asked. A moment passed. “I have seen several doctors. Whatever funds I had were spent on them. The answer is always the same. There are no children in my future.”

Instead of offering a reply, he leaned close and kissed her lids, her cheek, her mouth. Then he drew the sheets higher over her naked form, rose, and crossed to the bell pull.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“We need a bath.”

A bath. In the middle of the day. The servants would bring the tub and hot water. And they would know. Even if she hid behind the privacy screen, they would know. She was uncomfortable with the thought. It was her nature to be private, even more so now that she had been the object of gossip for so long. She preferred not to draw such notice.

“I have no wish to cause inconvenience,” she demurred. “I can make do with the basin and pitcher.” She dipped her head toward the washstand.

“No, you cannot.” Very deliberately, he tugged the embroidered ribbon to summon a servant. When the maid came, he spoke through the door, giving the order for the tub and hot water to be brought up.

From her place on the bed, she studied him, his broad shoulders, his now-rumpled coat and waistcoat. The inequity irked her. He was completely clothed.

She rose from the bed and went to him. He only watched her, saying nothing, his eyes narrowed.

“I want to touch you,” she said, unable to believe she had made love to a man who had not so much as removed his coat. There had been a certain delicious decadence to that at the time, but it left her a little uncomfortable now.

“Do you?” he murmured.

“May—”

He put his finger to her lips, staying her words.

“Take what you want, Catherine. Take it. I will not have you looking for my permission.” He offered the barest smile. “I told you I would not have him in my bed. You are a different woman now than you were then. Whatever he did to you, it is gone. Past. Dead”—she gasped, feeling the blood rush to her cheeks, then drain completely away. Did he know? Did he? But he offered no answer to her secret fears, only kept his finger on her lips, stilling her words—“You want to touch me? To feel my skin beneath your palms?”

She could only nod, wanting that, wanting him, again.

“Then take what you want, love.” He dragged her hand to his mouth, pressed a kiss to her palm, then held his arms out, offering her leave to do what she willed.

Sliding her hands beneath his coat, she slanted him a glance through her lashes. Then she clutched the fabric in her fingers and yanked his coat down his arms, leaving him in shirtsleeves and waistcoat.

Something dark crossed his features, and for a moment, she had the strange thought that he would stop her, that he did not wish to disrobe before her. Her gaze raked him. Broad shoulders. Flat belly. Hard contours of muscle apparent even beneath the cloth. What possible reason could he have for refusing her this?

None. He could have none. She was weaving obstacles where none existed.

Next came his waistcoat. Then his cravat of red merino that she slid from beneath the high folded collar of his tucked front shirt. It was only when she went to remove the latter that he caught her wrist, his fingers forming a gentle but firm vise.

“What is it?” she asked. “Has the bath come?” She had not heard a knock.

“No. And when it does, it shall be set in the dressing room. I have no wish to be disturbed, nor to subject you to the servants’ scrutiny.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, touched by his thoughtfulness. “What is it, then?”

His lips tightened, but he said nothing more. Instead, he reached back, caught the collar of his shirt, dragged it over his head, and tossed it to the floor.

Her mouth went dry. He was magnificent. Cool hard planes and angles. Perfect shadows. Supple skin shifted over smooth muscle as he rolled his shoulders, but as her gaze lifted to his face, she read wariness and a guarded watchfulness. Why?

Reaching out, she laid her hand on his chest, stroked along his muscle to his shoulder, his arm, his elbow. There she stopped, her breath catching. Understanding came to her.

He was scarred.

The crooks of his elbows and the front of his forearms bore a multitude of thin white lines, side by side, some overlapping, some of the scars raised and wider, leading her to believe the place had been cut repeatedly.

He had been bled. More than once. More than a hundred times. Someone had opened his veins again and again and he bore the marks of that on his skin.

Her gaze snapped to his. Not by the flicker of a lash did he betray his thoughts. His expression was calm, reserved, his muscles relaxed. But she sensed the expectancy in him. He waited for what she would say.

And so she said nothing. Not yet. She needed to think on the right words. He had trusted her with this knowledge of him. Exactly as he had said: a gift.

She bent and pressed her mouth to the crook of his elbow, to a raised scar there where she knew the vein lay close to the surface. A faint tremor took him as she kissed him there.

With her fingers resting lightly on his shoulder, she straightened and walked around him to place both palms on his broad back, feeling the play of muscle under smooth skin. He was incredibly beautiful, perfectly formed, his waist lean, his buttocks tight, the curve of his spine a valley between wedges of taut muscle on either side.

She stroked his hair from his nape, a spill of honey gold, wanting to kiss him there. He tensed, then relaxed, the movement so subtle she might have thought she imagined it except…She blinked. Frowned. Here, too he was scarred. An odd-shaped mark on the back of his neck was raised and uneven. She had a scar like that, a small one on her knee where she had fallen as a child and the scrape had gone deep and filled with dirt and it had taken a very long while to heal. It had left just such a mark.

But why would he have such a thing on the back of his neck? How would he have injured himself there?

Slowly she finished her circuit, looking her fill, touching him, leaning close to breathe the scent of him, to trace her tongue along the swell of muscle that capped his shoulder, the bulge of his biceps, the raised plane of his chest.

Then she slid his trousers down his thighs, sinking to her knees before him to slide off first one shoe then the other, one trouser leg then the other until he was as naked as she. She sensed he suffered her leisurely ministrations and perusal, but suspected he was not relaxed in this.

And as she peeled away the first of his stockings, his foot resting on her bent knees, what she saw made her certain.

Something terrible had been done to him.

“Who hurt you?” she asked, swallowing the fury that welled in her heart. She knew the marks of a burn well enough, and his feet bore not one such mark, but many.

On her knees before him, she tipped her head back and met his gaze, wanting answers, uncertain exactly what questions to ask. Then from the adjacent dressing room she heard the sound of the tub being prepared, water pouring, a footman’s murmur and a maid’s reply.

“Your bath awaits,” he said, looking down at her, his arms loose by his sides.

She shook her head. “It can wait.”

“The water will grow cold.”

Leaning forward, she rested her cheek against his thigh. “Then we shall bathe in cold water.”

There was a long moment of silence that made her look up, seeking his gaze.

“I do not bathe in cold water. Ever.” There was ice in his tone, colder than any winter storm. “And henceforth, neither do you.” An order. A pledge. It wasn’t about the discomfort of a cold bath. There was something more here.

The fine hairs at her nape rose.

In an easy, fluid motion, he scooped her in his arms and, kicking open the door to the dressing room, carried her through, ending any discussion.

As he sank into the tub with her, sloshing water over the sides, he kissed her, hard. He made love to her again, there in the bath, and when the water cooled, he carried her to his bed once more, taking his fill of her, and offering her the same in return.

But though her questions were diverted and delayed, they were not forgotten. Later, as they lay together, warm beneath the sheets and coverlet, soft pillows beneath their heads, she asked him again, “Who hurt you?”

Part Three

Chapter 14

Hanham, England, 1814

Gabriel peered out the window of the coach, anxious to know their destination. Mother offered no answer when he asked. Not the first time or the second or the tenth. She only shook her head and tried to make her mouth form a smile, but it was more of a grimace and it never reached her eyes. Her eyes were sad and afraid and she sat on the seat opposite him, not beside him, as though she could not bear to be close to him.

Father had not come for the carriage ride today. He had stood on the drive at Cairncroft, his hands linked at the small of his back, his mouth drawn tight.

Of Geoffrey, there had been no sign.

Gabriel could not find any part of himself that was sad for that. He still bore the scar where Geoffrey had stabbed him, low in the gut, the stick passing clear through. In time, the wound had healed. A miracle, the doctor called it, for Gabriel had been so very sick, feverish and weak. But his parents never called it that. At times, he wondered if they thought it more a curse that he had lived.

He had lost his place as his mother’s favorite, lost his welcome in her embrace, and he knew not what he had done to warrant it. She had begun to watch him in a strange way, her expression pinched, her hands always fluttering like two hummingbirds. Somehow, he thought she blamed him for being injured, for becoming ill, for the pain and grief and worry.

Too, she had grown confused since his recovery, calling him by his brother’s name and his brother by his name. It was disconcerting to see her behave that way. He felt sorry for her, and he missed the way she used to be. At first, he corrected her each time she erred, but she grew so agitated, so angry, that he soon began to keep to the shadows, to try to blend with the furniture. Better she not notice him at all.

The time since that day in the woods had not been kind to his family. He and Geoffrey could barely stand to be in the same room with each other now. Neither of them had been sent off to school, though at their age, they had expected to be. Gabriel was made to feel that it was somehow his fault, that he had created the tension and dark cloud that hung over the abbey.

Then, last month, they had found the dead girl. Murdered. Lying in a pool of her own blood. No one had known who she was or where she had come from. She was found in a shallow grave, the dirt barely tossed over her, her body mutilated, her chest cut open.

Sebastian had been visiting Cairncroft. It was he who had found her and then Geoffrey and Madeline had followed close behind. Gabriel had only heard the news when he overheard the servants gossiping. The maids had been upset. And Mrs. Bell, the new housekeeper, had sobbed and wailed behind the closed door of her quarters. Gabriel had heard her as he clung to the shadows, listening.

In the end, they had buried the dead girl in a corner of the abbey’s ancient graveyard, her marker bare of a name, saying only the date they had found her, for they did not know the dates of her birth or her death, did not know who she was. Or who had killed her.

There were days that Gabriel thought he knew, that memories and images came to him and painted a terrible, terrifying picture. But he thrust those thoughts aside, refusing to believe.

In recent months, the cloud over the abbey had become heavier still, and Gabriel had felt himself a stranger in his home, an outcast in his family. He had slowly begun to lose interest in any of his normal pursuits, while his twin, Geoffrey, gained interest in those same things. Where it had always been Gabriel who was anxious to read, to learn, it was now Geoffrey who professed a love of books. And Geoffrey had begun a strange game, playing into their mother’s odd behavior, answering whenever their parents used Gabriel’s name.

At first, Gabriel had gone along, answering to Geoffrey’s name, believing—as his brother insisted—that it was best to humor their mother who was sad and confused. He likened it to the games they had played as children where they traded places and tricked anyone who was near. In truth, they were identical, able to fool anyone save each other.

Geoffrey laughed at that, and said, “Perhaps we can learn to trick even each other.”

Gabriel thought such a thing absurd. How could he be tricked to believe he was other than himself?

Soon the game had turned sour for him, and though he insisted he was Gabriel, not Geoffrey, he was not certain his parents believed him. Certainly his cousin Madeline seemed positive that he was Geoffrey and his brother was Gabriel.

The longer Geoffrey played his tricks, the more Gabriel’s sadness and weariness grew, until he was loath to roll from his bed each morning. He stopped answering to any name at all, because no one believed he was who he said he was.

His parents had taken to closeting themselves away, taking first Madeline then Geoffrey into the room for hours at a time. But not Gabriel. Never Gabriel. Not until that day last week when three men in black suits had come to Cairncroft. They had sat with him in the sun-drenched parlor, the windows at their backs, making it hard for him to read their faces. They had asked him all manner of odd questions, one of them making detailed notes in a black, leather-bound book as Gabriel made his replies.

At first, he answered readily. But soon, a cold dread had come upon him, though he could not name a reason for it, and his answers had become terse, his voice betraying his anxiety.

But today things had dawned brighter. Mother had invited him to ride with her in the carriage. Only him. Not Geoffrey. Not Father or Madeline. Only him. She had exchanged a long look with Father and then called Gabriel by his own name, not Geoffrey’s.

He knew then that he had done something right, though he had not managed anything right since that horrible day in the woods. The day he had almost died.

The carriage turned now, and stopped. Massive iron gates blocked their path. On either side, extending as far as the eye could see, was a high brick wall. This must be a fine estate indeed to warrant such protection. The gates swung open, and Gabriel could hear a clunking sound from within the small lodge adjacent to the gate.

“Do you suppose there is a mechanism there for opening the gates, Mother? Could we stop? I should like to see it.”

But she did not answer. She only stared out the window, her skin stretched taut and thin across the bones of her face.

They went slowly up a long drive with vast squares of open lawn on either side. They were close to the village of Hanham, his mother had told him earlier when he asked. Eager now, he scooted forward on the seat.

“What place is this?”

His mother continued to stare out the window and still did not look at him. “Hanham House,” she replied, her voice thick.

He knew that sound, the sound of choked tears, but he knew better than to ask why she was sad. He had stopped asking that question months past. She never answered, only looked at him with eyes that did not see what was before her, but rather something far, far away.

He wished he could change the past. He wished he had never followed Geoffrey into the woods that day, never seen him twist the neck of that baby bird, never run through the woods with his brother pounding at his heels. Never been stabbed with the sharp end of that stick. There were even days that he wished he had never recovered. They had thought he would not. He vaguely remembered endless pain, and the heat of his fever, and doctors coming and going. His mother’s sobs. His father kneeling by his bed.

Oft times, he thought they had mourned his passing, and were somehow distressed that he had lived instead.

He wished, too, that they had never found the dead girl in her shallow, leaf-strewn grave. Better if she had been left to rest there quietly. Things had only gone from bad to worse, then.

Once, Madeline had even asked him why he had killed her. Stunned, he had at first made no reply. Then he found his voice and practically snarled at her an order to never say such a thing again. She had run to his father and said he had threatened her, and his father had only looked at him with eyes narrowed and cold. Madeline made certain to leave any room he entered, after that. She was never alone with him again, a situation he had not found overly disappointing.

He had disliked his cousin before. He despised her now.

The carriage rocked to a halt again, and he looked out at a massive house, nearly as large as Cairncroft Abbey. Then he saw it was not one house, but several, built close together.

On the seat across, his mother began to fidget. She played with her collar, her pearls, her hat. She did not meet his gaze, and he felt suddenly afraid. His mother never fidgeted.

The door opened and three men stood all in a row, their faces somber, their hands clasped behind their backs as they stared at him with eyes dark and beady. They were the same men who had come to Cairncroft and asked all those odd, unsettling questions.

“Does your head ache at times? Does your brain feel overheated? Do you suffer seizures or sweats in the night?”

He had only stared at them, befuddled.

“What is your name?”

“Gabriel.”

They had looked one at the other with raised brows.

“What is your name?”

“Gabriel St. Aubyn.”

“Gabriel? Not Geoffrey?”

He had pressed his lips tight and refused to reply. They had looked to each other and stroked their chins and nodded and muttered about complete delusion and appropriate care.

The sight of them now, standing all in a row like three black crows, frightened him. Their posture reminded him of his father’s that morning, but the look they leveled upon him did not. He thought now that his father had looked at him with pity, but these men seemed to look through him. Beside them was a stocky woman in a black dress, her hair scraped back from her face, her expression austere.

“Step down,” his mother whispered as he turned his face toward her. She looked as though she might swoon, her eyes rolling back, her lips and cheeks bloodless, her face chalk white in the shadows of the carriage.

He did not want to step down. He was terribly afraid.

But he was a good son, and he did as he was bidden, stepping out of the dim, hot carriage into the bright sunlight. The breeze caught his hair and ruffled it.

One of the men moved forward and closed his hand around Gabriel’s arm, the grip tight. Restraining.

“Mother!” Gabriel cried, his voice rising now, his certainty clear. There was something wrong.

