Lord of Always

Lord of Always Cynthia Wicklund

How does a good and honorable man atone for wicked deeds he committed when he was neither good nor honorable? How does he tell the woman forced to marry him of the supernatural event that transformed his life, cleansing him of the darkness? Above all, how does he convince his wife that he loves her, that he too is worthy of being loved, when all she feels for him is hatred? Evan Richmond, a spoiled, debauched aristocrat, is confronted by an obligation he can’t ignore. He must marry, and Brenna Hilliard is to be his bride. On his wedding night, Evan commits an unforgivable sin, stirring the wrath of something beyond this world. In the guise of a raging storm, he is “struck” unconscious. When he awakens his life is forever changed, for he no longer carries the soul he was born with. Another has taken its place. Thus Brenna is faced with a choice. Does she reject her husband because of whom he has always been…or love the man he is becoming?

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Lord of Always ISBN 9781419925504 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED Lord of Always Copyright 2010 Cynthia Wicklund Edited by Jaynie Richie Cover art by Dar Albert Electronic book publication June 2010 The terms Romantica® and Quickies® are registered trademarks of Ellora’s Cave Publishing. With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Ellora’s Cave Publishing Inc., 1056 Home Avenue, Akron, OH 44310-3502. Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000. (http://www.fbi.gov/ipr/). Please purchase only authorized electronic or print editions and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted material. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated. This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

LORD OF ALWAYS Cynthia Wicklund

Dedication To my parents, Robert and Annette—I know they know.

Cynthia Wicklund

A Soul Awaits It is the year 365 in a land that will one day be Ireland. On a lush and breathless night, the heavens boil with the anger of the Gods. Owein, a devoted servant of the faith, has broken the laws of his people by falling in love with and taking to his bed a young priestess, Bryna, whose virtue is believed to be an integral source of her power. Despite his basic goodness, Owein is punished. In a ceremony, surrounded by his accusers, his soul is stripped away and cast into that world between Heaven and Hell. His earthly body survives to house another soul whose time for redemption has come. But for the spirit of Owein, it will be nearly fifteen hundred years before he is deemed sufficiently humbled and ready to atone for his sins. A disreputable viscount unknowingly awaits his return…

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Chapter One

Ireland—April, 1842 The world wept a silent, windless downpour, a befitting accompaniment to the arrival of death. However, Lady Brenna Hilliard, only daughter of the late Earl Lundsford, had yet to join in the weeping. Shock and disbelief kept her from the comfort of tears. The torrent would come, she knew, in a wave of sudden grief, but for now her emotions were elusive, too numb to be felt. The parlor where she sat was washed of color in the candlelit afternoon, the stormy weather having turned everything to a soulless gray. The corners of the room had receded into eerie darkness, adding to the gloom and sense of isolation. The only warmth was the fire dying in the fireplace. Hissing and popping, the embers fought valiantly for life but like Papa they would lose the battle. And like the loss of her father, the resulting chill would be felt to her very bones. The somber atmosphere suited Brenna’s mood. Morbidly she watched as the flames faded, although at any time she could have added more peat and revived them. Why bother? The part of her that mattered would never be warm again. And for practical purposes, her maid had made the grisly observation that it was best to keep cool a room where a body waited for burial. Brenna pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders and shivered. She looked to the wooden box where lay, for viewing, what remained of the earl. “This is very unfair of you, Papa. First Mama and now you.” Her voice, used little for more than two days, sounded strange to her ears, hollow in the lonely parlor. Her half brother Malcolm, a stodgy Englishman to the core, had refused the traditional Irish wake. For once she was grateful. She had greeted the occasional caller come to pay his or her respects, but had been incapable of conversation beyond the few words necessary to remain courteous. Everyone understood, naturally. They whispered words of sorrow and retreated without lingering, so she could continue her mourning in peace. Finally, they had ceased to come at all. Brenna stood and walked to the casket as she had done over and over during the endless hours. She had stayed with the body, not eating, rarely drinking, leaving only to visit the water closet. The servants had eventually left her alone, much to her relief. She stared down at her father’s dear face, the pallor of death emphasizing the shuttered eyes, the flaccid features, the vacuity that heralded the absence of a working mind. It wasn’t her father of course, just his shell, but it was all that remained of what he had been. Perhaps it was true that, as the righteous believed, the soul stayed on earth 7

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for three days, casting off the bonds of mortality before taking flight to the heavens. She hoped so because she wanted to believe he could hear her even now, was sharing her heartbreak. And because she was angry with him. “Why did you leave me when I still need you?” she asked, not for the first time. Brenna hated the petulance in her voice, a woman of twenty-four years, clinging to her father as though she were a little girl. How could she be thinking of herself when death had brought him relief from his pain? The earl had suffered, growing old and enfeebled, bedridden before her eyes. He had not died so much as faded away. But she had clung to him, despite the disease that had eaten at his lungs, praying the Almighty would cure his ailment and give him back to her. So much for prayer. “Thing is,” she continued, fingering the old man’s coat sleeve, “you know how Malcolm feels. He’s not a bad person, but he has no love for me, and now that you’re not here to protect me—” As if the mention of his name were the cue to appear, the door opened, and her half brother stuck his head into the room. His expression was cool and assessing. “Brenna, we need to talk.” Immediately her stomach cramped with dread. “Can’t it wait, Malcolm, until after the funeral?” “No.” His tone was clipped. “I depart directly following the service tomorrow morning.” “But I should stay with Papa. What of our guests? Who will greet them?” “The guests have come and gone.” He paused, eyeing her shrewdly. “Avoiding me won’t change anything, Brenna. There are issues that must be settled before I leave for home. Do not make this any more disagreeable than necessary.” She ran her gaze tenderly over the earl’s still form, lingering on his frozen knuckles, covered with a sprinkling of freckles. Her eyes watered, and for a moment she feared the dam would break when she least wanted it to. With effort her tears receded, leaving behind a throat that ached with pent-up emotion. “I will make you proud, Papa,” she whispered. “For heaven’s sake, Brenna, melodrama is not your forte. Give it up.” “And compassion is not yours,” she bit back, suddenly angry. “Just because you cannot mourn the passing of our father, do not paint me with that brush.” He stiffened and pulled back into the hall, his gray eyes growing frosty. “Be that as it may, I wish to speak with you. I am asking, with all due respect, that you meet me in the library in one half-hour.” So formal, so impersonal. As always. Brenna nodded, the anger ebbing as quickly as it had risen. “I’ll be there, Malcolm.”

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He returned her nod, and the door closed quietly behind him, leaving Brenna to wonder what intolerable revelations awaited her thirty minutes from now.

***** Although the parlor had been dark and cold, the library was filled with light, the warmth of a blazing fire chasing away the chill. Malcolm sat at her father’s desk and because her response was unreasonable, Brenna tried not to resent it. It was his desk now, of course. “Come in and sit down, Brenna.” His attitude was cordial, almost friendly and, rather than being reassured, she felt alarmed. She took the leather chair closest to the desk, arranging her skirts as she sat down. She continued to pluck at them long after she should have been settled, revealing her agitation, she realized. She ceased her movements, clasping her hands in her lap. She raised her gaze and stared at her brother impassively. Her lack of response seemed to unsettle him. “Yes well, where to start.” He cleared his throat. He was uncomfortable. Good. “Start at the beginning, Malcolm.” Her weary tone must have bothered him because his lips twisted with impatience. “You want me to be blunt.” “I want you to get on with it,” Brenna said, uncertain whether she could maintain her detachment in the face of his superior attitude. She felt like a condemned person waiting for the ax to fall. “I don’t want you to make pretty a situation that is not pretty because it makes you feel better.” “Very well. We’ll do it your way.” Spite filled his voice, and Brenna wondered if she had made a tactical error by challenging him. Did it matter? How her brother delivered his news made no difference to what he had to say. She had asked for plain speaking and could hardly protest if that’s what he gave her. Malcolm reached into a drawer and extracted several sheets of paper. They looked yellowed with age. He plopped them in the middle of the desk. Brenna raised her brows in question, nonchalantly, refusing to allow him to see the fear that clawed at her insides. “I found this among our father’s papers. It’s an old contract. A betrothal contract.” She stared at him blankly. “Betrothal contract?” Even as she spoke, realization struck, taking her breath. She came forward in her chair, all pretenses forgotten. “Malcolm, that contract was broken years ago by mutual consent.” “I have reapplied for consideration,” he said, clearly gratified that he now had her attention. “Luckily for us, the other party is still interested.”

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“Well, I’m not! Why would you do such a thing without consulting me?” “I’m the head of this family, Brenna. Now that Father has passed on, it falls to me to see that you are taken care of.” “I am taken care of. I’ll stay here and watch over the estate.” She spoke quickly, despising herself for pleading but unable to stop. “You dislike living in Ireland. Let me do it.” He paused for a moment, a reflective gaze shifting around the library. “You are correct. I don’t care for it here. Too many bad memories.” “You see?” she went on nervously, babbling, “this is best for all concerned. You need never come to Ireland if you don’t want to. You’ll send your wishes to me, and I will carry them out…” His attention centered on her again. “I’m going to sell all my Irish holdings.” “Here?” she whispered when she could find her voice. “Everly?” “Yes.” Had he throttled her she could not have felt more pain. Life as she knew it was over. “Why, Malcolm? Why? Unlike you, I love it here. Everly is my home.” “It’s a moldering pile of stones surrounded by poverty,” he said. As if perceiving how awful he sounded, he waved his hand, dismissing his own statement. “What does it matter? I need the money. Despite what you might think, our father left me land rich and money poor.” “We did well enough.” He sneered. “I want to do better than that.” “And to do better, you’re willing to sacrifice me to a profligate?” For the first time her brother looked uncomfortable. Brenna eased back in her chair again, aware that hysterics played into his hand. “What are the terms of the new contract?” “That is the business of men.” Naturally. “How much have you been offered for me?” she insisted. Malcolm shook his head, a smile of pity touching his mouth. “You have a high opinion of yourself, sister dear. No one pays for a half-Irish bastard. The payment is mine, I assure you.” Brenna fought for control, staring at him mutely, when what she wanted was to rise up and punch him squarely in the mouth. Twenty-four years of unrelenting bitterness had come to this. How could he have said such a hateful thing? If she had not always forgiven his hostility toward her, she had at least understood it. Not now. And never again. “Father legalized my birth, Malcolm.” “He legalized his affair with your mother, also. It doesn’t hide the ugly truth.” 10

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“Don’t you think it’s time you put the past to rest? It can’t be changed.” “How dare you propose to tell me how to feel.” He stood abruptly and leaned forward on the desk, supported by his fingertips. “While his wife lay dying, that dead man in the parlor, whom you mourn so woefully, sired a child with a lowly Irish female. And when I was fourteen-years-old—still grieving, I might add—he brought that female into this house to take my mother’s place. Her two-year-old daughter was merely the final indignity.” “Malcolm—” “On that day,” his eyes narrowed, “that’s when my father died. I’m done with my mourning.” “It wasn’t my fault,” she said softly. “Didn’t matter then, and it doesn’t matter now. Those feelings were formed in a lad of fourteen. And when I think of that time…” He swallowed, as if he were still consumed by those same feelings. He sat down again, embarrassment tingeing his cheeks red. Malcolm rarely lost his composure. “What is the price you must pay?” “It’s what it has always been—that damn piece of land separating Lundsford from Covington. Seems the Covingtons feel one of our dastardly ancestors stole it away from them, and they’ve spent the better part of two hundred years trying to get it back. If I give them the land, they will take you in the bargain.” “How flattering. Seems a paltry reward for taking on ‘a half-Irish bastard’.” He shrugged, watching her moodily. “Why don’t you just sell them the land, since money is an issue, and let me stay here at Everly?” “I can’t sell this crumbling old house if I do that.” And he wouldn’t be rid of her. “Oh. Of course.” Brenna knew not to ask, but the words tumbled out anyway. “Must I marry? Why can’t I simply go to England with you?” “Because it’s not that simple.” He looked pained, refusing to meet her gaze. “When Father sent me away to school, it was a relief not to have to watch the happiness of a family that no longer included me. I’m not going to lie to you, Brenna. I have my own family now, and bringing you to live with us would be untenable. I wish I could be more generous about it, but I can’t.” Malcolm had chosen to be honest, and she could only respect him for that. She would take blunt speech over the sniping that had characterized the beginning of their talk anytime. However, his confession had cut deeply. “We’ll be neighbors,” she said, the ache in her throat returning. Again, his gaze shifted away from her. “Like Father, we’re rarely there. Helen doesn’t care for the country. And our ties to the Covingtons are formal at best.”

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Meaning the two families did not socialize. Brenna nodded, silent for long moments. Malcolm did not break the quiet, evidently allowing her time to come to terms with what was happening to her. She decided his effort was wasted. “The ink is dry?” she asked. “The contracts are signed, yes.” “Papa has only just died.” She tried not to sound accusing. Clearly her father had had nothing to do with this new agreement. “I knew he was dying, Brenna. I took it upon myself, I admit, but it was my responsibility in the end. I saw no reason to wait until the situation became urgent and we were left with expediency as our only choice.” She wanted to argue that he had been preemptive as well, but what was the point? What he meant was he wanted her gone immediately, out of Everly, with no chance of her going to England with him, even for a short while. Just as well, she supposed. The thought of living with Malcolm and his snobbish wife Helen made her head hurt. “Have you met Viscount Rutherford?” she asked. “Covington’s son? Yes I have, brief encounters. We are not friends.” “Has his reputation improved?” The impatience returned. “Brenna, young men get into scrapes. Most of them eventually make fine husbands and fathers. Do not borrow trouble.” Easy for him to say. “I met Evan Richmond when I was fifteen. Papa had a house party at Lundsford to celebrate our betrothal. You did not attend, as I recall.” His eyelids drooped. “Most likely not,” he murmured. Brenna nervously picked at her skirt again. “Lord Rutherford wasn’t just a rascal, Malcolm. I sensed a streak of cruelty in him that frightened me, something…unnatural. After the party, I begged Papa to break the contract. I think he was as shaken as I because he didn’t hesitate. He hired a detective agency to investigate the viscount’s background. Papa never revealed the results to me, but he risked his honor to put an end to it.” Malcolm looked unmoved. “People change.” “Perhaps. Odd thing is, Lord Covington never demurred. He said he understood, and that was that. Don’t you find it a bit strange?” “He may have felt his son was not ready for marriage.” “Lord Rutherford had already reached his majority at the time of the betrothal. And we were not to marry for three years. How could that be it?” “I don’t know, Brenna. I think you are looking for excuses. We cannot cry off a second time. How will that look?” Mustn’t lose face, although she was well aware it wasn’t about losing face. Malcolm had made it clear he wanted to be free of her.

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“And if I choose to ignore this contract? After all, you can’t force me.” Her brother sat up straight in his chair, linking his fingers on the desk in front of him. He now wore an earnest expression, and she trusted him least of all when he looked like that. “I’ll give you the bald facts, Brenna. There is a small stipend. Father could leave you no more since the whole of the estate is entailed. He did what he could, but you will find it difficult going if you try to live on it. I feel a well-placed marriage is to your advantage. I’ll not help you if you decide to spurn this offer. You will be on your own.” Whether he was really prepared to abandon her or not, she didn’t know. She suspected he would falter if she put him to the test because ultimately he did care what people would say. However, his need to be done with her was clearly his first priority. Brenna stood, feeling as though she had been sitting for hours. The clock on the mantle said they had been sequestered only twenty minutes. How was that possible? Malcolm stood as well, and they stared awkwardly at each other. So this is what it had come to—a hostile meeting and most likely a sterile goodbye in the morning. She didn’t want it to end this way. If he had been willing, she would have forgiven old hurts and made friends with him. Her mother was gone and so was his, and their father was only a few hours from a deep hole in the ground. Now it was just the two of them. They could have salvaged what remained of their family. Sadly, it was not to be. She felt lonelier at that moment than she ever had in her life. “I need some time to think,” Brenna said. Malcolm inclined his head. “Completely understandable.” “I’ll return to the parlor now.” “It seems to give you comfort,” he agreed. At the doorway she stopped, but he had already turned away from her. Just so, Malcolm, just so. In the darkened hallway the narrow walls closed in around her like a tomb. The room where the earl rested loomed ahead, cold and dreary and filled with death. An hour ago she didn’t believe she could be more depressed. She was wrong. Brenna entered the parlor and pulled up a chair, returning to her father’s side. She would be his unwavering companion until tomorrow’s ceremony delivered him to his maker. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust… “Papa, it is worse than we could have imagined. So much worse—” The words were carried on a strangled sob, tears clogging her throat. Brenna gripped the rim of the open coffin with hands that shook, leaning her forehead against her knuckles. Her composure then failed her completely as the grief poured out of her. She despised self-pity and rarely indulged, but the moment was beyond her. Too bad weeping could afford her no relief. Her journey into the unknown was only beginning, and fear was as much the reason for her breakdown as loss. 13

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What would tomorrow bring, and how was she to face it? Without Papa and without Everly. Only the coming days would give her that answer.

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Chapter Two

England—May, 1842 Covington was a vast estate in Berkshire, thousands of acres of cultivated fields and orchards, rolling green meadows and lush woodlands. Brenna hadn’t a clue why one small strip of land, a pittance in comparison to the Covington wealth, warranted an alliance between two families who had little use for one another. There was nothing special about the land except it represented a grievance, a perceived need to right an old wrong. She supposed two hundred years of acrimony finally could be put to rest. The carriage in which she currently rode had been traveling on Covington property for more than an hour, an end to the long and tedious journey from Ireland. The scenery passed her window in a blur, as it had for days, even the colorful pageantry of spring having no effect on her mood. Her body ached, sore legs and a stiff neck, but it was nothing compared to the ache in her heart. Her departure from Everly had been melancholy but restrained—until she had said goodbye to her servants. And then, shamefully, Brenna had fallen apart much as she had on the night before her father’s burial. She had been given four weeks to become accustomed to the future her brother had arranged for her, four weeks to make her farewells to friends and the only home she had ever known. It had not been long enough. Dressed in mourning, Brenna had been bundled into the carriage; the sad faces of those who had cared for her the whole of her life surrounding the vehicle, only her personal maid Emma would accompany her. One look back, as she rolled down the drive, was all that was needed to keep her sniffing into her hankie for the long quiet hours that followed. She settled into a malaise and lingered there for the remainder of the trip. With time to think and a resentful attitude to keep her company, Brenna decided it was just as well she and Malcolm would not be seeing each other. For most people, forgiveness was at best a sentiment doled out with reluctance. In her present frame of mind she had none to give her self-centered brother. She had passed Lundsford earlier in the day, but her brief glimpse of Papa’s ancestral home had left her unmoved. Brenna had spent little time there and, when she had, it was usually wishing she were back at Everly. Only time would tell whether or not Malcolm would snub her when he was in residence. The carriage rolled over a small incline and Covington Manor came into view. Manor hardly described the imposing structure, however. Even from a distance the stately Tudor residence dominated the landscape, a paved circular drive, sculpted lawns and formal gardens providing a panoramic frame for the Earl’s impressive home.

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The apathy that had consumed Brenna immediately turned to anxiety. She flattened her hands and nose against the window and stared like the unsophisticated provincial she was. Now that she was nearly there, she was stunned by the reality of her situation. Emma slept, head propped in the corner of the carriage seat. Her mouth hung open, and occasionally she would smack her lips as though trying to moisten them. She would complete the irritating exercise with a sharp snort then jerk restlessly. Brenna reached over and nudged her. “Wake up!” she whispered urgently. “I think we’ve arrived.” Emma yawned hugely and glanced out the window. Her eyes widened. “Lord above!” she said. “‘Tis grand, isn’t it?” “I thought it would be like Lundsford.” The maid, on her first visit to England, turned to her mistress. “You’ve never seen your future husband’s home?” The implication, of course, was that the Lundsfords and Covingtons were neighbors and must surely have socialized. “You are witness to a miracle, Emma,” Brenna said in a dry voice. “My brother’s finesse has wrought what two hundred years of negotiations could not.” The maid stared at her dumbly, so she merely added on a sigh, “No, I’ve never been to Covington Manor. Our visits to England were mercifully short, and my Irish mother was not considered an acceptable guest to most of the local gentry.” Emma’s eyes widened in dismay. “Truly, miss?” “I don’t wish to start off on a negative foot,” Brenna added, “but I do think we, you and I, should be prepared for the bigotry.” “Oh. B-but your father’s English and an earl at that.” “I suspect that hardly matters.” “Still—” Brenna placed a hand on the maid’s wrist, staying her. “We’re here,” she said quietly. Their coachman had circled the drive, drawing to a stop with the carriage door opening directly on the front walk. Even as the man leapt from the box, the manor door was flung wide, and several liveried servants followed by a dignified butler spilled from the house. Behind them came an older couple, arm in arm, and an enormous brindle mastiff. The couple, dog politely at their feet, remained on the top step just outside the entrance, silently watching the proceedings. A footman handed Brenna to the ground then did the same for Emma. The two young women stood on the walk as the servants unloaded their luggage. Brenna glanced at the man and woman on the top step. Neither moved, but the woman smiled tentatively, as though uncertain what to do next. The woman was not the only one who was hesitant. Brenna sent back a timid smile of her own, remaining where she stood until the butler, his attitude as formal as his 16

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garb, escorted her to the waiting couple. Ordinarily a calm person, her heart thumped madly as she was forced to admit the future she had feared was now upon her. She was keenly aware of Emma on her heels as she ascended the steps, wishing she could turn to her loyal servant and friend for protection. Unfortunately, it was her obligation to smooth the maid’s way into their new home. But how was she to do that when all she wanted was to run away as fast and as far as her trembling legs could carry her? “My dear,” the dark-haired man, tall and massively built, spoke first. He came forward, extending a huge fat-fingered fist. “Welcome to Covington Manor.” Brenna’s fingers were swallowed in a gentle grip. The moment her hand touched his, the pace of her heart slowed. She raised her gaze to the kindest pair of gray eyes she had ever seen, and a wave of relief washed over her so intense she was nearly reduced to tears. She was shocked by the depth of her response, but lately her emotions had been a sleigh ride of up and down, changing without notice, leaving her unprepared and shaken by her lack of control. “Lord Covington?” she said, her voice surprisingly strong. “Yes. And this is Lady Covington.” He stepped back and motioned his wife to his side. “Lady Covington, indeed. You must call me Mary.” The older woman spoke in a wispy voice, hand also outstretched. “And call this large fellow Basil,” she said as she touched her husband’s sleeve. The earl nodded encouragingly. “Yes, yes, Basil, of course. And this splendid chap is Othello,” he said, indicating the dog, his voice filled with pride. Othello’s tail wagged, massive tongue lolling to the side of his mouth, as if he fully understood the introductions. Brenna leaned forward to stroke his head. “He’s lovely,” she said and meant it. “We’ve been anticipating your arrival ever since your brother Malcolm first contacted us,” Mary continued after Othello had been suitably fawned over. Brenna winced inwardly at the reference to Malcolm and his machinations but with an effort kept her feelings from registering on her face. She suspected she was not entirely successful, for she saw a subtle shift in Lady Covington’s green gaze, suggesting the woman understood her young guest’s embarrassment. The countess was as small and fragile as her husband was not. The epitome of the delicate redhead, she had fine features, milky complexion and freckles faded from age. There was a sweetness in her demeanor that instantly put Brenna at ease. Perhaps she had worried overly, she decided with relief, taking Lady Covington’s hand. Moments into her introduction to her future husband’s parents she felt reassured—and foolish, borrowing trouble where none seemed to exist. Brenna, of course, had not been reintroduced to Viscount Rutherford, the most important

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introduction of all. But hopefully Malcolm had been correct in his assessment that most young men matured at some point and made acceptable husbands. Her attention shifted to the darkened entry. Where was the viscount, anyway? She immediately sensed the discomfiture in her hosts as if they understood the direction her thoughts had taken. “Yes, well, I suppose you are wondering where our son is,” the earl said. Brenna raised her brows politely in question, not bothering to vocalize the obvious. “Evan’s visiting friends in London,” he began, his steady gaze suddenly less so. “Since we were uncertain of your exact arrival until yesterday, he, ah…he has been waiting to hear from us. We’ll be sending him a missive in the morning. He should return within the week. I hope you are not cast down.” Humm…let’s see, she thought cynically. Do you suppose they would be offended if I told them I was relieved, ecstatically so? Wouldn’t do, naturally, to let on that she had about as much desire to meet their son as she did a nest of angry bees. Instead, buoyed by the sudden reprieve, Brenna murmured a gracious if insincere response implying that she was indeed disappointed and followed the Covingtons into her new home.

***** As it turned out, Viscount Rutherford did not return for nearly a fortnight. Aside from the obvious disrespect his absence suggested, Brenna could not have been more satisfied. Every day he stayed away—and she had no doubt that was exactly what he was doing—she enjoyed one more day of freedom. One more day of not having to play wife to a stranger. The bedchamber they had given her was beautiful, floral lavenders and pinks with deep green accents. Not overly large, it was a woman’s place, cozy and inviting. The late morning sun streamed without hindrance through the arched windows, bathing the entire room in a golden warmth. This chamber was part of a grand master suite, a connecting door in her room leading to the room she would share with her husband, another door in that room leading to his private chamber. The three rooms altogether took up one entire side of the west wing. Basil and Mary—according to Emma, who as a servant knew the inner workings of the household better in a day than Brenna would in a year—shared an identical suite in the east wing. But the earl rarely used his private quarters, Emma had said with a wink, preferring to spend his nights in his wife’s bed in her own cozy chamber. “Imagine, after all these years,” the maid had said. That enormous middle room did seem redundant, a meeting place for the most personal aspect of a couple’s marriage, like boxers coming together in the center of a

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boxing ring and scurrying back to their respective corners—or rooms—when the “match” was ended. Brenna had taken the courage only once to open the connecting door to what Lady Covington politely and rather quaintly called the marriage nest. The decor was forbidding in its formality, huge dark furniture, brocades and gold, a canopied bed the size of a small tennis court on a dais. She shuddered, her stomach clenching with unease. She wondered if it were premonition in her response or just the normal hesitation of the virtuous female on the brink of sexual experience. Either way, she chose to ignore the “nest” and its reason for being. Time enough to face that eventuality when the viscount finally deigned to come home. This day, the thirteenth day since her arrival, Brenna woke with a sense of expectancy. And though no one had said so, nor did she have any reason to assume so, she believed her peace was coming to an end. This was not the first time in her young life she had been afflicted with a “feeling”, a notion all was not well, that something momentous was about to happen. She did not question her ability to know things. Her mother’s people were superstitious, and Brenna had never been discouraged from voicing her intuitive thoughts. Mama had called it the Sight. Papa had been equally supportive, indulgent really. Not that she believed she had the Sight. That was a rare gift in its most potent form, but there were degrees of perception, and Brenna knew she had been blessed with at least some adeptness. Thus she lay abed that morning, the early sun warming the bed quilt through those generous windows, the beautiful day calling to her to rise, and she appreciating nothing but the apprehension settling into her chest like a leaded weight. If Evan Richmond, Viscount Rutherford had not yet arrived home, he would be here shortly. And he was not alone. Putting aside her disquiet, Brenna finally rose, hunger and a fair amount of curiosity forcing her from the covers. Her maid in attendance, she dressed, the only relief from her usual black the soft gray lace that decorated the front of her gown. “You look lovely, miss,” Emma said. “Perhaps,” she replied, looking in the mirror. Drab was more like it. Unfortunately, lovely—or drab—did not translate into sophisticated. She still looked provincial, raw and in need of a little polish. Her education had been adequate, she supposed, an English nanny imported to Everly by her father to see to her speech and manners. But there was no substitution for practical experience, experience gained in the drawing rooms of the social elite. Papa had wanted her to grow up a worthy English miss, but not enough to spend more than a nominal amount of time in his homeland. Downstairs, she entered the small dining room reserved for intimate family meals. French doors were thrown open to a stone porch that led into a rose garden, and the spring day was dragging an intoxicating floral scent indoors.

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Basil and Mary were seated at the table, and they greeted her in unison. Brenna’s eyes scanned the room. After the portentous feeling that had driven her from her bed, she was surprised to find them eating alone. “Good morning,” she returned. “You look attractive today, my dear,” the countess said. “Yes, indeed,” the earl agreed. Of course, he would agree, Brenna thought, amused. He was the most agreeable man she had ever met. She smiled indulgently at the kind couple. In only a few days she had grown quite fond of her new family. Breakfast as usual was laid on the sideboard, more food than ten people could eat prepared for the three people, including herself, who dined there. She filled her plate, the seductive aromas—eggs, various breakfast meats and fresh hot breads—igniting her hunger, determined to do her part not to waste the sumptuous feast. Brenna joined Basil and Mary at the table, aware as she was every morning of the great abundance that surrounded her. She had grown up wanting for nothing, but wealth such as the Covingtons possessed was new to her. Having witnessed heartwrenching poverty just beyond her doorstep at Everly, she was uncomfortable with the extreme inequity between the privileged and those who struggled every day for survival. Sheepishly, she admitted to herself that her feelings of guilt did not diminish her appetite in the least. She buttered a scone, her mouth watering even as she topped it off with a generous dollop of strawberry jam, then opened her lips to take a bite. “Evan returned home last night.” Brenna jerked, staring at the earl as the scone dropped from her nerveless fingers. Sadly, it missed her plate entirely, skipping down the front of her gown, soiling the gray lace, and plopping onto her lap. She jumped from her seat and grabbed her napkin, frantically wiping at the red stain on her bodice like a flapping bird. “What a clumsy thing to do!” she muttered breathlessly. Meanwhile, the scone had rolled onto the floor. She sank to her knees, ducking under the table to retrieve it. She swiped it up in her napkin and staggered to her feet, bumping her head on the table edge as she did so, only to find two sets of eyes staring at her as if she’d gone daft. “Perhaps Evan’s arrival is not good news?” Mary ventured after an extended silence. “No, no, it’s not that. I…that is to say, you took me by surprise. It’s been so long, I had begun to think Lord Rutherford wasn’t coming.” Oh dear, that’s not what she had meant to say, for her statement implied criticism. Truth was, she had been hoping he wouldn’t show, that by some miracle she could avoid the inevitable. She could hardly admit that, however.

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Apparently, it wasn’t necessary. Understanding filtered into the earl’s expression, along with a liberal dose of pity. She shifted her attention to the countess and found a like expression on the older woman’s features. In that moment, Brenna wanted to weep. Displeasure she could handle. Pity was another matter altogether. “Sit down and finish your meal,” Basil said gently. “But I’m covered in jam.” “So you are,” came a cool voice from the doorway. Brenna swung around to face the newcomer, and her mouth dropped open in surprise. On the threshold stood quite the most beautiful woman she had ever seen. Black, black hair and opaque blue eyes the color of lapis. The only fault in her appearance that Brenna could see was a thinness that verged on sickly. But the set of her shoulders and the way she strode into the dining room belied any tendency toward weakness. “This is our daughter Evangeline, Evan’s older sister,” Mary said. “Oh. I was unaware Lord Rutherford had a sister.” Brenna came forward, hand outstretched. Evangeline cast an ironic look at her parents. “Then we must assume that you are also unaware that I am only minutes older than my brother. Evan and I are twins.” She glanced down at the hand Brenna held out to her, distaste curling her lip. “The jam. Hope you don’t mind.” She moved to the sideboard, leaving Brenna alone with her humiliation. Brenna pressed her sticky fingers into the equally sticky napkin still clutched in her other hand, for a moment too crushed to speak. The scone was still wrapped in the napkin, and she stared at it as if seeing it for the first time. Turning to her hosts, she smiled, dismayed that she could feel her lips tremble. “Perhaps I should change after all.” Even as she spoke, the doorway filled again. Brenna felt the breath stall in her chest. She knew who stood there, and every nerve in her body came alive with dread. With what remained of her failing courage, she squared her shoulders and turned to greet the man with whom she was destined to spend a lifetime.

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Chapter Three Evan Richmond, Viscount Rutherford entered the dining room, a discernible swagger to his gait. His gaze shifted arrogantly over the room’s occupants, before coming to rest on Brenna. He stared into her face for long moments then pointedly allowed his attention to drop to the red berry stain on the front of her gown. When he looked her in the eye again, there was no mistaking his contempt. “Is this the little Irish miss who is to be my bride?” The words were delivered on a sneer, and Brenna felt the blood leave her face. She also felt her temper rise. Why, the buffoon had not even greeted his parents, whom she assumed he had not seen in many weeks. But she held her tongue, not certain it was her place to speak. “Your manners, Evan—” the earl began in a stern voice. “Now, now, Father, I’m long past the age of needing your advice on how to comport myself. After all, what did I say that is incorrect? She is Irish and a miss, and is she not to be my bride?” He raised his brows at Brenna and cocked his head in question as if he were only stating the obvious, and from the sideboard she heard Evangeline snigger. However, Brenna knew his words were not meant for her, not really. There was old animosity in this room, so thick and foul only a fool could miss it. She was no fool. “Be that as it may, Evan,” Basil continued, “please take a seat. And you as well, Geline. It would please me if we could show our guest at least a semblance of good breeding.” He turned a kind eye on Brenna. “Go change, my dear. We’ll try the introductions again after my wayward children have had something to eat.” Evangeline huffed audibly, but Brenna did not look at her, instead taking her escape gladly. She sidled around the viscount to reach the door. As she left the room she glanced at the countess. The poor woman looked stricken. Even before she reached the staircase, Brenna heard the eruption of angry voices. Any other time she might have been curious. Not now. All she wanted was to distance herself as quickly as possible from the sickness that had suddenly filled the dining room. Never had she sensed such perverted intent. She climbed the stairs so quickly she almost fell, willing herself to deafness. Her cozy room was now a retreat, a refuge from whatever menace had invaded the house. For the life of her she did not know if she would be up to introductions later. Only after she was safely ensconced in her bedchamber with the door locked behind her, did she allow the anger she had been feeling to take her. Snide, cutting

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remarks meant to wound—where did the man find his conceit that he would belittle her? The years had not been kind to Lord Rutherford, that was certain. Oh there was no mistaking the handsome face, an older version of a face that had been almost beautiful when he was a young man of twenty-three. He had been tall and fit, black hair with the same lapis-blue eyes as his sister. Brenna’s first glimpse of him and she had been smitten. Nine years later, however, the dissipation was obvious. He clearly lived hard and to excess, and his rapacious ways were leaving their mark in a puffy, lined countenance and a soft body. She remembered the house party her father had given when she was fifteen to celebrate her original betrothal to the viscount. She had been young and impressionable and, on first meeting him, convinced the man of her dreams did indeed exist in the form of Evan Richmond, Viscount Rutherford. In less than two days she had changed her mind. Completely. Aside from his obvious condescension toward her, the viscount had shown a marked preference for the other young ladies who made up the party. Since most were more of an age with him than Brenna, she had understood, but his lack of consideration for her feelings had hurt and angered her. Still, she was prepared to forgive his youthful indiscretions—even after he was found in flagrante delicto with one of the housemaids. Young men were given to “sport”, and women were expected to understand. But his cruel treatment of that same maid only hours later left Brenna shaken and determined to end her engagement. The maid’s name was Bessy. She was pretty in a coarse way and not particularly bright. Clearly, she had been overwhelmed by the attention of a handsome lord, and to this day Brenna could not blame her for succumbing to his charms. Nevertheless, Bessy had been dismissed. Weeping, she had exited the house through the servants’ entrance, carrying a satchel, most likely the tattered bag holding the sum total of all her worldly goods. The viscount had been waiting for her. He blamed Bessy for them being caught, and an argument ensued that brought the attention of those in the house. Bessy turned and walked away from him and, in a moment of cruel spite, Lord Rutherford placed his boot to the seat of her skirt and pushed with all his might. The poor maid went flying before hitting the ground, scuffing her knees, elbows and chin. Brenna was sickened, having witnessed the entire sordid scene, as did several of her guests. There was a tendency among the young men to make jests, but the laughter had had an uncomfortable, hollow ring. The party had dispersed after that, everyone returning home suddenly for one reason or another. Informed next morning of the viscount’s temper tantrum, it took little persuasion to convince her father that Evan Richmond was not the material of which husbands were made. And yet, here she was nine years later on the verge of marrying that same man.

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Someone tapped on her door. Brenna shuffled across the bedchamber, forcing her thoughts from the past. One deep breath and she opened the door. Evangeline stood in the corridor. Brenna stared at her, mute, uncertain in her surprise what response was the appropriate one. An elegant eyebrow arched slowly. Evangeline said, “Well? Are you going to invite me in? Or would you rather we converse on opposite sides of the doorway?” Wonder if she would be offended if I simply closed the door in her face, Brenna thought, piqued. No need to converse then. Disappointed in her own lack of courage, she did the polite thing instead and stood back and motioned the woman inside. Evan’s twin circled the room without speaking, glancing at the few possessions placed on the dressing and night tables. A painted oil miniature of Brenna’s parents caught her attention, and she picked it up, studying the picture for long moments. Evangeline’s gaze shifted to her. “You look like your mother.” Brenna nodded. “I do.” “Fortunately for you, she doesn’t look common.” A nerve in Brenna’s face jumped, and she took a step forward before she stopped herself. Hands clenched at her side, she said, “I’m certain you had a reason for visiting me. Perhaps you would like to tell me what it is.” Evangeline put the picture down, a sly smile touching her mouth. “No reason. We’re going to be sisters, you and I, and I thought it would be nice for us to get to know one another. After all, once you are married we will have one thing very much in common.” She didn’t look at Brenna as she spoke, her gaze continuing to devour her surroundings, slim fingers lightly tracing this object and Brenna could not help feeling violated in the process. “And that would be?” Suddenly, Evangeline’s opaque eyes centered on Brenna. “My brother.” Every hair on Brenna’s body rose as she stared back at the woman, although she couldn’t exactly say why. Was she being threatened? The conversation, except the insult to her mother, had been innocuous enough, so she wondered if she were overreacting. But the feeling of menace that crawled along her skin was very real indeed. “Certainly. That is as it should be,” Brenna returned blandly. She was unwilling to challenge Evangeline until she understood what appeared to be a hidden motive. And if there were no motive, then she had not risked alienating the one person she suspected was closest to her future husband.

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Evangeline watched her a moment as if judging her sincerity. Then an ironic smile twisted her beautiful mouth, long lashes sweeping down to conceal the sudden contempt that seeped into her gaze. She turned her back, her attention returning to Brenna’s things. “Yes, well…as you say,” she said over her shoulder. “I hope our little disturbance this morning did not upset you.” Brenna did not know how to respond because she had indeed been upset. But she detected a probing quality to the woman’s comment that made her suspicious. “I wouldn’t say upset.” “What would you say?” “Uncomfortable perhaps. Confused for certain.” “I see. You simply need to know us better. Evan was tired from his trip, but he can be quite charming when he chooses to be.” “You forget, Lady Evangeline—” “Please, call me Geline. Everybody does.” Brenna nodded. “Geline then. But I must remind you that Lord Rutherford and I have already met.” “So you have. However, you were not much more than a girl, my dear. Hardly in a position to understand the, ah…shall we say, proclivities of the adult male.” Obliging way to put it, Brenna thought. She must assume from the comment that Geline knew what had happened all those years ago at Lundsford, although she suspected Evan’s sister had received his unique perspective on the episode. Whether that included any of the truth, she could only guess. “His ‘proclivities’, as you call them, ended a betrothal.” Geline turned to her once more, no longer hiding her contempt. “And yet,” she lifted outspread hands, “here you are.” That was the ultimate irony, of course, and there wasn’t a thing she could say to counter the woman’s observation. The fact that she was here against her will hardly mattered. Brenna stared back at her, mute with frustration. Her visitor laughed, a low, sultry sound that put Brenna’s teeth on edge. “Come, I’m sensing animosity here. No need to take offense. As I’ve said, we’re to be family.” True—unfortunately. But Geline certainly had a strange way of issuing a welcome. Rather than feeling reassured by her future sister-in-law’s words, Brenna was irritated and suspicious. With some effort, she forced herself to murmur, “As you say.” Hardly an endorsement, but it was the best she could manage. Geline pivoted on her satin slippers, her skirts swishing elegantly around her slim hips as she moved toward the door. She stopped in front of Brenna. Lips pursed in

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seeming consideration, she raised an index finger to Brenna’s cheek, her nearness bringing with her a heavy, sweet fragrance that was overpowering. A strange light filtered into her eyes, and she said, “Evan is worried that you are a dull little thing, and my brother hates dull above all else. However, I see possibilities, and so I shall tell him. This may not be the disaster we have imagined.” She skimmed a manicured nail down to Brenna’s jaw, as if she were one more “thing” to touch in the room, and it took all Brenna’s strength of will not to flinch from her cloying touch. Even so, she could not control her stomach, which executed a disgusted flip-flop. Luckily, it was empty, but if the woman did not stand back from her, she feared she might retch. Geline smirked as though she knew exactly what Brenna was thinking. Without another word she dropped her hand and walked to the door, exiting the bedchamber with a soft snick of the latch. Outside the room that husky laugh erupted again, echoing off the walls then diminishing eerily as she moved down the hall. For long moments Brenna imagined she could still hear the laughter, even though the silence had risen around her, shutting out everything but her thoughts. Why had she reacted like that? she wondered. Why had that woman’s very nearness nauseated her? Perhaps she was more of a sensitive than she had believed. Or perhaps Lady Evangeline exuded such sickness that only a person with no perception whatsoever could miss it. She marveled that someone so beautiful could be so repulsive. Even Lord Rutherford, whom she despised, did not repel her as his sister did. She had a vague hope that she had misjudged the woman, that further association with Geline would reveal her better side. She was not optimistic, however. Common sense told her that what smelled like dung was most likely dung no matter how attractively it was presented. Brenna shuddered and then moved to the washstand to scrub her face.

***** Brenna forced down the last bite of her dessert, a delicious lemon custard, then placed her spoon in her dish. She glanced around the table at her dinner companions. The last hour had been interminable, and she wished she could dispatch the evening with the same speed she had consumed her food. Hunger had set her eagerly to eating. Discord had made her dinner settle like an indigestible lump of lead in her stomach. Lord and Lady Covington had presided over the most uncomfortable meal she had ever attended. And the oddest part was no one seemed to notice. That circumstance alone spoke volumes for the state of the Covington household. Lord Rutherford and his sister Evangeline had spoken mainly to each other, sharing jests and comments that only had meaning to the two of them, acting like secretive

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adolescents rather than adults who should know better. An undercurrent of irreverence and outright derision pervaded their behavior, and Brenna was embarrassed for them both. Basil and Mary were cordial, engaging Brenna in conversation and doing their best to make her feel part of the family. However, their efforts could only do so much given the rude conduct of their children. The earl pushed back his chair and reached for his wife’s hand. “Evan, I think it appropriate that your mother and I and Geline,” he looked purposely at his daughter, “allow you and Brenna a chance to converse over coffee. You’ve had no opportunity to know one another and, after all, there will be a wedding in mere weeks.” Brenna was as appalled as the twins looked. Geline stood with a pronounced flounce and stalked from the room without speaking. Her parents walked sedately behind her, and Brenna was left with a petulant table partner, who offered no doubt as to his attitude about the present situation. Alone with the viscount, silence reigned, and for the life of her Brenna could think of nothing to say. She clasped her hands in her lap, hoping for some inspiration, but her mind remained stubbornly blank. To her relief a footman entered the room at that moment with a tray and coffee service, as he undoubtedly had been instructed to do. Lord Rutherford stopped him. “Brandy,” he barked at the man. “Who in hell finishes a meal with coffee?” Now he looked to Brenna as if she should supply the answer. “I should like some coffee,” Brenna addressed the servant gently. She saw a brief flicker of gratitude in the footman’s eye, before he turned to the sideboard and the brandy decanter. Or was it pity? She couldn’t decide. While they were being served their respective beverages, the viscount pulled out a cigar. As he prepared to light it, he glanced over at his companion. “I suppose you mind?” he asked, his lip curling into a sneer. “No, not at all.” He grunted without discernible appreciation and stuffed the cigar in his mouth, lighting it. He breathed deeply, filling his lungs, then disgorged a plume of smoke over the table. He shifted his gaze to Brenna again. “I abhor black.” “Excuse me?” “Your dress,” he blew more smoke, “unattractive.” Brenna bristled. “I am in mourning, my lord. Surely you do not expect me to discard my blacks. That would be disrespectful to the memory of my father.” “Do you think so?” He pursed his lips, studying his cigar. “I, on the other hand, believe this mourning business is overrated. Your father is dead, after all. He won’t know whether you are disrespectful or not.”

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“Mourning is for the living, my lord. Perhaps my father won’t know, but I will.” The viscount picked a piece of tobacco off his tongue. “You are a good girl.” It was not a compliment. “Excuse me?” “You do as you are told.” “I’m not a rebel, that’s true, but I hardly think you can decide my character based upon such short acquaintance.” “Reasonable.” He pinned her with a sullen stare. “However, that is exactly what you have done to me.” Brenna opened her mouth to respond, but once again she was bereft of words. “Are you referring to all those years ago at our betrothal party?” she ventured at last. “And if I am?” “You didn’t much care for me either, my lord. I assumed you were as relieved as I was to end our, ah, association.” “Not the point, I’m afraid. My father was not a happy man when I came home.” “I’m sorry” seemed the appropriate response, but Brenna could not bring herself to say that. She was not sorry then, and she was not sorry now. Her only regret was that she had not managed to avoid her fate after all. She took a sip of her coffee before carefully replacing her cup in its saucer. “It was not a pleasant time for either of us,” she said. “Is that all you have to say?” Brenna felt a sudden need to find some common ground with him, hopefully gain his help. “You know, we need not go through with this—this marriage scheme. Neither of us wants it, that’s obvious.” “I see.” Lord Rutherford filled his mouth with brandy, his breath echoing in the glass. “What do you suggest?” “I-I’m not certain.” “Do you wish to cry off again?” “No, no, I can’t. Malcolm will carry out his threat against me.” Even as she spoke, Brenna realized how bad she sounded. Into the awful silence that followed, he drawled, “I’ll not bother to ask.” “Forgive me. I did not mean to say it that way, but you can’t be surprised to discover my brother forced my hand.” “Naturally.” He took another gulp of brandy. “So…I’m to play the cad, is that it?” She merely looked at him hopefully. “I hate to disappoint you, my dear, but I am not in a position to oppose my father on this. He wishes me to marry, even if the match is not entirely suitable. Posterity and all that.”

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“But why me? Surely, you’ve had other opportunities, more suitable ones, as you put it.” “You would think so, wouldn’t you? Seems my reputation precedes me.” Brenna felt her stomach clench. What did he mean by that? The viscount tapped his fingers on the table, an impatient rhythm, as he stared, seemingly without seeing, across the room. He reached for his cigar again and took a pull so deep, the smoke appeared to journey to his extremities. His attention centered on her as he exhaled. “I’m not one to fight the inevitable,” he said. “Beating my head against a stone wall will bloody my head, and the wall will still be there. Therefore, I try to find the positive in any situation. My sister believes there is some promise beneath that provincial naiveté.” As he watched her, his eyes narrowed and became more assessing, traveling over her person in way that made her feel unclean. “I’m willing to find out if that is true,” he continued. “Thus I suggest you become accustomed to the notion that we will marry.” She swallowed on a sudden rush of nausea. Her hands had grown clammy, and her head felt light. Until this moment she had not truly believed—or accepted—she was doomed. Brenna was crushed, filled with despair. She stood abruptly, her chair crashing to the floor behind her. “Then you are a coward, my lord.” Her voice trembled. He stared at her arrogantly, remaining in his seat, not deigning to rise to her bait. “What would you have me do, Miss Hilliard?” “What I cannot.” “You have imbued me with powers beyond my capabilities, I’m afraid. I am as caught in this web as you. I simply refuse to engage in a useless struggle. Accept what you cannot change.” “Never!” He smiled contemptuously. “We shall see.” “You called me a good girl, my lord, but I am not the one blindly doing as I am told.” The smile broadened, but the humor lines around his eyes faded, leaving behind a flat and chilling expression. “Then why are you here?” he asked. Brenna turned and swept from the dining room in a panicked rage. She sought the stairs and her bedchamber without consideration for those startled individuals she left in her wake. Fie on them all, she thought in desperation. She entered her room, slammed the door and leaned against it, her heart rattling in her chest like a die in a cup.

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She had no answer for his last question, anymore than she had been able to answer Lady Evangeline’s similar comment earlier in the day. She was here, and she had taken the trip from Ireland as meekly as a lamb to the slaughter. And Brenna suspected she was much like that lamb once it sensed disaster was near. Sad to say, however, the time for escape had passed.

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Chapter Four The morning of Brenna’s wedding was beautiful, clear azure skies and balmy weather, the sun a shiny ball of friendly warmth. If ever fate had laughed at her, demonstrated its spite, today was that day. With much misgiving, she had given into pressure and cast off her blacks, choosing a gown of grayed lilac, neither too festive nor too drab, to say her vows. She had ceased to fight when even the countess had added her influence to the discussion. “One can’t marry in black, child, so morbid,” she had said. “And who is to know? We’re far from London and the criticism.” Brenna did not bother to mention that the disapproval of their peers would not be an issue if they would simply wait for a more appropriate time. A marriage before her year of mourning was complete was, in her opinion, obscene. The entire family, however, was hell-bent on getting the ceremony done with and that as much as anything unnerved her. There were to be no guests beyond the family and those servants deemed privileged enough to attend. The local vicar was to arrive in the late afternoon, and the wedding would proceed on the authorization of a special license. The earl had asked her if she wanted to invite Malcolm, but Brenna had declined. Why give her brother another opportunity to snub her? Brenna descended the stairs at the appointed hour, numb with dread. She had fallen to her knees and prayed before leaving her room, begging to be delivered from her fate, but no intervening flood or marauding kidnaper stepped in to save her. As always, when she needed God most, He chose to ignore her. The earl and his wife greeted her at the foot of the staircase. “My dear,” Mary said, “so lovely. That color is marvelous with your dark hair and eyes.” Basil chimed in, wrapping her in a massive hug, “Indeed. What a proud day for us both.” Brenna smiled wanly as he released his grip. “Thank you.” Strangely, she felt the couple was sincere. Warmth emanated from the viscount’s parents, and she could almost feel a part of them as Mary took her arm and guided her into the drawing room. Lord Rutherford and Lady Evangeline were there before them. They sat on the main sofa in the room, heads together, whispering and laughing, clearly feeling no need to share their secrets.

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Brenna was not surprised. The twins had exhibited that same clannish behavior from the moment she had met them. She was not included in their plans—ever. In fact, she often felt not only neglected by them but deliberately ignored. Even as she watched them, the viscount glanced up, directly at her. As always, his look was assessing mixed with a barely concealed disparagement. However, today she detected something else in his gaze. A spark of interest? Oh please, not that, she thought. The more bored he was with her, the better she liked it. He started to rise, but Evangeline stopped him, her hand on the sleeve of his coat. She leaned forward and spoke, her mouth a hair’s breadth away from his ear. A sly smile curved her lips. The viscount’s gaze returned to Brenna, and he smiled as well, exposing even, white teeth and a malicious attitude. He patted his sister’s hand then came to his feet and sauntered over to his affianced, now standing alone. “The mouse dresses up well enough,” he said. “Why, my lord, I’m overwhelmed by your regard,” Brenna returned, sounding only a touch less acerbic than she felt. “Think nothing of it.” “Rest assured, I could not think less of it if I tried.” His eyebrows rose. “My, my, the mouse has teeth.” “That displeases you?” “It warns me, Miss Hilliard. Was that your intention?” Now that he mentioned it, no, that was not her intention, and to hear his smug observation only served to annoy her more. But perhaps it was a good thing he had angered her because she found the anger much easier to manage than her fear. “I intended nothing one way or the other,” she muttered. “I see.” His eyelids drooped. “It would appear that the bride is as eager to start her new life as is the groom.” “You know exactly how I regard this marriage, Lord Rutherford. I’ve made no secret of my feelings.” “True.” “There is still time to end this madness.” “Miss Hilliard, much as I would like to please you in this, the die is cast.” “The die is not cast until the vicar pronounces us married,” she whispered urgently. That oily grin that always made the hairs on her neck rise transformed his features, and Brenna itched to smack him across the mouth. She was shocked by how violent the need was. “Let’s not argue,” he said. “Maybe marriage will hold a few pleasant surprises for you. That is what I’m counting on for myself.” As he spoke, his gaze drifted over her body again, coming to rest on her bosom. It was a lustful assessment, but casual, devoid of anything personal. Brenna was appalled

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by such blatant intentions with so little investment, and she felt the part of her that might welcome intimacy shrivel in response. “You are determined to go through with this then?” she asked, her spirits sinking lower than her hem. “‘Fraid so.” He pulled at his cuffs. “Buck up, Miss Hilliard, it’s only the next forty or fifty years.” He barked a laugh and moved away from her just as the door chime rang. As Brenna feared, it was the vicar. The next hour raced by, and Brenna was a participant without much thought. She was like a wooden puppet with someone else pulling the strings. In an abstract way, she was aware of the man who stood beside her as he pledged to honor and cherish her until death did they part. She wondered if lies could be tangible things because she felt suffocated by the deception in his voice, singed by promises she knew he had no intention of keeping. Her “I do” was a whispered vow, forced through stiff lips and a reluctance so deep, she feared she had, with those words, consigned herself to a life in Hell. “I now pronounce you husband and wife,” the vicar intoned. And thus, in the span of heartbeat, Brenna became Lady Rutherford. One day she would be Lady Covington, countess to an earl. She looked at her new father-in-law, smiling at her with such affection, clearly pleased by his son’s marriage. From the depths of her soul, she prayed that day was a long time away. As was traditional, Lord Rutherford turned to her and placed his forefinger under her chin, lifting her face to his. Brenna closed her eyes, unwilling—unable—to look at him. His breath, laced with brandy, invaded her senses. He touched his lips to hers, so much closer than she had ever been to him before, and every nerve in her body vibrated in alarm. To the devil with tradition! her mind wailed. She began to shake. He pulled back, and Brenna’s eyes flipped open. Much to her regret, his gaze centered on hers, holding her hostage. His finger still held her chin, and she knew he could feel her tremble. His lapis eyes were as flat as dull coins, almost reptilian. Brenna recoiled inwardly. He must have sensed her response because his mouth twisted sardonically. Rather than retreating from her, he moved closer, taking her elbow and steering her away from the vicar and the rest of the gathering. Brenna was aware of the good wishes being tossed at their backs, the jovial mood of everyone except the wedded couple. But most of all she was aware of the man beside her and the menace he exuded. When they were out of earshot, he leaned toward her. “I think I should tell you something, wife,” he murmured, his alcohol-laced breath blowing hotly on her neck. She merely looked at him from the edge of her eyes, waiting. “I thrive upon fear. It excites me.”

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For a moment she could not speak. “I’m not afraid of you,” she said finally, swallowing over the sudden lump that formed in her throat. “Certainly not.” His lips twitched. “Wasn’t suggesting you were. Simply thought you should know.” “Why?” “Forewarned and all that.” “Thank you, my lord,” she spoke through her sarcasm. “Are you telling me I should be on my guard where you are concerned?” “You know, I believe it would be appropriate for you to call me Evan now,” the viscount said, sidestepping her question. When icecaps form in Hades, Brenna thought, disgust the only sentiment she could distinguish from the morass of feelings now assailing her. She looked away from him without speaking. She knew her silence irritated him, for his hand, still gripping her elbow, tightened. She could feel each of his fingers digging into her skin, just enough to be uncomfortable, and she sensed a warning in the pressure. “To disregard me would be a mistake.” The words were clipped. “We can make this union amicable, or we can make it…something else. I leave it to you to decide.” “Let me go.” Brenna pulled her arm free and, as she did so, her gaze traveled across the room, locking with Geline’s. Her sister-in-law was watching them keenly, stare shifting between the two of them, finally settling on her brother. Brenna knew even without looking at the viscount that he and his twin were sharing an unspoken communication. “Let’s not make a scene, shall we?” What he said was conciliatory. How he sounded was not. She opened her mouth to speak but now noticed Geline moving in their direction. Oh lord, please, one twin at a time, she thought, and started to walk away. Her husband took her elbow again, staying her. Geline’s heavy perfume preceded her. “How adorable,” she cooed, tracing her finger along a loose curl on her own forehead. “Married only moments and already having a lovers’ spat. Hope it’s not serious?” The viscount emitted a nasty laugh. “No spat, sister dear. We’re merely getting straight the rules of this game called marriage.” “There’s your first mistake, my lord,” Brenna said. “Yes?” “Marriage is hardly a game.” Geline and he shared another one of those looks, and Brenna stiffened angrily. She had little expectation that her marriage to the viscount would be a happy one, but with his sister in the middle of their relationship it had less than no chance at all. Five

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minutes after saying her vows she felt heartsick and hopeless and totally alienated from her new husband. “Has Evan told you about the little surprise we have planned for you this evening?” Geline asked. Brenna glanced at the viscount, but he remained silent, his expression impassive. “No. No, he has not.” “You are in for quite a treat.” “Am I?” “You shall see.” Geline smiled enigmatically and drifted away from them much the way she had arrived. “What does she mean, a surprise?” Brenna asked, watching her sister-in-law’s retreating back. “If I told, it wouldn’t be a surprise now, would it?” the viscount responded. “I’m not certain I wish to be surprised.” He tsk tsked, shaking his head with seeming regret. “That’s the thing about surprises,” he murmured, “one is rarely given a choice.” “All the same, I want one.” “I’ll take that under advisement.” He left Brenna standing there, her mouth open and spluttering. He might as well have told her to go to hell, and that was in itself a surprise, as one would assume whatever he had in store for her would—or at least should—be a pleasure. His attitude, however, made her wonder. For several long moments she stood alone feeling abandoned and forlorn. This was her wedding day, she thought bitterly. Girlish hopes must be put to rest along with the silly notion that love and happily ever after were something to be counted on. More’s the pity because the reality of her situation made her dread what should have been a bright future. Brenna found herself blinking back tears, her throat muscles working as she fought for self-control. She felt the loss of Papa more profoundly at that moment than she had since leaving Everly. She glanced up to see Basil coming toward her. No substitute for her own father, he was a father figure nonetheless and presently a most welcome one. He did not speak, merely putting his arm around her shoulders and hugging her tightly to him as if understanding her distress. His sympathy flowed over her, and now Brenna truly fought for control. Old grief from the death of her father mixed with new grief over the loss of her dreams, threatening to break the dam holding back her emotions. She pressed her nose into the breast of his coat and hugged him back. When she felt capable of speech, she glanced up at him, eyes still watery. “Thank you,” was all she said.

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He nodded, the expression on his kind face indicating that no other explanation was necessary. “May we talk?” he asked gently. “Of course.” They linked arms and ambled to a small sofa in a private corner of the drawing room where they sat companionably, side by side. He took her hand in his great mitt, patting it affectionately. “Have I told you how pleased I am to have you in the family?” he said. “I appreciate that, Basil. I admit I’ve wondered…” She looked to where the viscount and Geline were conversing with the vicar, and she felt the old man’s attention go there as well. As they watched, the twins appeared to be no more than two congenial people entertaining a guest. It was the knowing them that revealed the darkness hiding behind those handsome faces. Next to her Basil shifted as though now uncomfortable. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to give my son time to adapt to his new status as husband.” “Adapting would assume he is at least in the frame of mind to adapt. I’m not receiving that feeling from him.” “My children are spoiled.” He sounded as if he spoke of adolescents rather than fully grown adults. “They are not fond of me, I’m afraid.” “Geline is jealous,” he said in an impatient voice. “Evan is…a fool.” “I don’t know how to respond to that.” “I know.” “There is little enough to work with in that scenario. Geline does not have to like me. Lord Rutherford is another matter. Yet if she doesn’t like me…” Brenna shrugged. “Yes, but—” Brenna stopped him with a touch on his sleeve. “Sir, we could profess all day that your daughter’s influence means nothing, but we both know that would be an untruth.” She glanced across the room once more. Geline had taken her brother’s arm and was leaning her head on his shoulder. There was ownership in the gesture, a clinging, proprietary air that staked her claim. Brenna wondered if she would ever come between the two of them long enough to make him more her husband than he was Geline’s brother. Then she wondered if it was worth the effort to try. It wasn’t as if she liked him either. Basil had again followed her gaze. In a reflective voice he said, “Twins are a breed apart. I would wager that no one truly understands them. At any rate, not the way they understand one another. I had twin sisters. Neither of them married. One died within weeks of the other. I don’t think there was a day until that time that they were separated.”

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“I accept the special workings of the relationship. What I want to know is where does that leave me? To be honest, sir, I can’t see that your son needs or, more to the point, wants a wife.” “Oh he needs a wife, my dear. He needs to break free of the hedonistic life he leads. He needs to settle down and think about the future of our family. He needs to begin producing heirs.” He looked at her meaningfully, and Brenna felt her gut contract with repulsion. Naturally, she thought. Lord Covington wanted what the aristocracy always wanted in these circumstances. Progeny. A continuing of the line. How it was continued and with whom hardly mattered as long as the bloodlines were correct. Up until this moment she had been studiously avoiding any thought as to how those progeny would be conceived, any thought of an intimate relationship with her husband. The earl had forcefully reminded her. Her cynicism must have been reflected on her features, for he had the grace to look embarrassed. “I put that badly,” Basil said. “Not for the world would I have you believe you are—” “A means to an end?” Now he looked pained. “Please don’t feel bad, my lord. My brother, whom one would expect to be protective of me—if not for affection’s sake, then at least for filial reasons—sent me away because it solved a problem.” “Perhaps you misjudge your brother—” She interrupted him by waving away his suggestion. The one thing she had not done was misjudge Malcolm, and she refused to pretend otherwise. She changed the subject from her brother and back to her husband. “You’ve addressed the issue of whether Lord Rutherford needs a wife but not his desire to have one.” “Evan has obligations. Satisfying one’s own desires without considering how it affects others is more than selfish. I have forced my son’s hand because it is imperative that he do what is right. I’m convinced he will thank me one day.” Brenna lapsed into silence. Basil’s position was rigid and self-centered and positively the accepted thinking of the aristocracy. Obligation always took precedence over inclination. She could have resented the man’s attitude, for she was inconvenienced by it the same as his son, but the earl was a good man, a basically kind man, and she knew he meant well. “May I ask you a question, sir?” “Certainly.” “Since you feel so strongly about obligation, when my father broke the betrothal, why did you not protest?”

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His gaze grew distant and cold as though he was taking a trip to that time nine years ago. “I was humiliated by Evan’s behavior. I saw no point in forcing the issue when your father’s main objective was simply protecting his daughter. My son’s honor was destroyed by his own hand, and there was no resurrecting it.” “I thought it was because…” She stopped, hesitant. “Go on.” “My history is somewhat clouded. My mother is Irish of common ancestry, and my birth was illegitimate, even though Papa rectified that situation later. Malcolm seems to feel I am fortunate that anyone was willing to have me at all.” Brenna finished her speech in a forced voice, amazed by how difficult it had been to say the words. She knew by vocalizing her concerns she was exposing her fear of inadequacy, the deep down feeling that she was not good enough. Oh the irony! she thought, for she also felt much too good for her newly acquired husband. “Forgive me for saying so, my dear, but I suspect my assessment of your brother, after having dealings with him, is correct. He’s a pompous ass.” “Perhaps you have misjudged him, my lord.” She struggled not to smile. He, however, beamed back at her, an appreciative glint in his eye. “I always did like a clever woman,” he said. “I suspect my son is in for a few surprises.” “I’m told I am in for a few surprises of my own,” she said. Brenna watched him to see if he understood to what she was alluding, but he merely raised his brows in curiosity. She shook her head, dismissing the subject. “It’s nothing. Just something your son said.” “Oh?” Once more his gaze strayed across the room to where his son and daughter stood together. Lord Rutherford glanced over and met his father’s eyes. For a moment neither man moved. Then the viscount, holding a crystal goblet half-filled with brandy, raised it in salute, a mocking smile twisting his lips. He took a swig of his drink as he turned away. In the quiet that followed, more than ever she was aware of the animosity between father and son that hovered just below the surface. Brenna sensed the anger and frustration in the man next to her. She also sensed the pain. The earl cleared his throat then looked at her earnestly. “If you ever need me for any reason…” He did not finish, but his meaning was clear. He was not giving Brenna the offer of his protection idly. He was as unsure of his son as she was. She should have felt reassured that her father-in-law had offered to protect her. Instead, his uncertainty over someone he supposedly loved increased her fear by double.

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Brenna reached over and gave the old man’s hand a pat. Somehow the gesture meant to comfort him gave her comfort as well. She had a friend in him. Good thing that, for Brenna suspected she would need his friendship in the years to come.

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Chapter Five Later that evening an intimate wedding supper was served. Having made a credible effort to eat what had been placed before her, Brenna’s meal—as so many of her recent meals—now sat like an indigestible lump in her belly. The final course was a spicy bread pudding, teeming with currants and covered in a rich, warm sauce. Lack of appetite was rarely an issue for her, but all she could do was stare at her dish with regret. She picked up her spoon, determined to make an effort then set it down, defeated. Her dinner companions, Lord and Lady Covington, and the twins, Evan and Evangeline, did not appear to be having any trouble with their desserts. All had dived into their respective puddings with gusto. The vicar, Mr. Waddell, who had been invited to join the family as a courtesy, had already cleaned his plate and was looking hopeful that seconds were in the offing. Across the table, Brenna’s husband had watched her between bites of his supper, his attention wandering away only when the conversation of the others appeared to draw him in. Unnervingly, the respite from his examination was always short-lived. That spark of interest she had noted in him earlier in the day had continued to grow, until she could almost feel his mind reaching out to her. As the meal had commenced she had been nervous. As it drew to a close she was in a near panic. Brenna had, for the sake of emotional survival, studiously avoided any thoughts of the “marriage nest”. In fact, she had hoped that the viscount’s veiled animosity toward her would delay any intention he had of claiming his conjugal rights. His marked—if odd—behavior convinced her that she had been naive in the extreme. It seemed Evan Richmond did not have to like his wife to bed her. That last thought made her feel ill to her stomach, and she now understood from where her sudden dyspepsia had sprung. “You are not eating your pudding, Brenna,” Mary said. “It was a wonderful dinner, ma’am. I’m afraid I used all my appetite on the main courses.” “But you’re missing the best part.” There was concern in her mother-in-law’s voice, and Brenna suspected the kind woman was troubled for her. She smiled blandly, hoping to allay her worry. “I shall try.” With reluctance Brenna picked up her spoon again and, as she did, inadvertently glanced at the viscount. That was a mistake. He smiled at her, an insinuating smile filled with mischief.

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“I wager I know why my lovely wife is feeling unwell,” he said. “I never said I was feeling unwell,” she said quickly. “Oh? Then maybe it is the green cast to your complexion that gives you away. You look moments from emptying the contents of your stomach in a chamber pot. Wedding night jitters, my love?” He sealed that nasty remark by taking a huge bite of his pudding. Into the appalled silence his mother gasped, “Evan! To speak of such things, at the supper table, and in front of Mr. Waddell.” To speak of such things anywhere—ever—Brenna thought. Humiliation immobilized her in her seat, but the viscount had, by his unnecessary cruelty, accomplished one thing. The dislike she had been feeling for her husband had taken a decided turn toward hatred. There would be no wedding night. Not if she could help it. Lord Covington, his face scarlet with rage, came to his feet and stormed from the room, his lack of comment more telling than if he had begun to shout. Mr. Waddell also stood. “Well now,” he began. “That is to say…um, yes.” While he stumbled verbally, he seemed to come to a decision. He turned to his hostess. “Lady Covington, it has indeed been a pleasure. Thank you.” He bowed formally to the wounded countess where she slumped in her chair, limp, like a wilted lily. There was compassion in his expression, a gentle understanding that bespoke a man absolutely suited to his calling. The look he turned on the viscount, however, was anything but pleased. Brenna detected censure there, without any of the meekness she would have expected from someone confronting his “betters”. Through the anguish that kept her rooted to her chair, she felt a moment of sheer glee, and that gave her the courage to stand. She slipped her hand in the vicar’s, ignoring her husband and Evangeline as if they had ceased to exist. For one brief moment, she truly wished it were so. “Thank you, Reverend, it’s been a pleasure to meet you.” “And you, my lady.” He dipped his head deferentially. “I am at your service, night or day. Please feel free to call on me.” Mr. Waddell made a dignified exit, nodding tersely at the twins on his way out, and Brenna turned to follow him. The viscount’s voice stopped her. “My, my, wasn’t that affecting. So sugary sweet, it has made my pudding seem bitter by contrast.” Brenna returned to the table slowly, hands knotted into fists that gripped the front of her skirt. The anger in her chest was so violent, she found it hard to breathe. “You really are a buffoon, aren’t you?” she said. Evangeline jumped to her feet. “Don’t you dare speak to him that way!” “And how would you have me speak to him? A man who takes delight in wounding others.”