She leaned forward, but did not leave the carriage. Her face was streaked with tears, and her hands clawed so her nails dug into her own forearms through the cloth of her dress.

“Good-bye,” she whispered. “Geoffrey”—her voice broke on the name—“be a good little man. Good-bye.”

Another man stepped forward and slammed the carriage door as Gabriel stood, stunned and uncomprehending. Only as the carriage rolled away did he come to himself and scream, “Gabriel. I am Gabriel. Not Geoffrey. I am Gabriel.”

None of the three men touched him now. Only the nurse swooped forward like a hawk and grabbed hold of both his arms and held him fast as he tried to run. Then she dragged him, kicking and screaming, up the front stairs and through the front door where another woman came and together they wrestled him, one on each side, up a staircase to a long bright hallway, the sun pouring through rows of windows. Finally, they reached a small bedroom and they pushed him inside and slammed the door. He heard the click of the lock and the thud of their footsteps and he was alone with only his terror and his thoughts.

In the weeks that followed, he tried everything to make them listen. He was rational and calm, explaining again and again that he was Gabriel. Not Geoffrey. But they would not listen. So he screamed his name at them each time they called him Geoffrey.

At first, they did nothing other than try to correct him, and the three dark-garbed men came and poked him and prodded him and asked him questions. They asked him to say his name. To write it. To spell it aloud. He found it ridiculous, and in the end lost his patience and told them so.

They did not like that.

That day, the nurses came again and dragged him to a massive, dim room with icy floors and no windows. There, they restrained him in a long, narrow box, with walls like a cage, made of thick bars. His screams for release grew hoarse. In the end he was silent.

Still, he would not answer to his brother’s name. Again the three doctors came and asked him all manner of ridiculous questions. Then they took him to a different room and stoked the fire and applied hot irons to his feet to raise blisters. They said that would draw the overabundance of blood from his overheated brain.

“So young to be here,” one doctor, newly arrived at Hanham House, observed some months later. “And such complete delusion.”

“Please,” Gabriel begged, thinking the observation indicated sympathy. “There has been a mistake. I am Gabriel. Gabriel. Not Geoffrey. I have done nothing wrong. I swear it. I swear it.”

The doctor only shook his head and put him in a device that whirled him round and round until he was dizzy and sick, until dry heaves racked his body because there was nothing left in his belly.

Weeks—or was it months?—passed. A letter came for him from his cousin Sebastian. He leaped upon it like a drowning man on a floating board. Then he saw his brother’s name, Geoffrey St. Aubyn, and he understood that even Sebastian was in their thrall.

“Whose thrall?” the doctor asked. “Tell me.”

“My brother. Maybe my mother. My father. My cousin. I do not know,” Gabriel babbled. “I do not know. I only know they have done this to me and I should not be here. I should not be here.”

“Cold water baths,” the doctor said after he had summoned the nurse once more, and Gabriel was taken to a different room and forced into a different type of box, no wider or longer than a coffin, but with holes in the top and sides.

“Please,” he cried. But no one heard. No one listened.

The box was dropped in a vat of icy water again and again. He knew how to swim. There was a lake at Cairncroft Abbey. After the first plunge, the shock and terror of it, he knew better what to expect, and he held his breath as he felt the box drop with him in it. But sometimes, he could hold his breath no longer and the water poured into his nose and mouth and throat, choking him, drowning him.

By the end of it, he wished he could just die. Just close his eyes and never open them again.

“Why are you doing this to me?” he whispered when it was done and they let him out, barely able to speak, barely able to stand.

“To remedy the disruption of your blood circulation. To improve the circulation to your brain,” the doctor said, his tone reasonable and calm. “To cure you.”

“Cure me of what?” Gabriel cried, but no one heard him, or if they did, they never answered.

If he struggled too strenuously, they forced opium upon him, or camphor mixed with vinegar.

Weeks bled into months, and months into years.

His one link to the world, to his sanity, were the letters from his cousin Sebastian, written as he traveled the world with his guardian. Gabriel never looked at the name on the direction; it would only make him angry and bitter to see that proof that even Sebastian believed him to be someone other than he was. But he waited for those letters, only hungering for a taste of the world beyond the walls of Hanham House. And he read them over and over, long past the point that he had memorized every word.

A new doctor arrived, Dr. Bradley, who based his treatments on the methods of an American physician, Dr. Rush. Icy baths were replaced by the relaxation chair, which offered restraint at both ankles and wrists, and a wooden box that fitted over the patient’s head like a shroud.

Gabriel’s head.

The first time he was forced onto that chair, he thought he would go well and truly mad.

Dr. Bradley saw Gabriel as a wonderful challenge, and he paid special attention to him. And Dr. Bradley had a fondness for that chair. Gabriel quickly learned that crying and begging and pleading only made it much worse.

Though he could not move, could not see, could not scratch the terrible itch at the tip of his nose, he forced himself to keep silent when they stretched the leather tight across his wrists and fastened the buckles. To bite hard on his tongue when Dr. Bradley took the knife and slit open his vein. To make not a sound as his blood dripped into the bowl.

“Madness,” Dr. Bradley expounded to anyone who would listen, “is caused by morbid qualities in the blood.” And so he bled Gabriel until he fainted, strapped in the chair, unable to move, his world narrowed to only what his mind could conjure.

“Purgatives,” Dr. Bradley pontificated, “are a depleting remedy for the overwhelming state of madness.” He would force the patient’s mouth open—Gabriel’s mouth—and if he refused to swallow of his own volition, the doctor used a funnel attached to a long tube to administer his treatments.

Too, Dr. Bradley was a proponent of solitude as punishment. When Gabriel refused to answer to his brother’s name, he was locked away in the darkness and the quiet. Too quiet. He hated it there, believed himself truly mad when the only company he had were his memories. Of Cairncroft. Of his childhood, stolen from him now. Of his brother.

Memories of the dead girl, with her chest slit open and parts gone, and her blood staining the ground in a dark, glistening pool. Only, he had not been the one to find her, so how did he know what the others had seen? Was it their description that he conjured? Was it only a horror from his imagination? He had no way to know.

He began to believe he was Geoffrey and not Gabriel, that he had gone into the woods after Sebastian that day and found the dead girl.

Other days, he knew he was Gabriel. Knew that his brother had become him, though he knew not how. Or why.

Those questions gnawed at him like a thousand hungry ants, nipping and biting and squirming beneath his skin.

“How are you today, Gabriel?” Dr. Bradley asked as he strode along the narrow aisle between the tables where the inmates of the house were eating their supper.

“Fine, thank you, Dr. Bradley,” Gabriel replied, knowing as soon as the words left his lips that he had erred. He must never answer to his own name. He must answer only to his brother’s. Too late.

“To the solitude room,” Dr. Bradley said over his shoulder to the nurse. “To ponder his behavior.”

By now, Gabriel knew better than to resist. He glanced at the supper he had not yet touched, and knew he would not have any food to eat for some time. Inmates of the solitude room did not warrant dinner.

Hours later, in the damp, frigid darkness, Gabriel curled into a ball, and for the first time since he had arrived at Hanham House, his desperation and fear faded. Suddenly everything became clear.

Nothing mattered.

The questions he had asked so many times needed no answers, because the answers would lead him nowhere. He must look forward, only forward. He must let go of his burning need to understand why, and instead think only of how he might escape.

No…not just escape. That would only be another sort of hell. He must not just escape. He must regain all he had lost.

To do that, he must become the monster they had judged him to be. In the solitude of his cell, he murdered the boy he had been as surely as if he had plunged a dagger in his breast. And from the rotting corpse of that boy rose a new creature, wily and sly, and coldly focused on revenge.

“Who are you?” Dr. Bradley asked, his fingers steepled before his face, his brows lowered in contemplation.

“Geoffrey St. Aubyn,” Gabriel replied, letting no emotion color his lie. To say his true name aloud would only earn him the doctor’s well-intentioned treatments, and he had had enough of those to last him a lifetime.

He had become so adept at lies that he rarely gained any notice at all anymore. All of which made him wary of the reason for this summons by Dr. Bradley, who meted out his attentions only to those patients he deemed in need of reward or punishment. Gut instinct had Gabriel sincerely doubting he was here for reward.

“Did you enjoy your visit with your family, Geoffrey?”

“Very much, thank you.” The words tasted like dust on his tongue. The only thing he enjoyed about their visits was the packet of books they invariably brought. He lived for Sebastian’s letters, and for those books, devoured them, soaking up knowledge. But the visit itself was always a torment, their faces a reminder of all that had been stolen from him.

Earlier today, they had sat there in a small, windowless room—his mother, his father, his treacherous brother, his cousin Madeline—and stared at him across a bare wooden table. They had done this to him, confined him to this place, to hell on earth. They came now, once every few weeks to visit, and always they brought him a plate of raspberry tarts.

“Your mother was saddened that, yet again, you declined to taste the tarts she brought,” Dr. Bradley said, his tone chiding. “Did you mean to cause her distress?”

Yes. I meant to make her tear her hair and beat her breast and truly see what she has done to me. Why, Mother? Why did you leave me in this place, with these people? What wrong did I do to make you hate me so?

“No, I did not mean to cause her distress,” Gabriel replied, attempting to color his tone with contrition. That was the one area he was yet lacking. He had trouble summoning genuine emotions other than hate and rage. He knew he had felt other things at one time, in a different life, when he had been free. But no longer. Now, he watched those around him—the nurses, the doctors, the rare visitor—to try and learn from their actions, and he mimicked them to the best of his ability.

“You caused her pain. You will write to her immediately to apologize.”

“Of course.”

“Why do you not eat the tarts? Your mother goes to some trouble to bring them each time.” Dr. Bradley leaned forward, his gaze intent. Gabriel knew that posture, knew the doctor watched for some sign of madness, waited for it, longed for it. He wanted to find something in Gabriel’s answer that he could pounce on, cat on mouse.

“I have always preferred lemon to raspberry,” Gabriel replied carefully, certain this was a trap, but unable to see exactly how. He made no indication of his anger or frustration, certainly not the fear that flickered in his heart. He did not say that raspberry made his tongue feel numb and thick in his mouth, made him feel that his throat might close entirely and he might die.

“Ah.” Dr. Bradley sat back in his chair, his expression jubilant. “I knew it. The madness has returned. It is Gabriel who prefers lemon, not you, Geoffrey. Never you. Your mother told me it is raspberry you like.” The doctor’s eyes gleamed with a zealot’s fire and it was all Gabriel could do not to leap across the desk and close his hands about the man’s throat and watch his face go blue as he choked.

But he held himself still, kept his expression blank. He must bide his time.

“It is the morbid qualities of your blood, Geoffrey, that create this madness and make you believe you are your brother. But never fear, never fear. Copious bleeding is the answer, the key to your recovery. Tomorrow, we will draw away a full three-fourths of your blood. The disruption to your circulation will be remedied, and your overheated brain will heal.”

Gabriel stared across the desk at Dr. Bradley. He knew his face was a mask. He could feel it, his expression cool as marble, for he had practiced and practiced until he had the game down to perfection.

He had come to Hanham House as a boy of thirteen, and now his seventeenth birthday had come and gone—at least, he thought it had. In that time he had endured things no one ever should, and he knew what the outcome would be if he was forced to endure even one more.

If Dr. Bradley did as he wished, if he strapped Gabriel in the chair again as he had so many times before, fed him a purgative and opened his vein and took the amount of blood he described, Gabriel knew for certain he would die.

Unless Dr. Bradley died first.

There were only the two choices.

As he sat and listened to Dr. Bradley extol the virtues of the relaxation chair and bloodletting and applying caustics to a wound at the back of the neck to keep it open and offer discharge for the overheated brain, Gabriel spoke up, a last effort.

“I will not survive it,” he said, very polite, very cold.

Dr. Bradley stared at him, jaw open, brows raised. “Do you think you know what is best for you? Do you think yourself so knowledgeable in this?” he sputtered. “I will do as I think best, Geoffrey. Do not doubt it. Resist, and it will go badly for you.”

“You will not alter your intent?” Gabriel asked.

“I will not.”

“Then events will unfold as you have steered them.” Gabriel studied Dr. Bradley’s face.

And as Dr. Bradley folded his hands across his round belly and leaned his chair back on two legs, his expression one of bloated self-importance, Gabriel knew he was going to kill this man. In that moment he acknowledged that he had every intention of committing murder. And he thought he might even enjoy it.

He waited for the swell of abhorrence, the conscience that would still his hand. He waited for the certainty that he could not, would not do it, no matter the provocation.

But it did not come. In its place was the certainty that he would.

If it was a choice between Dr. Bradley’s life or his own, he would save his own.

Such was the creature they had made him.

Chapter 15

“You have made exceptional progress, Geoffrey,” Dr. Vincent said, his bushy gray brows rising to blend with the heavy thatch of gray hair that fell over his forehead.

“Thank you,” Gabriel replied, offering no evidence of the repulsion he felt at being addressed by his brother’s name. He had trained himself never to betray emotion, had become quite adept at it, in fact. It was too dangerous here, where even a smile could be read as a sign of an excitable state. In truth, he thought he no longer felt emotion, not the way normal people did.

Hanham House had changed him, molded him, forged a new being from the creature he had been.

He read things in the faces of others and he had vague recollections of understanding their emotions, but he did not feel such things himself. Not anymore. His world was viewed through a haze, a fog. One that both insulated and caged.

“My recovery is a testament to your skill, sir,” he said, blandly.

Dr. Vincent was new, only one year at Hanham House, a replacement for Dr. Bradley, who had tripped late one night and tumbled to his death, his body twisted and broken at the foot of the stairs. None of the inmates of Hanham House had shed a tear at his loss. And none had been blamed for the tragedy. How could they be? After all, they had been locked in their rooms each night, and no one had the key save the doctors and nurses.

And if one young nurse, horribly scarred by smallpox, was smitten with a certain handsome inmate of the house, and if she visited his room on occasion and stayed for some time, creating the perfect opportunity for him to steal her key…well, no one remarked upon it.

Dr. Bradley had not been a well-liked man.

By contrast, Dr. Vincent was. He had brought his own mores and methods with him to Hanham House. No more icy baths. No more restraining chair. Even bloodletting was kept to a minimum. Patients were only restrained if they presented a genuine physical risk to themselves or others.

“You see,” Dr. Vincent said to the small group of gentlemen—visitors who had come from other asylums to study his methods—as they walked together across the vast grounds of Hanham House. The manicured grass was springy beneath their feet. “Intractable though my predecessors deemed him, Geoffrey here is an excellent representation of the efficacy of my treatments. He is proof that dignity and respect are essential parts of the daily regime. Along with fresh air”—he made an encompassing gesture at the surrounding manicured lawns and gardens—“and soothing scenery. We encourage horticultural pursuits here, and attendance at services in the chapel. Our patients are kept busy. Idleness breeds illness, after all. The benefits of activity—both bodily exercise and mental recreation—along with dignity are stressed, gentlemen. Dignity, I say.”

Murmurs followed this statement, and Gabriel only walked quietly by Dr. Vincent’s side, his expression carefully blank, his gait measured.

“Why, just yesterday, Geoffrey’s mother fell upon me after her visit, prostrate with gratitude. She said that in his early years here, Geoffrey barely acknowledged their presence when they came. But now, he shows great interest in his brother, Gabriel, discussing his time at school, his teachers, his friends, hanging on every bit of information. And yesterday he ate a raspberry tart.” He glanced at Gabriel. “For some reason, your mother found that exceptionally encouraging, Geoffrey.”