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“Have you no sense of fun? Has my poor brother married a dour-faced harpy? You should apologize—” “Enough!” the viscount barked. “Let’s not make more of this than necessary. This is Brenna’s wedding night, and I should not have made light of her obvious anxiety. Her anger serves no purpose and, in fact, could be,” he looked at his sister meaningfully, “detrimental.” Geline watched him a minute as if trying to understand something then murmured, “Quite so.” The exchange between brother and sister puzzled Brenna. It also made the skin along her backbone prickle with alarm. Her husband’s reversal from mean-spirited jester to understanding spouse left her unconvinced and suspicious. One moment of supposed kindness could hardly erase the impression he had fostered up until now. The three of them shared wary looks, the twins staring at Brenna and Brenna shifting her attention between the two of them. The viscount was the first to speak. “Go to bed, wife. I will be along shortly.” “Do take your time, my lord,” she said. “Take all night for all I care.” She swung around and departed the room before he could respond. Only after she left did Brenna remember that Mary had still been sitting in her chair, witness to the unpleasantness between her children and daughter-in-law. She should return and take her cordial leave of the lady and apologize for her rudeness, but she couldn’t do it. To face those twin wretches again right now was beyond her capabilities. Upstairs Brenna entered her bedchamber to find her maid Emma waiting for her. “Oh, Emma, a friendly face. You have no idea how good it is to see you.” The maid took her hand. “My poor lady,” she crooned, her expression mournful. “If it weren’t for his lordship and his sweet wife, I’d swear we were living in Bedlam.” “I wanted you at the wedding.” Emma smiled mischievously. “I was there in the hall, peeking through the crack of the door. I saw everything.” “For what it was worth,” Brenna said, sitting down on the nearest chair. “Thank you for not forsaking me, but I fear you were witness to a debacle. What am I to do?” “What all ladies do in your place.” “And that would be?” “Endure.” “What an awful thing to say. Surely, you could have thought of something better than that.” Brenna stood and stalked across the room to her dressing table. She looked in her mirror. The woman looking back at her appeared angry indeed, brown eyes blazing, lips clamped in a tight, uncompromising line. She certainly was not at her best. Maybe the viscount would find her so unappealing he would decide to seek out other 42

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entertainment for the evening. And that, she suspected, was how he viewed bedding his new wife—entertainment. There was something cat and mouse in the way he approached her, she being the mouse, of course. He enjoyed baiting her, toying with her emotions, taking her off guard. She hated every moment of it. For the life of her she could not imagine what kind of lovemaking would evolve from such malicious intent. “I’m sorry, my lady,” Emma said. “I’m Irish. We understand suffering. Sometimes…” The word hung between them for several moments until Brenna relented. “I know, I know. In a perfect world and all that. But as you say, sometimes we must endure.” Oh how she hated the very thought, much less saying it aloud, because it was more than accepting her fate. It implied giving up. Although what she was trying to hang on to at this late date escaped her. The deed was done and, as Emma had suggested, she must now come to terms with it. It was then Brenna noticed the elaborate white nightdress lying on her bed. “What is that?” she asked, moving across the room to finger the lacy garment. “Lord Rutherford brought it to me before supper,” the maid replied, her attention shifting to a corner of the ceiling. “He said I was to help you dress for his visit this evening.” “He what?” Brenna snatched her hand from the gown as though it were suddenly too hot to hold. “Look at me!” Emma’s gaze locked with hers, her cheeks now a blotchy pink. “I’m only doing as I am told, my lady.” “You are my servant, Emma.” “Your servant in his lordship’s household.” “I don’t care!” “Lord Rutherford can send me home if he chooses, you know, and then who’ll be here to take care of you…to protect you?” “Lord Covington would not allow that to happen.” “Am I really in a position to fight if your husband wants me gone?” Brenna closed her eyes in misery. “You’re right. I simply can’t face—” She couldn’t say it, could not admit that tonight she must submit to a man whose nature so revolted her, she would almost rather be dead than be touched by him. She took a calming breath to steady herself and then opened her eyes. “At supper I had determined that there would be no wedding night. Must I go through with it?” “It is your duty,” Emma said in a sad voice. “You see no way around it?”

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“Not if he insists.” Brenna’s shoulders drooped. “He wants me to wear that gown?” “So he said.” “Right then, help me put the damn thing on.” She would be stoical. She would be brave. If it killed her. Though overly fussy, the nightdress was in fact beautiful. It hung full from her armpits to her ankles, voluminous sleeves with cuffs that flowed over her wrists, and a rounded neck held together with a silk ribbon. It was lacy and feminine and thoroughly virginal. Rather than feeling alluring, however, she felt her flesh creep with revulsion. The notion of enticing the viscount made her wither inside. Brenna sat at the dressing table and allowed the maid to brush out her dark tresses. Static rose around her head with the wielding of the brush, wispy hairs dancing about her face, out of control. The hairs looked the way her nerves felt just below the surface of her skin. Usually the brushing exercise made her mellow, her scalp tingly, her body limp and ready for sleep. Tonight it was an exercise in futility. When it became clear that they could no longer put off the inevitable, the two women crossed to the door leading to the marriage nest. The door was unlocked, and they pushed into the room. They paused in the doorway. The heaviness of the decor was oppressive, and the few candles meant to brighten and add warmth to the area were not enough. Not nearly. “Not very romantic, is it?” Emma asked. Brenna shivered. “No.” What was about to happen to her hardly seemed romantic either. It was apropos as far as she was concerned, however. Why should the room promise what it could not deliver? Like a condemned woman, Brenna walked to the bed and climbed beneath the covers. “You can go now, Emma,” she told the maid, although it was the last thing she wanted her to do. In the act of tucking her mistress in, Emma said, “I’ll wait with you.” “No sense in you missing your rest. Who knows when my husband will deign to appear.” Emma gave the covers one last brisk tug. “I’ll wait,” she stated flatly. The maid sat her broad rump in the chair by the head of the bed and crossed her arms over her breasts as if defying Brenna to argue with her. And so it was settled. Brenna wished to throw her arms around her servant’s loyal neck and hug her for all she was worth. Fearing the practical woman would not tolerate such blatant sentimentality, she instead took Emma’s hand and gave it a grateful squeeze. They sat there for the better part of an hour, holding hands and giving comfort to one another. It was as if they were waiting for the executioner, one terrified of dying, 44

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the other desperate not to lose someone she loved. How foolish, Brenna thought, as she continued to quake inside. After all, it was only the occasion of a deflowering. How terrible could that be?

***** Lord Rutherford’s entrance caught them dozing. Brenna sat propped against her pillows, chin on her chest, and Emma lolled in her chair, her nasal breaths heralding the onset of snoring. The slamming of the door snapped them both awake. They stared at the viscount in alert wariness. The viscount had entered through the connecting door from Brenna’s bedchamber, perhaps looking for her there before entering the nest. A cheroot clamped between his teeth, he did not speak, merely jerking his head toward that same door as he looked at the maid. Emma watched him a moment then reached and patted Brenna’s hand. The woman knew what she must do, but she did not have to like it, and every movement of her body suggested just that. She walked across the bedchamber slowly, pausing on the threshold. The maid caught her mistress’s eye and shared a look with her. “I’ll be back bright and early, my lady.” The decisive click of the latch was like a gunshot, or so it seemed, a pointed reminder that Brenna was now alone with her husband. “Control her,” he said darkly, speaking around the cheroot. “I will not tolerate insolence in my servants.” “I brought little enough with me from Ireland. Surely, you won’t begrudge me my one servant.” “What is yours becomes mine. She should know that.” “She knows.” “Good.” The viscount strode into the room, surveying her coolly as he came toward the bed. He wore a ruffled white shirt, open at the neck, and formal black trousers. Much against her will she had to admit he was still a handsome man, tall and dark-headed, a swagger to his gait that was not totally unappealing. She told herself the dissipation was not as obvious in the dimly lit room. The smoke from the cheroot curled lazily over his head, tainting the air and creating a haze. Brenna hated knowing he had been in her bedchamber, where she was certain he had left behind an odor that would remind her of his visit, most likely clinging to her bedding and drapes for days. With her luck it would dissipate just in time for him to bring that horrid smell back again. What concerned her most, however, was the decanter of brandy he carried in one hand and the two goblets he held by the stems in the other. Was he hoping to get her drunk? Though she immediately assumed the worst, a tiny voice in the back of her 45

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mind wondered if it wouldn’t make it easier for her if she were sedated. She must have been feeling desperate to have had such a perverse thought. The viscount carelessly pushed aside the things resting on the night table with the back of the hand holding the glasses to make room for the decanter. Before setting the decanter down, he splashed a measure of brandy in each goblet and handed one to her. Brenna merely looked at it. “No, I’d rather not,” she said. “Take it.” “I’m not much of an imbiber.” This was not entirely true. She had thoroughly enjoyed the occasional brandy with her father. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist.” “Why?” “Because you are as tight as a violin string. This will help.” “I thought you liked fear.” The viscount went very still, his eyes taking on a strange light. “Are you afraid, wife?” Why lie? “I’m nervous.” “Hence the brandy.” He pushed the glass at her again, and Brenna took it this time, her fingers brushing his as she did so. The contact caused her stomach to jump unpleasantly, and she sipped quickly of the brandy to hide her disgust. Lord, if that meager touch had such an impact on her, how was she to tolerate the next hour when she supposed the touching would become much more pronounced. On second thought, perhaps the brandy was not a bad idea. She could feel the warmth of the alcohol as it trailed a path to her belly and the almost immediate effect on her senses. She took another sip. Her husband sat down on the chair Emma had vacated, cradling his goblet in both hands. “How do you like the gown?” There was an insinuating quality to his voice that set her teeth on edge. “Attractive, but a bit overblown for my taste,” she said grudgingly. “Let me see.” Brenna flinched. “Is that really necessary?” “I think so. Would you deny me the pleasure of seeing you in my gift?” And so it begins, she thought, resigned, refusing to argue any further. She handed the brandy to him and threw back the covers. As she climbed off the bed, Brenna wondered how she was to endure what was to come. Despite the alcohol, her heart was thudding heavily in her chest, and for a moment she considered flight. Would Lord Rutherford follow her? Maybe. And then she would be sacrificing not only her body but her pride. She refused to be brought back kicking and screaming to her marriage bed. 46

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She stood before him, self-conscious, face averted because she could not bear to witness the gathering lust in his eyes. The moments ticked by excruciatingly, no sound but her own breathing. When she could stand it no longer she looked at him. His smile was smug, as if he had been waiting patiently for her to acknowledge him. His gaze drifted down her body and, despite the voluminous nightdress that covered her, she felt very exposed. “You’re a beautiful woman, Brenna,” he said in a husky voice. “And you are correct. That is too much gown.” That he might find her desirable was a terrible disappointment, and rather than say anything, she found herself staring at him in dismay. Was thank you the proper response? His sudden conciliatory attitude was more unnerving than his derogatory one. In fact, she preferred his snide behavior because she suspected it was more the truth than his effort to be agreeable. Lord Rutherford’s grin widened, and he held out her drink to her again. This time Brenna did not pretend reticence. She took the goblet and swallowed the contents. The brandy went down smoothly, and if he were surprised that she did not choke on the burning liquid, he kept his own counsel. He merely watched her instead, eyes hooded, an arrested expression on his features as though he were waiting for something. Brenna felt the floor shift beneath her. Her breathing was slowing appreciably and she was suddenly lightheaded. She blinked, the room beginning to spin. She tried to focus on the viscount, but there were two of him now, an appalling development, since one of him was entirely too many. “My lord…” she croaked. Her husband did not move, did not speak, but his smile had taken on a sinister quality. Brenna made one striking observation as the bedchamber blackened around her. The viscount’s goblet was full. He had not taken a single taste of his own brandy.

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Chapter Six Brenna was gripped by a powerful dream. At least, it felt like a dream. She was lying on her back—on a bed?—and the world had dimmed to an impenetrable black around her. Every breath she took—lungs slowly filling with air then exhaling just as slowly—was a mindful effort as if she must remember to reach for the next breath. Her thoughts were like sludge, thick and impossible to wade through. She was aware of lethargy in her limbs, an overriding sense of peace and a desire to sleep—to sleep forever. Voices in the background disturbed her, irritating voices, perhaps not because she could hear them, but because she knew one of the speakers. Evangeline’s cynical contralto buzzed in the room like an angry wasp, words indistinct, but her domineering personality coming through, nonetheless. Brenna thought in that moment how much she disliked her sister-in-law, and if she could only move her deadened body she would tell her so. Go away! Leave me be. The conversation continued despite her unspoken protest, thus she decided to ignore the interlopers. She sank back into darkness, wrapping it around herself like a protective cloak. “We haven’t much time.” Geline’s speech interrupted Brenna’s peace again. “She’s already coming around.” For the first time Brenna recognized her husband when he answered. “Do you want her fully unconscious?” he asked. “What’s the sport in that?” Geline’s laugh was low and sultry. “You’ll have your sport before the night is over, dear brother.” Her skirts swished as she crossed the room, shod feet padding on the carpet. “I’m going to see if the house is settled. Be ready. I’ll be back shortly.” “Oh I’m ready now.” Something in the viscount’s voice caused Brenna to stir. “Be patient, Evan,” Geline said. “These things can’t be rushed.” Brenna heard the door open and close and, as much as she did not care for her husband’s twin, she all of a sudden wished for the woman’s immediate return. She tried to open her eyes, but the effort merely brought a strangled moan from her lips. Brenna was aware—in the distorted way one is aware when one’s faculties are impaired—of Lord Rutherford coming closer to where she lay. Long moments passed as a strange and tension-filled silence claimed her world.

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How could she be so certain he stood next to the bed—that he was staring at her? That his interest had intensified to a frightening level? Into the quiet, she heard his clothes rustle as he bent over her. The smell of brandy and stale cigar assailed her senses, stifling her breath. He brushed at the hair that curled on her cheek. Then, with agonizing slowness, he trailed his thumb down the side of her neck. He paused. All at once he clamped his hand around her throat, pressure slowly mounting, although never quite painfully. She was, however, cognizant of each finger where it pressed into her flesh. Dear God! Did he mean to strangle her? The viscount chuckled, a sound that seemed almost feral. He shifted again, releasing her. This time she felt him reach for the ribbon holding the top of her gown together. The slick, whispery sound of the satin ribbon being pulled from its bow followed, and the significance of the gesture pierced the fog holding Brenna captive. However, her unresponsive limbs refused to cooperate with her waking mind. Inwardly she shrieked, aware of cool air touching her skin as he peeled back the gown and uncovered her breasts. Help me! she begged. But no words passed her lips. “Well, well, my little maiden,” he said. “What have we been hiding beneath all that black?” He whistled softly through his teeth. “Geline is correct, all is not lost. At least we shall have the nights.” Brenna could almost see the leering grin, the intense stare devouring her body, the desire transforming his florid features. She wanted to shrink, to disappear into the drug that held her hostage. If tonight were the first of many nights like this, she much preferred death. Still she continued to fight her way to consciousness. It wasn’t until the viscount grabbed her breast, kneading it roughly—clearly for his own enjoyment, not for hers— that she was jerked awake by outright fear and revulsion. Her eyes flipped open. In that moment one thing was painfully obvious. Rather than leaving the bad dream behind, the nightmare was only just beginning. Brenna was aware of three things simultaneously—her nudity, the viscount’s hand rubbing his crotch through his trousers and an overwhelming urge to vomit. In her mind she moved at once, scrambling away from him. In actuality, her arms and legs flopped ineffectually, and she mumbled something, garbled even to her own ears. She suspected her message was received, however. “Come, wife,” he said, his voice thick with self-induced lust. “There is ecstasy waiting for the brave. It’s only fear haunting you. You’ll see—” “Evan! Behave yourself.” Evangeline spoke from the doorway. “You will have no strength left if you waste it now. That would come as a great disappointment to everyone.”

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She sashayed into the room, coming toward the bed, her expression meaningful as her gaze shifted between her brother and his wife. Oddly, her tone was indulgent as if the viscount’s overt sexual display were not the issue, merely his lack of control. Her head was beginning to clear enough for her to wonder why Geline was here. Wasn’t this Brenna’s wedding night? Surely, the woman’s presence was not only unwelcome, it was inappropriate. “Just stoking the fires, sister dear,” the viscount said. “No harm in that.” He ceased his obscene activity—much to Brenna’s relief—but he did nothing to hide the obvious swelling his efforts had produced. “She’s waking,” Geline said. “It’s too soon.” “What are we to do?” he asked. “More, ah…brandy?” Her sister-in-law came around the bed to stand close to where she lay. Brenna struggled to sit up but had to settle for propping herself on her elbows as she grappled with the front of her gown, trying to hold it together. Immediately her head began to spin. Evangeline stared at her for several moments, eyes narrowing in seeming consideration. “No. No, I don’t think so,” she said at last. All at once she reared back, hand balled into a fist, and punched Brenna squarely on the jaw. The blackness descended once more.

***** She was outside. The smell of damp vegetation alerted her, along with a tepid summer breeze that pulled at her hair. Overhead, she heard the rustling of tree branches. Somewhere an owl hooted. Brenna opened her eyes to a midnight sky filled with tiny pinpoints of light. Clouds raced across a full moon like wisps of smoke fading into the distance. Lying on her back, the movement of the clouds gave her a sense of vertigo, as if she were moving as well. Nauseous, Brenna raised a hand to her face to steady the feeling of motion. She yelped. A sharp pain sliced the side of her face from cheekbone to jaw. Gingerly, she tested the area with shaky fingers. Her lip felt swollen, and her teeth ached. She pushed her tongue against her molars to see if they were still tightly rooted in their sockets. What had happened to her? “Dear God!” she whispered aloud. Even as memory assailed her—the wedding nest, the viscount…his sister—an unfamiliar voice, male and very near to her, caught her attention. “She’s awake.”

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“Excellent.” Evangeline. There was no mistaking her throaty speech. “There’s little to be gained if she sleeps through the ceremony.” “Is Evan ready?” The man again. “My brother is…ready, as you say.” Brenna turned her head to the speakers. At least she was no longer paralyzed. But the sight that met her eyes was a puzzle indeed. Several figures, all dressed in white robes with hoods, stood a short distance from where she lay on the ground. Their robes were belted with leather thongs—she would remember that inconsequential detail long after the night was over. She could see no faces due to their hoods, although she knew Evangeline was one of them. And she was certain they were talking about Brenna because they were turned in her direction, their miens giving away what their expressions could not. As her senses continued to coalesce, she allowed her attention to wander to the area around her. They were in what appeared to be the small clearing of a willow grove, the perimeter of which was lined with at least a dozen torches. In the center of the clearing was a tall stone “bench”, for wont of a better description. There were three more groupings of hooded individuals, perhaps twenty people altogether, including Geline and her companions. She was still too dazed to feel much more than an abstract curiosity, although beneath it all Brenna recognized a growing anxiety, as if maybe she were in danger. She didn’t know why she felt that way, or in what form the danger might take, but she was a firm believer in her intuitive abilities. And right now intuition was telling her to hie herself from this place. If only she knew where this place was. Brenna was reluctant to move for fear of bringing more attention to herself. Could she run if she needed to? She began by testing her toes and fingers then unobtrusively shifting her legs and arms. She flexed the muscles in her back and stomach and decided, yes, she was mobile. She had no way of knowing until she stood whether or not she would be assailed by dizziness. She would simply have to risk it. Furtively, she glanced at Geline and her friends, judging how far she was from them and what her chances were should she decide to bolt. Truth was, she hadn’t a prayer, but she had to try. Maybe, just maybe, they wouldn’t stop her. Brenna rolled onto her belly and pushed herself to her knees and then into a standing position. Oh no! She wanted to weep. She was barefoot, and without shoes she wasn’t going anywhere. Naturally, the hooded figures were aware of her movements. But they did not rush her. They simply watched as if waiting to see what she would do next, and Brenna stared back at them like a startled doe, ashamed of her sudden cowardice. “I wish to go back to the house,” she said at last, her voice rising on a hysterical note. The man who had spoken before stepped forward. “You will…in time.” 51

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“I don’t understand. Why am I here?” “Why? To celebrate your nuptials, of course.” As she had feared, the drug had not yet cleared her system and her head began to spin. She staggered, slipping to one knee. The others in the grove drifted toward her, and within moments Brenna was surrounded. She managed to stand again, and for the first time she realized that she still wore the white nightdress her husband had given her. The satin ribbon was neatly tied at her throat, but it hardly mattered. She added humiliation to the riot of emotions that were claiming her. Rising around her, almost undetectable at first, was a low-pitched hum. The sound gathered momentum, and Brenna realized it emanated from her white-robed captors, a swelling drone that was almost hypnotic. As the humming grew louder, she sensed a mounting urgency among the group. The air was rife with expectancy. Now, truly afraid, Brenna backed away from those in front of her, only to bump against others behind her. With hoods pulled down far enough to hide their features, Brenna was hemmed in by faceless, nameless creatures who, she had come to believe, did not mean her well. “Please,” she begged. The humming increased, and the circle tightened. A hand reached out and took a swatch of her hair. Brenna jerked away, but the strands slipped through the anonymous person’s fingers without resistance. A burble of laughter trilled near her ear, and she swung toward the sound. Someone caressed her shoulder—female, she was almost certain—an insinuating touch that made her cringe with disgust. Dazed and frantic, Brenna lunged forward, hoping to break through the line of humanity. The humming rose in response to her charge, but the line held, and the circle closed tighter around her, until she was the core of a bubbling mass of bodies. Now they touched her in earnest, intimate places that made her squeal with horror. She batted at the disembodied hands, twisting and turning wildly. At some point her anger took over. She kicked and flailed her arms, anything to get them off her, anything to make them stop. “Leave me be!” she screamed. She must have been inflicting some of her own damage because two individuals grabbed her from behind, an arm apiece. Brenna continued to kick savagely, bucking and pulling against the restraint, vocalizing her distress, putting every ounce of her waning strength into escape—knowing as she struggled she hadn’t a hope of breaking free. “Enough!” The one word command rang out, a deep baritone, seeming to fill the small clearing with its magnitude. The assemblage, en masse, went still. Brenna, chest heaving from exertion, ceased her movements as well but not before she yanked her arms from those who held her.

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In the middle of the clearing, standing on the stone bench, was another man in a white robe. He must have felt very confident, for his hood was pushed back, revealing a head of sandy hair and hawklike features. He was not old or young but somewhere in between. His gaze was riveted on Brenna, although when he spoke, he addressed the group as a whole. “We have gathered here, dear brethren, to celebrate the coming together of Lady Brenna Hilliard and Evan Richmond, Viscount Rutherford. By traditional ceremony our couple was married today. However, our religion demands another ceremony. And so, as is our way,” he paused dramatically, “our congregation has been invited to share in the ‘uniting’ of our wedded couple.” An eager murmur sifted through the throng. Brenna stared at the man, trying to interpret exactly what he was saying. Fear slowly curled around her spine, snaking outward to her extremities, a dawning terror that bespoke of a sickness she could only imagine. Did he mean what she thought he meant? The invasive petting began anew, this time less obtrusively, a hand here or there touching her briefly. But she could feel the avid interest in the persons who surrounded her, as if she were a toy for their pleasure. The notion was as appalling as she sensed it was true. The man on the bench spoke again. “Bring the virgin before me.” Virgin? What did he mean by that? Afraid she might discover the answer, she turned to flee, trying once more to wrestle her way through the wall of bodies. But it was to no avail. Brenna was grabbed by her arms again and dragged unceremoniously across the clearing—the others following closely behind—her unshod toes scuffing roughly against the hard earth. The person holding her right arm lost his grip momentarily, and Brenna fell sideways, her knee sustaining a painful gash from a jagged rock on the ground. She cried out but was pulled to her feet without seeming regret on the part of her “escorts”. A hole was torn in her nightdress over the wound. No matter, Brenna decided as she registered the ruined gown. When this is over I shall throw the wretched thing away, for I hate it, anyway. She was too weak to fight any longer, thus when they positioned her in front of the sandy-haired man and let her go, she merely stood before him and wove on watery legs. Blood seeped from her knee and trickled down her shin. Exertion had made her perspire, and now her gown clung damply to her skin. She shivered, from reaction or cold, she could not decide. Brenna was aware of those at her back, but her attention was riveted on the man in front of her. He watched her with piercing eyes, a look that took in all of her, from her scuffed feet and torn and bloody gown to her wild hair dancing on the light breeze. Apparently, he liked what he saw, for his lips twisted in a faint smile, and a lascivious spark filtered into his gaze, a spark absent until that moment.

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“Our brother Evan has done well for himself,” he said. As to that, where was her husband? she wondered. “Tonight, Lady Rutherford, you will become one of us,” the man continued. “In body and soul. Give of yourself freely and reap the rewards.” Brenna stared at him, incredulous. “If I understand you correctly—what you want from me—do you really expect me not to fight?” His smile deepened. “You will not ruin our pleasure by fighting. There is excitement in, ah, subduing resistance. Either way…we will celebrate this night.” “Where is my choice in all of this?” she asked, chilled to her bones. He shook his head. “Poor child, you come in ignorance. You are among the enlightened now. We are here to educate you, to show you what can be yours if you will only open your mind.” “And your legs,” came a crude whisper from behind her. Someone sniggered. In that moment, Brenna realized she was not only in the hands of kidnappers, they were drunken kidnappers. Her chances of reasoning with this “congregation” were next to none, and without a divine miracle, she was about to face an event that had the potential of robbing her of reason. A deep sense of self-protection—and sheer obstinacy—took hold of Brenna. Whatever happened, she would be all right. “I suspect you would prefer I resist,” she said, putting all the contempt she felt into the statement. “Well, I won’t do it. I will not play into your hands.” The man studied her briefly, and now the lasciviousness was replaced by something else. Respect? Little good it would do her. “So be it,” he said. He moved forward suddenly, pulling a knife from his waistband. An excited gasp seized the gathering. Brenna, despite a shock of fear that took her breath, used every ounce of willpower not to flinch away from him. He gave a wry nod in appreciation of her bravery then slipped the blade beneath the ribbon at her throat, slicing it in two. He caught the neckline of the nightdress with the knife tip, using it to pull the garment from her shoulders and exposing her breasts. The murmurs became a clamor as the revelers grew more agitated. Brenna’s belief that all would ultimately be well faltered at that point. She swallowed on bile that pooled in her throat, gagging her. She began to pray, tossing away all her cynicism as she reached for the heavens. Help me, she pleaded silently. Help me! “Place the virgin upon the altar,” the man said. The altar? Now all became clear.

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Two sets of strong arms grasped her from behind and despite her vow to remain docile Brenna struggled. She was lifted and placed on her back on the stone bench. The duo—who she assumed had dragged her across the clearing—was now positioned on either side of her, holding her down by the shoulders. She tried to sit up but was roughly pushed back, her head bouncing on the stone with a soft thud. She was aware of her senses dimming briefly, but for the moment she was unaffected by any pain. A low rumble among the worshipers evolved into a chant, growing louder and more intense. The air was rife with anticipation, human emotion at its most base. They gathered around the altar, hands—both male and female, she felt certain—once again touching her. They lifted the hem of her gown, caressing her feet then ankles and higher still. Those at her head ran hands along her neck and shoulders and breasts. An overwhelming sensation of claustrophobia washed over her. Her lungs were tight with panic, and she thrashed mindlessly as she fought to breathe. The chanting continued unabated, although Brenna understood little of what they were saying. There was a demented quality to the proceedings as if the congregation were following without thought, mere puppets acting out the will of another. Into the chaos sudden quiet reigned, although what—or who—signaled the silence Brenna could not say. There was absolute stillness, not a breath of movement, even the breeze rustling the trees seeming to pause. Materializing from the others, the sandyhaired man stepped forward, raising his arms heavenward. Surely, heaven did not speak to this man. “Come forward, Evan Richmond,” he intoned. “Claim your bride.”

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Chapter Seven The gathering parted, forming a pathway that led from the altar to a lone hooded figure who stood at the edge of the circle, hands folded at waist level. She could not see his face, but Brenna knew who it was. In apparent piety, he lifted his hands to the sky, emulating the sandy-haired man. Every ounce of cynicism she had squelched came back in an angry rush. What amazing nerve he had, pretending God would sanction this night. The chanting began anew. It had the odd quality of seeming to encourage him. And it worked. Reaching for the ties on his robe, he slowly pulled them loose. He eased the garment from his shoulders but, strangely, he wore a mask under his hood, a small cloth sack that fitted over his head. The mask, holes cut for the eyes, remained when the robe fell to the ground. He was a stunning sight, as sinister as he could have hoped for, naked—except for his disguised features—and fully aroused. The chanting turned to ribald cheers, and the revelers in tandem, dipped to one knee, waving him toward the altar. Frantically, Brenna’s gaze sought out the sandy-haired man where he stood close to her head. “Do not allow this abomination.” She spoke loudly, hoping he could hear her over the raucous voices. “You have the power to stop this.” His gaze was centered on the naked form moving toward her. He remained silent for so long, she thought he had not heard her. “To us this is a holy rite,” he said. “This is no religion I know. What is holy about ravishment?” “It is appropriate, my lady and hardly ravishment when the lovers are married.” They were shouting at one another over the din. At that point, his eyes flicked to hers, cool and detached for all the zeal she saw lurking in his expression. With despair she realized her plea was falling on indifferent ears. He did not empathize with her, simply did not care. In fact, she suspected he had orchestrated this event and was determined to see it through. “You will not help me?” She tried one last time, more from desperation than hope. “You do not understand. But you will.” “I don’t want to understand.” “Then, so be it. You will suffer for your ignorance.” He turned from her, his attitude contemptuous and dismissing. He signaled the masked person forward.

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“May the Gods bear witness to this holy union,” he shouted. From somewhere the pounding of what sounded like a small drum began, and another individual separated from the throng, dancing sensuously, circling Brenna’s aroused suitor. Almost certainly it was a woman. The dancer ran delicate hands suggestively over the man’s torso. Brenna’s breath caught in her throat, revulsion rolling over her in a wave of disbelief. She recognized the large ruby and pearl ring on the woman’s finger. Evangeline! Stunned, although under the circumstances she didn’t know why, Brenna felt her courage desert her. Tears pooled in her eyes and slipped down her cheeks and into her hair. Where was her God when she needed him most? Overhead a storm was gathering. In the distant night sky, lightning flashed among the cloud banks, too far away to be heard. A humid breeze swirled lazily around the small clearing, picking up dried leaves on the ground and depositing them elsewhere. Brenna’s lungs felt as tight and heavy as sacks of wet grain. The air was syrupy, thick with expectation, as though something not of the natural world had been summoned to this place. Was she the only one to feel it? Her faceless “lover”, with the aid of several worshipers, leapt upon the altar. He stood over her for countless moments, the view from her prone position shockingly obscene. He straddled her then, coming down on his haunches. Brenna tried to wriggle away from him, but the two individuals flanking her still held her in place. That did not keep her from bucking and kicking, however. “Hold her legs!” the naked man bellowed as she came close to doing him excruciating damage. He grasped the hem of her nightdress, yanking it upward and bunching it around her hips, exposing her lower body. Cheers and jeers from their licentious audience followed. Too many emotions, coming too fast, kept her from feeling the horror that such a deed ordinarily would have produced. Shock at some point became a numbing condition. At first she did not understand why he continued to fluff the gown on either side of her, but then he gingerly placed his knees in the wadded material to pad them from the rough stone. Brenna wanted to laugh aloud, for that one action reduced him from demon to fragile human again. Strange how something so seemingly incidental could reignite one’s courage. He leaned forward and took her breasts in both hands. Instant repulsion catapulted Brenna into action. She wrenched her arm free from the person restraining her right side then grabbed the mask of her ravisher and ripped it from his head. As she had known, it was the viscount. But perhaps unmasking him was a mistake, for his wild, almost deranged expression revealed more than the face he was attempting to hide. It revealed the state of her husband’s mind, and for the first time she feared she would not live to see the morrow. Still, she felt it imperative that she try to reach him. 57

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“My lord, spare us this humiliation,” she pleaded. “Do I look like a man suffering from humiliation?” He ground his erection crudely against her pelvis and barked a harsh laugh, to the vocal delight of those who watched. The wind had picked up, whistling eerily and whipping the limbs of the willows to and fro. Flickering wildly, the flames of the torches fought for life. The lightning had grown closer, and now the angry grumble of thunder could be heard as flashes lit up the night. Brenna no longer wondered if something not of this world had been summoned to the grove—now she merely wondered what it was. The viscount reached between her legs, fingering her, and she squirmed in disgust. “Please, my lord—Evan…this will leave a stain upon your soul—” “Then the devil take my soul,” he hollered to the heavens. “If that is the price I must pay, it is worth it!” The entire sky exploded with light behind the viscount’s head, the ensuing boom filling the meadow. He stiffened. His eyes grew wide, and as Brenna stared into their depths, it was as though she stepped to the very edge of the universe. Another storm was gathering, this one in his irises, the pupils shrinking to pinpoints. He stuttered unintelligibly, his arms and legs beginning to quake. Surely she imagined the clouds boiling in those lapis eyes, the sudden faraway look that meant his essence was no longer in residence. However, for the briefest time all the sanity that had been missing from his gaze seemed to coalesce into one lucid, gutwrenching moment. Had she not known otherwise, Brenna would have said he was overwhelmed by remorse. But of course, that was not possible. His body convulsed, and he slipped sideways off the altar, hitting the ground with a dull thump. After that he lay very still. The wind had calmed, and a light rain misted the field and its stunned occupants. A female scream pierced the sudden quiet. Evangeline rushed forward, hood thrown back from her dark hair, and tumbled to her knees, prostrate over her brother’s fallen body. “What have you done to him!” she wailed. She called his name over and over, but he did not waken. Brenna sat up, and this time no one restrained her. In fact, she suspected no one even noticed her movements. She covered herself with her ruined nightdress and climbed off the stone altar, standing on unsteady legs. Her heart, which had been pounding out of control, gradually slowed to a more normal rhythm. She glanced around, wondering what to do next. She was wrong about going unnoticed. The sandy-haired man was watching her, and his expression was now tempered by thoughtfulness as if he were contemplating an enigma. He moved to her side, ignoring the viscount’s unconscious form and those who had crowded around him.

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Brenna watched his approach warily, although she felt she no longer need fear him. She did not know why that was so, but as always she trusted what her senses were telling her. His gaze was almost respectful, definitely devoid of the lust that had characterized his attitude earlier. “Who are you?” he asked. “No one of importance,” she answered. “Perhaps not in this realm. But do not doubt you were protected this night.” Was he suggesting there would be another night? “I’ll not be coming back here,” Brenna said, sounding as belligerent as she felt. “Not by my hand, you won’t,” he agreed. “A force far greater than either you or I has spoken. I would be an absolute fool to challenge that.” “What kind of ‘believer’ are you?” “A dabbler, nothing more,” he said, now himself the enigma. “I go where I sense a need for my services.” “You lead these poor wretches into doing ill?” “Ill? That’s subjective, don’t you think?” “No.” Her voice was flat and resolute, leaving no room for argument. “Ah, to be so certain. I believed like you once upon a time.” “You don’t believe in good?” “Indeed I do.” “But you worship evil. I don’t understand.” “Can’t have one without the other, my lady. In the real world each has its place.” He turned and walked away then, crossing the clearing and vanishing into the trees. Brenna stared after him and shuddered as if something malignant had just left her sphere. She didn’t know his name nor did she want to. In the few minutes since the viscount had collapsed, most of the revelers had scurried away, disappearing into the surrounding countryside much as the sandyhaired man had. They had been intent on some clandestine entertainment. Tonight they would be returning home disappointed. As Brenna came toward the viscount and Evangeline, the remaining stragglers scattered. Now she was to be feared—most likely as a bearer of tales—whereas only a short time ago she was their victim, to be sullied and debauched for their amusement. The irony of her changed situation would have been laughable if she had not felt like weeping. Brenna paused behind her sister-in-law. “What’s wrong with him? Is he all right?” Evangeline turned a ravaged face on her. “Little do you care.” The unfairness of the accusation, especially considering the night she’d had, made Brenna bite back.