“They have always been my favorite,” he replied. “It was kind of her to bring them.” His tongue had begun to tingle not ten minutes after he ate the vile thing, and his throat had felt tight enough that he wondered if all his plotting and planning was for naught and he would asphyxiate there on the spot. But finally, the tingling and numbness had abated, and his breath had come freely once more.

The easing of his brother’s ever-vigilant expression had been his reward. He had lulled Geoffrey into trust. It had only taken him the better part of a year.

“So she said. She fondly recalled you gorging yourself on them as a boy. She is immensely encouraged by your progress.” Dr. Vincent clapped him on the back. It was all Gabriel could do not to turn on him with a snarl and tell him to keep his distance, to keep his hands to himself. Instead, he offered a bland smile and said nothing at all and merely strolled in the garden with the flock of black-clad crows beside him.

“Excellent. Excellent. And your brother will visit again next month?”

“So he has said, much to my pleasure,” Gabriel replied, his lips shaping a parody of a smile as he contemplated that visit and the ones that would follow, each a stepping stone on his path to vengeance. “Very much to my pleasure.”

In the months that followed, Geoffrey came often, always solicitous and kind, but when no one watched, his lips would curve in an ugly sneer and his eyes would glitter with malice. Gabriel pretended not see it, not to know what his brother was. A villain. No one would think to look for such a creature, for no one would imagine such a one existed. Certainly, he had not. His own brother had orchestrated his imprisonment at Hanham House and usurped his place at Cairncroft Abbey. For Gabriel was the elder by three minutes, the heir, and Geoffrey had become him now, in manner and name.

Was that the reason for all of this, then? For money and the title? Had Geoffrey switched places with him so he would be the one to inherit all?

How had he summoned such a convoluted plan? When it had been orchestrated they had been little more than children, Geoffrey and Gabriel twelve, Madeline nearly fifteen, and Sebastian a year older than she. Had one of them helped him? He could not fathom it. Madeline, so silly and weepy and wan. Sebastian, away for such lengthy periods of time. Neither seemed a viable choice.

Which left only Geoffrey, alone, to spawn his poisonous plot.

But then, Geoffrey had ever been more cunning and wily. He had been the brilliant one. He had been the one to think up every plot and plan that had landed them in trouble in their childhood.

And always, it had been Gabriel who took the blame. He recollected that now. He had had so many endless days and nights to recollect that.

Still, it made no sense to him. Other than the abbey, which was entailed, there were funds enough for both of them, separately allotted.

Was it greed, a need to possess all, that had driven Geoffrey to this end?

Gabriel had no answers, but he did have a plan. Each time his brother visited he aped his mannerisms and tone and posture, a matter that Geoffrey found amusing. Every few weeks, one of the nurses trimmed the residents’ hair. Gabriel always begged her to cut his just like his brother’s. Geoffrey found that amusing as well, and Dr. Vincent took it as encouraging, saying, “Imitation is a form of flattery. I am gratified to see you holding your brother in such esteem.”

“Hello, Geoffrey,” Geoffrey would say each time he came, and laugh as though delighted to see him. But Gabriel knew the darkness that lurked in his heart, the enjoyment of his predicament, for what was he to do other than call his brother by his name.

“Hello, Gabriel,” he would reply, his tone even. It was a confusing and vicious thing that twisted his thoughts and left him sick with rage. And each time Geoffrey came, Gabriel begged for books. His brother twisted even that into a game for his private amusement, arriving with tomes on agriculture or geography or some other topic he considered dry as dust, believing that he perpetrated a subtle torture in those deeds.

“I suppose you would prefer a novel,” Geoffrey said with a malicious laugh as he handed over two weighty books written in French.

As a boy, Gabriel had preferred tales of adventure to texts and treatises. But he was a different person now. Hanham House had forged a new person out of flame and suffering. This new Gabriel—the one known here as Geoffrey, forged in icy baths and hot irons, isolation and blood and pain—was grateful for any knowledge, any diversion that filled the empty hours and the empty spaces in his mind. In fact, he had come to crave educational texts more than imaginative ones. Dr. Vincent even allowed him to borrow from his own personal library of anatomy and medicine.

“Thank you, Gabriel. You are most kind.” He held his brother’s gaze as he accepted the books, letting him see none of the rage and hate. Only a blank mask. “Will you come again soon?”

Geoffrey leaned close, his eyes narrowed, his expression hawkish. “They’ve done it, haven’t they? They’ve broken you to heel. You believe you’re Geoffrey now? Do you believe it?”

Gabriel held his gaze and forced his brows together, offering a carefully crafted look of puzzlement. “What do you mean? I am Geoffrey.”

Throwing back his head, Geoffrey laughed. “Wonderful. Perfectly wonderful.”

Gabriel stole a knife from the dining room. He had spent a great deal of time on planning exactly how he might accomplish that feat, for to be caught at it would be disastrous. Ironically, in the end, it was pure luck that saw him succeed.

A new inmate—Mr. Winston—came one day, an older man who was genial one moment and rabid the next, then almost childlike as he sang to himself in a language Gabriel did not understand. At supper one evening the new arrival went into a rage, throwing his plate and his cutlery and upending a chair.

“Grab him,” cried Dr. Vincent, who had been passing between the long tables, stopping now and again to greet a patient. The nurses hurried forward.

Gabriel dipped his head and watched as a fork went spinning across the floor between Nurse Little’s feet as she reached to grab hold of Mr. Winston’s arm. He flapped and screamed and landed a hard crack to her jaw. With a cry, she jerked back and the pandemonium continued.

Snapping and biting and thrashing, Mr. Winston evaded all attempts at restraint. Gabriel glanced about to see if any eyes had wandered from the frantic tableau, for at his feet lay Mr. Winston’s knife where it had been tossed, the blade catching the lamplight, singing a siren’s song.

Almost did Gabriel reach down and snatch it up. But at the last moment, he hesitated, certain that any gift came with a price. Again, he glanced about and found that Dr. Vincent’s gaze lit on him, then slid away, watching all the patients lest they, too, become deranged of a sudden.

Deciding against bending forward and reaching for the knife, Gabriel turned his attention to his plate even as he nudged at Mr. Winston’s knife with the tip of his shoe. He pushed it, a little at a time, until it was fully beneath the table. Then he pressed his feet together and slowly, slowly eased his right foot up his left calf, the knife hilt caught between them, slowly rolling higher and higher.

His breath stopped as it almost slipped free. Then he managed to right the handle and slide the thing a little higher, mid-calf. Almost there.

After what felt like a thousand years, he had it to his knee. Reaching down, he closed his fist around the handle and secreted the knife up his left sleeve.

The blade, dull though it was, was essential to his plan.

Because he had a scar, low on his left side, while his brother did not. They were twins. Identical in every respect. For the first six years of his life, his parents had made Geoffrey wear a thick, braided leather band around his left ankle, tied too tightly to ever remove. It was the only way anyone could tell them apart. It would not do for them to have even a single differentiating marker now. Certainly not a scar on one that was absent from the other. Not if his plan was to succeed.

Precisely how long he had been incarcerated at Hanham House, Gabriel could not say. Years. He knew that much, though he could not recall the exact date he had come here. Nor did he know the exact date it was today. His only marker of time were the dates noted at the tops of Sebastian’s letters, and those were often months old by the time they reached him. Too, he had Geoffrey’s visits to mark the passage of time. Otherwise, the sameness of the days blended one into the next.

Then, one day in spring, perhaps April or May, Geoffrey came to Hanham House unexpectedly. Gabriel sat on a bench outdoors near the grotto, a raised circle of stone surrounded by lush vegetation. It was a cloudy day. He preferred such weather to full sun and heat—sunshine always reminded him of the day his mother had left him here, not even bothering to step down from the coach as she consigned him to hell.

He sat now under the charcoal sky, reading a text on medicine that Dr. Vincent had lent him, when he heard the sound of muted conversation drawing ever closer.

Looking up, he saw his brother and Dr. Vincent approaching. Two things struck him immediately. Geoffrey was not expected. And Dr. Vincent had himself acted as guide rather than sending one of the nurses. Neither point boded well.

Whatever news his brother brought, it was not good.

He rose as the two approached, and said, “Brother, how good to see you.”

“And you.” Geoffrey drew closer, his gaze intent. He reached out as though to lay a hand on Gabriel’s arm, and then shot a quick glance at Dr. Vincent. Finally, he dropped his hand to his side once more.

Well played, Gabriel thought. Geoffrey had added just the right touch of fear to his expression. Just enough that he clearly conveyed his concern that the news he brought might unhinge his brother and send him into a dangerous fit.

He had no idea that he had just given Gabriel a gift.

As children, Geoffrey had always won at chess. But in the years since then, Gabriel had become a much more adept player. He could only hope his skill was now such that he could outmaneuver his brother.

“I am afraid I have tragic news,” Geoffrey said. “Dr. Vincent has accompanied me in the event you are overcome and require assistance.”

The breeze stilled, as though the weather itself waited for Geoffrey’s pronouncement.

“Our parents are dead.”

Ah. Oddly, he felt no surprise, almost as though a part of him had anticipated the words.

What to say? Gabriel’s gaze flicked to Dr. Vincent as he searched for the appropriate response, the one that would not mark him as mad.

“How?” he asked, injecting as much volume into the inquiry as he thought practical, hoping it would serve to indicate shock and grief.

“Father fell from his best hunter. Broke his neck. Mother pined for three weeks, and then succumbed to a broken heart.”

Gabriel froze as, to his shock, genuine emotion surged. Rage. Regret. He had been cheated. His opportunity to show them, to make them see who he truly was, to make them acknowledge what they had done. To make them love him…gone. It was gone. They were dead.

He would never have the opportunity to face them.

The sun broke through the clouds at that moment, bathing him in light. He flinched, ducked his head, acutely aware of his brother standing by his side, watching him. And Dr. Vincent, as well. He must play this with care. Everything depended on it now.

Whatever Dr. Vincent saw in his face, it must have satisfied, for he patted Gabriel’s arm, and murmured, “My condolences.”

For a second, Gabriel could not think of the correct rejoinder, so he merely nodded in acknowledgment. It was enough. The tension in Dr. Vincent’s expression eased.

But the tension in Gabriel’s gut only twisted tighter. With his parents dead, his brother was his legal guardian. Geoffrey, who masqueraded as Gabriel, as him, was now his legal guardian. Without Geoffrey’s agreement, Gabriel could never leave Hanham House. Never. Not by walking free. No. All his planning and plotting…it must be today. His chance. His one chance. He knew with complete certainty he would never have another.

After today, his brother would not return.

He had come to deliver this news in person only to glean some sort of vile satisfaction in watching as he tossed the last shovelful of dirt to bury Gabriel alive.

Gabriel kept his breaths slow and even, though his heart raced and his thoughts whirled. He was not ready. He had not expected that today would be the day.

“Will you walk with me, brother?” Gabriel asked, turning to Geoffrey, offering no glimpse of his true thoughts in either tone or manner. “Will you tell me of their last days. Happy things, if you please.”

Geoffrey shot a glance at Dr. Vincent. He could not easily decline such a pretty request. “Of course,” he replied.

With a few more murmured words of condolence, Dr. Vincent took his leave.

Gabriel thought of his bedroom and the loose board beneath his bed and the knife he had hidden there in preparation for this day. All for naught. He could not go there and retrieve it with none the wiser. Geoffrey would leave and his opportunity would be lost.

He would need to find another way.

“How sad that you never got to say good-bye,” Geoffrey said, his look sly and dark.

“Yes,” Gabriel agreed, and searched for a question, any question that might do to fill the silence and hold Geoffrey here a little longer. “How is Madeline?” he asked, though he could not have cared less for the answer.

Geoffrey laughed. “Devastated.”

His answer was so short and succinct that for a moment, Gabriel wondered if he recognized the ploy. And then he realized he had asked the wrong question. He must ask about Geoffrey; there was no topic his brother enjoyed more than a dialogue about himself. And so he posed question after question, about Geoffrey’s friends and his time in London and the gambling hells he frequented, using the opportunity to divert and delay, while at the same time prying out the last bits of knowledge he could.

They walked side by side, separated by a span of two or three feet, separated by an immeasurable volume of knowledge and trickery.

Along the way, Gabriel found a stick, long and thick, the end rather dull. He lifted it and offered it to Geoffrey, who regarded him quizzically for a moment and then took it. And they walked on.

Moments later, he found a second stick, far more suited to his needs. This one, he kept for himself. They walked, Geoffrey talking, Gabriel listening, memorizing every word, their sticks touching the ground with each step.

“Just like when we were children.” Geoffrey laughed.

“Yes. Just like when we were children.” Except today, I will not be the one left stabbed and bleeding. Today will have a different end. “We were so happy then, so imaginative in our…games.”

Geoffrey stopped and turned to him, his brow furrowed. “Can it be that you do not remember? That you recall nothing of that day…”

“I recall many happy days,” Gabriel replied. “Which day do you speak of?”

“Only happy days?” Geoffrey asked, clearly perplexed. “What an odd thing. They have truly cured you here”—he turned and kept walking—“or truly driven you mad,” he finished under his breath.

Gabriel pretended not to hear, only measured his steps to his brother’s, waiting. Waiting.

At length, they reached a lovely garden far into the estate, surrounded on all sides by a tall hedge of dogwood. It was an isolated place, one Gabriel had steered them to with care, allowing his brother to think he chose their way, then subtly guiding him.

“What is the date today?” Gabriel asked, falling back behind his brother, dragging the stick he carried hard against a large boulder that had a series of small bushes with tiny white flowers circling its base.

“The fifteenth of March,” Geoffrey replied, tossing his own stick aside and kicking impatiently at a clod of dirt. He was bored. Ready to leave.

A moment more. Just a moment. Gabriel dragged the tip of the stick back again along the boulder, and again, faster.

“Must you do that?” Geoffrey snapped.

“Only March?” Gabriel asked, ignoring his brother’s show of temper. He made a disbelieving laugh, stunned in truth. “I had thought it May already.” Then he paused and wondered at the irony. “The fifteenth, you say? The ides of March,” he murmured.

“What did you say?” Geoffrey turned to him, and his eyes widened, his hands raised in defense as Gabriel moved.

Gabriel closed his hands about his brother’s throat. With his thumbs, he pressed hard on either side of his windpipe. Geoffrey’s fingers clawed his wrists, and he tugged and pulled, but to no avail. For Geoffrey lived the soft life of a dissolute heir, while Gabriel spent his endless hours of solitude pulling his weight up with his fingers curled around the lip of his door frame or doing push-ups, shadow boxing or running in place, anything to stave off desperation and madness.

Thumbs digging in hard, Gabriel waited, and after a time—seconds? Minutes?—Geoffrey’s eyes rolled back in his head until the whites showed and his lids flickered, and then he slumped, his breath lost, his body dropping like a stone.

Not dead. That was never Gabriel’s plan. He had no intention of killing him. Death was too easy. To go sweetly into that eternal slumber was not what he wished for his brother. No. He would not be his brother’s murderer, would not add that dark deed to any others he had gathered. He only wanted turnabout. Fair play.