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“And why should I? Let’s not pretend he cares for me either.” “This evening was in honor of your marriage.” Brenna had no answer for that. She merely stared at the woman in amazement. “You expect me to believe that drivel?” she asked at last. “My brother may be dying while you stand there arguing over motives. There is a horse and buggy,” she pointed to a dirt trail that meandered into the trees a short distance from them, “at the end of that path. Untie the horse and lead him here.” Brenna shook her head. “I have no shoes, and already I’ve several cuts on my feet. You go. I’ll watch your brother.” “I don’t trust you. I won’t be leaving you alone with him.” If I had done to you what you’ve done to me, Brenna thought wryly, I wouldn’t trust me, either. Geline removed her kid leather half boots and tossed them at her. “Now hurry.” Brenna could not explain why the thought of putting on Evangeline’s shoes should fill her with disgust, but it did. Seemed she had no choice, though, if she were to go home any time soon. She sat down in the grass and slipped on the boots, refusing to think about what she was doing. She stood up again. Once she reached the path she could see the buggy nestled among the willows. She trudged toward it, her feet sliding in the over-large boots. Reaching the horse, she had a moment of rebellion. “What say I climb aboard and go home?” Brenna said to the animal. “Those two can fend for themselves.” Unfortunately, she wasn’t certain where home was from here, as she had been unconscious when they’d brought her to the grove. And too—much to her disappointment—her conscience would not allow her to abandon the brother and sister, even though in her present frame of mind she felt she owed them less than nothing. Well, perhaps she owed them revenge, but that was for another, more clear-headed time. The horse snorted as if it were up to her to decide. “Much help you are,” she muttered, grabbing the reins. She decided to board the buggy and drive it into the clearing. She expected Geline to be displeased that Brenna had not followed her instructions precisely, but the woman seemed not to notice. The only emotion Brenna detected in her was relief. The next several minutes—it seemed much longer—were composed of wrestling with the viscount’s inert body in an attempt to place him in the buggy. Though slim, Geline was a big woman and stronger than Brenna. But even with both of them giving it their all, they nearly failed. They settled on dumping the naked viscount on the floor of the vehicle where he would have to ride beneath their feet. Not once during the process did he stir.

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Winded, the women climbed into the buggy. They had worked without speaking, but Geline’s fear for her brother was palpable. Brenna almost felt sorry for her. Almost… As for the viscount, she could not help thinking it would be better if he never woke up. Her sister-in-law as expected took the reins, but Brenna made a concerted effort to track their route. However, in the dark, one twist and turn after the other, she was soon hopelessly lost. Evangeline broke the heavy silence. “It will do you no good to speak of this night.” “Actually, it will do you no good for me to speak of this night,” Brenna said caustically. The look Geline gave her was filled with loathing. “You could simply have entered into the spirit of the thing. The ceremony can be very moving when approached from the proper perspective.” “I don’t think I’m interested in being ‘moved’ in quite that way, thank you.” “You’re a prude. Our queen would approve.” She might as well have said Brenna was a lump of excrement. “Because I don’t wish to have relations with my husband in front of an audience? Pardon me, but from where did you form your sense of morality? The docks in Dover? No, that’s not fair. I can’t believe the lowest sailor would stoop to such wicked behavior.” “You refuse to understand.” Brenna blew out an exasperated breath. “I can’t understand. You simply must accept that. And why,” she flung at her, “was I given no choice?” “Would you have agreed?” The point exactly Brenna had to admit. She lapsed into silence once more. As close as she could determine, it was nearly thirty minutes before they arrived at Covington Manor. As they came in sight of the house, Geline said, “I wish to do this without waking my parents. There is nothing to be gained by upsetting them.” “Agreed,” Brenna said. In fact, she dreaded the hurt this evening would cause the earl and his wife. “What do you suggest?” “We’ll leave the buggy in the yard and wake Evan’s man, Riley. At any rate, I suspect he’s up and waiting for our return. He will help us get Evan into the house and his bed. And we can trust him to be discreet.” “If Lord Rutherford is seriously injured, we’ll have to call a physician.” Geline turned wounded eyes on her. “Pray that is not the case.” Brenna looked away from her. She could hardly admit she had been praying for something quite the opposite.

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***** As Geline predicted, Riley was waiting for them. A huge man, he was coarse, not the typical gentleman’s gentleman. Without seeming effort, he lifted the viscount from the buggy and tossed him over his shoulder, then headed for the servants’ entrance at the back of the house. He was also discreet as promised, not blinking an eye at Brenna’s torn nightdress and large boots or Geline’s bare feet and white hooded robe or even the viscount’s lack of clothing altogether. They were a disreputable trio for certain. A sleepy maid came out on the servants’ landing to watch the ragged procession as everyone tramped into the kitchen. Brenna motioned to her, pulling a modest pearl ring from her middle finger and pushing it at the girl. “Yours if I have a full tub of hot water within the half hour.” The maid bobbed a delighted curtsy, grabbing buckets as she ran. Brenna then followed the others upstairs to her husband’s room, stopping in the open doorway. She knew immediately her presence was redundant. Riley had the situation under control, and Evangeline was pulling back covers, getting clean linens and generally fussing. Before going to her bedchamber, however, Brenna wanted an assessment of the viscount’s condition. “Riley, do you think something is seriously wrong with Lord Rutherford?” The big man stopped to look at her. “His breathing is strong, his color good, there’s not a mark on him aside from the scuffs he got from being knocked about. Milady here,” he nodded toward Geline, “don’t want to call the doctor unless we have to for, ah, for reasons we all understand. But if his lordship don’t come around by morning, we have no choice.” “You don’t believe he’s in danger of dying?” “Don’t seem likely at the moment, milady.” Brenna nodded, at once more tired than she thought possible. She shared a brief glance with Geline then turned to her own room.

***** Hot water lapped against Brenna’s skin. The sheer joy of washing away the filth of the night’s activities kept her soaking far longer than she had intended. When she had stepped into the tub, she had feared she would never feel clean again. But as the minutes ticked by, and the bath’s heat crept into her pores, the tension in her body eased. Perhaps she would wake tomorrow without feeling permanently sullied. Now that her anxiety and fear had abated, she was consumed by a righteous anger. Some of that anger was directed at herself for not showing more spirit, more courage, when faced with that depraved congregation. Only when analyzing the events over and

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over was she finally able to admit there was little she could have done differently. She had been drugged after all. And there were many of them and only one of her. Still, she could not fathom the sickness that controlled her husband and his sister. The sandy-haired man peddled a perverted religion, but he could only nurture his corrupt ideas where there was receptive soil. The twins had apparently been ripe for his pickings. In her heart, she despised them both. And hatred in itself was a sickness. But she could not help herself. They had earned the depth of her feelings, and sadly they would all have to live with the results. Brenna dressed in a flannel nightdress that covered her from neck to toe. For some reason the chaste garment made her feel more secure, less vulnerable to a side of nature she had not known existed until this evening. Exhausted, she yearned for her bed, but duty demanded she check on her husband one more time before she slept. Why she felt that way was a mystery. She was certain if she abandoned him entirely, her God would understand. However, she had decided she had little to gain by spiting an unconscious man. She stepped into satin slippers and grabbed her wrapper from the end of her bed. Outside her husband’s bedchamber once again, Brenna tapped lightly on the door. Riley answered her summons. “Milady?” he asked quietly. Also whispering, she said, “I came to see how Lord Rutherford fares before I retire for the night.” Much to her dismay, the servant waved her inside. All she had wanted was a verbal assurance her husband was holding his own—or by some stroke of luck he was losing his hold on life, she thought blackly. Reentering his room had not been on her agenda. The lamps were still lit, and Brenna surveyed the room quickly as she crossed the threshold. “Lady Evangeline?” “Gone to wash up, but she’ll be back,” Riley said. “She should go to bed, but her obsession,” he gave Brenna a telling look, “with his lordship, well…” “Twins have unusually close relationships, I hear,” she returned noncommittally. He grunted, a disparaging sound, but said no more on the subject. “Has my husband’s condition changed?” Riley shrugged. “Far as I can tell, he’s sleeping peacefully.” “What do you think is wrong with him?” “Now that I don’t know. But I will tell you this—there’s a price to be paid for not respecting things we don’t understand. Maybe his lordship went too far this time.” “This time?” He shook his head. “I already said more than I meant to.”

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Fair enough. She wouldn’t press him. Brenna admired a loyal servant, even one loyal to a man such as her husband. She walked to the bed and stared down at the viscount. His features were drawn, dark circles under his eyes, as though he had suffered in some way. He looked younger, less dissipated. Again, she was struck by what a handsome man he was. What a shame he lost his looks the moment his personality took hold of him. On impulse, she placed her hand on his forehead, feeling his temperature. His skin was cool and clammy as though he had just broken a fever. How strange, she thought. What was wrong with him? She drew back, and in that instant a hand clamped around her wrist. She gasped, her heart freezing in her chest. The viscount’s eyes opened, and he stared at her, a penetrating look that caused every nerve in her body to seize with alarm. “Oh!” Brenna tried to twist from his grasp, even as he clung to her tenaciously. Frantic, she yanked free, stumbling backward. She swung around to find Riley, in the process of hanging up his master’s clothing, looking at her curiously. “Milady, is something wrong?” “Yes…I…did you see?” The last three words came out in a breathless rush. “See what?” “My husband—” She glanced over her shoulder at the viscount, but he appeared to be sleeping again. “Yes?” Clearly, the servant hadn’t a clue what she was talking about, and Brenna was so traumatized she felt incapable of explaining. “I think your master might be stirring,” she finished lamely. She started for the exit, escape her first and only priority. “I’ll check back in the morning.” In the corridor, with the door closed firmly behind her, Brenna paused and slumped against the wall. She took in deep breaths, trying to shake the fear that still shivered through her body. Something was wrong, very wrong, she thought. Who was that man who lay in her husband’s bed? Surely it couldn’t be Evan Richmond. The viscount had lapis-blue eyes like his sister, or so she’d been certain. Then why were they now the clear blue of a summer sky? And why oh why had she been gripped by a familiarity that felt as deep and ancient as the spiritual well from which humanity had sprung? She stood away from the wall, her frightened gaze shifting to her husband’s bedchamber door. What had happened in that willow grove tonight?

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Chapter Eight Evan Richmond, Viscount Rutherford, future Earl Covington opened his eyes to a brilliant morning. The drapes in his room were thrown back, and the light dazzled him, accentuating a severe pounding in his head. Had he imbibed last night? Most certainly he had, but it didn’t feel like an overindulgence headache. He sat up and winced. No, it was more as if he had been pummeled with a heavy object. The pain traveled down his neck and into his shoulders, grievous enough to play havoc with his stomach. He groaned, a wretched sound that echoed deep in his chest. “‘Bout time you woke.” Evan’s gaze shot across the room to… Oh yes, of course. “Riley?” “How are you feeling, milord?” “As if I’ve been pounded into flour.” “Well, I must say, you gave us quite a scare.” “I did?” Riley picked up a tray resting on a table by the door and crossed to the bed. “That you did. You don’t remember anything?” “I’m…not certain.” Evan looked at the man, trying to compose his thoughts. As normal as his surroundings were, something felt not right as though his world were slightly off kilter. He knew Riley, and yet at the moment the servant seemed strange to him, as did his room and all his belongings. In fact, he felt strange to himself, as if his skin weren’t precisely his skin. Riley set the tray down on the bed. Tea and toast. “That’s not my normal breakfast, is it?” Evan asked. The servant laughed. “Not hardly. You’ve an appetite, that you do, milord.” He sobered. “Thought you should start out with something simple this morning though. Test the waters, so to speak.” “Or the stomach?” The grin returned. “The stomach, yes, indeed.” Evan sipped on the tea, as commonplace a brew as any an Englishman could drink, but for a brief moment it tasted unfamiliar to him. His throat was extremely dry, however, thus he persisted until the cup was empty. Fortunately, his last taste was better than his first. He decided the toast could wait. Pushing the tray out of the way, he started to rise.

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The moment his feet touched the floor he knew it was a mistake. His head spun crazily, and his near-empty belly lurched in response. He staggered, grabbing the bed to steady himself. “Easy, milord,” Riley said, taking his arm. “Don’t want to take a tumble.” “What the hell happened to me last night?” It wasn’t just his head that hurt, he realized. Every bone in his body covered by every tortured muscle screamed at him. He sat down on the nearest chair, breathing deeply as he sought his equilibrium. “Not sure. Left the house on your feet and returned on your back.” “Who brought me home?” “Lady Evangeline and your wife.” His wife…oh, yes… He’d forgotten about her. Another revelation to ponder. Even as he began asking questions, snippets and snatches from the previous evening came floating back to Evan. The partial memories had the odd quality of being like a stage performance—something he had watched rather than in which he had been a participant. He found himself cringing away from certain recollections, appalled and humiliated by behavior he must attribute to himself. Perhaps it was all a bad dream, he reasoned hopefully. Otherwise, he had a sudden vision of a man despised and reviled by all who knew him. A man who had earned his reputation. He looked up to find Riley watching him warily, as if he did not know what to make of his master this morning. Evan found the man’s uncertainty disturbing, and he couldn’t decide why. He was not in the habit of treating his manservant—or any of his servants, for that matter—particularly well, although he had always respected the man’s size and potential for defending himself. Why did his lack of consideration for those who served him bother him this morning when it had never bothered him before? “I, ah, thank you, Riley, for tending to me through the night. Have you had any sleep?” Riley looked startled. “Why, a little, milord. Slept in that chair, I did.” He indicated the chair Evan now occupied. “Only way I could convince your sister to get some rest was to promise to stay with you. I don’t think she meant for me to sleep, though, so I’d appreciate if you wouldn’t mention that part to her.” “Not to worry, my good man.” Again, the servant gave him a quizzical look that had little trust in it. An impatient knock sent Riley to answer the door. On the threshold Evangeline peered anxiously into the room. “Any change?” she asked. Riley thrust the door wider. “See for yourself, milady.”

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Her gaze met her brother’s, and she raced across the room, flinging herself at his feet. She wrapped her arms around his waist and buried her face in his stomach. “Evan! I’ve been so worried.” Evan reached to pet her hair, an automatic and affectionate response, as normal to him as breathing. And hesitated. He glanced up at Riley, and the servant’s expression gave him further pause. His features were pinched in what Evan could only assume was distaste. He realized in that moment that Riley didn’t much care for his sister, and probably did not like him either. What a lowering thought and, until this morning, one that would never have occurred to him. Evan took Geline by the shoulders and gently pushed her away from him. “Now, now, I’m fine,” he said, feeling awkward in a way he could not remember ever having felt before with regard to his twin. She sniffed and reached in the cuff of her sleeve for a hankie. Wiping her nose, she looked at him with watery eyes. “I thought we had lost you, and that awful woman didn’t even seem to care.” “What woman?” “Silly, that Irish baggage you married yesterday.” Oh. “She probably knew I would be all right. Not much point in worrying, if there is nothing to worry about.” Geline jumped up and flung away from him. “Since when are you making excuses for her?” “Since you and I acted like lowly maggots toward her.” She turned to face him, hand over her mouth, eyes wide with shock. “You believe that?” she whispered. Evan’s gaze shifted to Riley. “Leave us,” he said quietly. When they were alone, he said, “Yes, I believe it. I’m not proud of last night—what I can remember of it.” “And why should you be ashamed? You—all of us—were merely expressing the emotions that were given to us by God for our enjoyment. We invited her to be one of us. It’s not our fault she’s Puritan in her thinking.” “What is our fault is the assumption that we could manipulate a circumstance and expect her to acquiesce without protesting. Regardless of our motives—and I’m not so sure about those right now—she should have been given a choice.” “Even she admitted she would never have agreed.” “Then we should have respected her wishes.” “What would Jason Fricker have to say about that?” she countered.

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Evan’s thoughts turned to Fricker. “After last night I suspect Jason has left the neighborhood. At any rate, it would be best if he did. I think we need a respite from his particular variety of preaching.” Geline stalked up to Evan where he still sat in his chair. “I can’t believe what I’m hearing. You’ve never questioned our activities before. What has happened to you between last night and today?” “I don’t know.” And surely he did not. Her eyes narrowed as she looked at him, really looked at him. Suddenly she recoiled, an almost imperceptive retreat, but he felt it like a slap. What was it she had seen that had repulsed her so? Another knock sounded at the door, this time a reticent one. “Come,” Evan said in a loud voice. The door opened inward, slowly, as if the caller preferred to be somewhere, anywhere, else. His wife poked her head into the room. “You’re awake,” Brenna stated without enthusiasm. Her attention shifted to Geline. “I see you’re busy.” She started to withdraw. “No, no,” he said quickly. “Come in. Geline and I have finished.” Evangeline turned an amazed stare on him. “We have?” When he did not answer, she crossed the room to the door, shoulders back, head erect. “I suppose we have.” She managed one killing glance for her sister-in-law in passing and stomped into the hall. “Come in, Brenna,” Evan said again. His wife remained on the threshold. “That’s not necessary, my lord. As I said, I merely wanted to know if you had survived the night.” “You don’t seem particularly pleased to see that I have.” Her gaze grew cool and detached. “Should I be?” “We have some things to discuss,” Evan said quietly. “I would prefer not to do it with an open door and the possibility of being overheard.” “You feel well enough?” Still he detected reticence in her attitude. He could hardly blame her. “I feel as though a team of horses has run over me. Repeatedly.” Brenna stepped into the bedchamber. “Good,” she said, closing the door. “I deserve that.” “Yes, you do.” She came to the middle of the room, hands clasped at her waist. Waiting. Evidently, the first move was his. “About last night…” “Yes?” Her gaze had gone very remote. “I…don’t remember everything.”

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“How nice for you, my lord.” “I understand your anger.” “I should thank you for that, I suppose.” Evan cringed under the sarcasm. “This is not going to be easy, is it?” “I hardly think so, my lord, nor do I see any reason it should be.” He sighed. “Perhaps not.” “Then?” “I was hoping you might help me sort out exactly what happened?” Color climbed high in her cheeks, whether from embarrassment or indignation he could not tell. Maybe it was both. “You expect me to stand here and calmly dissect with you an event so appalling I still cannot believe it happened? Have you no shame?” Her voice trembled, and the hands at her waist were white-knuckled from gripping each other so hard. She was trying valiantly to remain calm, he could see that, but her resolve was beginning to fail her. Clearly, the previous evening had had a disastrous effect on her. “What I have is a memory riddled with holes,” he said. “Fill them in for me, and then we shall discuss my shame.” Brenna swallowed, lips clamped together. “Very well,” she said finally. “What do you remember?” Ah, she had handed the initiative back to him. Fair enough under the circumstances. He smiled inwardly because despite her seeming timidity, she had substantial pluck. Odd, he’d never liked pluck in a woman before, had certainly never thought it amusing. “Let me see—” “Do you remember why you took me to that willow grove?” she blurted. “Do you?” He found it difficult to meet her eyes. “Yes.” “Then what more is there to say? From my standpoint you have remembered the most important aspect of last night’s debacle. If you are wondering what happened to you on that altar, I haven’t a clue. Nor, quite frankly, do I care. Under the circumstances, you should be profoundly grateful that you are alive.” “Do you think I was struck by the lightning?” he persisted. “Struck by divine intervention more like,” she muttered. Evan was intrigued by the notion. “Do you believe that?” “What I believe is that evil deeds, whether inspired by a truly evil spirit or mere stupidity, do have a price. I went to my bed last night believing I had been spared. Each individual must decide for himself exactly what that means.” “You believe I’ve been spared as well?” 69

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“Perhaps.” “Why do you think that would be?” “Haven’t a clue about that either, my lord. Can’t say I agree with it though.” Evan chuckled. “Thought I detected disappointment when you came in this morning.” “You find this situation humorous?” “No. I find it uncomfortable, embarrassing…sad.” “Add tragic to that, my lord.” “Yes, and unnecessary. Unfortunately, we can only go forward from here.” Brenna stared at him sullenly. “Are we going to work together to mend this rift?” he asked. “I think you ask too much.” “For now, maybe. But do you see a future here?” Her expression was pained and evasive. “Now you ask too soon. My thoughts have not gone past that altar and what variety of man would do such a thing.” She looked at him directly. “Make me understand that, my lord, and then perhaps we can talk about mending rifts.” Deflated, Evan nodded, a dismissing gesture that she clearly understood. She turned toward the door. “Brenna?” Her back to him, hand on the doorknob, she cocked her head without turning around. “Yes, my lord?” “Have you mentioned any of this to my parents?” “No.” “I ask that you continue your silence—for their sake.” Now she did turn around. “I was under the impression that Lord and Lady Covington’s feelings were of little concern to you. Has that changed?” “Yes.” When she did not respond, but merely watched him pensively, Evan continued. “Something happened in that grove last night. I wish I knew what it was.” “Your eyes are normal today,” she said. “What?” Brenna shook her head. “Nothing.” She pulled the door open and left the room.

*****

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Evan did not leave his bedchamber for the remainder of the day. Every time he began to stir, thinking the worst of his maladies had abated, he found himself off his feet again, nursing a queasy stomach and a pounding head. Riley returned often, bringing food and encouragement. Geline, who he assumed was still displeased over their earlier conversation, had checked on him but had not stayed to chat. His mother had stopped in briefly. “You are ill, dear?” she had said. “Hope you feel better.” Her visit was perfunctory, thus not very gratifying, and he wondered why he cared. For that matter, why had he even noticed? His father had not come at all. But what had he expected? Last night they had parted on bad terms, Evan’s fault, he had to admit. He wondered now why he had felt the need to instigate that ugly scene in front of the vicar, why it had pleased him so at the time. He had managed to turn his wedding day into an unpleasant memory. Strange thing was he could feel the urge that made him act reprehensibly. It was there, beneath the surface, still enticing him, still promising pleasure in the wicked and the cruel. But today for the first time since he could remember, he felt no strong desire to answer its call. His thoughts shied away from the night before, the willow grove…the altar. His reason for being there. Rather than finding excitement in his deeds, as he had expected—as he had in the past—whenever he dwelled on the sordid affair, his head throbbed abominably. It was almost as if he were punishing himself. Long after bedtime he thought perhaps the worst of his illness had passed. He had sent Riley to his bed, and now he sat quietly in his own bed, reading. However, a growing sense of “not rightness” had been plaguing him all day. Evan was not comfortable with his body. It was like a suit of clothing that didn’t fit quite right anymore. And yet, it was his “suit”, no doubt about it. He climbed from the bed, pleased that his head and stomach did not reel. He walked across the room to the full-length mirror and, after peering at his face for a moment, stripped off his nightshirt. He stood there naked as a babe and stared at himself. His face, his fleshy body—now wait, he had never thought of himself as fleshy before. Well-padded perhaps but fleshy? And yet that was how he now appeared to himself—jowly, thick around the middle, and soft—an indulged aristocrat who was overfed. He was filled with disgust. For the first time he saw what Brenna was seeing, and he was ashamed. Even had he been an exemplary suitor since her arrival at Covington Manor, she could not have been pleased with the change in his appearance. Once upon a time, he had been a handsome man. Her first sight of him after so many years, the dissipation, must have been a shock. She, on the other hand, was lovely. The promise of a young girl had come to pass in the adult woman—another realization that had bludgeoned him today. He found his

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new wife amazingly attractive. Why was he only now coming to that conclusion? What kind of fool was he to have missed her beauty until now? Discouraged and upset by the unanswered questions that had cropped up all day long, Evan crawled back into his nightshirt and returned to bed. As he reached to extinguish the light on the bedside table, Geline, barefooted, wearing a frilly gown and wrapper, came tiptoeing into the room, bringing with her a brandy decanter and two glasses. It seemed she had forgiven him. Warily, he watched her cross the room. “What is this?” he asked. “Riley told me you’ve not had a brandy all day. I thought you might be missing your favorite drink.” She giggled as she climbed on the mattress to sit beside him. Geline put down one glass on the bedside table so she could pour into the other one. She handed him the brandy, filled almost to the rim then poured herself one just like it. She was sitting too close, insinuating on his person, and Evan was made uncomfortable. He was finding her nearness almost revolting, and he was shocked by his response. He ran the brandy under his nose as he always did before taking a sip. The smell was alternately stimulating and noxious, which was confusing as hell, because Geline was correct. Brandy was his favorite drink. The dichotomy of the good and the ill left him feeling nauseous again. “You know,” he said, reaching across her to set his glass on the table, “I’m not in the mood for spirits tonight. My stomach is still queasy, and I think what I need most is a good night’s rest. Do you mind if we try this again tomorrow?” Geline drew back from him as though he had hit her. Her eyes widened with hurt, and she scrambled off the bed, sloshing brandy onto the sheets. She took a large mouthful of her drink, then another and another, stopping only to cough as the burning liquid coursed down her throat. When her glass was empty, she slammed it down on the table with such force the stem broke. “I came for a brandy,” she said. “Now I’ve had it. Good night.” Evan watched her leave, saddened and confused and convinced a relationship that had been a cornerstone in his life had been altered irretrievably. What surprised him most was the relief he felt, as if something sick had finally begun to heal. He moved to the other side of the bed to avoid the brandy-smelling sheets and eased beneath the covers. Despite his belief that he couldn’t possibly sleep, he was unconscious within minutes.

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Chapter Nine Brenna went to sleep early, but restlessness forced her from the bed in the middle of the night. She had tossed and turned, wadding the coverlet and tearing the sheets loose from the mattress, until she was angry with frustration. Having run the gamut of emotions in the last twenty-four hours, a response as unpleasant as anger was most unwelcome. Every time she closed her eyes, every time she dozed, she was held prisoner on that altar again, thrashing frantically, begging to be released. The sandy-haired man leered at her from close by, and her husband loomed over her, threatening not only her body, but her mind as well. Evangeline’s presence was felt, although Brenna never saw her, an intangible menace no less real for her invisibility. More than once she jerked awake, covered in perspiration, her eyes filled with unshed tears. Once conscious, the sheer outrageousness of the event haunting her dreams would take her breath anew. And the perversion! Behavior so sick she was overcome by nausea. She truly was having difficulty understanding the motivations of that dissolute congregation. Brenna hoped the horror of her wedding night would ebb eventually because the disgust she felt whenever the memories assailed her was nearly intolerable. Thinking a glass of warm milk might help her return to a more peaceful rest, she donned a wrapper and slippers and stepped into the hall. As she closed her door, another door opened two rooms away, and Evangeline entered the hall from the viscount’s bedchamber. The two women paused simultaneously and stared at one another without speaking. Then Geline said, “He’s not feeling well.” “So I’ve heard.” “He should not be disturbed.” “Had no intention of doing so.” “You expect me to believe that?” Brenna adjusted the collar of her wrapper more firmly around her throat and started toward the woman. “Frankly, I don’t care what you believe.” She passed Geline shoulder to shoulder, and the animosity radiating off her sisterin-law was palpable. Outwardly, Brenna clung to her nonchalant attitude. On the inside, however, she shrank from the woman, perhaps not in fear, but absolutely in mistrust. Brenna was aware of Geline’s stare as she walked away, the hairs on the back of her neck standing to attention as proof. However, she refused to turn around as she felt the impulse to do. Let the woman think she didn’t care.

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Her encounter with her husband’s twin did not bode well for her return to sleep any time in the near future. Brenna felt fatalistic as she descended the stairs on her way to the kitchens. Warm milk could only do so much. As she passed the library she stopped because light was escaping from under the door. On impulse she peeked in. The earl sat in a burgundy leather chair in front of a dying fire. He held a brandy snifter in one hand, and he was staring at the flames, the expression on his face—even in profile—one of deep sadness. Othello lay at his master’s feet, and his great head lifted to look at her. Not wanting to disturb what was obviously a private moment, Brenna turned to leave, but her movement must have caught the old man’s eye. “Brenna?” She stepped into the room. “My lord?” “You’re up late.” “Couldn’t sleep.” “Ah, an affliction that seems to be going around.” “Yes, my lord.” “Why have you come down?” “I thought warm milk might remedy my situation.” Basil grimaced. “That’s a disgusting remedy, I’m afraid.” Brenna could not help smiling. “It is, isn’t it?” “Won’t you join me?” He pointed to the chair next to him. “Pour yourself a brandy. I guarantee it works better than warm milk.” She hesitated only briefly before moving to the sideboard. She splashed a modest amount of the amber liquid into a glass and sat in the chair he had indicated. They did not speak at first, sitting companionably, each nursing their own thoughts. Brenna took a small taste of her drink, and almost immediately the brandy brought a gentle numbing heat to her insides. She gave a mewl of satisfaction. The earl turned to her, grinning. “Point made?” “Indeed. Perhaps I shouldn’t admit it, but I enjoy the occasional brandy. My father and I would sip together.” Her eyes misted over. “Those were lovely times.” Basil looked back to the fire. “I admired your father and liked him, even though our families were not close. I hope you will forgive me for saying so, but that first wife of his was a difficult woman.” “So I understand. I never knew her, so I’m not offended. Malcolm, however…” Brenna chuckled. “Humph,” he grunted. “Just so.” “As to that, I’ve never understood why that small piece of land between Covington and Lundsford was so important.” 74

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“The land is important as a matter of honor. It was taken from my family and given to yours by decree under Elizabeth I toward the end of her reign, through what the Covingtons felt was trickery by the Lundsfords.” “What trickery?” He smiled. “Not certain of the details any longer. Isn’t that the way most feuds progress through the generations? Both sides cling to an old grudge but at some point no one knows exactly why. To answer your question, it was important because someone once upon a time said it was.” “Important enough to barter away your son?” The humor around his mouth dissipated. “Surely, you don’t feel Evan has been mistreated.” “Hardly.” They went back to sipping, the crackling embers a soothing backdrop to the quiet. For a brief time she could almost pretend she was back at Everly and it was Papa who occupied the chair next to her. She glanced at her companion, feeling an emotion very close to affection. Brenna liked the earl, and if her father could not be here, Basil made a very credible substitute. The earl’s expression was preoccupied as though he were trying to say something and was having a difficult time putting it into words. She decided to make it easy on him, thus she turned in his direction, waiting. When he still held his tongue, she prodded him. “Yes?” He looked at her from the corner of his eye. “I know about the night of your wedding,” he said at last, his gaze shifting guiltily to hers. For the first time Brenna noticed Basil’s red-rimmed eyes and the lines of pain creasing his face. A good man, an honorable man, he was suffering because his children were neither good nor honorable. “Oh dear, how did you find out? I promised I would not tell.” “Why would you make a promise like that? Surely not to protect my children.” “Your son asked me to spare you and his mother.” He made a sound of disgust. “Why should Evan care now when he’s never cared before?” Brenna had no answer for him. “Who told you?” “Riley is my man, despite what my son may think.” That explained a lot. “Perhaps it would have been better if Riley hadn’t told you. After all, not much you can do after the fact.” “I swore to protect you.” His voice shook. “How can I do that if I am not kept apprised of what goes on?” “I’m sorry. It seemed the right thing to do at the time.”

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“The last thing you need do is apologize to me. It is I who should apologize.” Basil swallowed, clearly grappling with emotion. “What have I done to you?” Brenna reached over and touched his arm. “I don’t hold you to blame.” “You are a sweet girl,” he said, patting her hand. He leaned his head back against the chair and closed his eyes. His features were drawn, his tortured countenance difficult to witness. “Were you…harmed in any way? I’m speaking physically, of course,” he spoke quickly, although his eyes remained shuttered. “I know there is emotional damage. How could there not be?” “I have a scrape on my knee, and my feet are sore. Perhaps a bump on my head.” She touched the back of her head where it had bounced on the stone altar and winced. “Yes, a bump. But other than that, no. Emotionally…” Brenna hesitated, searching for the right words. “I’m not given to the vapors. Papa always called me stoical.” “I’m glad to hear it.” “Don’t mistake me, my lord. I’m about as furious as one can be. Once I get over the anger, I’ll reassess my feelings.” Now he looked at her again. “If you wish to have the marriage annulled, I understand.” The very words she thought she wanted to hear, but when faced with the reality of going back to Malcolm having failed, Brenna was suddenly at a loss. Where would that leave her? “I have no place to go,” she said in a small voice. “You may remain here,” he said stoutly. “My lord, you are more than kind. But you know that would create an impossible situation. I fear we are stuck with this marriage whether we like it or not.” “Well I, for one, like it. You are the best thing to happen to my son in a long time. Sadly, what is good for him is most likely very bad for you. And you are correct, I see us in a web of our own making with little hope of bringing about a neat break.” “Perhaps we should allow Lord Rutherford to decide. After all, he is part of the equation.” “Bah! Evan doesn’t have the good sense God gave him. I wouldn’t trust him to make a decision as important as this one. Are you actually willing to allow him a say in your future?” “If I remain married to him, do I have a choice?” Basil’s gaze dropped from hers. “Have you…have you seen your son since yesterday?” Brenna asked. “No. I’ve been so infuriated with him—and Geline also, for that matter—I was afraid to approach him just yet. Things said in the heat of anger and all that. I wish to have my wits about me when I confront those two.”

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“He seems different somehow.” “What do you mean?” “I’m not certain, really. When we spoke yesterday his attitude was more conciliatory than I expected. He seemed almost apologetic. I haven’t known what to make of it, for I didn’t expect that either, I can tell you.” “Sounds suspect to me,” he said. “As you say.” “Has he asked for your forgiveness?” Brenna felt herself stiffen. “It’s much too soon for that, my lord. I can’t speak for tomorrow, next week, next year even, but for now it’s not a consideration. It is a difficult thing to forgive.” The old man shrugged. “Then we are back where we began.” He turned earnest eyes on her. “Think long and hard, Brenna, before you make your decision. Do you wish to forge a life built upon hate? This situation by no means is your fault, but you must live with the consequences, nonetheless. Hardly seems fair, but ofttimes fair has little to do with it.” Sad but true. “Thank you for not making it more difficult.” The earl nodded. “Whatever you decide, my dear, I’ll support you.” “Does Mary know?” she asked. “Not the details. She knows there was an incident, but I’ve tried to spare her the worst of it.” “Then I shall spare her as well.” A laugh escaped him. “My Mary is no fool. She knows I’ve been keeping something from her. Don’t be surprised if she tries to pry the truth from you.” “What should I do?” “Don’t lie, but…be kind if you are able.” Now there was something to ponder. How was she to put a winsome face on a moment as ugly as her wedding night without lying outrageously? The quiet descended once again. Brenna suddenly shot forward in her chair. “Do you know, I think I’ll have a little bit more of that brandy,” she said brightly. “What say, my lord, will you join me?” His weary features broke into a broad grin, acknowledging her effort to dispel the melancholy mood. “I believe I will,” he said, handing out his glass to her. “And don’t be stingy. A heavy head tomorrow is worth the pleasure of a lovely lady’s company tonight.” Brenna walked to the sideboard, wishing with all her heart her new husband were even a little like that grand old gentleman sitting in the leather chair. Such a turn her life would take, such a future she would have. 77

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In his father, Evan Richmond had had the best example possible on how to be a fine man. What a shame the lesson had gone unlearned.