As he stared at his brother’s slumped form, he offered silent thanks to Dr. Vincent and the many books he had shared. Texts on anatomy and medicine and philosophy. They had all played a role in the formulation of his plan.

Geoffrey’s lids fluttered, and Gabriel knelt at his side.

There was little time.

Deftly, he stripped his brother bare, no mean feat given that every so often he moaned and thrashed and fought against Gabriel’s grasp. Each time Geoffrey began to rouse, Gabriel pressed on the arteries in his throat once more until he mumbled and became disoriented, his lids fluttering down. And if he did not precisely fall unconscious each time, he became pliant enough for Gabriel to do what he must.

Gabriel shucked his own clothing and made quick work of redressing himself and then his brother in their exchanged wardrobe.

He was breathing heavily, his heart pounding, his palms slick with sweat. He had dreamed this moment so many times, planned it in all its minutiae. But now that it was here, nothing was going precisely according to his plan; he had to improvise and alter his course every step of the way.

“What? What?” Geoffrey moaned, and Gabriel pressed at his throat once more, hoping against hope that it was not one time too many, that his brother would not die of this.

He so desperately wanted him to live.

Closing his hand around a small rock, he threaded the fingers of his other hand through his brother’s hair, yanked his head up, and used the stone to rub hard at the back of his neck. Hard enough to open a wound in the place of the scar on the back of his own, a reminder of the wound Dr. Bradley had made there, then kept open with caustics for weeks on end. To let his brain breathe, Dr. Bradley had said. Well, if it was true, then Geoffrey’s brain was breathing quite nicely now.

He positioned the rock beneath his brother’s head and quickly smeared the blood to mask the marks of his fingers. He hoped it would appear that Geoffrey had opened the wound when he fell.

There was nothing Gabriel could do to mimic the marks on his forearms, the ones they had made when they bled him, the terrible scars that grew one on the next. Geoffrey had two very faint ones on his right arm, the remnants of being bled when a fever had taken him as a child. Gabriel prayed they would suffice should anyone care to search for them, for in no way did they match the extent and number of his own. But he had no way to change that, and so he wasted no further thought on it.

Time was ticking away. He could hear the clock in his mind. Faster. He must work faster.

Geoffrey moaned and turned his head, becoming more lucid by the second.

Scrabbling on his hands and knees, Gabriel snatched the stick he’d found earlier. The end had been pointed to start with, all the more so now that he’d dragged it across the stone.

It was the matter of his scar, the damned scar his brother had marked him with. He would not be believed if that scar was missing on his brother.

Pushing to his feet, he took an instant to feel for the top of Geoffrey’s hipbone. It offered him a point of reference and he slid off it four finger’s-widths up. Then he slapped his palm across his brother’s mouth, both holding him down and muffling the scream he knew would come.

He brought the point of the stick down with a quick, brutal thrust, piercing cloth and skin.

Geoffrey arched and twitched, rousing completely now from his stuporous state, reacting to the pain and shock of his wound.

The wood stuck up toward the sky, vibrating.

“Welcome to hell,” Gabriel whispered. He grabbed Geoffrey’s hands and pressed them to the stick, close to the wound, enough to cover them in blood. “Do not pull it out. You will die.”

With that warning, he bounded to his feet and ran full tilt for the house, screaming for help.

“My brother,” he cried at the top of his lungs, gasping for breath between words. “Help. I need help.”

They came rushing from the house. Nurse Little, Nurse Bates, Nurse Holby, and a half dozen others, and there, Dr. Vincent and Dr. Spade.

“In that direction.” Gabriel waved toward the garden where he had left Geoffrey bleeding on the grass. He bent forward, resting his hand on his thigh, gasping and heaving, forcing the words out between breaths. “Our parents’ deaths…too much for him…tried to…kill…himself.”

“Dear God,” Dr. Vincent gasped. “I was afraid of such a thing.”

And then they were running toward the distant garden.

Gabriel silently gave thanks for Dr. Vincent’s obsession with healthful exercise as a means of recovery, and his own efforts in that regard, as well. Used to a variety of physical exercises that were part of his prescribed regime, he was not nearly so breathless as he appeared.

He followed them at a slower pace, playing his part, the distraught brother hovering and waving his hands helplessly.

Geoffrey was on his side when they came upon him, both hands grasped tight about the stick, his whole body trembling.

“Now then, Geoffrey. Now then, what have you done to yourself?” Dr. Vincent asked, falling to his knees on the ground.

Gabriel had a momentary shock to see the doctor’s face then, white and drawn with dismay. Dr. Vincent actually cared about him, he realized then. It came at him like a blow, taking his breath. A good thing, because at exactly that moment, Geoffrey rolled and cried, “I am Gabriel. He is Geoffrey. Do you not see it?”

All eyes turned to him then, and whatever they saw in his face must have convinced them of the lie. He thought perhaps there was shock and horror there, a momentary tearing away of his carefully cultivated mask. Enough to convince them that he was his brother and his brother was he.

“He does not know his own name,” Nurse Little said sadly as Dr. Vincent caught Geoffrey’s hands and hauled them away from the stick that yet protruded from his belly.

“What have you done? What have you done, Geoffrey?” Dr. Vincent said softly, shaking his head.

Geoffrey let out a strangled cry. “I am Gabriel. Gabriel.” His voice grew shrill. He rolled on the grass, flecks of spittle flying from his lips as he cried the name again and again. Then his gaze locked on Gabriel and he snarled, “You have done this to me, you sodding bastard. You!”

“Hold him!” Dr. Vincent cried, and others came forward, reaching, confining. “He’ll injure himself. Mind your hands lest he bite.”

Gabriel stepped back as a nurse came with a canvas stretcher. Snarling and thrashing, then crying out in pain, Geoffrey fought them. But they held him. Strong hands. Implacable minds. And he was weak with loss of blood and pain. They held him as they had held Gabriel that long-ago day.

He felt neither pity nor remorse.

“Take him inside,” Dr. Vincent ordered. “Steady, Geoffrey. Steady now.”

They hurried into the house, Goeffrey’s enraged howls following him like a tail. Gabriel came close behind, wringing his hands as he recalled his mother used to do in times of distress. A perfect touch, he thought.

As they passed indoors, he drew close to the stretcher and said, “Do not die, brother. There is so much that awaits you here. You must live to experience it fully. You must.”

Dr. Vincent clapped him on the shoulder and muttered reassuring words. “He is not bleeding so very much. We must hope he did not puncture any viscera. My preliminary examination suggests he stabbed muscle and skin, but not colon. A good thing, that.”

Then one of the nurses patted Gabriel on the forearm, and he let her, though inside, he recoiled at the touch. She murmured words of encouragement and hope, and led him to a small parlor at the front of the house, one he knew was reserved for visitors who were considering damning their relatives to this place. She promised to return once they knew something of Geoffrey’s condition.

He did not want to wait. He wanted to fling open the doors and run as fast and as far as he could. But he only thanked her, his mask firmly in place, revealing none of the nervous energy that coursed through his veins. Only an hour more, perhaps two. He must only wait for the news that Geoffrey would live. And then he would be away. He would be free. It would not do for him to flee through the doors now, with his brother injured. They would think it odd. He was certain of that.

Instead, he paced, and after a time, peered through the open door to determine who was about. There was no one in the passage and so he hurried from the room and took the stairs and corridors on a path familiar and known. He went to his bedroom and collected Sebastian’s letters. He had saved them all these years. They had been his link to sanity for a very long while, and he would not leave them here. Could not leave them here.

Then he returned to the room at the front of the house. Pulling aside the curtains, he looked out at the gathering clouds, charcoal edged and heavy. Sunlight had marked the day he came here; clouds marked the day he would leave. Beautiful, heavy gray clouds.

Less than an hour later, Dr. Vincent came to him, his hair standing on end, lines bracketing either side of his mouth.

“I am terribly sorry to say your brother has relapsed in a most horrific way. The news of your parents’ deaths has driven him beyond his ability to bear. The circulation to his brain is clearly disrupted. He will need extensive treatment.” He drew a deep breath and squared his shoulders as though in preparation for the task ahead.

“But he is alive,” Gabriel said.

“Yes. Yes. The wound was not so serious as it appeared. Not very deep. I suspect it was the presence of previous scar tissue there that slowed his thrust. I have every confidence that he will recover. Physically, that is.”

“I cannot tell you how pleased I am to hear it,” Gabriel said. “May I see him?”

“Of course. Of course. I will take you there now. But…” Dr. Vincent’s voice trailed away.

“Go on,” Gabriel urged.

“But I think perhaps it might be best if you not visit him for a time. Until his state is more balanced. You understand?”

“I do.” I had not intended to visit him, ever. “Only let me see him for a moment now.”

They made their way to a small room with a narrow wooden table. Geoffrey lay upon it, a white bandage stretched around his torso. He was mumbling to himself, his eyes hazy and unfocused. Gabriel had no doubt they had fed him opium. For the pain, or perhaps to make him docile.

He glanced at Dr. Vincent and then stepped closer, leaning down so his lips were directly beside his brother’s ear. “Have no fear, Geoffrey. I vow on my life that I will do everything for you, exactly as you would do, and have always done, for me.”

The he covered his face as though overcome by emotion and backed from the room to the sound of Geoffrey’s screams.

He arrived at Cairncroft Abbey, a stranger in his own home. He knew things from Geoffrey’s endless talk. The cook was Mrs. Corkle, a new arrival. The housekeeper was Mrs. Bell, who had been at Cairncroft all those years ago. Geoffrey had clearly found it amusing that she despised both him and Madeline, and favored Sebastian, who visited on any occasion he was on English soil. Gabriel was glad of the housekeeper’s sentiment. It would make his own distance and reserve less noticeable.

The rest would come eventually. The basics of agriculture and accounting and the business of running an estate, Gabriel felt relatively confident of, for he had gleaned knowledge by reading the books Geoffrey had brought to him over the years. His brother had meant those boring tomes as a cruel joke. Gabriel felt certain he had never dreamed they would be welcomed.

As he stood on the drive looking up at the darkened windows, the door flew open and his cousin Madeline came tearing down the stairs, her blond hair tumbling in loose ringlets, her blue eyes sparkling. In that moment, she was pretty. He had never thought her so before, but as she looked at him, her face alight as though he was the sun and moon, he was struck by the realization that she adored him.

No. Not him. Geoffrey.

She adored the imposter who had stood in his shoes these many years. How many? He could not say. He thought he might be nineteen or twenty years old, but he was not certain.

Madeline came to him now and put her hands in his, and held them as she said, “Gabriel, welcome home.”

She stared into his face, tipped her head to the side, and slowly her smile faded. The breeze ruffled her hair.

“Gabriel?”

“Yes, cousin. I have come home.”

Her brow creased. Then she gasped and fell back a step, tearing her hands from his grasp to press them against her breast.

“Gabriel?” she whispered again.

“Yes,” he said, suddenly certain that she knew. He was not the cousin who had lived here with her all these years. He was not the man she had expected to greet here on the drive beneath the blanket of cloud.

“Glad to see me, cousin?” he asked.

She was panting now, quick shallow breaths, and her face was chalk white.

“Did you kill him?” she whispered.

No, I only buried him alive in the very grave he dug for me. “Shall we go indoors?” he asked and offered his arm.

Madeline’s eyes narrowed and her jaw tightened. He could read her expression as nothing other than hate. With a cry, she whirled and ran, up the steps, through the door, her cries trailing behind.

“Well, there’s a homecoming,” he said, and smiled. He was free. At last, he was free.

Part Four

Chapter 16

Cairncroft Abbey, England, April 1828

Catherine sat in the middle of Gabriel’s massive bed, her arms wrapped around her bent knees. She wore only Gabriel’s shirt, for warmth. He lay on his side, facing her, his fingers curled possessively about her ankle, his words hovering, ghostly, between them though his story was done.

He had not told her everything. She knew that with certainty. At times, he had paused in the telling and stared at her, seeming to look far into the distance. Perhaps into the past.

“This is more than I have ever told another living soul,” he said, and the look he gave her was indecipherable, cool and remote, completely at odds with the baring of his soul and the secrets he had entrusted to her.

But perhaps that was the point. Perhaps he feared her reaction and held himself remote. Protected.

She would do the same.

“I know.” She did. He was not a man to bestow his trust easily. Yet he bestowed an enormous measure of it on her.

“Do you think me a monster? A madman?” He stroked his fingers up her calf and down again, then closed them about her ankle once more. “A murderer?” he continued.

She thought he waited for her to flinch away, to cringe in disgust or horror.

“Are you?” she asked.

“To the former, I would say ‘perhaps.’ To the latter”—he shifted, dropped his gaze—“I should think you would like to hear me say ‘no.’”

He kept himself still, utterly motionless, and she chose her words with care. “Am I to understand that you neither deny nor accept the appellations of madman and monster, but hesitate to refute”—she chewed her lower lip, faltering, and finally finished on a whisper—“hesitate to deny the last?”

His lashes lowered, lifted, his amber gaze pinning her, and his fingers tightened around her ankle as though he wanted to hold her there in his bed regardless of her possible reaction to his coming revelation. Foolish man. She would not flee no matter what he said. His crimes could be no worse than her own.

“Dr. Bradley meant to do it. To drain away my blood nearly unto death. There was no reasoning with him, though I tried. I meant to simply twist his neck and kill him”—another look through his lashes, measuring her expression. She only watched him and waited, certain that if she betrayed any emotion at all, it would not be she who fled this bed, but he—“But in the end, I tried reason instead. But Bradley would not be reasoned with. He pulled his whistle to his lips, the dreadful whistle that would summon the nurses and other doctors, and I stepped forward. To intimidate? Certainly. To push him? I believe so. But I shall never know with certainty. He backed away and tumbled to his death all of his own volition.”

He shrugged then, a lazy roll of muscle under smooth skin. “I could not bear the death he planned for me, strapped in that chair with the wooden box over my head, and the knives slicing me until I bled and bled and closed my eyes and floated away with no fight whatsoever.” He made a soft, mocking laugh. “I went to Hanham House like a lamb to the slaughter. I refused to die the same way.”

“Yes,” she said, and reached down to close her fingers around his where they yet curved about her ankle, holding him where he held her.

His gaze jerked up, glittering and bare.

And then he was on her, a surge of power and grace, tumbling her back in the sheets so he was pressed against her, hot skin and hard muscle. Thigh to thigh, tousled golden hair falling forward to brush her cheeks as he pressed his mouth to hers.

His fingers slid into her hair, holding her, cradling her, his body a solid weight against her, his mouth seeking, hungry.

Sinew and muscle and hot skin. She let her hands roam down his wide back to the firm swell of his buttocks, and she opened to him, kissed him as fiercely as he kissed her. Taking. Giving. A melding of tongues and breath and soft, desperate sounds of need.

He took her roughly, plunging deep inside her, and there was pleasure in that, bone-deep, soul-searing pleasure that made her moan and writhe. He kissed her neck and closed his teeth on her, then closed his lips on hers, stealing her breath, her thoughts, her heart.

There was a wildness in this, a primitive dominion, and with his hands on her buttocks and hers on his, she climaxed with brutal suddenness, and he was there with her, crying out as she cried out, harsh masculine sounds that only pushed her higher. The world dropped away, and she was left breathless and shaking, held together only by his arms about her and his lips against her ear, whispering her name like a prayer.