***** Othello’s deep growl alerted Brenna to the arrival of her husband in the dining room the following morning as she and Lord Covington enjoyed a late breakfast. Her attention was drawn first to the mastiff where he lay on the floor next to the table. A ridge of fur stood along the animal’s backbone, and Brenna felt a curious tingle rise along her backbone as well. She then looked to the viscount, who had paused in the doorway. He was returning Othello’s gaze, stare for stare. Lord Rutherford ambled into the room and to Brenna’s astonishment squatted down beside the bristling dog. She watched, frozen to her seat, anticipating the very worst, as her husband placed a casual hand on Othello’s head. “We don’t like each other much, do we, old boy?” he asked. Othello’s response was to growl more fiercely, his tense body seemingly poised for attack, a formidable warning to anyone who had sense. Was the man daft? All at once the mastiff went silent. His magnificent sad eyes watched the viscount, an assessing look that seemed almost human. Apparently, he came to a decision of some kind, for his posture visibly relaxed before he plopped his head down between his paws. His great tail thumped the floor cautiously. Othello took a deep breath that whistled like a giant bellows when he exhaled and rolled his gaze to Brenna as if asking her opinion. But Brenna was too stunned to do more than gape. “I’ll be damned,” Basil said from the head of the table. A deep furrow formed between the earl’s brows as his son rose slowly to his feet. The son watched his father much as he had watched the dog. “May I join you?” He directed the question to Brenna, but clearly it was the earl whom he was asking. “Yes,” she said, wishing he would simply go away. Her undigested meal was beginning to curdle in her stomach. Basil nodded curtly as well, gaze shifting to his daughter-in-law. They shared a long, meaningful look. In tandem they returned their attention to the viscount. Lord Rutherford moved to the sideboard and the myriad laden dishes there. He reached for a plate and paused, almost as if confused. The young footman servicing the table approached him. “My lord, do you wish me to fill your plate as usual?” The viscount looked at him, squinting. “Biddles?” He whispered the servant’s name again and nodded as if he were reassuring himself that he had remembered it right. “Biddles,” he said with more authority, “yes, yes, of course. As usual.”

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Looking relieved, he handed the plate to the footman and took a seat opposite his wife. A strange, uncomfortable silence settled over the room. Her appetite was gone, but Brenna was too flustered to sit still, thus she took her fork and pushed what remained of her breakfast around her plate. Basil apparently felt no need to pretend. He had stopped eating and sat like an imposing statue, arms folded across his chest. Biddles brought the viscount his meal, enough victuals for three people, and stepped back, clearly pleased with his effort. After a long pause in which he eyed his plate, Lord Rutherford smiled up at the footman. “I…I’m quite an eater, aren’t I?” Biddles started to smile in return then hesitated. He looked to Brenna for guidance, and she nearly giggled because it reminded her quite literally of Othello’s reaction only minutes before. She raised a hand to lips that twitched, hoping to hide an amusement that she felt certain was inappropriate. Most likely realizing he was on his own, the servant said, “I believe breakfast is your favorite meal of the day, my lord.” His attitude was colorless, all trace of humor gone. “Perhaps I overestimated your hunger today.” A grin split the viscount’s face. “Smoothly done, Biddles. You managed to explain my excessive appetite without insulting me in the process. I believe you will rise through the ranks to butler before it is over. That’s a position that requires finesse.” He picked up his fork. Biddles’ eyes bugged in surprise. “W-why, thank you, my lord.” His astonished gaze darted between Brenna and Lord Covington, and frankly, Brenna understood the young man’s confusion. In all the weeks she had been at Covington Manor, she had never seen her husband be courteous, much less kind, to those who served him. If he bothered to notice them at all, his manner was dictatorial and condescending and even occasionally cruel. Brenna glanced at the earl to catch his eye, but Basil was staring at his son as if he could not quite believe what he was witnessing. “Actually, I am rather hungry this morning,” the viscount continued. “Couldn’t eat yesterday.” Brenna stiffened. His allusion to his day abed naturally led to thoughts of why he had been constrained there. His cavalier attitude—at least, it seemed that way to her— made her want to hurl the china at him. “Maybe you could not eat, Evan,” Basil said, “because you were sickened by unnatural deeds.” In the act of taking a bite, his son laid down his fork. “Maybe.” His hooded eyes were dark and unfathomable suddenly, and a hint of distaste colored his demeanor. “Do you wish to discuss it now, Father?”

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“One does not discuss unwholesome issues while at the dining table,” the old man stated. “Ruins the digestion. But you are right. There are things that must be said. Find your sister and attend me in the library at two o’clock this afternoon. I will be with my man of business until then.” He stood up. “If I leave you alone with your wife, can I trust you to comport yourself as a gentleman?” “She has nothing to fear from me.” Basil moved from the table and started for the door. “Would that that were true,” he grumbled. Brenna placed her napkin on the table with the intention of following. “You are leaving as well?” the viscount asked. She relaxed in her seat. “Don’t you think I should?” He looked perplexed. “Should?” Brenna felt a spurt of anger at his obtuseness. “Forgive me, my lord, but have you and I been living separate lives? Why would I wish to be in the same house with you, much less the same room?” “Can’t imagine you would,” he said blandly. He took a bite of egg. “Then?” “I’m certain you dislike me right now—” “Try hate, my lord.” He paused in his eating. “I understand.” “Do you? Do you really?” Brenna grasped the edge of the table in fingers that trembled. “Do you understand hate so powerful it is as if being assaulted by an emotion? It is a physical thing. My body aches with it. If I have not made the depth of my feelings clear, Lord Rutherford, please let me do so now.” The viscount had gone quite still as she spoke. With precise deliberation, he pushed his plate away. “I’m not as hungry as I imagined I was.” He glanced at her briefly before looking out the window. “Have you thought what you wish to do about it?” “I’ve thought of little else since I returned from that willow grove.” “And?” “I’m…” She paused, swallowing painfully. “I’m in the unenviable position of being wedged in a corner.” “What does that mean?” “It means my choices are few, and none of them are good ones.” “You have two choices, actually. You go or you stay. I understand why you would not want to stay. If you go—” “I’m not welcome in my brother’s home,” she stated baldly. “And there is nowhere else for me to go.” “Your brother will not have you?” The viscount’s brows lowered when she shook her head. “Why?” 80

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Brenna held up her hand as if to ward off the question. “Suffice it to say, Malcolm and I are not close.” “I find that reprehensible.” Oh he did, did he? Irony of ironies. “Indeed?” “Of course. I would never treat my sister that way, whether we were close or not.” “How noble,” she murmured. “You don’t believe me?” Brenna shrugged. “If you say so.” “Let me repeat myself. I do not understand your brother’s lack of loyalty, at the very least his sense of duty to one who depends upon him.” “You seem so surprised, my lord. Why did you not think to question Malcolm’s loyalty or duty when he offered his sister to a man who had already proven himself unworthy of her hand?” “Damn!” he muttered. “And while we are on the subject,” she continued, ignoring his outburst, “why did you not protest a marriage that you clearly did not desire either? Surely, you could have refused. I don’t believe Lord Covington would have put you out as my brother threatened to do to me.” “The pressure was subtle, but no less persuasive.” “In what way?” “Perhaps it had something to do with loyalty and duty,” he said sardonically. They shared a look, wary and considering, before Brenna asked, “You asked me, now I’ll ask you. How do you want this situation resolved?” “Do you care what I want?” “Not even a little. I am, however, curious.” The viscount smiled, a rueful smile. “I think you need lessons on how to cater to a man’s ego.” She refused to be diverted. “What do you want, my lord?” His gaze went introspective. “Before the wedding I would have said I wanted to be released from my obligation to you, that I wanted to return to my life as it was. Since then, specifically since that moment I was struck down in the willow grove, I no longer have an answer to that question—for either you or me.” He looked at her again, and Brenna felt the creepy crawly sensation of a tingling scalp. His eyes were blue, a light summer-sky blue. Even as she watched, Lord Rutherford blinked, and lapis eyes once more stared out at her. She shook her head, convinced she was seeing things. The trick was figuring out if the things she were seeing were real or unreal. For the life of her, she couldn’t decide.

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Chapter Ten Evan spent the early afternoon in his bedchamber, mentally preparing himself for the confrontation with his father. He had yet to tell Geline she was also “invited” because he still had no desire to be around her, and he was having a difficult time pretending otherwise. Not in all his life could he remember feeling quite so ambivalent toward the one person he loved most in this world. Today that love felt like a burden, one he was not certain he wished to carry anymore. And that made him feel guilty, for he could not explain the sudden change in his attitude, or why that change should have happened. Nor did he want to endure the accusing stance his sister had taken with him. Geline knew him like no other, and she knew something was wrong. He supposed he couldn’t put off the talk with the old man any longer. He leaned over to brush lint from the cuff of his trousers before leaving his room, and was appalled anew by an awareness of the added weight surrounding his middle. Why did he feel so unnatural to himself all of a sudden as if the pounds had come on him overnight instead of over many years? A knock at the door caused him to straighten quickly. “Come!” he called. His mother entered the room, her step brisk and purposeful. Everything about her neat frame, from her red hair to her small shod feet, announced a woman on a mission. “Evan, you are well today?” “As you see.” “I understand you were at breakfast.” “Rather late, I’m afraid. But yes, I made an appearance.” “Biddles said you have no appetite.” Evan’s lips flattened in self-derision. “Look at me, Mother. Do I look as if I suffer from a lack of food?” He flung his arms wide, an invitation for appraisal. Mary moved more fully into the room, hands clasped over her stomach. She glanced at his thickened waistline before looking him in the eye. Her gaze was direct and assessing, and Evan felt much the way he had as a boy when he was in trouble of some kind. “May we talk?” she asked. He felt his spirits sink. Evidently, he was destined to have a heartfelt talk with not one but both his parents today. At least he was not forced to bring Geline to this

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discussion. Evan nodded, pointing at a small leather sofa in front of the fireplace, hoping he did not appear as reluctant as he felt. His mother sat down, adjusting her skirts, the action seeming to give her time to decide what she wanted to say. He did not interrupt, merely sat next to her, waiting. She turned to him. “What was wrong with you yesterday, Evan?” “I really don’t know.” “Can you hazard a guess?” “I could hazard many guesses, Mother, but that’s hardly helpful.” “Well, then, perhaps you would like to tell me about the other night.” He knew it was senseless to try, but he was going to pretend ignorance. “The other night?” “Evan,” Mary’s voice was stern, “please do not insult my intelligence. The story I have is sketchy, but I know something untoward happened two nights ago. And I know Geline was a participant.” “Then you should also know that I have no desire to speak of it with you.” “Should have thought of that before there was something of which to speak.” He exhaled, exasperated. “Mother—” “I’ve always known you were prone to foolish deeds, but I’ve never thought of you as a fool before.” “I appreciate the distinction you make, Mother,” he said dryly. “That distinction has brought me comfort over the years, for I’ve also believed that when push came to shove you would do what is right.” “And why-oh-why did you believe that?” Evan asked, sounding more jaded than he intended. It was, however, exactly how he felt. “Perhaps because I had to,” Mary snapped. “You and Geline have humiliated your father and me more times than I can count. But now…how does one accept that one’s children have gone beyond the pale?” “Will it help if I promise to mend my ways?” “Has it ever helped before? I’m done with empty promises.” This last was delivered in a shaky voice filled with anguish. Her resolve, steadfast until now, seemed to slip as she stared at her son through injured eyes. She loved him despite his transgressions, and he knew she loved Geline equally. She didn’t deserve the pain they had brought to their mother, and for the first time ever—in itself a sad admission—Evan felt remorse for hurting her. “What of your wife?” Mary asked. “I don’t know,” Evan said quietly. “I can hardly face that poor girl.” “It’s not your fault, Mother.”

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“How gratifying to know I’m not to blame. Neither is your father, for that matter. Tell that to Brenna. Make her understand that we are not in collusion, that we are not trying to destroy her life.” “I realize I’ve made us all look bad.” “Why, Evan? Why?” she asked plaintively. “Can you explain to me how you could have become involved in something…so demented?” “Ask me to explain the last thirty-two years. Or the last forty-eight hours. And when I have an answer, I’ll share it with you. I can only say I’m sorry.” His breathing had accelerated, and he was beginning to feel nauseous again. Mary reached for him. “If you feel regret, then I have hope.” Evan took her hand, holding on tightly. Regret was only the tip of an emotional iceberg, all at once revealing its depths, overwhelming him with sensations new to him. It was as if he were reborn but not into a different life. It was the same life. He recognized every moment of it. And yet…and yet… When was the last time he had allowed his mother to comfort him? When was the last time he actually remembered that he loved her? All at once he found himself in her embrace, close to breaking down. He didn’t deserve her forgiveness, but he would take it. He needed to know that he was not beyond redemption, that he had not irretrievably destroyed his life and the lives of those around him. “What do you want from me, Mother?” he asked in a hoarse voice. He cleared his throat, embarrassed by his loss of control. “I want you to make a life with Brenna. She is a fine girl, and I believe she will make you an excellent wife. You need constancy in your life, Evan, and a reason to behave yourself. A wife and family have been known to bring about even the most incorrigible of young men.” He disengaged himself from her arms. “You may ask more of me than I can deliver, not for myself but for Brenna.” “Of course, you must overcome her reluctance—” “She used the word hate. Don’t know if it’s possible to overcome that.” Mary blanched. “Well, yes, that is quite an obstacle to surmount. But you must try, dear. Not only for your sake. We—you—owe Brenna the effort. I don’t know how we will make it up to her, but we must try.” Evan nodded. “Have you spoken to Geline?” “Your sister has been avoiding me.” “Oh?” “Unlike you, I do not detect any remorse concerning her behavior toward Brenna,” she said darkly. “In fact, she has at best been defiant. I despair of her, I’m afraid.” Again the hurt in her voice, and Evan was jolted by the pain of a heartsick parent. It was a tangible thing that sent distress coursing through his chest.

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“I’ll talk with her,” he said. “For all the good it will do.” Not much he could say to that. He agreed. Turning the subject to what was foremost on his mind, he said, “Father has asked that Geline and I meet with him this afternoon.” “He’s in a rage, Evan. I don’t know if you’ll be able to talk yourself around him this time. Warn Geline to hold her tongue, or she may find herself banished from the family for the foreseeable future.” “He would really send her away?” “To separate the two of you? Indeed, he would.” “Why her and not me?” “Need you ask?” Mary sounded impatient now. “Your father still hopes to fashion you into a man worthy of the title you will one day inherit. Geline, as a woman, is expendable, sorry to say. However, it is not that which sways your father’s thinking. Your sister is an instigator.” “It’s not fair to blame her. I am not…without guilt.” “I’m hardly suggesting you are.” They both fell silent and, after a moment, Mary took his hand again. Her love seemed to flow through her fingers, moving up his arm and into his breast, warming a heart that had grown cold and insensitive. Each pump of the muscle sent that warmth rippling through his body in waves of feeling. It was an agonizing moment as if nerves long deadened were suddenly coming to life. Overcome, he found himself unable to meet her gaze. “Evan, look at me.” “Yes, Mother.” Her eyes sparkled with tears, and the tip of her freckled nose had grown pink with emotion. “Do you know how long it has been since I’ve felt reassured after speaking with you?” He shook his head. “I’ve never felt it. Ever.” Mary stood up and leaned over, kissing him on the cheek. In his ear, she whispered, “Thank you for changing that today.” Her powdery scent, which had always meant security to him, trailed behind her as Evan watched his mother cross the carpet and exit the room. He made a decision then. If it were the last thing he ever did, he would make her proud of him.

***** The library was filled with leather-bound books floor to ceiling, the spines displaying rich earthy browns, greens and dull reds detailed with gold lettering. A wealthy man’s retreat, it was warm and inviting, especially in cool weather when a fire

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blazed. Today, however, the room felt stern and judgmental and strangely sorrowful, an uncomfortable place for an individual who had been accused of nefarious deeds. Evan sat in a wing back chair in a quiet so profound, he might as well have been deaf. The only sound that reached him was his own harsh breathing, giving away not only his nervousness but most likely his guilt as well. His father sat across from him at his desk, hands laced across the ink blotter. He had not spoken, in fact had hardly moved, since directing Evan to take a seat some fifteen minutes earlier. They were waiting for Evangeline. The earl spoke first. “You did inform your sister that we were meeting at this time, did you not?” “Yes, Father.” “What is keeping her?” Evan shrugged then decided the gesture was too blasé. He had no desire to irritate the old man further. “Would you like me to see why she is delayed?” he offered. “Damnation!” Basil came to his feet and strode around the desk. “Why did I expect more of you two today when you’ve never lived up to expectations before? Could it be that I was assuming you and Geline had finally come to your senses?” “Geline and I are separate entities, Father, despite the fact that we are twins. I am here and on time.” His father eyed him distastefully. “So you are. Let us celebrate your promptness.” “I was merely suggesting—” “I know what you were suggesting. Find another day to argue semantics with me, Evan. Today I do not appreciate your point.” Though he had resolved to remain calm, Evan found himself irritated, fighting the urge to strike back. There was little to be gained from rebellion at this moment, however, so he clamped his teeth together to refrain from making an acid reply. The effort made his jaw ache. Truth was he deserved his father’s anger, his disdain. He deserved the verbal thrashing he was about to receive. He deserved the dislike he now sensed his father felt for him. He deserved it all, and as a man determined to repent, he would take the punishment meted out to him. To Evan it was odd to feel this way, as he had always taken his privilege for granted and never felt obliged to answer for his actions. He was an aristocrat, better than the average person—or so he had told himself. Oddly, that was not the example the earl had conveyed to him. His father accepted his station in life, but he had never been a man who seemed unaware of his good fortune. His confidence was leavened with a large measure of humility. Evan realized suddenly that he had always been jealous of his father. How was he to fill the shoes of such an exemplary gentleman? “Do we need Geline to begin this conversation?” he asked. “You sound eager, Evan. Why?” 86

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Again, he experienced a spurt of irritation. “Eager to have it done with, Father. Surely, you can understand that.” “Right then, let’s begin with how a son of mine could have stooped to behavior so monstrous I’ve been ashamed of my association with him. If Brenna had decided to press charges, we would be having this conversation in the gaol.” “I understand your displeasure—” “Displeasure?” He drawled the word sarcastically. “All right, outrage, but I believe we are discussing a moral issue as opposed to a legal one.” “You think so?” More sarcasm. “The only good that would have come of Brenna pressing charges is to embarrass the family. Air our dirty linen, so to speak. No one, including the authorities, wishes to run afoul of the Earl of Covington.” “I would have backed her claim, Evan, embarrassment be damned. Haven’t you been listening to me? I would not have protected you and Geline this time. I’m rather disappointed that your wife chose to keep your secret. I’ve entertained the idea of notifying the authorities myself. If not for your mother—” The earl broke off, clearly overcome by emotion, running a hand through his hair as if needing the time to gather his scattered wits. He turned his back on his son and stared out the window. Evan was startled by the bald words, and for the first time he truly realized the depth of the earl’s anger. He also sensed his father’s shame. Worst of all, he felt the hurt, a pain that penetrated his heart the way a knife tears into flesh, leaving blood everywhere. He couldn’t see the carnage, for it was of the emotional kind, but he could feel it, taste it in the back of his throat. Who would have believed grief could taste so bitter? “Am I very late?” Geline waltzed into the room, a bright smile on her face, wearing a guileless air as silken as the fringed purple shawl draped around her shoulders. “Yes. Very,” the earl said, turning around. “Oh my. We’re in a bit of a mood today, aren’t we?” she said. “Don’t patronize me, Geline,” her father barked. “Wouldn’t think of it, Father.” She was talking in a falsely bright tone, but Evan had sensed her slight falter at the earl’s rebuke. If his sister held true to form, she would continue to pretend all was well or at worst only slightly askew—all this prattle for nothing, in her estimation—while inside she was fearful and most likely irate that she was being forced to explain herself. “Then take a seat, and let’s have this over with, shall we?” The earl pointed at the other wing back chair to Evan’s right and resumed his own seat behind the desk. “Who would like to begin?”

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“Why have you requested this meeting, Father?” Geline asked, all innocence, sitting and smoothing her skirts. The disgust that altered the earl’s features made Evan squirm. Basil pinned Geline with a steely look. “Explain why you and your brother drugged his new wife and smuggled her out of the house on her wedding night. Explain that lurid service that attracted every deranged individual for miles around. Explain a religion that humiliates rather than elevates the spirit. Explain,” his gaze shifted to Evan, “the purple bruise on Brenna’s chin.” Evangeline shrugged. “We thought she might enjoy our celebration of her and Evan’s nuptials. We were wrong, unfortunately. She’s not very sporting, I must say.” “Geline.” Evan reached over and touched her arm in warning. She shrugged him off, her expression turning mulish. “You blame Brenna for not appreciating your nasty little ceremony?” The earl’s voice had grown very quiet and all the more frightening because of it. “I know you don’t understand, Father,” Geline began quickly. “But our religion is important to us.” “Do you expect me to believe that orgiastic congregation is practicing a religion? How dare you foul this room with words of your false piety. Do you think me a fool? I know exactly the purpose of those gatherings.” “Father, you were young once. Try to see it as a lack of understanding between the generations,” Geline said. Evan shrank deeper in his chair as his sister continued to enlarge the hole she was digging for herself. She clearly had no intention of listening to reason, and that would be quite all right if their father did not assume she was speaking for the both of them. Basil’s gaze, for the most part focused on his daughter, occasionally swung in Evan’s direction, making Evan wonder what the old man was thinking. “I don’t wish to disappoint you, my dear,” the earl’s voice was truly awful now, “but you are no longer young. I hardly accept youthful indiscretion as an excuse for your behavior.” Geline came to her feet. That last shot had hit home. “Evan and I are adults, Father. You cannot dictate the terms of our lives. Some things are beyond your control.” She squared her shoulders and marched for the door. “Evangeline!” Basil rapped her name out in the form of a command, and Geline came to a halt, slowly turning around. Her expression was haughty, and she did not deign to speak. Only the whiteness around her mouth betrayed the true extent of her distress. “We are not going on as we have,” he said. “I see you as an impediment to Evan’s marriage, and I will not tolerate your interference. It is time we find you a marriage of your own. Perhaps then you will allow your brother to move on with his life.”

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What was left of the blood in Geline’s face drained away, leaving her complexion waxy and sickly looking. “As you have so kindly mentioned, Father, my age is advanced. Whom do you expect to marry me?” “Amazing what money can do.” Geline’s sharp intake of breath exposed her shock. Evan winced, afraid to look at his sister. Dear Lord, he thought, the cruel words being flung around this room were leaving wounds that would never heal. Though high emotion made it perilous for him to interrupt, he decided it was time to stop the bloodshed. “I don’t think you are accomplishing what you set out to do, Father,” he said, coming to his feet. “Bandying insults is rarely productive.” Geline and the earl stopped to watch him. “You want an apology and a promise that there won’t be a repeat of the night before last,” Evan continued. “I can do that for myself—on both counts. I sincerely regret what has happened, and I promise—” “Evan, no!” Geline wailed. “You can’t let him do this to us.” “Twin,” he said softly, unearthing an endearment he had not used since they were adolescents. He saw her chin tremble in response. “Let us call a truce. Let us cease defending the indefensible.” She stared at him for several moments, an assessing stare in those lapis eyes that made him strangely uncomfortable. She then looked to her father. “I will not be forced into an unwanted marriage as you’ve done to Evan,” she said. “It won’t be that easy to rid yourself of me.” Moments ticked by as the earl digested her words. His expression was harsh and unyielding in a way Evan had never seen him before. If he judged his father’s mood correctly, giving him an ultimatum at this point was sheer madness. When at last the old man spoke there was a finality in his voice that only a fool would ignore. “Watch your step, Geline. Do not give me any reason—any reason at all—to take measures against you. Do not count on me hesitating because you are my daughter. I am long past caring about that.” For a moment she stood still as a statue, her features settling into lines of hatred. Then without responding, she left the room. When Geline was gone, the Earl turned to Evan. “I sense in you a willingness to cooperate.” Evan nodded. “Yes, sir.” “You know it may be too late.” “Too late?” “That’s a fine young woman you married two days ago.” Basil sighed heavily. “However are we to resurrect you in her eyes?”

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How, indeed, Evan wondered. He slumped back in his chair, dejected. He had hoped for a suggestion from the earl that might help him smooth the way with his bride, but it appeared none was forthcoming. In fact, he and his father had plainly run out of things to say to one another. The session ended as it had begun—in silence.

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Chapter Eleven “That old man has overstepped his bounds this time,” Geline said, crisscrossing the carpet of her sitting room for the hundredth time. She was exuding the nervous energy of a cat, and from his seat by the fireplace, Evan watched her pensively. “His bounds are what he makes them,” he said. She turned on him, hands on hips, nostrils flared in self-righteous indignation. “He threatened to send me away. Or worse still, marry me off. Why did you not protest? You have always supported me before when we’ve been in trouble.” “What would you have had me say? What we did was wrong, Geline.” “Why are you only now feeling this way? You never questioned our activities before. You were the most eager among us.” He winced at the truth in her words. “I don’t know.” “That’s no answer. You must know something. One can’t change completely overnight as you apparently have done and not be aware of the difference.” Oh he was aware of the difference. “You don’t understand.” “Make me understand.” There was the rub of course. He didn’t understand either. His sister came to stand in front of him and slipped to her knees at his feet. She took hold of his hands that he had clasped in his lap and looked at him imploringly. “Evan, love, it has always been the two of us against everybody else. We are two sides of the same coin. We look alike, we talk alike, we breathe alike. We know how the other feels. I’ve never pretended our,” she paused, clearly searching for the right word, “appetites are normal. At least, what is considered normal, and I haven’t a clue what that is. But don’t forsake me now. I need you.” Evan stared deeply into her eyes, as she did into his, a gesture common to them. The sharing was intimate and, for the first time ever, unnerving and absolutely repellent. He felt a pulling back in a place so hidden he hardly recognized it as a part of himself. And that part wanted nothing to do with Geline. Perhaps there had always been an unfettered rapport between them, as she suggested. But it was as if the cogs of a timepiece that had once meshed perfectly were no longer synchronized. The sudden lack of harmony was jarring, and all he wanted was escape. Her eyes widened, as if she too were adversely affected. Geline made a strangled sound, shoving away from him and losing her balance. Evan reached out to steady her,

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and she swatted at his hands. She fell onto her rump, and he found himself on his knees, trying to restrain her as she scrabbled on her backside away from him. “For God’s sake, Geline, stop it,” he said. She continued to flail, and a frenzied elbow caught him under the chin. His vision dimmed briefly. “Damn it, I said stop!” Evan straddled his sister and pinned her arms to her body with his legs. He grabbed her shoulders, pressing them into the floor. Still she fought him. “Give him back, give him back!” She was shrieking now, refusing to meet his gaze, fighting with all her strength, which was considerable. “Geline, give whom back?” All at once she went still. Her hair had come undone, and it lay in a wild tangle around her head. She was breathing heavily, and now her eyes, so like his own, sparked angry fire at him. “My brother,” she spat, her voice low and oddly in control. “Give me back my brother.” Evan was shocked, every nerve in his body seizing as if static coursed through his system. As unbalanced as she sounded, he almost understood what she meant. That frightened the hell out of him. “It is I and no other,” he said in a gentle voice. “Come, be reasonable. Who else could I be?” Was he reassuring himself or her? She turned her face away. “Let me up,” she said dully. “No more hysterics?” Geline shook her head without speaking, and Evan stood up and away from her. He leaned over to take her hand as she came into a sitting position, but she ignored the courtesy. “Go away, Evan.” She brushed aside a limp curl that had fallen across her cheek. He stood there awkwardly, regretful and unsure how to repair the situation. “I don’t wish to leave like this. Don’t you want to talk this thing through?” Again, she shook her head. “What would be the point?” Evan was too weary to argue with her, and he was surprised by the relief he felt that she wanted him to leave. They would eventually have to deal with what had gone wrong between them, but for now he would gladly accept the excuse she had given him. At the door he paused. “It’s been many years since we’ve come to blows, Geline. It’s reminiscent of our youth.” “When we were children, we fought as sister and brother.” She still sat in the middle of the floor, but she had turned to look at him. “Today we fought as strangers.” “What does that mean?”

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Her gaze slipped, and she looked away, holding her hand up, palm toward him as if warding him off. Evan stepped into the corridor before she could change her mind. He stood outside Geline’s door for several minutes, trying to locate the normal in a world that was spinning on its head. Slowly closing his eyes and reopening them, he breathed in the atmosphere around him. It was all there, the familiar sights and sounds and smells of his family home, the people he had known since before he could remember. Then why did he feel as if he were experiencing everything—and everyone—for the first time? Life had taken on a dreamlike quality where all was as it should be—almost. And it was that tiny intangible that turned the mundane into the macabre. Was it a dream? Had he been sleeping since that night on the altar? And if he were dreaming, did he want to wake up?

***** The hour was late, and for the second night in a row Brenna could not sleep. She was filled with anxieties and fears, a constant barrage of unwelcome reflections that made relaxing almost impossible. She was more rattled now than she had been on her wedding night, and why that should be was a mystery. She was safe now, wasn’t she? She sat in the middle of her mattress, teeth chattering, hands shaking, for the first time in her life afraid of the dark. She had not realized she felt that way until Emma had smothered the candles and left her alone. The blackness had congealed around her, alive with things unseen, taking her breath and sending her into a panic. It was with considerable shame that Brenna scrambled from the covers, frantically groping for the tinderbox on the bedside table. She was trembling so badly it took her several tries to light the candle. The wick hissed as it flared to life, casting the room into shades of gray, not nearly enough illumination to satisfy her, but better. Much better. She climbed back onto the bed, shivering as she pulled the blankets around her, no amount of covering sufficient to dispel the chill because the cold went deeper than her bones to her very psyche. Brenna had been so proud of her ability to cope. Her levelheaded response to outrageous events had won her admiration. Even, she suspected, from the twins, albeit reluctantly. She didn’t care whether those two approved of her or not, but she hated to let Basil and Mary down. They were almost pathetically grateful that she had come through her ordeal without falling apart. Thing was, it wasn’t just the trauma of that decadent ceremony causing her distress. In every aspect of her existence she felt displaced, a participant in events that were no longer her own. She wanted to go home to Everly. She wanted her father. She wanted the life back, which Malcolm had ripped away from her. She wanted to hope again.

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Brenna remembered the brandy she had shared with the earl the night before, and the glands in her mouth watered. She wasn’t certain if it was healthy to want a drink quite as badly as she did, but it was the only thing she could think of that might mute the nervous agitation she was feeling. Rather than suffer her thoughts any longer, Brenna decided to take action. She refused to acknowledge that fright was in part driving her from her bedchamber as, moments later, she donned slippers and a wrapper. Entering the hall, she moved quickly toward the stairs, feeling as if she were being followed by the demons haunting her room. Perhaps Basil was sitting up late again tonight and would like some company, she thought. At the bottom of the stairs, she turned toward the library and was pleased to see light escaping from beneath the door again. Confident now that she would have the earl’s warm, fatherly presence to chase her fears, she pushed into the room without knocking. The library was empty. Brenna stopped still, surveying her surroundings with a lack of trust. A fire burned in the fireplace, and the lamps had not yet been extinguished. Her eyes told her the library was uninhabited. Her senses told her something else. Perhaps the earl had stepped out with the intention of coming back. That would explain the feeling of the room not being truly vacated. The impression stayed with her as she continued inside, an insidious dread that set her teeth on edge. However, she moved to the sideboard and the decanter of brandy resting there, determined to complete her mission despite her misgivings. Hesitating only briefly, Brenna poured herself a small measure. Her hands shook as she raised the goblet to her lips. The feeling of being watched crawled along her back, and she quickly glanced over her shoulder as the alcohol slid down her throat. Shadows and eerie silence, but the room remained empty. She returned to her drink, took another sip and breathed deeply through her nose. The brandy was warm and potent. Brenna whimpered as she felt the tension in her chest subside. “My, my, of all your qualities, I would not have thought dipsomania was one of them.” Her husband stood at the threshold of the library, and the half-smile on his lips tempered words that could have been construed as an insult. Only shock that froze her voice kept Brenna from screaming. As it was, she jerked around, spraying the contents of the goblet in an arc across the woolen carpet. Her arm fell to her side, glass upside-down, stem dangling between nerveless fingers. “I’m sorry. Did I frighten you?” he continued. “What do you want?” she blurted.

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He looked disconcerted by her blunt attack. “Ah…nothing, really. Just surprised to find my wife imbibing in the middle of night.” “Do you object?” Brenna was startled by the hostility in her voice. “Why should I object?” the viscount asked, stepping into the library. “My surprise should not be construed as criticism.” “True. If anyone should understand a penchant for alcohol, it would be you.” His expression turned pained. “Indeed. Do you mind if I come in?” Did she mind? Almost more than she could express. “You are already in, and it’s entirely up to you. I’m not staying.” She turned back to the sideboard and the brandy. With defiance and, frankly, desperation she refreshed her glass. She glanced behind her, looking toward him, but not at him, a begrudging question in the tilt of her head. “None for me, thank you,” he murmured. He had taken a seat on the one sofa in the room, arms splayed across the sofa back, legs crossed loosely. He looked very comfortable and…expectant. Why did he look expectant? “Now you surprise me,” she said as she faced him again. “How so?” “Admittedly our acquaintance is not of long duration, my lord, but I’ve never known you to refuse a brandy.” The viscount lifted a hand to his forehead, rubbing as though trying to erase the lines there. He glanced through his fingers at her. “What you say is fair. Strangely, I find my desire to imbibe has diminished.” “Why do you think that is?” He dropped his hand, pausing as his eyes locked with hers. He gave her a minimal shrug. “I don’t know.” He appeared so puzzled by his confession, that she was uncertain how to answer him. His discomposure was causing her to waver and that bothered Brenna because she did not want to feel any empathy with him. He was a detestable person. She must always remember that. “You find this new attitude unexpected?” she asked cautiously. “At the very least.” “Can you explain it?” “Unfortunately, no.” A long silence followed, and Brenna covered her discomfort by taking a mouthful of brandy. It burned like fire, causing her eyes to water, and she welcomed the distraction. Her throat was raspy when she spoke, “I’ll say good night then.” She set down her glass and turned to leave. 95

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“I want to apologize.” Brenna swung back to look at him. The viscount had moved to the edge of the sofa, hands clasped between his knees, a humble expression marking his features. Though she had stopped, she was poised for flight. “No,” she said, before she could prevent herself. She followed the one word with a vigorous shaking of the head. His brow puckered. “I don’t understand.” “What is there to understand? I don’t want you to apologize.” “I see.” Brenna walked toward him. “No you don’t. You couldn’t possibly.” “I’m listening.” He sounded so calm, so rational, she was put on the defensive. And that made her angry, for surely she was not the one who needed to defend her behavior. “An apology implies forgiveness,” she bit out. “Forgiveness is beyond me at the moment.” “I’m not asking you to forgive me, Brenna. I simply want to express my regret.” “Funny thing about regret, my lord. Regret does not go back in time, nor does it erase a sin. It’s a self-indulgent emotion, useful when it’s too late to do anything else. What’s done is done.” “And yet, I feel the need to explain myself.” “What you need is to make yourself feel better. I’m afraid I’m not in the mood to help you with that.” “Understandable, of course.” “What do you think you understand?” she asked, her hostility now overt. “The reason you are upset with me.” “The obvious reason, yes, I imagine you do. Your actions of a few days ago—not to mention your attitude toward me for weeks now—was…was reprehensible.” Brenna held out her hands in angry supplication. “Do you realize that reprehensible, as profound a word as it is, hardly describes your conduct?” “What is the not so obvious reason?” The viscount spoke quietly in contrast to her raised voice, and she had the feeling he was listening to her, truly listening. Why that should unnerve her, she didn’t know. “I find myself shackled to a cruel, self-indulgent wastrel, and my future is about as bleak as winter on the moors—and just as barren.” His features pinched in distaste. “I have much to make amends for, I can see that.” “You are not taking my meaning, Lord Rutherford. I really don’t think you can make amends.” When he started to speak, Brenna hurried on. “And why should you want to? What has so altered your attitude that suddenly my good opinion matters when it clearly has never mattered before?” 96

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“Another question to which I have no answer.” “How convenient. How utterly convenient.” Her husband’s gaze, direct until that moment, shifted away from her. “I suppose it is.” “And I suppose I should thank you for understanding at least that much.” He released a self-deprecating chuckle. “‘Spose so.” His gaze sought out hers again, and this time there was an appraisal in his regard that made her aware suddenly that she was wearing her nightclothes. There was nothing lewd in his manner, however. Nor did he appear judgmental, as though she were inadequate. More it seemed he was looking at her with newfound interest. And approval. “Why are you unable to sleep?” he asked. “What makes you think I’m unable to sleep? Perhaps I make excursions like this most evenings. Perhaps I like a brandy in the middle of the night.” “Hmm…perhaps. Though I’d be more likely to believe it is that upset we were talking about.” It would appear the man was not as obtuse as he sounded. But she would rather confess to being an inebriate than let on that his little game of several nights ago had left her so rattled and unnerved she was questioning her sanity. “Believe what you will.” “I am sorry,” the viscount said, his voice now as gentle as it was quiet. He was looking at her earnestly, and all at once the color in his eyes began to swirl, or so it seemed, the light blue she had witnessed before winking in and winking out. Brenna was mesmerized and horrified both at the same time. She backed up a few steps, her heart pumping with such violence, she was certain she could hear each painful beat. She grabbed the sash securing her wrapper, pulling it tighter around her waist, as if that action might somehow offer her protection. “And to that end,” he persisted, as if not noticing her retreat, “I am going to do everything in my power to rectify the terrible wrong I have done you.” “How?” she whispered, emotion bubbling up her throat in a wave of grief. “How in God’s name do you intend to do that?” Oh please don’t let me cry, she thought, frantic. Please! “I’m going to be the husband you deserve.” “What? Are you mad? You don’t even like me.” “Actually, I do like you.” “When did this happen?” She made no attempt to hide the rancor she was feeling. Again, a slight shrug. “I never disliked you. I was merely pouting because my life was being planned for me, and I was given no choice in the matter. I was a man of

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thirty-two in the throes of a rebellion. I took out my pique on you. That was wrong of me.” Brenna dropped her hands to her sides in an exaggerated gesture, fingers curling into fists. “As tempting as it is, I’m afraid to agree with you, my lord. You seem surprisingly perceptive, but—” “You don’t trust me.” “No, I don’t. And I suggest,” she swallowed on the distress that continued to build in her chest, “you don’t count on that trust happening any time soon.” The viscount stood, demeanor still meek and conciliatory. “I’m not asking anything of you, Brenna. The effort is mine to make, as I am the one who is seeking forgiveness.” Brenna stared at him, too appalled to speak. Damn the man! She spun on her slippers and marched from the room, ashamed of the quiver in her chin, the emotion leaking from every pore in her body, and more than frustrated by her inability to stanch the flow of his words. He was reaching out to her—for what reason she could only guess—and she was not ready to hear his apology, not nearly ready to absolve his sins. She entered the hall and traversed the staircase, not aware she had done so until she reached the second-floor landing. Turning slowly, hand on the newel post, she looked down into the foyer below. One thing bothered her most of all, she thought, her gaze slipping inward to mentally retrace her steps. That man she had been talking to in the library had been pleasant, likable, and above all things she did not, nay, would not like him. She was determined about that, yes indeed. Determined.

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Chapter Twelve The grandfather clock in the great hall chimed the hour, nine o’clock in the morning, just as Evan pushed away from the table in the dining room. He had eaten a modest breakfast of two spoons of scrambled eggs and a small bowl of mixed fruit and berries. Tea with a dollop of honey had rinsed his palate, and he felt content without feeling full. It had been more than a fortnight since he had started his day—usually long past the noon hour—with fatty meats and doughy pastries washed down with plenty of ale. That waist-expanding exercise was followed by his ever-perennial cheroot, the cheroot followed by a fit of coughing requiring several glasses of brandy, for medicinal reasons naturally, to ease the constriction in his chest. Evan had not effected a change to his routine because of discipline, however. A lack of inclination had been at the root of his turnabout. He had simply ceased to want to wallow in the habits that had given him so much pleasure in the past. As he stood he patted his stomach, relieved that he had once again avoided gluttonous behavior. Not that he had any desire to gorge himself. But there was a niggling fear the “old” Evan would make a sudden appearance, and he was loath to return to his former behavior. As if to underscore his thoughts, Mary, at the moment his sole dining companion, spoke up from the other side of the table. “Your clothing positively hangs on you, Evan,” she said, an indulgent smile in her voice. “We’re going to have to send for your tailor.” He grinned back at her, grabbing at his vest where it buttoned and pulling it away from his body. Several inches of fabric were indeed expendable. “Do you think so, Mother? Hadn’t thought about a new wardrobe. Fascinating that so few weeks can make such a difference.” In the act of moving a forkful of egg to her mouth, the countess paused then returned the bite to her plate, uneaten. He had been speaking of his physical changes, of course, but it was the intangible changes, the ones from within that were the most hard to define. And so her expression told him. Her gaze was speculative, probing really, as if she were attempting to piece together a puzzle. Her confusion was not new to the viscount. He had encountered it repeatedly from everyone with whom he had come in contact in the days following his marriage. He had been asked endless questions to which his only answer had been an equally baffled and repetitive, “I don’t know.” Evan had grown increasingly chagrined by his inability to explain himself.

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He shrugged now, irritated. “What?” he asked with more bite than he had intended. Mary shook her head as though clearing her thoughts. “I’m sorry, my dear, was I staring? Oh for heaven’s sake, of course I was. Can’t help myself.” She pushed her plate away. “After all these years, I apparently have the child I’ve always wanted. I’m not disappointed, but I certainly am perplexed. You’re going to have to forgive me for that.” His pique ebbed as quickly as it had risen, and he walked around the table to place his arm on her shoulders. “Has it been so terrible?” He directed the question to the top of her head. Strange how the very stillness of a person can convey so much. Mary neither moved nor spoke, but her anguish was like a stab to the heart. “Mother, I’m—” Her hand on his arm stayed him. “Do not apologize again, Evan. It is I who am sorry to become emotional with you.” She glanced up at him then and swallowed, moist green eyes still searching his features, still looking for answers. “I’m just afraid I shall wake tomorrow, and it will have all been a dream. You’ve changed so much in such a short period of time, I can’t quite take it in. You do understand, don’t you?” “You are no more confounded than I.” He chuckled, but he felt no amusement. “Imagine what it must be like to be me, everyone treating me as though I’ve grown two heads.” “But they like you!” Meaning “they” had not liked him at all before, he thought wryly. Fair as the observation was, it still stung. “I should be grateful for the goodwill being directed at me, I suppose,” he said as he took her elbow and helped her to stand. “But I am deemed a freak, the entire household talking behind my back—” She clucked impatiently. “Good grief, Evan, you are too self-conscious for your own good. Do not think so much.” The viscount felt a true sadness grip him. “I can’t help it. Thinking is the one thing that plagues me and with it guilt. My nights are not easy.” They walked across the dining room, arm in arm, stopping in the doorway. He released her as she turned to him. “And Brenna?” she asked. His thoughts filtered inward as his gaze drifted over her head. “My wife avoids me.” “Of course she does,” Mary said in a brisk voice. “What had you expected?” Impatient, Evan said, “Then why do you ask?” She hesitated as if deciding exactly what she wanted to say. “I’ve come to believe every life on this earth serves a purpose. We are not always certain what that purpose 100

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is, and there are those who seem to be so worthless as to have no purpose at all. However, it’s not for us to judge.” He looked at her in bewilderment. “What are you trying to tell me, Mother?” “There are things at work here, Evan, things we don’t understand. Had you asked me a year ago what your purpose was in the scheme of things, I would have been hardpressed to give you an answer. You seemed…” He smiled grimly. “To be worthless?” She shook her head, expression pained. “Your words, not mine,” he said. “I also said it’s not for us to judge. I was in despair, however, and I’ll not deny it. But lately, I’ve had the strangest feeling that it’s all right to hope.” “And for what do you hope, Mother?” he asked gently. “Grandchildren.” There was just a touch of defiance in her tone as if she expected him to object. To cover his unease, Evan took her arm again, guiding her down the long hallway to the drawing room. He remained silent as they walked, trying to find a way to address a matter that frankly was not only delicate but painful. Nothing occurred to him that would ease the discomfiture, and thus he decided forthrightness was his only recourse. As he seated her on the sofa, he said, “My wife wants nothing to do with me. We do not live as husband and wife. So how do you expect me to provide you with grandchildren?” “Yes, but she can’t be expected to feel that way forever.” Evan walked across the room to the window then turned around, hands clasped behind his back. “I don’t see why not. I don’t sense that Brenna is a woman of quicksilver moods. Nor do I think we can bring her around to our way of thinking simply because we wish it. She’s been amazingly strong, perhaps too strong. But she has suffered. It will be a miracle if she ever relents.” “She harbors a grudge.” “At the very least.” “There must be something we can do.” “You and she are on cordial terms. What does she tell you?” Mary removed a monogrammed handkerchief tucked in the sash of her morning gown, fidgeting with the laced edging. “We do not speak of you,” she admitted. “Any discussion of your marriage is verboten. She goes politely deaf when she finds the conversation displeasing. Changes the subject.” “Without fail?” She nodded. “And I have tried.”

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For no reason Evan was willing to acknowledge—even to himself—he was disappointed. “There you have it.” “There I have what? You give up too easily.” The handkerchief was now a wad in her hand. “I’ve done my damage, Mother. I refuse to compound my sin by trying to pressure her into accepting me. As if that would do any good, anyway.” “We can’t go on as we are, not indefinitely.” “Indefinitely implies a long time. It’s not been nearly long enough yet. Wounds take time to heal.” Mary merely looked at him without comment and, despite his effort to remain detached, Evan was feeling the old familiar frustration, a knot of impotence that lodged in his chest. He dropped his hands to his sides and moved to the center of the room. “Tell me what you want me to do,” he said. “Give me something to go on. The only suggestion I’m hearing is to try harder. Exactly what does that mean? Try what?” “Let us start with the basics.” Her eyes narrowed in thought. “What are your feelings toward your wife?” Startled, he took a step backward as if deflecting a blow. “I…that is to say, I like her. She’s lovely.” Evan wasn’t about to admit that he also found her very attractive, and in a way that seemed oddly familiar. Contradicting his thoughts, he finished, “Don’t know her well enough to feel more than that.” “But you admire her?” “Yes, of course.” “And with time you could feel more?” What he felt now was the heat of embarrassment as it rose up his neck and over his collar to stain his face. “I believe so,” he muttered. His mother beamed at him. “I don’t think my affection—or lack thereof—is the issue,” he said hurriedly. “If you remember, she said she hates me.” “Hard to forget.” She crimped her mouth, gaze locking with his. “Right then, for what it’s worth. Be extremely polite, but seek her out. Don’t allow her to avoid you any longer. The only way to reach her is through exposure. She must become acquainted with the man you are today, rather than being allowed to hold to her original opinion of you. Make her trust that you have altered your ways. Make her understand how deeply you regret your actions. In short, change her mind.” Evan blew an exasperated breath through his lips. “You believe it will work?” “It’s all we have.” “And so it is.” Discouraged, he turned to leave. As he reached the door, Mary called to him. “Evan? One more thing.”

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“Yes, Mother?” “Keep Geline away from her.” Again, they shared a look but neither spoke. It wasn’t necessary. The implication of her words hung in the air, a warning it would be unwise to ignore.

***** Brenna began her morning as she had begun every morning of late. She rose early, dressed and groomed her hair with Emma’s help and took her breakfast in her bedchamber. If she could have received all her meals in similar fashion, she would have done so. As it was, she had a tray sent to her room as often as she could without causing comment. Her sole objective was to avoid her husband. A day in which she did not see Evan Richmond was a day she counted as a success. The added benefit of her efforts was that she rarely saw Lady Evangeline either. That in itself was a relief, since Brenna had come to not only distrust but also loathe her eccentric sister-in-law. And yet, though assiduously avoiding the twins, she made every attempt to socialize with the long-suffering Lord and Lady Covington. They were as much—more—the victims of their wayward offspring as Brenna. She truly pitied the older couple. Of course, the one disadvantage of her voluntary isolation was that, through her subterfuge, she had become a prisoner of her own making, unable to move about freely for fear of whom she might meet. She was bone-weary of having to evade the twins, and so having finished her morning meal, today she took her courage in hand. Wearing a simple gray cotton gown—she still could not bring herself to wear much color—and half boots suited for walking, she was determined to spend the morning outdoors, enjoying the warm summer weather. Brenna managed to escape the house without encountering a single person. She stood on the drive, breathing in the fresh air, feeling like a gleeful escapee from Bedlam. The sun rained a gentle heat on her head, and it felt wonderful. Lifting her face to the rays, she basked in the warmth before reluctantly slipping on the straw bonnet she had brought with her. She let the ribbons hang, not bothering to tie them. Othello came trotting around the corner of the house and stopped abruptly when he caught sight of her. Clearly startled by her presence, he growled menacingly. “Othello,” she called to him. Immediately he recognized her voice. His ears drooped and his tail waved like a furry flag. He bounded toward her, tongue dangling from the side of his mouth. Brenna squatted down to greet him and wrapped her arms around his great neck. “Silly boy didn’t recognize me with my bonnet on, did you?” His response was a laving of the side of her face with that mammoth tongue, and she found herself giggling helplessly and clinging to him so she didn’t tumble

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backward onto her rump. She grabbed handfuls of his hair to steady herself as she stood up. Her bonnet had gone askew, and she tugged on the ribbons to straighten it. “My, my,” she said, still laughing, “you certainly know how to make a lady feel welcome.” The mastiff yipped a baritone response. As if waiting for her to tell him what was to happen next, he plopped his big shaggy posterior down, tail now sweeping the ground. His mouth open, he panted heavily, and Brenna could have sworn he was smiling at her. “I suppose by your enthusiasm you’d like to join me in my walk?” Othello was on his feet immediately. He let loose a deep-throated bark that would have scared anyone who did not know what a sweet-natured animal he was. His hindquarters began to dance, side to side. “I will take that as a yes,” Brenna stated. “Come on then.” Now we are a party of two, she thought, surprised by how glad she was to have the dog accompany her. They struck out down the drive at a brisk—in Othello’s case, restrained loping—pace, companions headed nowhere in particular, the beautiful day beckoning. Brenna had a sudden urge to lift her skirts and skip as a rush of happiness made her feel almost lightheaded. When was the last time she had experienced joy? When had she last felt carefree and optimistic? Surely, before her father had withered and died, and that seemed a lifetime ago. She paused to pick lavender where it grew in abundant patches at the side of the road, and Othello stopped also, patient and expectant, never in a hurry, clearly as delighted with her company as she was with his. The smell of the plucked flowers brought back images of Everly in early summer. The memories made her eyes water and her throat ache with suppressed emotion, but she welcomed those memories like old lost friends, grateful that at least she had a loving past to bring comfort to her present. They wandered off the lane and into a meadow where a magnificent gnarled oak stood alone, spreading shade like an enormous parasol. And there, under the tree, the mastiff and she dropped to earth, surrounded by cool grasses and a peace that was almost otherworldly. Brenna stretched her legs out in front of her, ankles crossed, then locked her elbows so she could lean back on her arms. That gave Othello the perfect excuse to rest his enormous head in her lap. Though still propped in a sitting position, she let her own head sink forward, and within moments she was dozing. She came to with a start. Brenna sensed rather than heard movement, but Othello’s abrupt awakening, his on-guard expression—the low rumble in his throat—told her they were not alone. She glanced over her shoulder and her heart sank. Approaching from the road was the viscount, horse in tow. His smile was tentative, but he moved with an easy gait—not precisely a swagger—and she was surprised by 104

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the look of him. Bearing down on her with seeming determination was quite the most handsome man she had seen in some time. Could this be her husband? Surely not. It was the distance disguising his dissipation, the paunch. The jowls, she thought disparagingly. What miracle had been wrought that her first sight of him in more than a fortnight and he was almost unrecognizable to her? “Hello!” he called. She could only stare at him in a mute panic. However, Othello was not so reluctant. He sprang to his feet and raced the many yards to greet the new arrival, jumping on Covington’s heir with delight. Brenna wanted to laugh as he staggered under Othello’s weight, but she was too dismayed by the mastiff’s sudden love for a man he had clearly disliked and distrusted only weeks before. The viscount dropped the horse’s reins as he walked, and the animal wandered a short distance away to nibble on the ankle-high grasses. “Having an outing, are we?” he asked, coming abreast of her, the dog frolicking at his side. Still she could not find her tongue. She continued to watch him, struggling not only with panic but irritation. A wonderful day ruined. Her husband hunkered down beside her, seemingly oblivious to her lack of welcome. “You waited for the perfect morning, I must say.” Othello flopped next to him and rolled onto his back, a subservient bid for attention. The viscount absently ruffled the mastiff’s belly. “Have you been here long?” he continued. The look he gave her was direct and searching and completely devoid of the condescension and scorn that had characterized his attitude toward her until recently. Brenna glanced away. “Not long.” He remained silent, and she allowed her gaze to dart back in his direction. His eyebrows were raised in inquiry, as if giving her the opportunity to elaborate. When she did not, he pulled a deep breath and exhaled through his mouth, sounding suspiciously long-suffering as he joined her on the ground. Alarmed, she asked, “What are you doing?” She pulled her legs up under her skirt and scooted away from him. “Why, joining you, of course. Do you mind? Seems a shame not to share this picturesque setting.” “I-I was enjoying the solitude.” “You and our friend here?” “Yes. Othello and I were enjoying the peace.” “It’s peaceful with him for company?” “He’s very quiet—mostly.”

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“So I see.” They both turned to the dog where he now sat, panting loudly and making the occasional whining noise, probably hoping for more belly rubbing. A faint smile was playing on the viscount’s mouth when he looked back at her. “Are you suggesting I’m intruding?” “And if I am?” The smile widened. “I don’t think Othello minds the interruption. In fact, I had the distinct impression he was happy to see me.” “Yes, well, his powers of discernment appear to be eroding.” Brenna hated sounding pettish, but evidently the man was determined not to take her meaning. The viscount laughed outright. “For a woman reluctant to speak her mind, you do have a way of making your point.” “Do I? I thought I was being deliberately ignored. Hard to make a point under those conditions.” Her lips tightened. “And now you mention it, what makes you believe I’m reluctant to speak my mind?” Though the smile remained, his eyes turned serious. “You’ve been playing at avoidance of late. In all fairness, my dear, that’s a form of not speaking one’s mind.” Brenna held his gaze, only just, but it cost her to do so. “It seemed for the best,” she finished lamely. “And why is that?” She opened her mouth to explain and found herself shrugging instead. “Come, come,” he said. “If you claim you speak your mind, do so now.” “Very well,” she said, annoyed because he was pressing her. “Our situation is awkward at the very least, and in all honestly, I don’t know how to proceed from…from where we’ve been. Avoidance was, I admit, the course of least resistance.” “That seems fair, if—” “If what?” she blurted. “If at best naїve. At worst,” he cleared his throat, but his gaze was steady, “cowardly.” “So I’m a coward? Because I don’t wish to associate with you? Now who is being naїve?” Brenna was bristling mad, and she put one hand on the ground to push herself into a standing position. As she struggled with her skirts, he reached out and touched her wrist, staying her effort to rise. She gave him an impatient glance, and her heart stuttered, missing a beat. His eyes…his eyes… “Please,” he said, “I don’t mean to offend. All I’m asking is that you hear me out.”

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The rhythm of her heart resumed, but with heavy thumps that made her chest ache from the weight of her fear—fear and something else. His fingers were still gently curved around her wrist, and an earthy warmth rose in her belly, shocking her. For the briefest moment, it was as if she knew him, really knew him. Brenna swallowed nervously, averting her eyes from his as she disengaged her hand. “What could you possibly have to say to me?” she asked in a rush. “I’m disinclined to hear anything even vaguely self-indulgent on your part.” “And if I tell you I have no intention of approaching this situation from a selfish vantage point?” “Make me believe that, my lord.” “You will have to listen to me then,” her husband said gently. “Give me a chance to explain.” Again she stared at him, bereft of speech. “You could start by calling me Evan and allowing me to call you Brenna.” Did she look as appalled as she felt? Surely, he couldn’t mean it. The intimacy he was suggesting was unacceptable. “No. Absolutely not.” Anguish made her voice tremble. “I’m not ready for this.” Then why had her body suddenly betrayed her? Brenna scrambled to her feet and stepped away from the viscount, distancing herself not only from him but from unexpected emotions that made her question her sanity. Othello jumped up as well, all signs of playfulness gone as he sensed her mood. The animal’s wary posture exposed his native intelligence, but he was also confused and plainly distressed. Two people he liked did not like each other. Brenna swung away and marched toward the road, looking behind her when the mastiff hesitated. “Are you coming?” She clipped out the words. “Go on, old boy,” her husband said to the dog, although his gaze was on her. “The lady needs an escort home.” Othello eyed the viscount for several moments, cogs clearly clicking into place. His attention shifted between the combatants then he snorted as if coming to a decision and followed Brenna from the meadow. Brenna’s legs could not move quickly enough to suit her need to get away from that man. What had he said? She was playing at avoidance. No doubt that was how he would interpret her latest retreat. So be it. What he thought of her was of no consequence. As she reached the road, she glanced over her shoulder one last time. The viscount was where she had left him, his horse now many yards away. He should have looked sinister as he sat there watching her, exuding the repellent personality that was his hallmark. Instead she saw a handsome man, pleasant and kind, seemingly concerned

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not only for her welfare but her feelings. She found his solicitous attitude more difficult to abide than his loathsome one. Or so she told herself.

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Chapter Thirteen Brenna entered the manor through the servants’ entrance at the rear of the residence, solely to prevent another unwanted confrontation. Her intention was to attain the main staircase by way of the kitchen, which forced her to travel the length of the house. When she arrived in the foyer, she furtively glanced around before making a dash for the stairs. “Been out, have we?” She came to an abrupt halt, boots sticking on the marble tile of the entry, almost tripping herself. Brenna swung around to the voice coming from the doorway of the drawing room, but she did not have to look to know who was standing there. She swallowed her disappointment, composing herself, determined to be civil. “Hello, Geline.” “My, my, our little rabbit surfaces from her burrow.” So much for keeping things civil. “What is your point, Geline?” she asked in a flat voice. “I’m sorry?” “I prefer blunt speech.” The woman chuckled. “You know, I often hear that, but whenever I speak my mind, I find my forthrightness is sadly unappreciated.” “There’s a difference between blunt and cruel.” “Perhaps,” her sister-in-law drawled. “All right then. Lately you’ve gone to quite some effort to escape communing with my family.” “Not all your family.” “You know what I mean. You have a habit of deliberately misunderstanding.” “And you have a habit of sneaking up on one.” Geline moved into the entry, a patronizing smirk marring her elegant features. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe you are the one doing the sneaking at the moment.” Brenna cringed inwardly but ignored the comment, making a facetious one of her own. “Do you mention my absence because you’ve missed me?” To her surprise, Geline took a more conciliatory tack. “Dear me, I sense hostilities are about to ensue. Let’s not do that today. Join me in some tea, and we’ll talk as sisters do. I’m certain if we make the effort we’ll find some common ground between us.”

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How reasonable she sounded, how patently insincere. But what was Brenna to do? Her inclination was to tell her sister-in-law to go to the devil. And surely Geline knew it. So why the pretense? They disliked one another. Much easier to go with that sentiment—and more honest. And yet, despite her misgivings, she followed Geline into the drawing room and sat quietly on the sofa while the other woman rang for tea. Geline glided to the sofa across from her and sat down, spreading her gown about her like a silken fan. She plucked at the folds of her skirt, arranging them just so. Every move she made, every gesture was part of an artful performance meant to impress. The tilt of her head, the way she glanced sidelong through her lashes, the gentle sway of her fingers as she brushed a feathering of black hair from her brow, all for show. In spite of herself, Brenna was fascinated. The tea seemed to take forever to arrive as she found herself participating in a trite conversation that brought all her cynicism to the fore. Wasn’t the weather lovely? Oh indeed, lovely. Geline was just this side of condescending, and Brenna fought not to rise to her bait. A young maid scurried in with a tray at last, and Geline waved her away as soon as the girl set the service down. And thus Brenna was treated to another graceful display, Lady Evangeline performing the genteel art of serving tea. Brenna sipped from her cup and covertly watched her companion, conversation having ebbed to an oddly expectant stop. They munched on cakes, the beautiful day beyond the windows suddenly of great interest to both of them as the silence lengthened. But Brenna was not naїve enough to believe Geline had invited her to share tea and cakes because she desired Brenna’s company or even for the sake of politeness. The woman wanted something, if nothing more than to torment the unfortunate female who’d had the temerity to marry her precious brother. Geline carefully set her cup in its saucer. “What do you think of Evan of late?” she said, demeanor now sly. Aha! As she had suspected. Her sister-in-law had a reason for initiating this impromptu tête-à-tête. On reflection, there was probably nothing impromptu about it. “I’m not certain what you mean,” Brenna said. “I think of him as I’ve always thought of him.” Not well. Geline leaned forward, all insinuation forgotten. Her lapis eyes were as dark as a midnight sea and equally as unfathomable, but she exuded an earnest quality that Brenna found bewildering. “You spoke with my brother when you went out earlier.” In a voice so tight it was difficult to speak, Brenna asked, “You were watching us?” “Everything about Evan interests me. Where he goes and what he does. And with whom.”

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“Lord Rutherford and I spoke for only moments. If it makes you feel better, it was scarcely a cordial conversation.” “Any other day I might find that reason to celebrate,” Geline settled back again, expression so hard she looked years older, “but that’s not what interests me at the moment.” “What then?” “Something has happened to Evan.” “It has?” “Indeed. Does he not appear different to you?” “He’s lost weight,” Brenna said cautiously. Where was this dialogue leading? “Well, yes, that, of course.” Geline sounded impatient. “I was more referring to how he seems.” Brenna shook her head. “I’m sorry, we need some of that blunt speech now. What are you trying to say?” “Evan is changed somehow.” She refused to commit herself to Geline’s observation, but an eerie sensation was now inching up her spine. She stared back at the woman, waiting. “The man you spoke with this morning, that’s not my brother.” “Beg pardon, but who else could he be?” “Now there’s the question, isn’t it?” Brenna knew she resembled a startled owl, eyes wide with alarm. The feeling along her spine had crept into the base of her neck, causing her shoulders to tense. She had had some unnerving moments with the viscount as well. The last thing she wanted was to have Geline give definition to her own nebulous fears. “That’s ridiculous. You are making no sense,” she said. “Really? Then explain the change in him. Explain how a person as close to me as I am to myself is suddenly a stranger I no longer recognize.” “I can’t.” Brenna set her cup and saucer down, but morbid curiosity kept her fastened to her seat. “What do you think is at the root of this, ah, change?” Her sister-in-law went perfectly still, gaze taking on the unblinking stare of a watchful serpent. She slipped forward on the sofa again. Lips pursing, she hissed slowly, a mere whisper, “Possession.” Every hair on her body rising, Brenna blurted, “By what?” Geline cocked her head, a look drifting over her features that made her appear slightly unhinged. “A demon.” Brenna jumped to her feet. “All right, that’s enough! A demon? Have you gone mad?”

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“You don’t understand. Evan and I are twins. We think alike—feel alike. I can sense the subtlest change in him. This is far beyond subtle.” “Why are you telling me this? What in the name of God do you expect me to do, even if this ludicrous theory is true?” “He’ll try to charm you, you know, win you over.” Geline spoke in a singsong voice, the slyness returning. “That’s what demons do.” “He won’t be charming me. Viscount Rutherford ruined any chance the demon has of winning me over,” she said with more asperity than she felt. “He’s still just Evan Richmond to me.” “If you say so.” Geline smiled, a smile that chilled Brenna to her very core. There was no longer a question of whether or not the woman was mad. Now it was a matter of degrees, and Brenna was convinced her sister-in-law’s condition was extreme. “Seems to me if Lord Rutherford has been possessed, he’s better off for it. The demon’s not nearly as vile as your brother.” The smile slid from Geline’s face, expression settling into lines of hatred. “How dare you! My poor Evan has been consigned to a life with a lowly Irish wretch who doesn’t know when to be grateful. I weep for him and his humiliation.” At once angry herself, hands balling into fists, Brenna said, “Why should you care? It’s the demon, remember?” “I will have him back,” the woman bit out. She also came to her feet. “I will stop at nothing to save my brother. You would be wise to remember that.” “Why are you threatening me? It’s not my fault he’s been possessed,” Brenna whispered, mocking her. Geline stepped close to Brenna, towering over her in a move clearly meant to intimidate. “There was nothing wrong with Evan until he married you. You were the demon’s instrument, and therefore, I hold you responsible.” “Are you accusing me of deliberately harming him?” “Deliberate or not, it is indeed your fault.” Brenna edged away from her. Chagrined, she suspected a show of fear would not be to her advantage, but she felt too uncomfortable by Geline’s nearness to stop herself. The fear, however, was warring with absolute outrage. The twins had turned the evening of her wedding into a nightmare and now this deranged woman had the gall to accuse Brenna of causing the viscount injury. Gathering her wilted courage, she said, “Since you are determined, believe what you will. But you’ll never convince me that Lord Rutherford is an innocent victim. If he was harmed in any way, it was by his own hand. And yours. Best you come to terms with that.” With as much dignity as she could muster, she turned her back on her sister-in-law and walked from the room. Seemed they were unable to avoid the hostilities after all. 112

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With a little more finesse, could she have prevented the conversation from devolving into a sniping match? Brenna didn’t know and at the moment she didn’t care. She’d had enough of that black-haired harpy to last her a dozen lifetimes. Now…what about the demon?

***** Evan stood at one of the large mullioned windows in the library, looking out on the lawn on the westerly side of the house. He had been there for more than ten minutes, watching his wife play fetch with Othello, the great hound dashing after a stick and happily returning it—when he felt like it. Brenna was wearing a modest umber-colored gown, a shade somewhat in keeping with her mourning. Evan regretted having mocked her for continuing to show respect for her father’s passing, and he silently applauded her stubborn effort. He respected loyalty. Why was he only now realizing that? Her bonnet had fallen off in play, and she had not yet bothered to replace it, thus it lay on the ground, seemingly forgotten. She would pay for it later with a pink nose, but he suspected she would not care. Brenna’s hair had come unbound, and it danced on her shoulders in soft dark waves as she moved. She was laughing and, despite her understated attire, she had the look of a lovely sprite frolicking in the grass. He experienced a sudden rush of lust that startled him. The viscount told himself it was the anticipation of what their relationship might eventually become that turned his thoughts carnal. However, that explanation seemed too simplistic and on an instinctual level didn’t feel quite right. As he watched her chase after the dog, all at once Evan ceased to breathe. He put his palm flat against the windowpane, index finger tracing the outline of her figure, as if somehow he could touch her through the glass. Overcome with emotion, he was struck by a sense of familiarity so intense, he knew without equivocation that he loved her. How could that be? He liked her, certainly. Admired her, yes. Desired her as his body had just informed him. But the tenderness that welled in his chest had little to do with such tepid responses. No, the ache seizing his heart was ancient, not of this lifetime. Of course, the rational part of him rejected outright such a fanciful notion, but the idea wouldn’t leave him. The more he watched her, the more certain he became that they had a shared history, somewhere, sometime, long before now. One other thought struck him as well. His mother was right—this rift between them must be mended. He knew it with an urgency akin to panic. Still holding his breath, he released it with a shaky whoosh of air through his mouth. Overwhelmed, he felt a moment’s desperation. How was he to heal a breach as wretchedly broken as his relationship with his wife? How did he convince Brenna that the man she married was not the man he was today? And how did he explain the change? Above all, how did he explain to her what he could not explain to himself? 113

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Evan felt a foreboding, a prickling at the nape of his neck. He dropped his arm and slowly turned around. Geline stood just inside the door, hands folded at her waist, wearing an intent expression he could not decipher. Her gaze shifted to the scene outside then back to him. Though her face remained immobile, he was aware of her disapproval. So loathsome and unwelcome was her sudden appearance, he had to fight the urge to turn his back on her. “How long have you been standing there?” he asked quietly. “Long enough.” Her tone was snide. “Do you have something you wish to say to me?” “You watch her like a lovesick youth.” “Geline,” Evan clamped his teeth briefly, restraining his temper, “your comments are not only unnecessary, they are uninvited.” “Don’t you wish to know how foolish you appear?” “To an unbiased observer? Perhaps.” “One does not have to be unbiased to see what is in front of one.” Again, he fought for control. “This is not your concern.” She stepped farther into the room. “Since when are you no longer my concern? We have always protected one another.” “In this situation I do not need your protection. I need you to refrain from interfering. And if you are capable—if you wish my goodwill—I would ask for your support.” “Support you in destroying your life?” “For God’s sake, Geline, how am I destroying my life? For the first time since I can remember, I feel as though I’m doing something right. Can’t you be happy for me?” “Does your happiness really revolve around courting that—that woman?” She waved negligently toward the window. “How can she possibly make you happy?” “I’ve been more concerned with how I can make her happy.” “Why should you care? She’s been forced upon you, upon us. You owe her nothing.” “I do owe her something.” Geline studied him briefly, and when she spoke her voice was oddly reflective. “Guilt is a poison, Evan.” A penetrating silence followed, and Evan realized how deep the divide between them had grown. She truly felt no remorse, and he was awash in it. “I agree,” he said at last. “But sometimes guilt is appropriate. I cannot convince you that what we did to Brenna was wrong but it was. I’m going to do everything in my power to gain her forgiveness.” His sister’s face twisted into a mask of rage. She emitted a strangled cry and, as if seeking an outlet for her anger, glanced wildly from side to side, then stomped a half 114

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dozen steps to the sideboard along one oak-paneled wall. She paused long enough to throw him a maddened look, grabbing the decanter of brandy that rested there. “Geline?” She dashed the bottle against the parquet floor and shards of crystal, along with the aromatic liquid, flew in all directions. “I hate you!” She snatched an empty goblet, and it followed the decanter. Shock kept Evan from responding quickly. He cursed under his breath, a step too slow, crunching and slipping over glass and brandy as he rushed to stop her. Another goblet hit the floor before he reached her side. It took only a minor scuffle before he overpowered her. Evan wrapped her in a restraining hug and pinned her arms to her sides. But she continued to fight him, twisting and thrashing violently, screaming at the top of her voice. “Stop, Geline! Control yourself!” “Do you think I’ll listen to the likes of you?” “The likes of me?” “Don’t you bloody well pretend with me! I know who you are.” “You’re not making sense.” He huffed the words as he wrestled with her then grunted when her heel connected with his shin. “Damn it all to hell!” he bellowed. The brandy-slicked parquet was now a hazard, and Evan’s boot shot out from under him, which brought them both crashing to the floor. He landed on his back, Geline falling next to him on her stomach, her face striking the parquet with a sickening thud. The scream his sister now produced was forced from her when they hit, a cry clearly of pain rather than anger. The twins lay in a tangle of arms and legs, Geline screeching uncontrollably. The smell of brandy filled his nostrils, overpowering him. “What in the name of God is going on here?” He glanced up from his prone position to see his father standing in the doorway, confusion and outrage puckering his brow. Behind the earl, wringing her hands, came his mother and behind her a line of servants. The commotion in the hall, the elbowing and shoving and hushed whispering as their audience jockeyed for a better view would have been comical had Evan’s involvement in the chaos been less personal. As it was, he felt like joining his sister in the histrionics. Strangely, despite the utter bedlam of the moment, one observation came very clear to Evan. Brenna was nowhere to be seen. It was then he noticed the blood. Lots of it. Everywhere. Even as that realization struck, a sharp pain in his hand took his attention. He raised his arm, fingers trembling.