The following night, they supped with Sebastian, and even Madeline came to the dining room, though she mostly sat silent, poking at her meal, watching both her cousins with wide, wary eyes.

She was put out with Catherine.

“You left me alone for so long,” she had complained when Catherine had returned to her late in the afternoon. Then she had looked at Catherine suspiciously. “Where were you all day yesterday and today?”

“I went to fetch my book and…became distracted,” Catherine had replied, her words in no way easing Madeline’s petulant mood.

“I was forced to ring for a maid. And she did not read to me. When I asked for you, she said you were with my cousin, that he said you were not to be disturbed.” Madeline had lifted a book and flung it across the room. “You are not to go to him again! You are not!”

She crossed her arms on her chest and thrust out her lip and spent the next three hours staring sullenly at the wall.

But when a maid had come to request their presence at supper with both Gabriel and Sebastian, Madeline had shocked Catherine by agreeing to join them.

So here they were, the four of them seated at the large dining room table, Madeline silent and pale, Sebastian gregarious and chatty.

And Gabriel. He said little, only watched Catherine with eyes hot and dark, and she felt his heated look like a caress. She tried to keep her own gaze on her plate, fearing that if she looked at him, she would betray herself with a blatantly adoring gaze that would scream to him and anyone else that she was well and truly smitten with him.

Heaven help her.

“Do not tell me he had you read Frankenstein.” Sebastian laughed as she raised the topic of the novel Gabriel had lent her. “That book is a monster in itself, a patched together panoply of letters and journals and notes. It is reminiscent of those nesting lacquered boxes I brought home for you from China”—he turned to Madeline, who picked at her meal with listless interest, her eyes dull, dark shadows in the hollows beneath them—“You remember, Madeline, the smaller inside the larger?”

“Yes,” Madeline whispered, but said nothing more.

Sebastian ignored her lack of enthusiasm and turned back to Gabriel and Catherine as he continued. “You see the similarity. There is Victor’s story neatly put inside Walton’s letters, and the monster’s story inside Victor’s.” He laughed. “What a dizzying, stitched-together thing it is. Truths inside truths, and lies inside truths. And”—he laughed again—“you see what I mean.”

Lies inside truths. From beneath her lashes, Catherine cut a sidelong glance at Gabriel. He watched her, amber-gold eyes reflecting the candlelight.

She wondered what lies he hid inside the truths he told her. What truths he hid with lies. And if it even mattered. He had shared so much of himself with her, yet she wondered if there was still more. She was a master at this game, her skills honed at the edge of a blade held to her throat.

Would she ever know the whole of his story, would she understand all that had made him a master, as well?

He had shared so much with her, and yet she sensed there was so much she did not know.

You have a lifetime to come to know him. The thought shocked and frightened her. There had been no discussion of lifetimes. Only a span of a day and a night, a handful of stolen moments.

“And you, Gabriel? What holds such fascination for you in that book?”

He smiled, a feral baring of teeth, and when he answered, his gaze slid away to light on Madeline, before returning to Catherine.

“The monster escapes,” he said blandly.

Madeline’s fork clattered against her plate.

Yes, of course, there was that. The monster escaped. No wonder he enjoyed the story. She wanted to go to him and wrap him in her arms and tell him he was not the monster, but he would not welcome such action. This was neither the time nor the place.

Across from her, Madeline shuddered, but said nothing. Silence shrouded them, the only sound the clock ticking on the mantel.

“You have been to China?” Catherine asked brightly after some moments, turning her attention back to Sebastian as the turbot in lobster sauce was served.

“There, and many other places. I traveled with my guardian from the time I was a lad often. It was a most unusual education. I used to write of all the wonderful things I saw. Do you recall, Gabriel? One letter for you and one for—” He stopped abruptly and coughed, then lifted his glass and took a sip of wine.

Catherine waited, but he said nothing more, and Gabriel uncharacteristically stepped into the breach. “I recall those letters, Sebastian. They were my…window to a world I was not part of.”

She noted the hesitation, and knew its cause. But did Sebastian? Did Madeline?

Secrets wrapped in secrets.

What must Gabriel’s life have been like, trapped, a prisoner cut off from the world with only his cousin’s letters providing a glimpse of freedom?

She understood what it meant to be trapped, but her own incarceration had not even included letters. Only a barred window and a man who did as he willed with her.

The fragrance of the meal painted the air, aromatic and lush, but the memories tainted her appetite.

Madeline sat with her hands below the table, staring at the plate before her.

“Madeline, the turbot is lovely. Try it,” Catherine coaxed, forcing herself to sample a bit from her own plate.

With her lower lips caught between her teeth, Madeline only looked at her and shook her head. Aware of the two men watching them in puzzled silence, Catherine heaved a sigh. Almost did she exchange her plate for Madeline’s, just to prove the safety of the food, the absence of poison. But that would not suffice. Madeline would still cry poison and still refuse to eat.

She had had quite enough. Her patience was at an end.

Shooting Gabriel a look, daring him to say a single thing, she rose and took Madeline’s plate, switching it for his and his for Madeline’s.

Everyone stared at her, stunned and appalled, and she did not care a whit.

“Now, eat,” she said, and sat and sampled her meal once more as though it was the most natural thing in the world to shuffle plates in the middle of supper.

“What—” Sebastian asked.

“Do not ask,” she interrupted, her tone forbidding him to say another word.

An odd choked sound came from the head of the table, but when she turned to him, she found Gabriel’s face was composed and cool. Except…the corners of his mouth quirked ever so slightly.

Catching her gaze, he raised his brows and said, “It will make no difference.”

Catherine narrowed her eyes at him, willing him to be silent.

“You have traveled extensively, Sebastian,” she said brightly. “But the first day I met you…you said Cairncroft always calls you home.”

The tines of Madeline’s fork scraped on her plate, and Catherine glanced at her to see that she stared at Sebastian with a twisted, pained expression.

“It does call to me,” Sebastian said, exchanging a look with Gabriel.

There was an odd current in the air now, an expectancy, a humming tension.

“Sebastian is my heir.” Gabriel said the words negligently, as though the matter was of little import. But of course, it was.

Sharp claws of dismay gouged her as his words penetrated on a level he could not have intended, a reminder of exactly why what they had shared could never be more than an interlude.

His heir.

Gabriel would need an heir, a son. Not his cousin. Gabriel would marry. He would have a wife and child, perhaps more than one. Burning agony twisted a knot in her heart. What had she imagined? That she would live here at Cairncroft indefinitely, taking care of Madeline by day, making love with Gabriel at night?

The absurdity of that sliced her with a jagged blade.

Her place here was temporary, as was her place in his life. How had she allowed herself to imagine otherwise, even for a moment?

Gabriel watched her, and she thought there was a trace of concern in his gaze. It was impossible to know with him. He gave so little away. He opened his mouth as though to speak, when a commotion came from the hallway and Mrs. Bell burst into the dining room, her hair wild about her face, her eyes red-rimmed, her face pale as alabaster.

Both Gabriel and Sebastian came to their feet, Sebastian’s expression wary, Gabriel’s icy.

“They found her. Two boys from the village skulking where they had no business being. They found her.” Mrs. Bell breathed heavily, her open palm pressed to her chest, her shoulders heaving. “Susan Parker. They found her.”

Time stretched like taffy pulled from a pot.

“She is dead. Murdered,” Mrs. Bell whispered.

Horror congealed in Catherine’s throat, making her feel as though she would retch and gag. Susan Parker. Dead. Murdered. How?

It was only when Mrs. Bell turned her face toward her that Catherine realized she had asked the question aloud.

“Her throat was slit”—the housekeeper’s voice broke on the last word and she made a visible effort to rein in her emotion before she continued—“just like…that other girl, so many years ago.” The words were horrific but there was something else. Something in Mrs. Bell’s tone snared Catherine’s interest. The hesitation in her words. Almost as though she had been about to say something other than what she had.

“Only this was worse,” Mrs. Bell continued. “Ever so much worse. Her head was hacked clean off. Her head…” She sank down to her knees with a moan, her eyes rolling back, her limbs trembling.

Sebastian went to her and squatted down by her side, taking her hand in his and murmuring words of comfort, but Gabriel stood frozen, a statue of ice gilded by firelight. His expression was so hard and cold that Catherine thought even the slightest tap would shatter him.

“It is like before. Exactly like before. She had been cut open and her…they’re…missing…parts of her…” Mrs. Bell’s voice faded away.

Missing parts of her…

Catherine stiffened, her skin prickling, the hairs at the nape rising. Martha.

“You were in London.” Madeline hurled the words at Gabriel like knives, then she turned her gaze on Sebastian. “And you. And now you are both here and Susan is dead. Dead.”

All eyes turned to her, the air crackling.

Then Madeline rose with the grace of a queen, twitching her skirt to the side as she passed Sebastian, as though she would not suffer the cloth to touch him.

“A moment, if you please.” Gabriel’s voice halted her, and she looked back over her shoulder. His gaze never left Madeline’s face as he continued. “Why do you mention London, Madeline? What is the relevance?”

For an endless moment, Madeline made no reply. Then she whispered, “You know. The murdered woman in the newspaper. Killed, as Susan was killed. As the girl buried in the graveyard was killed.” She turned her face to Catherine, eyes shimmering, features twisted in a mask of despair. Her voice rose. “Explain it, Sebastian. Explain it, if you can.” Turning, she fled.

The air rang with her accusation, with all she had said and all she had not.

And Mrs. Bell huddled on the floor shaking her head from side to side, moaning as she buried her face in her hands.

Catherine stood by the window in Madeline’s chamber and stared out, the stars winking in the velvet sky, the outline of the encroaching woods dark and formidable in the distance. Gabriel and Sebastian had gone from Cairncroft. Though they had not shared their destination with her, she suspected they went to the place that Susan Parker had been found. Mrs. Bell said it was a shallow grave dug in the same place that the body of that nameless girl had been discovered so many years ago.

An eerie and chilling happenstance; Catherine had long ago learned not to trust such coincidence. It was as though the killer meant for Susan to be discovered, meant to leave her body as a horrific clue in some macabre scavenger hunt. She shivered now to think of it.

When she had said as much to Gabriel, catching his arm as he walked past her, feeling an urgency to tell him her thoughts, he had stared at her for a long moment.

“Or perhaps he never meant to be discovered,” he had replied. “The grave is not along a road or well-worn path, but instead deep in the woods. Perhaps he only meant her to be in a place he found familiar, one he could visit again and again.”

Catherine had felt en inexplicable horror clutch at her. “Why would he visit her again and again? Why?”

But Gabriel had offered no reply. His expression shuttered, he had glanced at Sebastian, the current between the two cousins crackling in the cool evening air as something Catherine could not grasp passed between them. There was something dark and terrifying in Gabriel’s eyes, something awful and knowing.

Could he suspect his cousin of these horrific crimes? Could he?

She had not been afforded the opportunity to ask. He had reached out and grazed the backs of his knuckles along her cheek, his gaze intent, his jaw hard, and then he and Sebastian were away, riding into the night. But in the wake of Madeline’s accusatory words, Catherine could not help but recall her strange thoughts that first day Sebastian had come to Cairncroft, her ponderings about whether or not he had been in London when Martha Grimsby was killed. Nor could she discount his self-avowed fascination with the canopic jars and the removal of organs in preparation for burial.

Madeline had certainly made her suspicions clear. She thought one—or perhaps both—of her cousins was involved in these monstrous deeds. Was Catherine a fool to discount the possibility?

The thoughts that came to her now were horrific. Chilling.

Closing her fingers in the thick cloth of the draperies, she drew them across the window and turned to Madeline to help her prepare for bed. She wondered how either of them would be able to sleep this night.

“Why did he take Susan?” Madeline asked, forlorn. “I preferred her to any other. Surely he knew that. She had soft hands. Susan had soft hands.” She wrung her own hands together, and sighed and moaned, sinking down on the edge of a chair.

Catherine went to her and stroked her hair, her own sadness welling in her heart.

“I knew she was gone,” Madeline said, looking up at Catherine. “But I did not want to believe it. Why would he take her, of all those he could choose? Why did he not take another? I do not like it that he took Susan.”

Catherine had no idea how to reply. She did not like it that he took anyone.

She shook her head, faintly repulsed by Madeline’s behavior. Then she reminded herself that her friend was not well, that she likely had no idea what she said. Clearly she was overset by the maid’s death. She vaguely recalled that Madeline had mentioned Susan before, had expressed a preference for her, perhaps even a fondness.

There was the explanation, then. It was shock and grief that had Madeline rambling so.

“Open the drapes. I must see the sky,” Madeline said after Catherine had helped her change into the nightrail and brushed her hair and tucked her into bed.

Moving to the window, she did as Madeline asked.

“Stay until I fall asleep,” Madeline pleaded, childlike and small.

“Yes, of course. Close your eyes now, and sleep,” Catherine replied, wondering if any of them would sleep this night, or if vivid images of blood and murder would haunt their rest. “Would you like laudanum?” she asked, thinking to fetch it from her chamber.

“No. Not tonight. It makes me afraid. I feel as though I am floating away from my body and may never return.” Madeline shuddered.

Catherine only nodded and turned back to the window, staring out at the dark, endless night, wondering where Gabriel was, and what horrors he would find.

Standing at the edge of the woods with the overhead branches blocking the moonlight and the blackest shadows swallowing his form, he stared up at Madeline’s window. Flickering light silhouetted a woman behind the glass panes, the pale oval of her face framed by the spill of her dark hair.

He had not expected to see her there, so clear that as he stretched out his hand, his blade showing silver even in the darkness of the forest, he almost imagined the tip would just touch her.

Yet there she was. Catherine. She made him think of the night sky and the moon.

She made him think of blood and pain. Long for them.

He had not planned to take the maid. That he had done so without forethought was unusual. Normally, he chose his dance partners with care. But there she had stood, alone on the road, innocent and impossibly young, squinting against the sun. The lure had been too much to resist. But the maid had been a mere morsel, a taste.

Catherine would be a banquet. He felt certain of that. She had killed a man. Burned him to a charred lump. So the gossipmongers said, and though he often placed little weight in rumors, this once, he thought they might be true.

What had she felt when she killed him? What had she thought? What would she think when she realized he was here for her? A killer come to claim a killer.

Boxes within boxes, like the ones Madeline had stacked and unstacked as a child.

He had everything ready. The jars. The perfect white feather. He had taken such care choosing the right one for her. He wanted not a spot of color or dirt to mar its perfection. Catherine would be a masterpiece. He would stroke her and pluck the strings of her torment, make music of her muffled cries and pleas.

Ever since he had first learned of the scales and the feather and the belief in another life, one that came after death, he had known what he was meant to be. The judge. The executioner. He had been so young, then. So naïve.

But he had practiced and he had learned. He was so much more adept now.

The first time he had acted, there had been comfort and a soft voice talking to him afterward, promising him he had made the right choice. He had only to trust in her. To do as she bid, and he would become stronger. Braver. Her guidance would help him find joy.

And it did. Oh, it did.

He took those who caught his eye, and he controlled them. For those endless perfect moments, he controlled his precious chosen one, controlled her breath, her sobs, her life, her death.

He was the master. All powerful.

For those moments he owned his chosen partner. As he would soon own Catherine Weston.

Tipping his head back, he watched the window. Watched her pull the pins from her hair, shake her head, and let the loose curls tumble free. Watched as she ran her fingers through the lustrous length.

Soon. Soon, he would take those strands in his fist and yank her hair back and she would taste his kiss. The only kiss he would offer: honed steel on soft flesh.

Her blood blooming like a rose.

She smelled of roses. She would bloom in death, for him, at his will and command.

He had been forced to wait, to show patience. Patience. He was not good at that. Not after all the years of forced patience. But the time was near now. He could feel the anticipation racing through his veins, making his skin tingle and his muscles clench.

A soft huff of laughter escaped him.

He was more than ready for her. More than ready.

Chapter 17

Catherine slept and dreamed of fire, always fire, dancing and writhing, the heat coming upon her like a blow, filling her nose and throat. She was woken by the pounding of her own heart. At least, she assumed that was what had done it, for the house around her was silent. She did not even hear birds beyond the window, though the first fingers of dawn crept through the narrow crack between the curtains.

Sitting up in her bed, she tried to clear the cobwebs from her thoughts, and for a moment, could not recall what day it was or the reason for the unease that nibbled at her with sharp rat teeth. In the end, the fog cleared and she knew exactly the cause, harsh memories rubbing her like lye soap.

A girl was dead. No, not just one. At least three that she knew of—Martha and Susan and the nameless girl buried in the graveyard—and perhaps even more. She felt certain there were more, though she had no proof. But what was the common thread that tied the victims together?

Susan Parker and the nameless girl buried in the graveyard were connected to Cairncroft. But what of Martha? She had no link to Cairncroft save the tenuous one through her friendship with Catherine.

Climbing from her bed, Catherine prepared for the day, her limbs heavy, as though weighted by stones, a result, no doubt, of a restless sleep. Yet her mood was not as somber as it might have been, for the prospect of seeing Gabriel was like a candle in the darkness. Her ablutions complete, she pushed the last of her pins into her hair and went down to the breakfast room.

Gabriel was not there.

It was more than disappointment she felt. The unease that had nibbled at her earlier burgeoned into a stronger distress, though she had no solid reason for that. She felt as though she waited for something, a great shadowy beast that would prowl from the corner, unexpected. With a shake of her head, she pushed aside such fancy and went to the sideboard where the covered servers held eggs and toast and pickled salmon.

The morning fare held no appeal. She took only a cup of tea and when that was done she paused by the open door and asked the footman, “Have Sir Gabriel and Mr. St. Aubyn returned?”

“They did, miss. Late last night. But they rode off again early this morning. The sun had not yet risen when they went.”

“Is there any news?” she asked.

The footman shook his head, his expression somber. “No, miss.”

Having exhausted that resource, she was left at odds, worry clouding her thoughts. She went to the blue parlor and paced, then sat, then rose and paced again, trying not to think of Susan and Martha, then trying to think of them as they had been when they were alive. They deserved that, at least. Someone to remember them.

At noon, she roused Madeline from slumber and tried to coax her to dress, to eat, to venture outdoors for a walk. Catherine’s efforts met with failure and in the end she settled in to read to Madeline for a bit, then to simply sit by her and listen to her broken ramblings for the remainder of the time.

It was not until late afternoon that Gabriel returned, and Catherine knew that only because she caught a glimpse of him quite by accident.

She had fled Madeline’s company for a few stolen moments outdoors, desperate for air and activity and a short break away from her despondent friend. Madeline only lay in her bed and twisted the sheets in her fingers, then untwisted them, again and again, saying little. She made monosyllablic responses to Catherine’s attempts at conversation, and those only grudgingly.

Catherine thought that she must escape that stale, closed room or she would go mad. She ought to feel guilty for that, she supposed. But in truth, she could not.

Once outdoors, she chose to take the path that she and Gabriel had walked that first morning, the twisted maze to the graveyard. The sun was high, casting the path half in light, half in shadow as the tall hedge blocked its rays. She walked to the graveyard, acknowledging the silent hope that she would find Gabriel there, waiting for her.

Of course, he was not.

Turning, she retraced her steps and was just leaving the mouth of the maze between the high walls of hedge on either side when she saw him. His back was toward her, his strides quick and sure. Her heart gladdened, her steps lightened. Almost did she cry his name. Then something—she could not say what—stilled her tongue.

Perhaps it was his purposeful tread away from any place he might have hoped to find her. He did not go to the parlor, or her chamber or even Madeline’s. He went to the crumbling ruin at the side of the abbey, a place he could be certain she was not.

And that struck her as odd. Not that she bloated her own importance, but that it seemed very strange that he did not seek her out.

Catherine could not say what made her follow him, only that curiosity got the best of common sense. She was adept at creeping about. Her childhood had made her that way. All the times her parents had sunk into the dark depths of mourning, she had tiptoed about the house, never seen, never heard. Now she called upon those skills and followed Gabriel, driven to do so, unable to understand why.

He went to a part of the abbey she had never explored. It was dank and crumbling, parts of the stone chipped away. At the bottom of a listing tower, he pushed open an old, iron-girded door, the wood stained by time. Stepping through, he disappeared within, leaving the door half ajar behind him. She waited and watched, careful to remain concealed lest he look out one of the narrow windows above and spy her here spying on him.

She could not help but acknowledge how ridiculous her behavior was. She clung to a large bush and peeked through its thick foliage and stared at the crumbling stones for a very long while.

What was she thinking?

For a moment, she considered turning and going back the way she had come, leaving Gabriel to his privacy and secrets. The day was fading. Madeline would be anxious if she woke from her nap and found Catherine gone. Susan Parker’s murder had had a terrible effect on her mood.

But something made her stay. Curiosity, yes. And something more. She felt compelled to remain here, as though this was her sole hope for answers. So she stayed where she was, waiting, though for what, she was not certain.

Finally, the door opened once more and Gabriel emerged looking grim and drawn. Something in his expression chilled her. He looked…tired. But it was more than that. He appeared tense, anxious.

His gaze slid past the place she hid, but did not linger, and she was certain he did not see her there for he strode off the way he had come earlier. She watched him until he disappeared.

Still, she held her place. When moments passed and he did not return, she ran to the door and tried it, expecting it to be locked, startled to find it was not.

With a quick glance about, she slipped inside and drew the door closed behind her. It moved on well-oiled hinges without a sound.

A narrow stone staircase rose before her, and as she placed her foot on the first step, she wondered again why she did this. What did she think to find?

What did she hope to find?

Answers evaded her. She only knew that she must climb these steps, must discover what awaited her above.

She was so tired of secrets. His. Hers. She wanted trust between them.

Why?

There could not be love without trust. The thought sneaked up on her, like a fox pouncing on a hare. She was left feeling just as shocked and startled and afraid.

Love.

Dear God, did she think she loved him? Loved Gabriel St. Aubyn?

A shudder took her and she dropped her head, dizzy with the answer that slapped her. Yes, she did. She loved him. She had been so foolish as to fall in love with him. Where were her boundaries, her walls, her guards? They had failed her.

She slid her foot from the step, freezing in place, suddenly certain that she could not go up and steal his secrets like a thief. She refused. It was a betrayal of the worst sort, and his secrets were of no value to her if he did not share them willingly.

She loved him.

And so she would not betray him. She would find him and ask him what he hid in this moldering tower, and trust that he would tell her. And if he did not…Well, she would have to hope that in time, he would.

Spinning away, she barely had time to find her balance before arms closed around her, strong and tight. She struggled, shoving and kicking, the sound erupting from her more squeak than scream. Fear coiled about her heart, serpentine, tight.

“Catherine!”

She gasped. It was Gabriel. He had caught her out. But still, the fear eased.

“You frightened me,” she accused, her heart yet pounding, her breath coming in sharp rasps.

“If you sneak about in dark places, you must expect to be frightened.”

There was that.

Despite his cool tone, his arms about her were warm and sheltering. He kissed her forehead, then her mouth, forgiving her trespass before she even asked.

“I did not go up,” she said in a rush, needing for him to know that, to know she had not betrayed him. “I took only one step, but turned back.”

His arms tightened around her, and he whispered, “Why?”

“It felt like the worst sort of betrayal, a breach of your privacy. I thought that if I lo—” She bit off the word before it could fly free and reared back to look into his beautiful, cold, beloved face. “I thought that if I have any…respect for you, I ought not to trespass.”

The side of his mouth quirked. “But you wanted to.”

“Yes.”

“Well, come along, love.” He took her hand and led the way, confident in each step though the staircase was gloomy and dim. He had walked this path many times, she realized.

The stone stairs were slick beneath her feet, and she clung tightly to Gabriel’s hand as they climbed up and up.

“The walls feel very close,” she said, reaching out to trail her hand along the stones as she passed.

“They are very close.” He did not sound particularly concerned, though she knew he did not like confined places any better than she.

“You have been this way often.” Her words echoed back at her. He said nothing, and she thought he must view this as one of those pointless conversations he abhorred. She supposed it was, but she preferred to hear something, even if it was only the sound of her own voice.

Then he said, “It was my secret place when I was a child,” and she realized he had only delayed, likely weighing the decision of whether or not to share that information. She was more pleased that he had than the situation warranted, as though any bit of knowledge about him eased her hunger.

Finally, they came to the top of the stairs and a large space with stone walls and a stone floor and a hearth to her left. Across the far wall were high, narrow windows set in the stone, and before them a desk and a tall, leather-backed chair. Before the hearth was a rug. And that was all. There was not another stick of furniture to be seen.

Gabriel drew her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to her palm. Then he left her and crossed to the large mahogany desk, rounding it so he stood with his back to the windows. With the position of the light, she could not clearly see his face or his expression.

Reaching up, he drew a necklace from beneath his shirt. She stepped closer and saw that it was a leather thong bearing two keys. He had not worn it the other day when they had made love, or perhaps she had only not noticed it then. One key, he separated from the other and unlocked a drawer in the desk. He withdrew a metal box and set it down, then unlocked that as well, pushing back the lid so it hit the polished wooden desktop with a thud.

Then he placed the keys beside it and crossed to the hearth, where he took up a flint box and set about making a fire. Catherine watched him warily, uncertain what his intention was.

“Go ahead,” he said, glancing at her before turning his attention back to his task.

Slowly, she made her way to the desk. She peered into the box and saw the cover of a leather-bound journal and some letters.

“What are these?” she asked.

“My secrets.” He was watching her very carefully now. “And the secrets of others.”

Her heart gave a hard thud in her breast. He offered her these things? Nothing could be so easy. Why would he bring her here and show her this now? Why?

He trusted her with this? So it appeared. Yet she had difficulty in trusting his trust.

Such a tangled web.

She reached out and rested her fingers on the string that tied the packet of letters. Then she looked up at him once more.

“You mean for me to read them?”

“Yes.”

He held her gaze for a long, measured moment, then turned back to his efforts to start a fire. At length, it was done and he rose to stand facing her, but so far away. She had yet to summon the courage to take the packet from the box, let alone unfold the letters and discover their dark truths.

She shivered, suddenly chilled.

“Look your fill, Catherine. And when you are done, burn them. Burn everything. It is past time.” He crossed to her then and put his palms against her cheeks, tipping her face to his, her mouth to his. He kissed her. There was nothing tentative or gentle about it. His mouth was hard and hungry, his tongue a hot slide of velvet in her mouth, his teeth nipping at her. Sharp. Deliberate. His breath mingling with hers.

His body was hard and warm and solid against her, and for an instant she lost her breath, lost her thoughts, lost all will to delve into his secrets. For an instant, she wanted to draw him to the thick rug before the hearth and make love with him there and simply burn everything without ever looking at the words written within. She was not certain now that she wanted to know.

He pulled back, ran the pad of his thumb along her lower lip, his eyes reflecting the light of the fire.

“Why?” she whispered.

“Catherine.” He studied her for a long moment, and then offered a dry smile. “You have woken my dead heart, the heart I stabbed and believed I had sliced from my breast years ago at Hanham House. I love you,” he said, his tone smooth and even and cool as it always was, but the words, oh, the words, the gift of them, made her heart soar. “I have loved you since the first moment I heard your voice. Since I sensed your pain and recognized your strength.” He pressed his lips to hers, swift and firm. “Only one who has suffered can understand depth of suffering in another.”

And she knew not if he spoke of his suffering or hers. Or perhaps both. Two pieces of broken pottery, brought together at the jagged edge, made whole, though imperfect still.

He loved her. He would not say it unless he meant it with every breath and every fiber of his being. He was not a man to say anything lightly.

Her heart danced in a rough, jagged rhythm. Her breath whooshed from her lungs as though a blow had been struck. It had. His words were like a physical thrust, stabbing as deep as they could go, filling her, lifting her, offering her the impossible.

He loved her and so he gifted her with his trust, opening his metal box, but more than that, opening his heart. She could only begin to imagine what that cost him.

Wanting to offer her own vows, her own baring of heart and soul, she parted her lips, intending to speak, but no words came out, only the soft huff of her breath. Say it. Say it. But she did not. She only stared at him and wished she were so brave.

As though he knew her thoughts, he said, “Tell me when you are ready, Catherine. I can wait. You have no idea how long I can wait.”

But she did. She knew how long he had waited to be free, how long he had waited for his vengeance. He would wait that long for her. She knew it.

“Read them. And then burn them,” he said. “I shall await you in my chamber.”

Turning, he headed for the stairs, leaving her alone with only the hiss and the pop of the fire for company, leaving her with his secrets open and bare on the table. Trusting her with them.

“Wait,” she cried, and tore after him, pausing at the top of the narrow staircase, seeing the shadowy shape of him below her. He paused, but did not turn, only stood on the stair with his back to her. She needed to tell him she loved him. She needed to set the words free.

But when she made to speak, something entirely different came out instead.

“I killed him,” she said, feeling both heavy and light. “Jasper Hunt. I was lying on the pallet where I had birthed my child. Two days had passed, perhaps three. I do not know. I was ill. Feverish. He came to that room. I heard the rasp of the key.” She shuddered, forced herself to go on, the words coming faster now, in a hushed frantic rush. “He pushed the door open. The baby, my baby began to wail. Jasper staggered in. I could smell the stale stink of liquor on him. ‘Make it quiet,’ he ordered, and I tried. I tried. But the baby would not quiet. Jasper came to stand beside me, and he reached down, tore my child from my grasp, and put his hand over the baby’s mouth. ‘Quiet,’ he cried. And again, ‘Quiet.’ I tried to take the child from him. I begged. I pleaded. I clawed at his wrist and his fingers, but he only kicked me away.” Her voice grew hoarse. “He held his hand there, and in the end, my son was quiet.”

She swallowed the sob that choked her, forced herself to go on. Below her, on the stair, Gabriel was preternaturally still.

“He fell upon me, tried to…to…take me, but he was so far into his cups that he only fell asleep, his weight crushing me so I could not breathe. I pushed at him and struggled, and finally, he rolled enough that I could wriggle free. But when he rolled, he knocked the candle and the flames began to dance. They licked at the rug, the curtains, the bedsheets…”

“And you took your child and you left Jasper Hunt there, in your bed, to burn,” Gabriel finished, his tone flat.

She put her palm across her mouth, and took a jagged, raspy breath.

“I did.” She forced the admission through lips that felt frozen. “I watched from the lawn, holding my dead baby tucked inside my dress, still warm against my breast. The flames leaped and danced and burned my childhood home to the ground, and Jasper danced in the window. He screamed and screamed then, and for two days after. A part of me was sorry when he died. I wanted him to live forever, just like that.” Her body trembled, though she could not say if it was horror for her own story and the memories and the pain, or the relief of finally setting it free that made her shake. “So you see, I killed him.”