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Several pieces of glass were embedded in his palm. Painful but not dangerous. However, one very large shard had sliced his wrist, and blood poured from the open gash, soaking the cuff of his shirt all the way down his sleeve to the elbow. Though lying flat, he felt suddenly lightheaded. He relaxed against the floor, his stomach rolling over. “My face! My face!” Geline’s frantic voice close to his ear brought his gaze back to her. She was trying to push away from him in an effort to stand. Broken crystal surrounded them, however, and she had nowhere to place a hand for leverage. As she struggled to right herself, she also clutched at her cheek. Blood oozed between her fingers. She was moaning now, tears mingling with the blood. To his immense relief, Riley appeared out of the swarm of bodies. The man leaned down, placed his great mitts around Geline’s waist and with seemingly little effort set her on her feet. Two maids quickly moved forward to comfort their mistress. Riley reached out to Evan. “Milord?” The viscount raised his uninjured hand then dropped it onto his stomach. “Feeling a little…strange,” he muttered. He detected bits of glass digging into his back through his shirt, no more than minor irritants now because his spinning head was demanding all his attention. In a daze he watched Geline’s attendants escort her from the room. He heard her cries fading as she was whisked away, and the only emotion he could conjure regarding his twin was profound relief she was gone. Evan was aware of distressed individuals crowding around him, and of being asked questions he was at once too tired to answer. The atmosphere was rife with anxiety, but he remained untouched by it. The room was dimming to a fuzzy gray and the speakers, though close by, sounded far away. He was cognizant of one thing, however, as consciousness deserted him— Brenna joining the fray. And unlike the others, her voice was as clear and sweet as a nightingale’s song. And near to him, so very near. “What has happened?” he heard her ask. Was it wishful thinking that heard worry in her question? He smiled to himself. Perhaps, but she was here, and for now that was all that mattered.

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Chapter Fourteen Evan opened his eyes to a morning so startling bright he winced. A pounding in his temples—that he assumed had been an integral part of him for many hours— intensified. The first thing he noticed was the heavy drapes in his bedchamber thrown back to the sun. He moved then groaned. There wasn’t a place on his body that did not ache. “You’re awake, I see.” He turned toward the voice. Brenna sat near the head of the bed to his left in a highbacked wooden chair, working a piece of tatting. Slim fingers moving precisely continued to tat, though she was looking at him. Her expression was cool and impersonal. “What happened?” he asked, even as memory came flooding back in a rush of ugly images. “You and your sister had an altercation.” “I remember,” he said dully. “How long have I been unconscious?” “Since late yesterday afternoon.” “So long?” Her fingers stilled. “You lost quite a bit of blood, my lord. The cut on your wrist was very deep. Seems Evangeline fell on your arm, increasing the damage. They feared you would bleed to death before the doctor could arrive. You owe your man Riley your life.” He nodded. “Not for the first time, I’m afraid.” Vaguely he remembered being carried upstairs, Riley holding his wrist in a vise-like grip to stanch the flow of blood. He also remembered seeing the doctor but little else after that. Sleep had been a haven to which he had gladly retreated. Evan lifted his arm and examined his bandage. His wrist in particular was wrapped securely, and he had a dull throbbing ache involving most of his hand and forearm. He sighed heavily through his nose. “Foolish.” “Yes,” Brenna agreed. His gaze caught hers. They shared a searching look then she glanced back at her lap. The tatting took life again. “How is my sister?” he asked out of filial consideration, not affection. A pause, and then, “She’s awake.” “And?” 117

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“Quite a bit of glass had to be removed from the side of her face. Her cheekbone was badly bruised from hitting the floor but appears to be unbroken. Her eye is blackened as well. One cut was…rather severe. The doctor fears there may be some scarring.” Evan swallowed. Geline would not deal well with disfigurement. “He’s not certain?” “There’s substantial swelling, and he had to sew the large cut, which can leave its own mark. Only time will tell the extent of the damage.” He closed his eyes wearily, and for several minutes neither spoke. Evan was conscious of her, however, could hear the near-indistinct whisper of her movements as she worked the hook and cotton thread. He was also humbly aware that what he had wanted most was to impress her with his improved character—and how on the contrary his recent behavior had likely reinforced every negative impression she had of him. This courtship was not going well, he thought miserably. He had never courted a woman before. Pursued, yes, but never courted. Never. And he felt like a bumbling fool. Where did he go from here? At this rate, he could expect the imbroglio that was their marriage to last a lifetime. With nothing clever to say, he said what he was thinking instead. “I’m surprised to find you here.” Brenna did not respond immediately. She gave him a sidelong glance, lashes demurely at half-mast. “Your mother deemed it a special favor that I attend you. Felt it was a fitting display of wifely duty.” “You are displeased?” “If it pleases her, it pleases me.” Her tone was belligerent as if she resented having to explain. “What if it pleases me?” Her gaze flew to his. “Beg pardon?” “I’m glad you are here,” he said in a husky voice. Their eyes locked. Even as he returned her look, hoping to convey the depth of his sincerity, Brenna’s expression froze as if she were seeing something that startled—or perhaps frightened—her. Her stare did not waver from his, long moments stretching as he wondered what captured her attention. This was not the first time Evan had seen her react oddly to him, prompting in her a subtle retreat that he found bewildering. What was it she saw that so unsettled her? “Why are you looking at me that way?” he asked. Brenna blinked and shook her head as though clearing her thoughts. “It’s nothing…nothing. Flights of fancy. You know how we Irish are.” “Actually, I don’t know,” he said, smiling. “But I very much want to.”

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She stood up. “I think perhaps you are feeling better, my lord. I’ll take the good news to your mother. She will be pleased.” As she moved away from the bed, Evan grabbed her hand, stopping her. Brenna sucked in a sharp breath. “What are you doing?” she asked. “I don’t want you to go. You always run away when the conversation becomes personal.” She tugged at his hold on her. “That should warn you, my lord, I don’t wish to speak of personal things with you. If you desire my company, keep the conversation cursory.” Evan was suddenly tired of the cat and mouse game they played. Finesse had its place, but sometimes finesse was so subtle it stalled the process. Perhaps a bolder approach would begin the ball rolling again. After all, what were his options? Do something even if the consequences were negative or do nothing at all. He did not release her. “You are my wife, Brenna. We must delve deeper eventually.” Not for a moment did he pretend his statement had only one meaning. She ceased struggling, but her complexion went as white as wax. “If I understand your meaning,” she gulped, her throat working with emotion, “then I will do what I must.” “Brenna—” “Another thing you will learn about the Irish, Lord Rutherford. We are stoical. We accept what life gives us. We bend but we do not break.” “I don’t wish to break you,” he said gently. She licked her lips. “Perhaps now would be a good time to tell me what it is you do wish.” “I wish to erase the wrong I’ve done you.” “It cannot be done.” She sounded almost sad, definitely certain. “Then you must find a way to forgive,” he said, his voice shaking. “I will spend the rest of my life making it up to you, if only you will let me.” “Why?” The one word came out in a breathy whisper. Now was the moment to unburden himself, to tell her what was in his heart, the thoughts and emotions that had overwhelmed him recently. He brought her hand to his lips, tasting her knuckles, her intoxicating scent moving him more than he could have thought possible. He looked up at her, mouth still grazing her fingers. “Because from the depths of my soul, I believe you and I were meant to be.” He gently caressed her pulse, fluttering rapidly against his thumb. He could feel the trembling that shivered just beneath her skin. Evan continued to stare deeply into her eyes and again he was aware of her spellbound expression, soft panting breath, lips parted ever so slightly.

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Desire lush and oh-so-sweet coursed through his entrails, burning away every ache and pain as his mind and body were riveted by a more primal awareness. Just holding her hand was an aphrodisiac, her very nearness arousing to him. He suspected she would not find that knowledge comforting right now. “Please,” she said. “Yes?” “Don’t make me care about you.” Undiluted joy washed over Evan, his heart thudding with hope. “You ask the one thing I am unable to grant you.” “Unable or unwilling?” His voice now husky with emotion, he said, “We cannot fight our destiny, love.” “How can you know our destiny?” He thumped his chest with the heel of his bandaged hand. “In here. It feels right.” “Why did it not feel right before?” “I want to answer your question, I swear. It’s nothing I haven’t asked myself a hundred times. I simply don’t know.” Brenna wrenched away from him, and this time he let her go. “It’s too easy, this change. Overnight you go from a man who cannot abide me, to a man who now professes…what?” She spread her hands in question. “If I told you how I really feel, or even why I feel the way I do, you wouldn’t believe me. Truthfully, I can hardly believe it myself. Since trust must be earned, all I ask is that you let me prove myself.” “And what does this proving entail?” Evan smiled, confident—and relieved—that he was making headway. “Let me woo you as gentleman woos a lady, with all that goes with it. Flowers and candlelight dinners and kisses under the moon—” She started to protest, and he held up his hand to her. “I promise on my honor to make no advances that are unwelcome. You may come to me in your own time. Just give me the chance to sway you.” “We are married.” The implication being, of course, that the time for wooing had passed. “We’ll turn tradition on its head, marriage and courtship in that order,” he said. “I believe getting on with the married part is what disturbs you—leaping straight into the intimacies without having gone through the preliminaries.” Her gaze faltered. “In part, yes.” “Well, then, what I propose makes perfect sense.” “I-I’ll think about it.” “Unfair, Brenna.”

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“What do you mean?” “I deserve an answer now. Forcing me to wait puts off the inevitable and serves no purpose.” “Already you press me.” She clamped her mouth in an uncompromising line, and Evan wondered if he were in danger of losing her cooperation before he had gained it. But to allow this situation to meander without a sense of urgency and at least some direction felt wrong to him, fundamentally unsound. At this point, he could only go with gut instinct. And gut instinct was telling him that an indefinite delay was a mistake. “If I fail, it’s on my head,” he said. “I’m not asking you to commit yourself, only allow me to try. What do you lose by granting me the opportunity to bury myself?” “Put that way, my lord, it does become more palatable.” “Evan.” Brenna studied him for several moments and all at once her lips twitched. “If I must.” She turned to leave. “And I may call you Brenna?” he asked after her. At the door, she paused. Her beautiful brown eyes were fathomless pools, an ancient soul looking back at him. Oh how he wished he knew what she was thinking. “Yes, Evan, you may call me Brenna.” Brenna made her way from her husband’s room, quaking so badly she found it difficult to put one foot in front of the other. So he wanted to use her name, did he? Didn’t he realize he had been using it all along? It came off his tongue like a caress, and her response was a pulling from deep within her nether region, something dark and primitive, something infinitely compelling. And when he looked at her with those lapis eyes—the light blue swirling somewhere just below the surface, peeking through when she least expected it, exposing the depth of his desire—she wanted to hide. Not from him but herself. She could still feel his mouth on her hand, the warmth of his breath as his lips lingered next to her skin. She wanted to rub the sensation of his kiss away, but the memory was too pleasurable, too enticing. The dichotomy of such diverse sentiments made her head swim. For the life of her, she could not equate the man lying in that bed with the man she had married. It was as if she found herself bound to a stranger, one so charming, so attractive, she was tempted to throw all her reservations aside and give in to his seductive lure. They were wed, thus the sin of carnal knowledge without benefit of marriage was not an issue. But how about the sin of a heart not in it? The aristocracy rarely loved at the beginning of married life, but no wrong was attached to a union based upon 121

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expediency rather than affection. On the contrary, it was what was expected, the thing to do. Where had she formed another less traditional idea? No doubt at her father’s knee, a man who had married once to satisfy the expectations of his family and peers and once to satisfy his heart. Malcolm had been the product of the one and she the product of the other. Could it be assumed that happier marriages produce happier, more confident children? Brenna pushed into her bedchamber and closed the door behind her. She sank onto a chair in front of the dressing table, her eye catching her expression in the mirror. Her drawn features reflected the dismay that weighed in her chest. She felt many conflicting emotions, not the least of which was how she could consider forgiving the viscount. And even if she reached the point of forgiveness, how could she trust the man’s sincerity? Was she mad? Must be, for deep down Brenna knew she was already responding to her husband’s overtures. He was handsome again now that he was trimmer and had eschewed his brandy and cigars, more handsome than he had been many years ago in his newly minted adulthood. She would not have thought that possible. However, the young Evan Richmond had been superficial and cruel, making him ultimately repulsive despite his comely face and youthful body. This Evan was thoughtful and tender, the warmth and charisma he exuded transforming appealing features into a beauty that was breathtaking. And this Evan, if he were to be believed, wanted her. Very much. Brenna was smitten and ashamed because of it. There was also the unrelenting pressure of Evan’s parents, both so understanding, their efforts so transparently manipulative—but in a kind and hopeful way—she hated to disappoint them. Her every move was watched and assessed until her nerves had reached breaking point. Brenna put her face in her hands. It was probably a good thing she had nowhere to go beyond Covington’s borders. If retreat were possible right now, she would take it, forever putting on hold the need to face what was to come. And so for now she would hide in her room until the fear had ebbed, fear of her husband, fear of the future and fear, Lord help her, of her own burgeoning desires.

***** Evan clapped his tailor on the back. “Winston, you’ve given me reason to celebrate. New clothing—that fits.” He grinned broadly. “I’m impressed, my lord,” the man said with self-effacing modesty. “This time you’ve chosen cloths and styles that are more sophisticated and less…” The viscount’s grin widened. “Dandified?” “Perhaps that would be the appropriate word.”

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They were standing in the viscount’s bedchamber, surrounded by fabrics, measuring tapes, chalk and other sundry items necessary to the tailors’ trade. The morning had been spent choosing a new wardrobe, and though in the past Evan had enjoyed poring over fashionable sketches and making decisions regarding his clothing, today he had grown restless. He was relieved to be done with it. He had invited Brenna to attend the fitting, and though he had expected her to decline, he was disappointed when she did. “You don’t need my help,” she had said. “It’s not entirely suitable for me to be there, and you’ll shock Mr. Winston.” “Who cares about suitable?” he had countered. She had looked at him strangely, and so Evan had dropped the request. Still, he wished she had shown some interest, for he could not think of anything he would enjoy more than helping her choose a new wardrobe, especially all those lacy undergarments ladies were prone to wear. He groaned inwardly. Couldn’t tell her that, no indeed. He opened his door to escort Winston from the room. As he shook the man’s hand an enraged shriek echoed down the hall, followed by a wailing that startled him so he was momentarily riveted to the spot. He regained his senses and dashed toward the sound, leaving the tailor open-mouthed and spluttering on the landing. As he had feared, the commotion was emanating from Geline’s bedchamber. Evan thrust her door open without knocking. “What the hell is going on in here?” His sister stood in the middle of the room, barefoot, wearing a sheer cotton nightdress. Her hair was as chaotic as her emotions. “Look at me!” she screeched. “I’m looking,” he said, deliberately keeping his voice calm. “My face, you bastard! Look at my face!” There was no denying that her face had been cut. Several small scabs dotted her right cheek, nothing to cause permanent concern, but a perpendicular gash from cheekbone almost to her jaw looked as though it had the potential to scar. It didn’t help that the doctor had been forced to sew the wound closed, the stitching most likely leaving lasting marks as well. “Why did you remove the bandage, Geline? It’s too soon. Naturally it’s going to look unpleasant. It’s not yet healed.” “Do you take me for a fool?” She placed her hand over the injury. “There is no way this will ever look healed. I’ll be a monster for the rest of my life.” “Surely not a monster,” Evan said, hoping by sounding matter-of-fact he could pacify and give her some perspective. Geline stomped toward him, eyes wild. “You dare patronize me?” She swung out, clawing at his face. “Let’s see if it’s quite so amusing when it’s your precious phiz.” He dodged the blow and grabbed her wrist. “Stop it,” he barked. “You solve nothing by acting this way. What’s done is done.” 123

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“How utterly easy for you to say,” she spat, struggling against him. “You will stop it, Geline.” He clamped her wrist so hard she squealed. “We damn near killed each other the last time we came to blows. That won’t be happening again.” All at once she went limp and sagged against him. She wept wrenching cries that shook her entire body. “Evan, help me.” She clung to him, sobbing into his shoulder. “What am I to do?” It took Evan several moments before he could force himself to put his arms around her. He was surprised by his reluctance to comfort her, probably the only person—until recently—he had truly loved in all his life. But in his heart he knew they had come too far in recent weeks for him to ever feel the same about her. Geline’s distress was real, however, for once no playacting to raise suspicion regarding her motives. He awkwardly patted her hair, making soothing noises that sounded equally awkward. “There’s nothing to do right now. Become hysterical when we know for certain.” From the hall, the viscount heard his mother’s anxious voice. “Evan, what is going on in here? Geline, are you all right? You two aren’t fighting again, are you? Someone, please, tell me what has happened.” Evan glanced over his shoulder at the countess. Behind her stood his wife, an expression of concern drawing her brows together. Fortunately, his father was away on business for the day. The old man did not handle turmoil with composure. He sent Brenna a martyred look before addressing his mother. “Geline has removed her bandage and is upset by the damage. I’m trying to convince her that she is judging too soon. The cut needs time to heal before we can determine whether or not it will leave a mark.” The countess moved forward, taking her son’s place, as though she understood his discomfort. He stepped back into the hallway next to Brenna. “Geline, Evan is right,” Mary said. “Why make a fuss now? You may find all this heartache has been for naught. You are borrowing trouble before it is necessary. You should have allowed the doctor to remove the bandage at the appropriate time. Why didn’t you wait?” “Because I couldn’t stand the not knowing any longer,” his twin wailed. “It was itching—when it didn’t hurt. All I meant to do was peek. And then…and then—” She broke off, weeping again. As Evan watched the tableau in front of him, he was surprised by a sudden impatience that overshadowed any compassion he believed he should be feeling. He and his sister had been self-indulgent fools all their lives. In recent years, adult brats so pampered that any adversity was unbearable. They had had everything and appreciated nothing. If his twin were scarred, she had only herself to blame. In his current frame of mind, he ruthlessly assigned culpability, not only to Geline but to himself as well. Neither of them deserved better.

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Again he sought out his wife’s gaze. Much to his amazement, she was watching Geline with something akin to sympathy. He felt his jaw drop slightly, disbelief and a growing tenderness enveloping him. Since the knowledge of his love for Brenna had been planted in his breast, his awareness of that love had continued to grow until he felt drenched in it. There was a rawness about the feeling, a sense of being overwhelmed by a tide of emotion that rolled relentlessly over him. It was agonizing in its intensity and yet filled him with joy, bringing him emotionally to his knees. Unable to stop himself, he reached out and touched Brenna’s arm. Her gaze shifted to his. For long moments they watched one another, but there was no judgment in her attitude as he feared, merely assessment as if she truly wanted to understand him. Again, the peace was shattered by his sister’s scream. “What is she doing here?” she yelled, pointing at Brenna. “Get her out!” The ugliness in Geline’s expression, exacerbated by her mutilated cheek, was indeed revolting. Evan had always thought her beautiful. Not now and most likely never again. And it wasn’t because she would forever carry the evidence of her hateful temper on her face. No, it was the sickness that pervaded her every thought, her every action. No amount of external perfection could hide the defect inside. “Geline,” he said coolly, “if you don’t wish to draw an audience, don’t make a spectacle of yourself. Brenna was merely responding to someone in trouble, as we all were.” “Again defending the Irish bastard, are we?” She leaned across her mother’s arm and sneered. “The Evan Richmond I know would not have deigned to let her touch his feet. Oh how the mighty have fallen.” Evan struggled to restrain the anger threatening to erupt into a full-blown rage. Hands knotted at his sides, which caused a shooting pain in his healing wrist, he faced his mother as she turned around and mouthed, “Go.” There was no mistaking the pleading in her posture or the distress weighing down her shoulders. The hurt in those lovely aging eyes was difficult to witness. And for that reason, he refused to add to her pain. For the best, he thought, outrage still scalding him. He spun on his heel to find Brenna had already slipped away, having sustained another vicious insult. He wanted to ease away the unkind words, make her believe that Geline spoke only for herself. But intuitively he knew now was not the time to follow his wife. Maybe they could speak during dinner or later over a brandy before bedtime. He knew she enjoyed the occasional nightcap. He drew in a weary breath, releasing some of the anger as he exhaled. And maybe she would actually agree to spend time in his company. Maybe. He could hope, couldn’t he? At this juncture, what else did he have?

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Chapter Fifteen Later that evening the family sat in the dining room, unfolding linen napkins and preparing for the first course to be served. Two magnificent candelabras, each sporting a dozen burning candles, graced the center of the table. The flames reflected off the china and silverware and lit the room with a soft yellow flicker. A servant entered with a tureen on a service cart and ladled cold soup into bowls, another servant delivering each bowl to a diner. To an outsider the gathering looked warm and intimate, congenial. To those about to partake of the final meal of the day, the tension was thick enough to taste. It flared as the servants withdrew. Mary eyed her daughter. “Geline, I told you it was unnecessary to force yourself downstairs before you are ready. It is no trouble to send a tray to your room.” “Thank you, Mother,” Geline responded, “I’ve had enough of trays in my room.” She cast a dark glance at her dinner companions, gaze settling on Brenna, lips crimping with disdain. “Although I’m certain some of you would have preferred if I had stayed abed. Sorry to be a disappointment.” The earl and his lady shared a look then both turned their attention briefly to their daughter, bland expressions, neither responding to Geline’s unpleasantries. Mary picked up her soup spoon, sampling her vichyssoise. “Delicious,” she murmured. It appeared the matter was to be dropped, but Brenna thought Geline had the right of it. For her part, she wished her sister-in-law would never attend another meal in which Brenna had to participate. Yet the woman was nothing if not brazen. She had pulled her hair severely back and left the wound on her face uncovered. Despite the passage of almost a fortnight, her injured eye was still discolored and her cheek purple. The stitches were boldly black against her skin. No one could fault her for a lack of bravery. No doubt she was making a statement of some kind. However, no one seemed ready to take up her challenge. Brenna was glad she had ended her own self-imposed exile, avoiding the family. With Geline tucked securely in her bedchamber these many days, supper had become a pleasant interlude at evening’s end. Basil and Mary had been engaging and kind, so patently hopeful that Brenna and their son could work out their differences. As for the viscount, what could she say? She darted a glance in his direction then dropped her gaze to her soup. He appeared at every meal, a devoted gallant, she the absolute focus of his attention. He was clearly implementing his plan to woo her and, despite her desire to remain aloof, Brenna was flattered.

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He grew more handsome every day, the lines of dissipation dropping away from his face and body as he continued to reject unhealthy habits, adding horseback riding and long walks to his daily routine. He seemed unconcerned with the browning of his skin under the late summer sun. Perhaps he was right. The contrast of his blue eyes with his darkened complexion was striking. She had forgotten how beautiful his smile was—until recently tempered by a repellent sneer—full lips and straight teeth, deep-lined dimples from cheekbone to jaw. He used that smile on her often, and she could feel a piece of her, buried deep in a place she had almost forgotten, begin to thaw. The oddest part was the absolute feeling she had that her husband was altered on a primal level. To those sensitive to the auras of others—and she was adept to some small degree—a person exuded an indefinable but distinct quality. To be in her husband’s sphere was to sense not only change but a transformation of the most profound kind. The irradiation of his eyes appeared to be happening more often, especially when he was emotional, and she would swear the change was becoming permanent. The most notable characteristic Geline and he had in common was coloring, especially their eyes. No longer. It was a physical reality Brenna could see for herself. Strange no one else had seemed to notice. Most significant of all, when she looked at him, a different man was looking out at her. But it wasn’t the changing color of his eyes that convinced Brenna. It was his fundamental essence coming through, the way he looked at her. On a spiritual level, no two souls are exactly alike. She could not be mistaken about that, even though in her less secure moments, she doubted her sanity. She thought back to that night in the meadow, that bizarre moment when the world seemed to stop, when the viscount was struck down. Something had happened to him, an alteration so pronounced it was as if the old Evan Richmond had died and a new Evan Richmond were born in his place. Brenna was wrong about nobody noticing, however. She glanced across the table at her sister-in-law. Geline knew something had happened to her brother, knew it with the canny shrewdness of the unstable mind. Possessed. She shivered, foreboding traveling all the way to her tailbone. “What’s the matter, don’t you like cold potato soup?” the viscount asked, breaking the silence that had settled over the diners like a shroud. He was smiling at her, looking more like an angel than a demon. Startled, Brenna realized she had been staring at her dish, spoon in hand, but had not taken a single bite. She recovered quickly, returning his smile. “I’m Irish, remember?” she said. “We love potatoes in any form, hot or cold.” She took a sip. “Wonderful.” Her riposte lightened the mood, and all save Geline entered into a spirited conversation, most of which consisted of the many varied recipes for the lowly potato. 127

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Geline abruptly pushed back her chair and came to her feet. The gash on her cheek stood out in sharp relief against her pallid skin, most likely exacerbated by a foul mood. The others at the table turned to look at her. “Enlightening as all this is, I find I am full to here,” she touched her throat, “with the virtues of the potato. Please forgive me, but I think I’ll retire.” As she left the room, her final sentiments drifted back to those still seated at the table. “Perhaps it would have been better if I had stayed abed. Nothing like boredom to bring home a point.” A hush followed her exit along with a sense of relief that was palpable. No one spoke for several moments, the potato discussion apparently having reached its conclusion. Basil eased back in his chair, for the first time that evening looking relaxed. “Think I’ll have a brandy. Anyone want to join me?” Of course, inviting the ladies was not accepted practice among those who followed the social rules impeccably. But the Covington household proved the adage that rules were meant to be broken, especially in the country and among family. Brenna’s father had asked her to sip after dinner, but a loner, he’d had no confederates of his sex with whom to imbibe. Indulgent to the end, he had always said his daughter was more than a fair exchange for male company. “Tell you what, Father,” Evan said, “what I’d really like is to take a walk with my wife in the garden. There’s a full moon tonight. Would be a shame to waste it.” Brenna stared at him aghast. She wanted to protest that she was tired or did not feel well or hated full moons, anything not to go with him. But Basil and Mary were clearly ecstatic at the proposal. “Evan, such a lovely suggestion,” Mary said, “and so romantic.” “Yes, yes, I agree. Splendid idea.” His father beamed at him, man to man, pride squaring his shoulders. “Your mother will keep me company. You young people go, have a good time.” Brenna didn’t have the heart to disappoint the sweet-natured couple. Much against her better judgment, she allowed her husband to help her from her chair, taking the arm he held out to her. As they crossed the threshold, the earl called to them. “Behave yourselves. Use me as your example—if I wouldn’t do it, you shouldn’t either.” “Basil!” Mary said. Brenna suddenly found the floor in need of her full attention. “Gives us a bit of latitude, doesn’t it, Father?” Evan said in a dry voice. They were escorted outside by the old man’s raucous laughter. The evening was warm, the sky a velvet black backdrop for the countless stars. As promised, the moon was a bright yellow ball, casting shimmery illumination over the countryside. The garden perfumed the air, the last flurry of summer growth before the

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seasons changed. Brenna had walked the paths at night before but never with the viscount. Never with a demon. They strolled for several minutes in silence before Evan spoke. “I don’t consider myself intuitive, but I sensed that you were not pleased by my suggestion.” “Oh?” He stopped, forcing her to look at him. “Come, Brenna. Tell me you were not furiously thinking of a way to avoid coming out here with me.” Her lips twisted into a half-smile. “Right, well, I’ve never been much of a liar.” “And you don’t wish to disappoint my parents.” “That too,” she agreed. “Are you afraid to be alone with me?” “Why would you think that?” “Because I wouldn’t blame you if you were.” “I hate when you are reasonable,” she muttered. He chortled softly. “And I love your honesty.” The tenor of his words made her stomach leap unexpectedly. Disconcerted and unable to think of a response, Brenna lowered her gaze. They resumed walking. Evan placed a hand over the one she held his arm with, his thumb gently brushing her knuckles. It was a simple gesture, unconsciously tender without being bold, but she felt every stroke with a keen awareness. “You haven’t answered my question,” he said into the quiet that followed. “I’ve forgotten what you asked,” she said, although she had not. She wished, however, that he would forget. “Are you afraid to be alone with me?” Her husband did not make the mistake this time of trying to make eye contact, rather looking straight ahead as they walked, his thumb continuing its stimulating caress across the top of her hand. “I’m not afraid of you, Evan.” He released his breath, seemingly relieved. “Glad to hear it—” “But I am afraid.” Brenna heard him swallow, although her gaze was also trained on the path ahead, and she could only guess at the impact her words had on him. “Do you wish to tell me about it?” he asked. “Don’t know that I can.” Evan did turn to her then. His thumb stilled as his grip on her tightened. “Please try.”

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Brenna searched Evan’s shadowed features, indistinct in the moonlight, his eyes glittering with intensity. Suddenly she wanted to unburden herself, to blurt out her fears, nebulous as they were. Even though she believed her worries to be silly, for some reason she knew he would not laugh at her, knew he would understand. But how could she tell him about the demon? She found herself hedging again. “I sense things sometimes. My mother’s people believed…” Brenna shrugged. “I’m not certain how to explain it, really.” Superstitious bunk, that was how. She stumbled on despite her unease. “I’ve felt…odd lately, a premonition of something not as it seems…” She also felt foolish. He watched her, his brow wrinkled in concentration as though what she had to say were important to him. If she did not stop talking, he might begin to think she was confessing to being a witch. “It’s nothing wicked, I promise,” she continued quickly. “I’m sure it’s only my imagination.” “I’ve felt it, also,” Evan said quietly. “Oh!” Inside her breast the wall erected to keep him out crumbled, a collapse so profound she felt it as a physical shock, bringing her close to tears. In a heartbeat her defenses lay in ruin. “You have?” Brenna whispered when she could speak. “Yes.” She was at once overcome by gratitude, and she had to fight the urge to crumble outwardly as well. She wanted to lean against him and let him take the burden, and those keen senses of hers were telling her it was all right to do so. How could that be? “For me it’s a feeling of displacement,” he said, “as if I don’t belong where logic tells me I most surely do belong.” Evan smiled sheepishly. “And you thought you were professing to feeling odd.” Still shaken, she said, “I don’t understand.” “Neither do I, and there’s the problem.” He pulled her arm through his again and they resumed walking. “I am Evan Richmond, Viscount Rutherford, son of Earl Covington. Have been all my life.” He glanced at her. “Simple enough, right?” “So it would seem.” “Exactly. So it would seem. And yet the familiar is strange to me. I recognize my life, my home, those around me but none of it feels truly mine. It’s as though I’ve stepped into the skin of someone else. It looks like my skin, feels like my skin and yet somehow it doesn’t fit. Tell me how to make sense of that.” Brenna shuddered. “I can’t.” “I have memories of the things I’ve done,” his pause was strained, but he forged on despite his obvious embarrassment, “things of which I’m not proud.”

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Evan’s gaze caught hers again, and Brenna could have sworn she saw real pain in his expression. But it was dark, and she could not see him clearly. Perhaps it was wishful thinking inspiring that impression. “Then, why?” “Why did I do those things?” She nodded. “For the life of me I can’t tell you why.” He blew a heavy breath. “Or the enjoyment I felt in such sordid activities. That’s the hardest part to admit.” His gaze was truly tortured now. “The distress I’ve caused my parents—you. Damn! I ask for your forgiveness, but why should I hope for that when I honestly don’t know if I can forgive myself?” They came to a low stone bench situated not far from the terrace. He gestured at it, but his stance was not optimistic as though he expected her to reject him now that he had admitted to his depravity. “If you wish to return inside, I understand,” he said. Brenna took pity on him. Curiously, she no longer wanted to refuse him no matter the request, as she had in the past. He had acknowledged his sins in a way he had not done before tonight—an absolute necessity if they were to come to an understanding— and his remorse appeared genuine. She moved toward the bench. “I’m enjoying the night air,” she said. Sitting down, she arranged her skirts and patted the seat next to her. Even in the dark, there was no denying the look of pleasure and, frankly, amazement that altered his features. Her husband smiled broadly, his teeth gleaming from the shadowed angles of his face as he joined her on the bench—not too close—but close enough for her to be very much aware of him. Perhaps it was a mistake to give him leeway, but he willingly had exposed his vulnerability to her, almost like a deer presenting its throat to a wolf. She suspected at this moment she could annihilate him if she chose. “What do you wish to tell me?” Brenna asked, surprised by a glimmer of sympathy in herself. “Am I so transparent?” “I can feel your need to unburden yourself.” Evan nodded. “Our wedding night,” he glanced at his hands, “I acted reprehensibly.” “Agreed. You’ve said this before.” “I know. But I also know that you’ve not forgiven me despite my regret.” “Again, I agree. However, it was more than that. Whether or not you were sorry did not erase what happened. To forgive I must come to terms with my anger.” She touched his arm. “I am trying.”