“I know,” Gabriel said, and finally looked back at her, his face pale in the darkness, his eyes burning, fierce. He came up the stairs to her then and pulled her close and held her, just held her, for what seemed a very long time. “I have known all along, my brave love.”

Then he stepped back and held her gaze long enough that she understood what he told her. She could have said anything, and it would not have mattered. He loved her. Her. For all she was, and all she was not.

And now it was her turn to discover what was in that metal box, to know his secrets and accept or reject him.

He loved her enough that he even gave her that.

Offering a faint smile, he turned away once more and descended the stairs, disappearing round the bend.

Absolution, just like that.

If only she could truly forgive herself so easily. Not for Jasper’s death—he had made his own ugly choices—but for the death of her child.

It was only after she stood there for some moments, wrestling her emotions under control, living and reliving the past few moments, that she understood Gabriel’s smile.

He knew more than what she had admitted aloud. He knew she loved him. The very act of trusting him with her secrets had told him so. And he expected that she would love him still, no matter what the letters and journals revealed.

Catherine lit a taper in the fire and touched it to the candle on the desk. The room was dim, but there was light enough to read by. She settled in the high-backed leather chair. Carefully she withdrew the packets of letters from the metal box, and saw that there were three leather-bound journals, as well.

She started first with the letters addressed to Gabriel St. Aubyn, Cairncroft Abbey. Tipping them to the light, she read Sebastian’s descriptions of his travels. One letter stood out from the others, the words eerie and disconcerting. Tracing her finger over the page, she read them twice.

I have heard talk that a mummy is to be sent home to England to be unwrapped before an audience of physicians. I should like to be there when they do, to see for myself the places they made the cuts in order to remove the lungs, liver, intestine, and stomach. These the ancient Egyptians stored in jars made of stone or ceramic or even wood. If only you could see them, carved and decorated. You would think them wondrous things of fascination, I am sure. I find them mysterious. I wonder at the purpose of such deliberate dissection. I wonder, too, that the heart, they did not take. Gabriel, it would be wonderful if you were here. Perhaps we could even try to make a mummy ourselves using a dead bird or other small creature.

The description was evocative. She could not help but think of Martha Grimsby and the clipping she had read, so thoughtfully provided by Mrs. Northrop. Again, she recalled the suspicions she had felt after meeting Sebastian for the first time, her curiosity about whether he had been in London at the time of Martha’s death. From the dates on these letters and the things written therein, she knew he had been at Cairncroft Abbey at approximately the same time that the dead girl buried in the unmarked grave had been found. In fact, she thought she recalled someone—Madeline? Gabriel?—had mentioned that Sebastian had been the one to find her.

Was there significance in that? She could not bear to think so, but the possibility nagged at her.

Carefully, she set that letter aside, and then took up the packet addressed to Geoffrey St. Aubyn, Hanham House. She had no question of how Gabriel had come to have these letters in his possession. Gabriel had been incarcerated in a madhouse, and now, his brother was there in his stead. Or was his brother dead now?

Gabriel had never said, she realized, and it had not occurred to her to ask.

She read letter after letter, and at length, she set the whole pile aside and put her palm on the small of her back as she arched and stretched.

Idly, she reached for the first of the three leather-bound journals and flipped it open to the first page. Childish drawings greeted her. Tipping her head, she studied the first one. It appeared to be a cat pouncing on a mouse. She flipped to the next page and the next and each one depicted a predator taking its prey.

A memory touched her, of drawings in a similar style. She had seen them before, but could not think where. Flipping pages faster now, she gave only cursory scrutiny to each. By the end of the journal, the look of the sketches changed. Matured. And the drawings became increasingly more gruesome.

Sliding the next journal along the desktop, she flipped it open. A drawing of a flower, and on the next page more flowers, and on the next, a tree. Again, she felt an odd sense of having seen these before. Turning another page, she froze, gasped, horror clogging her throat. The drawing was some sort of animal—a cat? A fox?—lying in a pool of blood. She wanted to think otherwise, wanted to imagine her vision betrayed her. But, no, though the drawing was crude, it could be mistaken for nothing else.

She turned the pages faster, her breath coming quick and harsh, and a soft cry escaped her as she came to the very last sketch. Four jars. And below them on the page something that looked like the beef liver she had watched Cook prepare as a child.

She was panting now. Closing her eyes, she willed her breathing to slow. To whom did these journals belong? Three boys had lived at Cairncroft Abbey—Gabriel, Geoffrey, and Sebastian—and one of them had grown to be a monster. These journals documented that. Or perhaps, one of them had been a monster all along.

Or was it someone else? A servant? A villager?

A shiver crawled up her spine.

Not Gabriel. She trusted that truth.

Slamming the cover shut, she laid her palm flat atop it. She did not want to know everything contained herein. She certainly did not want to look at the next book. Breathing in a jagged rhythm, she sat there and stared at the fire.

Burn them. Burn everything.

Scooping up the journals and the letters, she hurried to the hearth. There was a thick oval carpet there covering the stone floor. She knelt on it, feeding letter after letter to the flames, and finally, opening the journals and laying them face down on the fire, watching the orange and red tongues curl and dance.

Beautiful, cleansing fire.

Chapter 18

Catherine went first to Madeline’s chamber, though her heart bid her go to Gabriel’s. But Madeline had been alone too long and she would work herself into a frenzy. Better to soothe her first, then slip away. She wanted nothing weighing on her, no other thoughts in her mind when she went to Gabriel’s arms, to his bed.

Her feet were heavy on the stairs, and her lids pricked, though she did not weep, did not even understand why she wanted to. She felt as though there was something clear as day before her eyes—something frightening and dangerous—and she was not seeing it.

The passage that led to her chamber and Madeline’s was dark. The doors on all sides were closed tight. She paused a moment in her own room, taking only enough time to splash water on her face and hands, locking her door behind her and slipping the key in her pocket. The hallway seemed to stretch before her interminably, and she found herself reluctant to return to Madeline’s closed and quiet bedroom, to the dim light and the smell of liniment.

But she must. Only a little longer and she could be with Gabriel, touch him, hold him, tell him all the things in her heart.

The passage seemed very long and very quiet and she quickened her pace, feeling a strange, inexplicable urgency. Madeline’s door was partly open, and she pressed her palm flat against it and pushed on the wood until it swung inward. Her gaze slid to the bed, and she froze, for Madeline was not there.

“Where did you go for so long?” came the petulant query, and she turned to find Madeline sitting in the chair before the fire surrounded by stacks and stacks of books. It seemed that every book she had stored in her bedroom for so long had been moved close to the fire to form a series of towers like the turrets of a castle.

And in their midst sat Madeline.

“I went walking. I had a need for some air,” Catherine replied, startled to realize that her friend had not only left her bed, but had dressed in a walking gown and combed and pinned her hair. “You look very well, Madeline,” she said.

“Thank you.” Madeline thrust her lower lip out in a pout and closed the book that lay open on her lap. “I waited and waited and when you never came, I was forced to rise and ring for the maid. Peg was the one they sent. I do not like her. She is awkward and rough, her fingers tied up in splints.” She tipped her head to the side. “You should have been here to help me. You are my friend, as I have always been yours. You have no one but me.”

The words were harsh. Unkind. And no longer true.

She had Gabriel, but she thought it would not be wise to say so.

“Well,” Madeline said in the face of her silence. “Things change.” Her words carried a hard edge of anger.

Uncertain of Madeline’s mood, Catherine offered, “Would you like to go outdoors? Perhaps a walk by the lake?”

Madeline glanced at her from beneath her lashes. “Not yet, but soon.” Her gaze slid to the open door. “Would you close it, please, Catherine? And lock it, as well?” She lowered her voice. “It is Mrs. Bell. She has come three times to bring me food and drink.” She nodded at the small table by the window, where a covered plate sat. “Smell it,” she said. “Go ahead.”

With a frown, Catherine did as she bid, lifting the cover and leaning down to sniff the array of cold meat and cheese and bread. There…she did smell it. Almonds.

Dropping the cover on the plate with a clatter, she spun to face Madeline, horror congealing in her breast. Were all Madeline’s fears and terrors true? Was the housekeeper trying to poison her?

“Madeline—” she began, only to have her friend cut her off.

“Not now,” Madeline whispered, glancing frantically about. “Did I not tell you the walls have ears? Please, close and lock the door.”

Seeing no other way to ease her dismay, Catherine did as Madeline asked, pushing the door shut and turning the key in the lock. There was an unpleasant finality to that, as though she entombed the two of them in this dim, dark space. She did not like to be trapped in this room with the door closed and locked and the windows shut tight.

“Give the key here,” Madeline said. “Oh, please, Catherine, let me have it. I will only feel safe if I have it in my hand.”

Catherine knew that feeling quite well, yet she was loath to part with the key, to give someone else, even a friend, control over her in that way. She wanted to be able to open the door at her will, not at Madeline’s whim. She hesitated, and then laid the key atop the high bureau next to the door. When she looked to Madeline once more, she was startled to see that she was smiling, a tight, ugly smile that Catherine could not understand.

The firelight danced across her features, painting her skin and hair with gold, coloring her smile as red lips and white teeth, small as a child’s. For a moment, she did not appear at all herself, but rather a doll painted to look like Madeline.

It was then that Catherine heard the sounds, low but quite distinct, footsteps echoing, not in the hallway but behind the walls. She spun, startled, her gaze flicking to the door, then to the far wall across from the bed, then back to Madeline once more.

“Do you hear it?” Madeline asked, her lips stiff. She turned her face to the wall, then away. “He is come for me.”

“No.” Catherine crossed to her and knelt before her, taking Madeline’s hand between her own. “It is only an ancient servants’ tunnel in the wall. I have seen it myself. There are no monsters, no creatures that come for you.”

“I never said a monster had come for me.” Madeline laughed then, the sound like fragile china fallen from a table to shatter against a hard floor. “I said that he has come. At last. I have waited so long. It was no mean feat to grease their palms and see him free. And then he could not come right away. He had business in London to see to first. But he is here now. He is here.”

Catherine only looked at her, uncomprehending. But there was something…something she felt certain she ought to know. “Do you speak of Sebastian?” she asked, though a part of her knew already that Madeline did not.

Madeline closed her hand tight around Catherine’s, squeezing until bone rubbed on bone. She leaned in, bringing their faces close.

“Do you think you are sly? And wise and wily?” she whispered. “I am smarter than all of you, dear girl. I always have been. Smarter and more sly than my aunt and uncle, or the headmistress or the teachers at Browning. Certainly wiser and more wily than any of the other girls.” She paused and shook her head. “When I heard what you had done, that you had killed a man, your own guardian, I thought you would do. I thought we could be true friends. That you would understand. But you have proven a disappointment, Catherine. That you have.”

Yanking her hands free, Catherine fell back, the impetus sending her sprawling. “What do you mean?” But she knew. In that second, she recalled exactly why the journals had seemed so familiar, the drawing style was something she had seen before. They were Madeline’s pictures. Madeline’s. She recalled her sketches and paintings from Browning, and the way Miss Chalmers, the drawing teacher, had frowned and shaken her head and taken Madeline’s work to show the headmistress again and again.

Madeline was the killer? How was that possible? She had been here, at Cairncroft with Catherine when Martha was killed, and here in this very chamber when Susan was murdered.

Again came the footfalls from behind the wall and then a scraping and dragging sound as the portal swung wide. She jerked her head toward the sound, her thoughts as twisted and tangled as a knot of string.

A man stood there with a candle, and behind him yawned a great, black hole. Catherine blinked against the light, and she saw long honey-gold hair and eyes of liquid topaz and chiseled features painted in light and shadow by the small flickering flame.

“Gabriel,” she cried and scrambled to her feet, her heart pounding, her mouth dry. She rushed to him and skidded to a stop only inches away, never so glad to see anyone as she was to see him. From the corner of her eye, she saw Madeline rise and cross to the door, but she thought it did not matter now. If she fled, Gabriel would catch her.

Taking deep, shaking breaths, Catherine trembled with the horror of what she had only just come to know.

“The journals. They were Madeline’s. I remember now.” She held his gaze, cold and flat, and a chill started deep inside her, though she could not say why. Words tumbled free, faster, more urgent. “She used to draw sketches just like that when we were at school. Terrible pictures that made the other girls cry. She said she only drew the world as she saw it—”

“—for the spider does eat the fly, and the ants the dead worm. The fox eats the mouse.” Madeline cut her off as she stepped close behind her. Catherine jerked to the side, feeling hemmed in and trapped. “I have always wanted to know what it feels like to die. But no one would tell me. Not until the day I saw my cousin kill the bird in the woods. And then I knew. We were destined to be together, to share our fascination. I was meant to see what he did that day. I shared my thoughts with him. My ideas. And he took them and used them as thread to embroider his tapestry, ever more intriguing and complex.”

Catherine could not bear to look at her. The thoughts Madeline shared were horrific in and of themselves, but to look into her guileless blue eyes as she spoke of such things was too terrible. She jerked her gaze to Gabriel’s face, a thick lump choking her throat. He did not reach for her or touch her or close his fingers upon hers. Instead, he only looked at her with his head tipped to the side.

“Are you afraid?” he asked, and smiled.

Her blood turned to ice in her veins.

His voice was wrong. His eyes were wrong. She saw that clearly now. It was as though Gabriel had shed his skin and someone else entirely had stepped inside to wear it like a suit.

“Geoffrey,” Catherine whispered, horror congealing in her gut like cold blood pudding.

“Geoffrey,” Madeline mimicked her, and stepped forward to press a kiss to his cheek. “Aren’t you astute?”

Catherine backed away another step, and Geoffrey followed her, two strides for her one.

“How did you get away from Hanham House?”

“He told you about Hanham House? How unexpected.” He shrugged, a sharp, angry movement. “Gabriel’s precious Dr. Vincent left recently. The doctors there now know their business well and care to keep their income more than anything else.” His eyes grew colder still. “In all the years I have been there, no one has come to visit, save Madeline. And when she paid them to set me free, she said they had only to continue to charge my brother for my care and he would pay, none the wiser. That way, they got twice the coin for none of the work.”

He stepped closer still and lifted a lock of Catherine’s hair from where it had come loose to lie along her shoulder. Then he leaned in and pressed her hair to his nose, breathing deeply.

With a gasp, she turned her face away and yanked her hair from his grasp, horrified to have him stand so close and touch her at all, even her hair.

“She is not for you, dear.”

“She is.” He snarled. “You promised.”

“There is no time. We must be away.” Madeline patted his arm and gave a brittle laugh. “We shall find you another. Did I not guide you to Martha? Was she not a lovely treat? This one must be sacrificed to the fire. We discussed it. You recall. It is the only way.”

The words penetrated her numbed thoughts and Catherine stumbled back until she was pressed against the wall. Martha. Madeline had told this monster where to find Martha. And Catherine had given her the direction. She had written to Madeline about her friend, told her Martha’s name and that she ran a school in St. Giles. It would have been an easy matter to make inquiries with that. Dear God. She had handed Martha to a killer.

No, not a killer. A pair of killers. Monsters.

Her chest heaved and her palms were slick with sweat. She felt sick, bile crawling up her throat.

And the smell of smoke stung her nostrils.

She looked about and realized that the smell was carrying from the tunnel. The smell of smoke and fire.

Edging to the side, she tried to reach the bureau to retrieve the key that would open the door and see her flee this chamber and whatever horrors they planned. Geoffrey watched her with a hawkish gaze, but made no move to stop her. Frantic, she fell against the bureau and reached up for the key, disappointment lodging in her gut like a lump of coal.

It was not there. Of course. Madeline had taken it.

Her gaze flashed to the open panel of the servants’ tunnel, but Geoffrey blocked her way.

With remarkable strength for a woman who claimed to be an invalid, Madeline yanked the coverlet from her bed and dragged it across the floor, tossing one end into the crackling hearth and leaving the other to trail over the piles of books. She was no more ill than Catherine. It had all been a dupe.

“What of the laudanum, the poison?” Catherine asked, hoping against hope that if she kept them talking long enough, Gabriel would come searching for her. Would he know to look here, or would he go only to the ruined tower to search for her?

Madeline slanted her a glance. “Oil of bitter almonds, cooked to make certain it was harmless. I had to make sure that you found no allies here, trusted no one. Making you suspect Mrs. Bell was the easiest way.”

“And the night Mrs. Bell came to give you the extra dose of laudanum? The night she said Gabriel instructed her to do so?”

“Geoffrey looks exactly like his brother. Even you were fooled for a moment, just now.” She looked to Geoffrey, who stood with arms folded across his chest, blocking Catherine’s path to the open door of the tunnel. “This place will go up like a tinderbox. I shall enjoy watching it burn. Did you set the other wings alight?”

“Yes. As you say, the place should go up like a tinderbox,” Geoffrey replied, the sound of his voice making Catherine shiver.

“Now here is a question,” Madeline said, whirling to face her. “Will you scream for him as you burn? Or will you leap from the window to your death?”

Smoke began to fill the room now as more and more of the books caught the flames that snaked and writhed from the hearth to lick at the carpet and the edge of the curtains.

“What of the servants?” Catherine cried. “They will be killed.”

“I care naught for them.” Madeline shrugged. “But probably, most will get free. You are the only one who will stay here to burn.”

Catherine screamed then, long and loud. They only looked at her as she drew breath to scream again.

“Go ahead,” Madeline said, weaving her fingers with Geoffrey’s as she smiled gently at Catherine and nodded her head. “You and I are the only ones housed in this wing. Go ahead and scream. No one will hear you.” She laughed. “Tell me now how you will stay with me and keep the monsters at bay, how you will let none harm me. You fool. You would have done better to think of how to keep them from coming for you.”

“Don’t do this.” Catherine looked about desperately, seeing no way to escape, her eyes and nose and throat stinging from the gathering smoke. “Do not.”

But they disappeared into the yawning black tunnel and pulled the portal shut. Catherine turned to the door and closed her hand on the doorknob, twisting and yanking in desperation. Locked tight. And Madeline had taken the key.

Panic surged. She snatched a towel from the washstand and held it over her mouth and nose as she flew to the portal they had closed behind them. She ran her hands along the wood, but whatever trick would open it evaded her.

The fire roared and the smoke churned and she thought that Madeline was right.

She could scream, but no one would hear her.

Geoffrey led the way through the narrow, dark passage, the single candle he held sending out fingers of light to touch the shadows. He could hear Madeline close behind him, breathing fast.

He wanted to turn and strike her.

She had cheated him. Anger churned in his gut, a simmering rage. Catherine was to be his. He wanted her. Wanted to lead her through the steps of his dance. She would be his most satisfying partner, one who fulfilled him. One who could assuage his need, soothe the burn that coursed through his veins. Because she was strong. Because she was brave.

And because his brother loved her.

It would be excruciatingly sweet to take her from him.

But Madeline said no. There was no time. Did he dare go against her? Somehow, over the years, they had become intertwined in a way that made them equal, but not. He was the stronger, the more deadly. But she was cunning and wily. It was always Madeline who helped him hone and channel his urges, helped him created a lovely finesse in his work.

She had even helped him kill during the years he was at Hanham House, utilizing an isolated shed deep in the grounds, bringing him three victims and disposing of them when he was done. Those encounters had been exercises in planning and timing such as no other. But Madeline was ever so good at planning.

Perhaps that was why the episode with Susan Parker had devolved so quickly. Because Madeline was not there to guide him, to calm the power of his need. Susan had been an aberration, an unplanned kill. Not since the first had he been alone like that.

Oh, Madeline had not been there when he killed Martha. Not in person. But they had discussed it at length, and so she was there in his thoughts, in his heart, in the surge of electricity that thrilled his blood. Her voice was there in his mind, guiding him.

He stopped dead, and turned to face her. She was so close at his back that she bumped against him.

“Geoffrey, we must hurry. Do you not smell it? The smoke?”

He did. But he could not squelch the growing urgency to go back, to fetch Catherine.

“I want her,” he said. “In the confusion of the fire, we can bring her away.” They could do it. And he could slake his urges upon her. The thought made him shiver, made his hand stray to his blade, his fingers playing over the hilt.

Pushing Madeline aside, he paced back the way they had come, the tunnel dark and narrow around them.

Madeline caught his arm and tried to make him stop, but he would not. Could not. He shook her off with a snarl. Catherine was the jewel in his brother’s heart. There was no surer way to strike him than to take her. Savor her. Cut her and make her bleed.

Aside from the sheer delight of taking her life, she would serve a second purpose. One of vengeance. He owed Gabriel for all the years at Hanham House.

Behind him, Madeline coughed. The sound made his own chest feel heavy and scratchy, and he too began to hack, his nose and eyes stinging.

“Geoffrey, the smoke rises from below,” Madeline cried, clutching at his arm once more. “Where did you set the second fire?”

He paused, looked about. She was right. The air was thick, the smoke curling about their heads and shoulders.

“The library,” he said, and realized that he had made a poor choice. The tunnel from the library joined with this one.

Madeline turned to and fro, agitated, and Geoffrey froze, undecided now. Press on? Retreat? What to do?

“We will go back,” she said, then coughed long and hard into her hand. “Quickly now.”

Good. This was what he wanted. They would go back and fetch Catherine and bring her with them, find another way to flee the burning abbey. Yes, this was good.

He caught Madeline’s hand and they hurried on, the smoke growing thicker, the air warmer.

They came to the portal, and Geoffrey thrust it open. Smoke billowed out toward them, a heavy yellowish-brown cloud. A sickly tongue of flame reached through the open door and curled along the ceiling.

“Geoffrey?” Madeline’s voice was tentative, wary, her fingers curling tight with his.

They could see nothing beyond the door, the fire that Madeline had started earlier creating a thick, greasy barrier. Of Catherine, there was no sign.

Was she dead?

“No!” He would not be cheated of his prize. Geoffrey surged forward, dragging Madeline with him. The smoke seemed to recede before them, sucked back through the open portal into the chamber beyond.

“Geoffrey—” Madeline cried as a ball of fire erupted toward them. Bright. Hot.

So hot.

“Catherine!” Gabriel flung open the heavy, iron-girded door and tore up the stone stairs. The metal strongbox was open on the desk, the letters and journals gone, the fire almost dead in the hearth. But Catherine was not here.

Which meant she was somewhere in the house.

He knew not what malady took him then, but it was a twisted, monstrous thing that robbed him of reason and broke out cold sweat on his skin.

Catherine was in the house, and it was burning.

With a roar, he ran down the stairs, half sliding on the smooth, worn stone, then burst through the door and ran, legs pumping, chest heaving. He could see the flames, great, grotesque flames, ravenously swallowing anything that was not metal or stone.

The servants were running, panicked, across the lawns. Some were organizing to bring water from the lake. Wooden buckets of water passed from hand to hand. A mosquito against a behemoth. A part of him was cool and calm, rational enough to recognize that he must stop and organize them and cull a few from the line to help him search.

But the greater part was filled with hot, swelling terror that rivaled the flames themselves, burning him to ash, eating him alive.

Where? Where would she be?

Madeline’s chamber or her own were the most likely places. His gaze slid to that wing. It was alive, a writhing, twisting creature of orange and red and unbearable heat, belching great towers of black smoke into the darkening sky.

On instinct, he ran full tilt for the garden door. It was the closest. His best hope. If he could only reach her. He would save her. He would drag her from the greedy fire and—

Panting, he reached the door, grabbed for it, and cried out as the handle seared his skin. He tried a second time and a third, even tearing off his coat to wrap it about his hand, but the door would not open. Locked or melted.

From above him came a loud, whooshing roar and the sound of glass shattering. Shards rained down on him, a hailstorm of sparks and ash and glass. He stumbled back, his gaze jerking frantically along the windows on the lower level, searching for one, just one, where fire did not dance behind the panes.

There. At the end.

He ran, vaulting a line of shrubs. He bent his elbow to slam it hard against the glass.

“Gabriel!” A woman’s voice, but he could not stop. Could not wait. He had to reach her. Reach Catherine. She would burn. She would die.

And he could not lose her. Could not face a life without her.

He would survive anything but that.

“Gabriel!” Again, the cry. Louder, more frantic, and he turned and saw her, running toward him, her face streaked with soot, her hair falling about her shoulders, her dress mottled with black-rimmed holes where sparks must have landed and singed the cloth.

The blood rushed from his head until he was dizzy and swaying, barely able to trust what his eyes beheld. Catherine, there before him.

His throat too tight to speak, he surged forward and caught her against him, brutal in his handling, too far into the terrible miasma that overcame him to understand what he said or did. He only held her and buried his face in the curve of her shoulder, and led the two of them in a stumbling dance away from the fire and the danger.

Terrible sounds surrounded them, like an animal crying out in pain, and it was only when she caught his hair and yanked it hard enough to draw his head back and when she pressed her mouth to his and swallowed the din, only then did he realize the sounds came from him.

He was crying, great choking sobs that tore him in two, because he was so grateful, so damned grateful.

“Catherine,” he whispered, and kissed her with all he was, with passion and dominion. She was his. His. And she was safe, here in his arms. He kissed her as though there was no one else there, as though he was buried inside her, as though they were not here on the vast lawn with the fire at their back, its monstrous roar filling their senses.

He kissed her as though he was a drowning man and she was air.

“I could not save you.” His chest rose and fell with harsh, gasping breaths. “I could not see how to save you.”

“I found a way to save myself,” she said and kissed him, then kissed him again.

“How?”

“Susan Parker saved me.”

He thought then that she was as addled as he. “Susan Parker is dead.”

“I know, and I am sorry for it. I shall be sorry for the rest of my days. But she saved me. The first night I came to Cairncroft, she accidentally gave me a master key for any room in this wing. I had it in my pocket. It set me free.”

Her words made no sense to him and he did not care. She was here in his arms, and she was alive.

“I thought I had lost you. I thought you were gone,” he said. “I thought—”

Then he only kissed her again because she knew what he had thought.

She eased away and drew a deep breath, cradling his face in her hands before continuing in the tone he recalled from the very first time he heard her speak, her enunciation clean and crisp, her dusky pink lips forming consonants and vowels with perfect elocution. “What sort of wife would I be if I deserted you in your time of need?”

The reflection of the raging flames turned her skin to gold and her hair to copper. In all his wretched life, he had never dared dream that he might find love. That he might find peace from the demons of his past. How was he to know they would come twined together, one and the same?

“What sort of…wife, indeed,” he murmured.

“Gabriel St. Aubyn, will you marry me?”

“Tell me you love me,” he said.

“I love you.”

“Then, yes, Catherine Weston, I will marry you.”

Leaning close, he kissed her, and she clung to him and kissed him back and he could taste smoke and ash and love on her lips. He thought it the sweetest flavor he had ever known.

Epilogue

Gabriel sat across from the window, the draperies pulled back to reveal distant mountains. The Alps. He and Catherine had been traveling for nearly a year now, yet he felt more than ever before in his life that he had a home.

His fingers closed around the letter from Sebastian that had arrived that morning. His cousin had offered to stay and oversee the rebuilding of Cairncroft after that terrible night. Gabriel had accepted his offer. He could not bear to be there. Perhaps never again.

The servants had all escaped the fire. None were hurt. He was grateful for that. But his twin had not been so fortunate, nor had his cousin Madeline. They had succumbed to the smoke, their charred bodies found clinging to each other in the remnants of the tunnels. He had yet to fully accept how he felt about that—both grief and relief, and a bit of guilt for both.

Sunlight streamed through the panes to paint a swath across Catherine’s bowed form. She was on her knees, head bowed, the dark curtain of her hair falling forward to hide her face. Her feet were wrapped in two pairs of his stockings. She said they kept her warmer than her own.

The rest of her was wrapped in his shirt. He could not see how that kept her warm at all, for it gaped and allowed him wondrous glimpses of skin. Now, a bare shoulder, then a rosy-tipped breast, then the sweet curve of her collarbone as she dipped and bent and moved her hands.

A cold wind swirled through the open window, and Gabriel sipped his coffee, thinking that this weather was coffee weather. The chill in the air made the flavor better, richer, more wondrous on his tongue.

She had done this, awakened in him the understanding of the difference between simply drinking his coffee, and enjoying it.

Catherine made a sound of dismay as the wind caught the edge of the map she had smoothed out before her on the floor. She lunged for the corner and slapped her palm flat, offering him a truly magnificent view of her round, unclad backside, the tail of his shirt sliding over porcelain-pale skin.

His fingers twitched.

She turned her head and looked at him, her eyes coffee dark, framed in thick brown lashes, very long, very straight. And he thought she saw through him, clear to his tarnished soul.

No, not thought it. Knew it.

And she loved him despite what she saw.

She smiled at him, and his breath caught.

“Catherine?”

“Mmm?” She crawled across the floor toward him, prowling on all fours, sinuous and graceful.

“I love you, Catherine St. Aubyn.”

“Yes. You do.” Lifting her head, she tossed a heavy curl off her forehead and smiled up at him. She crawled up his body, pausing to press a kiss to his chest, then climbing to his lips. Opening her mouth on his, she kissed him and then rocked back on her heels as he made to draw her close.

She wrinkled her nose and laughed. “You taste like coffee.”

He loved the sound of her voice, cool and cultured and controlled. Except when he made love to her. Then she was anything but controlled.

Offering her the cup, he said, “Have a sip. Then we’ll both taste like coffee. A perfect match.”

“We are already that.” But she leaned in, took a sip as he tipped the cup to her lips. She held it a moment without swallowing, then lowered her head to his lap and took him in her mouth.

He hissed and rocked his hips toward her, the warmth of her mouth and the coffee just shy of too hot, thrilling and luscious and more than decadent. She teased him until he had no desire to be teased any more, and with a chest-deep growl he rolled her beneath him on the thick carpet and made love to her there in the bright strip of sunlight that fell across them both.

Later, much later, he asked, “Where do we go next, Catherine? Italy? Spain?”—he paused, willing to do even this if it would please her—“Home?”

She glanced at the map she had been poring over earlier. The wind had caught it and blown it into the corner. Then she looked back at him and rested her open palm on his cheek, her eyes shimmering with all the love in her soul.

“Home, Gabriel?” She pressed her lips to his. “I am with you, and so I am home.”

ZEBRA BOOKS are published by

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Copyright © 2009 by Eve Silver

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ISBN: 1-4201-1514-6