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“Why would you even want to?” “Heavens, you’re contrary. I thought that’s what you wanted.” “More than I can express and most likely more than you can accept.” Their eyes met, neither speaking. His gaze drifted to her lips, and Brenna felt her mouth grow dry. “There’s another thing I forgot to mention,” Evan said, “more important than all the rest.” “Yes?” “One aspect of my life resonates with a familiarity I can’t explain. But the sheer force of the feelings overwhelms me at times.” “What is it?” “Not it, Brenna. Who.” “Who then?” Even as she spoke, shock snatched her breath. “Me?” The word caught in her throat. Panicked, she said, “Now you are making no sense. You don’t even know me.” “Oh but I do know you.” Evan took her hands, pulling them flat against his chest. “I’ve known you for a very long, long time. Tell me you don’t feel it, Brenna. Tell me you don’t sense the connection. Every time you are near, every time I look at you or hear your voice, that belief is confirmed. I don’t know how or why. But I believe there is a greater force at work here, and none of this is an accident.” She pulled her hands from his, denial claiming her thoughts. Evan had grown silent, but he wore an earnest expression, his body exuding a depth of feeling that called to her, making that denial absurd—and, Brenna feared, making her a fool for almost believing him. What did he want her to say? Her peace in recent weeks had been destroyed by grotesque imaginings that had left her doubting her sanity. Was that what he meant? She had attributed her eerie suspicions to an overactive imagination and a wedding night that had assaulted not only her ego but her spirit. Finding her equilibrium after such a wretched episode had been difficult, but she was at heart a pragmatic sort. She had been proud of her recovery. The only snag in her well-thought-out theory was Evangeline. “Your sister—” “Knows,” he interrupted. “Thinks she knows,” Brenna countered. “You disagree?” “If I admit she knows something, then I have to admit you might be right, that there is something to know. I’m not ready to do that.”

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“Come, Brenna, you’ve already acknowledged having premonitions. Can’t you see there is a connection of some kind between what you are feeling and what I am feeling and what Geline says she’s feeling?” “It makes no sense.” “Are you at least willing to admit that all is not as it was when you first came to Covington?” “Meaning you?” “Especially me.” Brenna eyed him, taking her time to answer. When she spoke it was with careful deliberation. “The man who attacked me on an altar is not the same man I’ve known these many weeks. That I will grant you. He is transformed in some significant way, and I have no explanation for it. Perhaps he knows he did wrong and is trying to make atonement.” Even in the dark she felt certain she saw the ruddy color of humiliation stain his cheeks. But he held her gaze, a testament to his effort to win her confidence. “Believe me when I tell you, Brenna, that man would not have cared,” Evan said. “I know because I remember how he felt. His thoughts were cruel and arrogant and without a shred of honor. Something happened in that meadow that changed all that. I wish to God I knew what it was.” “You have no recollection whatsoever of those hours after you were struck down?” His gaze drifted inward. “There’s…I don’t know, a grayness, the occasional image, but I can make no sense of it. The only thought that has been ever present since that night is the absolute certainty that I have been given a second chance, and I must— must—not squander it.” “What do you think that means?” Evan focused on her again, his lids heavy with repressed desire. That much she could see under the light of a watchful moon, and Brenna knew if the light were better she would also see the color swirling in his eyes, exposing more than the mere hunger of a mortal man. Who was he, this husband of hers, a man who claimed to be made new? A demon… Her heart thumped as he closed the distance between them, his thigh now pressing against hers. He took her chin between forefinger and thumb, bringing his face nearer still, and she could feel the rhythmic puffing of his respiration on her cheek. “I’m not certain what it means,” Evan said, his voice growing husky and provocative, “but this I know. You are the centerpiece of my salvation. Make no mistake, this is about you and me.” “You make it sound as if we are destined to be together.” “We are! Can’t you feel it? Else how do you explain the irrevocable dissolution of a betrothal that still ends in marriage?” 133

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Indeed. “What if the change is not permanent?” Brenna could feel tears collecting in the back of her throat, fear taking hold of her as she found herself relenting. “What if I accept all you say and tomorrow I awake to the old you? What then?” Evan’s fingers eased along her jaw and curled gently into the hair at the nape of her neck. He pulled her close, so close their breaths mingled. His next words slipped off his lips and onto hers. “Then I pray for death, for I deserve no better,” he whispered. “To disappoint you again is to disappoint my maker.” Brenna closed her eyes. His mouth was as warm and moist as a summer rain and equally soothing. She melted against him, and his other arm came up around her. Brenna nestled into his embrace, amazed by how comfortable and secure she felt there, as if she had sought refuge in his arms a multitude of times before. It was their first kiss—that tepid touching of lips on their wedding day notwithstanding—but she knew the taste of him in a way that startled as well as reassured her. She found herself responding on a disturbingly earthy level, a heaviness in her gut, a tingling heat pooling in her pelvis. She was unsettled by her sudden rise in passion, for his kiss was gentle, beguiling rather than demanding. Perhaps that was the reason for her response—Evan, by his restraint, was asking permission, taking nothing for granted. Still, when he pulled away, she was taken aback by disappointment and loss. Brenna was also appalled to discover herself clutching the lapels of his coat, hanging onto him as though she were in danger of tumbling off the bench. She made a distressed sound, unintelligible but dreadfully revealing. His fingers were still buried in her hair, and Evan returned his hand to her jaw, cupping it and running his thumb reverently over her parted lips. Brenna was overwhelmed by the impulse to take the thumb between her teeth and suck on it. Her tongue curled against the roof of her mouth, and a shiver rose in her belly. Her husband went perfectly still. “Oh, love,” he rasped as if he understood. Brenna averted her gaze, unable to endure the intensity of emotions flowing between them, hoping to hide her sudden weakness. She heard him gulp, his breathing shallow and unsteady. “Brenna?” Afraid to trust her voice, she acknowledged him by dipping her head. Evan leaned his forehead against hers. “It’s as if I’ve come home after being away for a very long time, so long I don’t remember what I’ve missed or why, until I’m immersed in it. You are home to me, Brenna.”

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Trembling, she eased her hold on his coat. One part of her wanted to sink into his promises, to let go and damn the consequences, but the rational part despised her wish as folly. “You are moving too quickly,” she said. “I have no idea what I want at this moment.” “Not entirely true, sweetheart. You do want something,” he said thickly. “And I believe you are ready for what I have to offer.” She stiffened, looking at him directly. “Ready and willing are two separate issues, my lord. Do not use my weakness against me. I will not be grateful.” Brenna came to her feet and stepped back from him. “I should go inside.” He sat very still, more in shadow than in light, his features now indistinct. “I did not mean to offend.” “I’m not offended. I’m… Oh I don’t know what I am. Confused comes to mind.” “You will not trust me to lead you in this?” “I sense self-serving motives in your offer. Under the circumstances, no, I don’t think that would be wise.” “As you will,” he murmured. Brenna waited for him to continue, but apparently the viscount had said all he intended. Disconcerted by his silence, she swung away from him. As she walked she was aware of desire still swirling through her system, warming her inner thighs and making her breasts ache. She hated to admit it, even to herself, but he had aroused her. Best that she left, she decided. Best that she not give him any more opportunities to seduce her. Brenna peeked over her shoulder to where he sat in the gloom, his gaze still locked on her. He had let her go without protest. She was glad, or so she told herself crossly. Humph! Glad or not, she suspected sleep would not come easily this night. Brenna continued toward the terrace. She glanced up and halted. A drape shifted and a shadow moved across an upper story window. Were they being watched? The thought made her scalp crawl. She wondered whether or not she should mention it to Evan but returning to him and the erotic web he had spun on that bench was not an option. She resumed walking. Now thoroughly unnerved, she entered the house, uncertain whom she feared more—the watcher lurking in a bedroom upstairs or the demon waiting patiently in the garden.

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Chapter Sixteen Frustration kept Evan sitting in the garden long after Brenna had returned to the house. He had let her leave. Fool that he was, he had warmed his wife then allowed her to cool alone. Feverishly he revisited the conversation in his head, wondering what he could have said or done that would have made a difference. Should he have continued to try to reach her on a physical level? Or would she have begun to resent his efforts as manipulation? And then he wondered if he were allowing his conceit to speak for her. After all, he couldn’t be certain Brenna had been moved by his lovemaking. Her response had not been overt, only encouraging to him on an intuitive level. But Evan was certain he had sensed a softening in her toward him and—much to his disappointment—her reluctance at doing so. He felt the pain in her yielding, incomprehension that she could ever forgive him. He could hardly blame her. Evan also feared the connection he felt with her was his alone, that the familiarity haunting him existed only in his imagination. And yet…and yet, he could have sworn when he kissed her, Brenna had slipped not under his spell—if his attempt at seduction could be described as such—but into a moment that had happened many times before. Holding her was as natural as the fiery emotions that had sprung between them, and he truly believed she had experienced that recognition, also. It felt too genuine, too instinctive, to be anything else. So how did he convince his wife he was worthy of her respect, worthy of making a life with—worthy of fathering her children? How did he peel away the actions of a monster—dastardly deeds of which he should never be acquitted—and make her believe in the man he knew himself to be? More of the same? Did he have a choice? Push too hard and she would rebel against his efforts. Give her too much latitude and she might never make a decision. Evan stood up abruptly. Curse the Gods who had put this little play into motion! He hoped they were having a grand old time at his expense. Were they amused by the ineptness of their puppet? A harsh laugh rumbled in his chest. The viscount hated to think of himself as the pawn of some invisible power, but damn him if he didn’t want the voluptuous black-eyed prize being dangled in front of him. The smile died on his lips. More than life itself, he realized, more than life itself.

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Brenna lay huddled in her bedcovers, unable to sleep. As she had feared, her walk in the garden had provided the perfect recipe for a frustrated monologue with herself, one filled with denial and misgiving. Her lack of rest was once again caused by the viscount, but tonight it had nothing to do with disgust and everything to do with lust. Growing up, Brenna had gradually become aware of the demands of her body, her attitude one of practicality rather than shame—as per her very practical Irish mother’s approach—but tonight she was startled by what felt like a sudden and intense “ripening”. Her husband was a handsome and—when he chose—charismatic man, surely a good enough excuse for her to respond to his overtures, she reasoned. However, that hardly explained the rise of such devastating need, a yearning that had drenched her in erotic sensation, her body responding, her battered emotions following suit. The subsequent ache, mental as well as physical, lingered long after she had left his company. Of course, her denial was related to Evan’s claim their relationship was preordained, that somewhere in the long-forgotten mists of time they had not only known one other but loved passionately. Was that possible? Brenna could not deny the odd sense of déjà vu she had experienced of late, the sudden compelling attraction she felt for her husband. That attraction was all the more horrifying given her recent history with the man, but if she had known him before, loved him… Then why had she not recognized the viscount from the beginning, from the moment her father had introduced them at their betrothal? Why was it only lately that she had sensed a deep and abiding connection with him? As happened frequently, her thoughts returned to her wedding night, an altar, a debauched assemblage—a gathering storm. Evangeline believed in those critical moments as lightning filled the meadow, a demon took over her brother’s body. If Brenna was to believe her sister-in-law, then logic told her the old Evan Richmond was hiding somewhere in that same body, simply waiting to reassert control. Her stomach heaved at the thought. The new Evan, on the other hand, had a more beguiling explanation. They were soul mates, fated to be together. Lovers from long ago. And he had come back at a preordained moment to finish their life together. The very notion made her head swim. It also made her heart pump with hope. Made her feel divine intervention had decreed the path she must take and, rather than fight the inevitable, she could give in to what had become an overwhelming urge and embrace her future. So where was the Evan Richmond of old? Was he dead, vanquished to the devils that had spawned him? Had he, the spiritual part of him, relinquished his hold on that handsome body so another more deserving soul could take his place? As preposterous as it sounded, that appeared to be exactly what had happened. For how else could she explain the wondrous change in him?

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What a shame this new soul could not divorce himself from the actions, the memories, of the person he used to be. How sad that he must carry the taint of a man with no morals, no seeming conscience. Bravery took many forms, and all at once Brenna understood the courage the new Evan possessed as he fought his way to respectability, as he righted wrongs and mended fences with those he loved—as he defied the pressure of a sister he would never have disappointed in the past. She sat up, her gaze traveling to the connecting door between her room and the one next to hers. Was her husband abed in the groom’s chamber on the other side of the “nest”? Was he awake, thinking of her as she was of him, wishing an end to this stalemate? If she were to believe his assertion, it was what he wanted most, driven by an ancient desire to fulfill what fate had begun for them both. She pushed the covers back, a sudden resolve taking hold of her. Perhaps now was the time for her to exhibit some courage, also. After all, who was she to challenge fate? Earlier tonight she had rebuffed Evan’s advances, and Brenna knew he would now wait for a sign from her to renew his suit. She wondered how shocked he would be when, rather than simply acquiescing, his wife became the aggressor. She swallowed a nervous giggle but never had she felt less amused. Brenna quickly donned a wrapper, foregoing slippers, and approached the door to the nest. She paused long enough to draw in a bracing breath and then twisted the knob. It was locked. Locked? She staggered back in relief. Foolish woman! This was not even her husband’s room, merely the nest, which she must pass through to reach the groom’s chamber. If she were this frightened even before she had gone through the first door, how was she to bring herself to knock on his door? Come to think on it, why was the nest locked on her side, anyway? Her thoughts took a cynical turn in Geline’s direction. Perhaps she was being unfair, but given her relationship with her sister-in-law, the assumption seemed reasonable. At this point her bravery gave way to cowardice, and Brenna wondered if she should follow through with her plan. The mood was gone, so why not try again tomorrow? she argued hopefully. Her attention drifted back to the locked door, and a feeling of righteous indignation rose in her craw. That little barrier was meant to stall her just long enough to make her reconsider. And if she slunk back to bed like a chastened adolescent up to no good, Evangeline would have won having done nothing more than turn a key. The very idea of that woman’s smug satisfaction squared Brenna’s shoulders once again. Defiance now forged her path as she made her way back across the room and into the corridor. There was more than one entrance to Evan’s chamber, she decided, ignoring the fluttering in her midsection that told her cowardice was still an issue. She closed the door behind her, her steps purposeful if nervous.

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At the end of the sconce-lit hallway another door opened. Voices—what appeared to be a man’s and a woman’s—drifted from inside the room. There was a guttural whisper and a trill of laughter followed. An immediate sense of “wrongness” sent Brenna scurrying back to the entrance of her room, where she pressed her back against the closed door. Fear of exposure and, frankly, curiosity kept her rooted to the spot. She peeped around the edge of the doorjamb. The man’s voice grew louder as he moved into the hall, although his words were muffled as if he guarded the volume of his speech. For a moment Brenna was too shocked to move. The sandy-haired man! That explained the shadow at the window. As she watched in disbelief, the man stepped backward, facing the doorway he had just exited. Geline appeared on the threshold. Evan’s sister wore only a Chinese red silk wrapper, which gaped open from breast to ankle, revealing her nudity underneath. Her hair hung unbound. Brenna had to admit it was her most beautiful feature, curling lavishly in a black cloud around her shoulders and partially obscuring the wound on her face. In her hand she brandished a half-filled goblet of brandy. Her stance was immodest and provocative, her lips curved in a self-satisfied smirk that bespoke of intimacy and satiated passions. The man bent forward to speak in her ear, and Geline’s free hand snaked out, curling around the nape of his neck as she leaned into him. He slipped long fingers inside the open wrapper and pulled her close. The ensuing embrace was so rabidly sexual, Brenna found herself unable to watch. She looked away, swallowing on unease and embarrassment. Heavy breathing and the rustle of clothing filled her ears, the wet sucking sound of lips sliding over lips, and when she could stand it no longer, she chanced another peek. The couple had stepped apart. In that moment Brenna realized the sandy-haired man meant to leave and she panicked. She fumbled at the doorknob at her back, fear making her efforts ineffectual. Oh she would be caught for certain! Even as she had given up hope of escaping unseen, Geline’s “guest” turned in the direction opposite Brenna, apparently intending to leave by way of the servants’ stairs. Of course, it made perfect sense—hard to imagine a visitor with clandestine motives waltzing blithely out the main entrance of the house. He would not want to be caught either. As Geline withdrew and closed her door, Brenna stared after the man, a surge of relief making her knees wobbly. At the head of the staircase he paused. Hand on the rail, he took his first downward step. Just as he was to disappear behind the wall lining the stairs, he turned his head. His gaze shifted down the length of the corridor, and all at once he pinned Brenna with a look. The blood drained from her face, stomach rising into her throat. Only force of will kept her from screaming.

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Moments of indescribable tension passed as she stared back at him. A slight smile traced his mouth as if he had known all along she was there. He too wore the sultry look of one who had spent recent time in the arms of a lover. His clothing was rumpled, collar open at the neck, hair damp and finger-combed. He stood as if tolerating her inspection. What an abhorrent thought. Brenna sensed he derived pleasure from sharing with her the knowledge of his and Geline’s tryst. She couldn’t be certain, given the limited lighting in the hall, but she believed he gave her a wink before vanishing into the dark recesses of the stairway. “Faith!” she whimpered, sliding down the door to land on her rump, knees under her chin. She wrapped her arms around her legs, hugging them tightly, shuddering with disgust. The sight of that man had brought back appalling memories, and once again she was startled to find herself reacting more after the fact than when those memories had been born. She placed her forehead on her knees, trying to breathe through the nausea. “What are you doing?” This time Brenna could not stem the squeal that sprang from her lips. Her head bobbed back, bumping the door, and she found herself staring into the concerned eyes of her husband. Horror of horrors, she began to cry. “Brenna?” Evan sank to his haunches. “What is it? What’s happened?” She shook her head, one hand covering her mouth, the other pressed against his chest, trying to compose herself. She felt more foolish and vulnerable than she thought possible. For him to find her sitting on the floor, bawling like a terrified child, was humiliating in the extreme. And she was going to have to explain herself whether she wanted to or not. “Please talk to me,” he said after a moment. Brenna looked at him through a watery gaze. His expression was one of worry and sympathy, and all at once she wanted to unburden herself. But should she tell him about Geline’s lover? Was it her place to further destroy his sister’s veracity? Despite the animosity she and Geline felt for one another, she had no wish to create a wall between the twins. Ultimately, they must all find a way to cooperate if there was to be peace at Covington Manor. All that said, one point troubled her. If the sandy-haired man was somehow a danger to the family, it was unfair not to give Evan fair warning. She cleared the tears from her throat. “I came out of my room a short while ago, and at the same time that door,” she pointed down the hall, “opened…” “Yes?” “A man came out.” “A man? What man?”

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“Only one other time I’ve seen him and that was on the night we were married. He was in the…the willow grove, the individual leading the proceedings, I think. Not young—not old, either—he had blond hair—” Evan took hold of her wrist. “Are you certain?” At once annoyed, Brenna pulled from his grasp. “Yes. More than certain. He’s not an easy person to forget. Believe me, I’ve tried.” “Beg pardon, but it’s important.” She shrugged. “I thought it might be.” “Have you any idea what he was doing here?” Brenna tried to look him in the eye, truly she did, but she could not. Instead, she found her attention once again drawn to the closed door down the hall. Evan turned his head, gaze following hers. “That’s Geline’s room,” he said slowly. He swung back to her, brows pulled into a deep frown. Brenna nodded. “You are certain?” he bit out. “I saw them embracing in the doorway.” “Damn it all to hell!” He leapt to his feet. “And he saw me,” she continued in a small voice. He hovered over her now, his anger a tangible thing. “He frightened you?” When she did not answer, he grabbed her hand and pulled her off the floor. Now that she was standing, he said, “Tell me.” “He frightened me, yes, but he did nothing in particular. I was simply unnerved at seeing him again. It brought back unpleasant memories.” Evan closed his eyes, his expression so pained, she truly pitied him. “Unpleasant,” he murmured. “Yes, at the very least.” Brenna touched his arm. His eyes opened, his gaze a summer-sky blue. “You would comfort me?” The breath stuck in her throat. The pity turned to something more as her stomach dipped then flipped oddly. She feared drowning in that tortured gaze, but in the face of his humility and wonder, Brenna’s reserve melted away, leaving only acceptance and a newfound wonder of her own. “At the very least,” she returned. “Why?” His voice was gruff, sodden with emotion. She gave her head a tiny shake. “For the life of me, I don’t know.” The outer edges of his eyes crinkled with a gentle mirth, tempering the anguish that still lingered there. “You’ve stolen my words. Now what will I say when I can’t explain myself?” “Doesn’t matter. It never was a very satisfactory answer, was it?”

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They shared a smile. “And you never answered my question,” he said. “What are you doing out here in the hallway at this time of night?” “I was…” Dare she admit the truth? Evan waited, brow furrowing. “Yes?” “Coming to your room.” The crinkles disappeared, the air between them taking on a charged life of its own. “You were, were you?” The words rumbled from his chest, thick with disbelief. “Why?” Brenna merely looked at him. “By God!” His arms came around her, mouth settling on that most tender of spots between shoulder and nape of the neck. At the touch of his lips, an unexpected quiver sluiced through her belly, settling with a tingling warmth between her legs. For long moments he merely held her thus, as though he were soaking in the feel of her. Brenna remained motionless while he hugged her, not unyielding precisely, but still uncertain, holding back as she stood on the precipice of change. However, uncertainty was losing its sway. Brenna felt the tip of Evan’s tongue as his kiss traveled to her throat, and the tingling between her legs burgeoned into a heated gush of feeling. Despite herself her head sagged backward, eyes drifting shut. Brenna’s hand skimmed up his shirtsleeve, the crisp starched linen of a gentleman, cool and surprisingly pleasurable to the touch. Her fingers wandered into the hair that curled on his collar, silken strands against her palm, more pleasurable still. All at once Brenna realized she was returning his embrace, pressing into him avariciously, wallowing in beguiling sensations that were claiming her attention. It was one thing to talk pragmatically with one’s mother about desire as part of the human condition, something else entirely to be awash in it. How had she gone from sitting on the floor weeping, to such a state of arousal that she was coming apart at the seams? Usually passion was a fire that needed stoking, or so she had always believed. Yet she had combusted without much coaxing. It was as though the stoking had happened long ago, and she was primed and ready, dry tinder needing only a flame. Needing only this man. Evan’s mouth sought hers, greedily, no gentlemanly hesitancy now as his lips slid back and forth over hers. His breathing was harsh and excited as if, the floodgates having been opened, he could be certain there would be no turning back. In that moment, Brenna realized anything else would be a wrenching disappointment. She too was ready to meet her future. Down the hall a door opened again. The same door that had opened earlier. Evan must have heard the movement even as she did, for they both froze simultaneously. He

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pulled back slowly, releasing her lips, but only just, not bothering to glance at the open door. His gaze instead locked with hers. The message radiating from those blue eyes told her everything she wanted to know, emotions laid bare, a rawness to the need that touched her in a place so fundamental, until that moment, she had not known it existed. Brenna gave him the tiniest of smiles to convey her understanding, and the crinkles returned. The weight of the presence watching the couple finally broke their shared reverie. Together they turned their heads toward Evangeline. Evan’s twin still wore the Chinese wrapper, but she had pulled it closed with a long silken sash. She was leering at them with such disdain, Brenna stiffened. The woman comported herself like a trollop, so who was she to judge? But Brenna knew it wasn’t about morals, good or bad. No, it was about the man holding her, always had been. “What do you want, Geline?” Evan asked coolly. “I want to keep you from making a terrible mistake.” Brenna started to respond angrily, but her husband’s arms, still holding her, tightened briefly, keeping her in check. “And what mistake would that be?” he continued, his voice now almost conversational. His sister sneered. “You have to ask?” “Seems I do.” “Fucking that Irish by-blow, who has the effrontery to pretend she’s worthy, that’s what mistake—” Evan spanned the hall in a dozen easy steps, leaving a blistering rage in his wake. Evangeline cringed away from him at his approach, but one had to applaud her courage for remaining where she stood with her wrathful brother bearing down on her. Although Brenna thought perhaps it was fear that kept her rooted in place, unable to move. “Thank God you are not a man,” he said as he came upon her, “or I would beat you bloody for such foul disrespect. Even for you, Geline, that was badly done.” Geline’s face crumpled. “You know it’s true, Evan! What has happened that you can no longer see?” “Go to bed,” he said, the very calmness of his speech revealing the fury he fought to control. Evan grabbed her elbow and pushed her through the doorway of her room, but she bounced back at him, flailing her arms, ever foolish to the end. “No!” she screeched. “You cannot put me away just because having me around is no longer convenient.” In the struggle, her robe slipped, exposing a breast. Evan yanked away from her as though he had been burned.

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“I said go to bed.” Disgust now curdled his words. “We’ll talk tomorrow if I can bring myself to look at you.” Gaze averted, Evan gave his twin a final push that forced her clear of the doorway as he shut her inside the room. A piteous wail broke out from beyond the closed door as he turned around, but it did not slow him down as he retraced his steps back to his wife. By the time he reached her, the wailing had stopped. Brenna not only saw but felt the change in him. The passionate mood had been destroyed, replaced by a simmering anger. Seemed he did not want to look her in the face, either, as he reached behind her and opened her door. It eased inward, creaking on its hinges, and the sound filled the emptiness left by the sudden quiet. “Please forgive me,” he said. “For what?” “I goaded her. She would not have said such hateful things had I not pressed the issue.” “I think you take more credit than you deserve,” Brenna returned dryly. “Your sister does not need your help to say hateful things. I’ve been at the end of her tongue more than once. She does quite well without you.” “Just the same, I feel responsible.” Brenna began to panic. He was, she feared, getting ready to bid her good night and end the evening prematurely. Thus she should have been relieved by Geline’s interruption. Would have been before tonight. Evan coughed as though covering embarrassment. “Perhaps it would be best—” “Come in, Evan.” His gaze shifted to hers. Maybe she was wrong about the anger because that wasn’t what she saw when he looked at her. It was sorrow. “You don’t want to spend time with me now,” he said. “I’ll be an unpleasant companion.” “Then she’s won.” He looked startled. “What?” “Geline’s only purpose at the moment is to keep you and me apart. Leave and she will have succeeded.” “What do you want me to do?” “Pretend she never interrupted us.” “Are you able to do that? Pretend?” “I don’t have the emotional bonds that tie you to your sister. To be brutally frank, if I never saw Geline again I would not miss her. I have no problem pretending her away.” Brenna expected him to be offended. He surprised her by chuckling instead. 144

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“No pretense when it comes to loving her, either?” “None.” She tried to mitigate the harshness of that single word by saying more, but nothing came to her. She despised insincerity and gave up the effort as unworthy. At any rate, it was up to him now. She had made the offer. He must decide whether to remain in the past, at the beck and call of an unbalanced sister, or move into the future with Brenna as his wife. Of one thing she was certain—he could not have it both ways. Evan leaned into her and cupped her cheek. “You trust me, then?” “I…think so.” The sorrow returned. “That bit of doubt does not disturb you?” “The doubt has more to do with who you used to be rather than who you are now.” “You can live with the uncertainty?” In answer, she covered his hand with hers and pressed her lips into his palm. She raised her eyes to his. “Oh, love,” he murmured. “You humble me. I am undeserving.” Brenna pulled his hand from her mouth. “Let us be done with regret, Evan. We could wallow in it endlessly, but it serves no purpose. I decided tonight that I will no longer resist what the stars have ordained.” He paused, eyes widening. “You believe me.” “Yes. This is about me and you.” Mood taking another violent shift, Viscount Rutherford gave a whoop of delight and whisked his startled bride off her feet and into his arms. He shouldered his way into her room, and with the heel of his boot, slammed the door shut.

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Chapter Seventeen Moonlight seeped into Brenna’s bedchamber through drapes that hung slightly askew, areas of the room having form, others lost in blackness. Evan’s eyes adjusted quickly to the gloom as he set his wife on her feet. His heart was thumping wildly, longing and anticipation making his hands shake. He felt like a callow youth in the throes of first love, on the verge of a first bedding. But he had been here before, more times than he could count or, in all honesty, remember. He clearly was no youth, and this was far from his first bedding. It was, however, his first time to love. Heady stuff, that. Brenna peered up at him, lovely eyes shining with what he could have sworn was an anticipation of her own. Her hair was confined in a loose braid, and he tugged on the tail of the ribbon that held the braid together, releasing it. Languidly, she reached up with both hands, ruffling the deep brown tresses, and they settled around her shoulders in satiny waves. Evan had expected her to be reticent, at the very least to play coy. He should have known she would treat lovemaking as she did every aspect of her life, with honesty. He was glad of that because for the first time in his life he was unwilling to coerce a reluctant female—especially Brenna. The thought of his former self brought him low for a moment, but she must have sensed his change in mood again, for she put her arms around his neck. “Remember, no regrets,” she whispered next to his ear. “The man you are now has nothing to regret.” His chest expanded, a wave of gratitude washing over him. “I needed to hear that.” He was surprised by just how much. He grabbed her to him and caught her lips in a deep kiss, allowing her words to ease the stain on his conscience. Relief made him lightheaded, and at once he was aware of the urgency of other needs, the soft body he held, the tightness around his heart that spoke to emotions more enduring than lust. However, lust had its place and all at once he was consumed with it. Despite the sudden desire to move quickly, Evan determined a slow wooing was appropriate, as she was, he assumed, a virgin. Virgins were not the choice of the old Evan. He had preferred women whose morals did not exceed his own, libidinous partners who did not make him think. But Brenna didn’t seem as hesitant as he thought she might, and for the life of him he did not want to disappoint her. As indecision threatened to stall him again, an unbidden thought took its place—he knew Brenna, had known her a long, long time. And though in this persona he had

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never touched his wife, their souls in another guise had met on the field of pleasure. What felt right would be right. Instinct and an inner memory would guide him. He untied the sash at her waist, opening and easing the wrapper from her shoulders. Underneath the wrapper she wore a simple flannel nightdress, high-necked and cuffed at the wrists. He groaned inwardly because she looked as pristine and untouchable as a girl and even at his worst he would not have been tempted. Only the look in Brenna’s eye reassured him that beneath the flannel breathed a mature woman, aroused—he hoped—by the prospect of what was to come. “Interesting choice of gowns,” he said, smiling as he slipped free the buttons at her throat. “My decision to seek you out tonight was unplanned.” Evan could hear the self-consciousness in her voice as she glanced down at her clothing. “I’m all for unplanned decisions.” “I suppose I should have put on something more…fetching,” she continued. “I’m new at this, this,” words seemed to fail her as she held out her hands, indicating the couple, their surroundings, the moment, “at this,” she finished lamely. “Yes. This,” Evan murmured, single-mindedly working the long row of buttons. She remained motionless until the last button was unfastened. The nightdress gaped slightly, a hint of skin making his mouth grow dry. He paused, filling his lungs, then eased his hands under the neckline. In one smooth motion he dragged the gown off her shoulders and down her arms, exposing her from the waist up. The air whooshed through his lips in a gasp. Where was the light? He wanted light. As if in answer to a prayer she shifted, and a moonbeam streamed across her breasts, bringing them into sharp relief against the shadows of her torso. Her nipples were taut, but the gray light had washed away all color, color he wanted to see. For long moments he could only stare. “Do you find a lamp distasteful?” he asked in strangled voice. He glanced up and became aware that she had been watching him as he watched her. Her dark eyes were filled with so many emotions, hidden behind an opaque stare, he could not read them. Was she offended? Brenna licked her lips, swallowing. He was mesmerized by the movement of her throat muscles. She was nervous, he realized. “I don’t know how I feel about a lamp. I suppose we’ll have to put it to the test.” “You’re a right one, sweetheart,” he said, touched by her bravado. Though eagerness sent Evan quickly to the bedside table and the oil lamp resting there, a more subtle need was impelling him to seek expression on a deeper level. Go slowly, he reminded himself. She deserved that. Frankly, so did he. Even so, his hands continued to shake with excitement as they fell on the tinderbox and lit the lamp. Evan reduced the flame to a soft glow, hoping she would not feel 147

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completely exposed. He then spun around, half expecting her to have shrunk away from him to the other side of the room, at the very least to have covered herself. She had done neither. Except for turning to face him, Brenna had not moved. Her arms hung at her sides, her hands loosely clutching the flannel gown so it did not slip down her hips. His jaw dropped. The silence stretched between them, the atmosphere so thick he felt unable to breathe. The picture she presented did not ease the constriction in his lungs. How could she appear wickedly, irresistibly wanton and a model of virtuous respectability all at the same time? “Say something,” she said at last. “I am undone.” The words came out in an agonized croak. “Evan—” “I’m afraid to cross that floor to you.” “Why?” “Because I’ve convinced myself that I must take it slowly, that I must not overwhelm you with…with what I’m feeling. I don’t want to hurt you.” Brenna blinked once, twice, three times. “Then I must come to you.” And she did, shoulders back, head held high. Evan felt as if a breath of heaven were moving toward him, bringing balm for his soul and relief for his tormented body. The old Evan Richmond had indulged in sexual exploits many times in recent history. The new Evan had not made love in a millennium, not since he had kissed the woman who was his heart goodbye on a hilltop on the eve of his “death”. Where the hell had that thought come from? All at once he understood as he had not before—the new was the familiar, as ancient as his God. His original essence had been excised and replaced with a more deserving spirit, one who had always known the eternal Brenna. He wanted to weep for the horrendous, magical journey that had brought them to this moment. To this joy. Had it been worth it? Oh yes, indeed yes! But could he hold onto it? As Brenna reached him, she leaned close, chin aloft, wearing the hint of a smile. “See? Wasn’t so difficult, was it?” His hands were knotted at his sides, still afraid to touch her. What he wanted was to throw her on the bed and bury himself in her warm, soft body, hang the patience. But a man of sophistication did not fall on his lover like an unseasoned boy. Unfortunately, the look in her eyes, that come-hither pout, wasn’t making it any easier. And then a niggling worry that he had been keeping at bay finally intruded on his thoughts. Was that unbridled urge his or did it belong to another? “You play with fire, wife. You make it hard to resist.”

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Brenna’s brows crimped in puzzlement. “But why would you want to resist?” Why, indeed. He spluttered, the sound unintelligible. “I’m not fragile, Evan, and I won’t break. If you mean well, all will be well.” He nodded. Sounded good in theory. “Then why do you continue to hesitate? I thought this was what you wanted.” “You cannot conceive of how much, but my motives are not his motives. He does not love you.” He hated to say it aloud, what he dreaded most. Evan had tried to reassure her, but he had been unable to reassure himself. “Like you, I fear his return.” Especially when he was making love to his wife. “You want me to trust you, but you do not trust yourself?” “Hardly fair, is it?” “Why are you telling me now when we’re about to…” She trailed off, those lovely throat muscles working again. “I thought I could ignore it and the fear would go away. But you deserve to know before you are in too deep.” Brenna’s gaze traveled over his face, back and forth as though assessing his sincerity. She leaned closer, so close the tips of her breasts brushed the front of his shirt, so close he could feel the heat radiating off her body—so close her nearness was painful. If she left him, how would he endure the loss? “I’m already in too deep.” Relief made his heart stutter. “I’ve admitted to being afraid,” she said. “I’m more nervous at this moment than I’ve ever been in the whole of my life. But I’m sure of one thing—‘he’ is not with me now, for he would never have warned me. And after all, now is all we have, isn’t it?” Evan nodded, his hands relaxing. So be it. Leaning down, he touched her lips with his, mouth open, tongue seeking hers. He sensed her response, at first tentative then accepting as her mouth also opened, allowing him entry. Evan groaned—he couldn’t help himself. Brenna’s hands drifted to his waist—he was inordinately aware of the gown slipping low on her hips, naked belly coming into view. At first he thought she was merely bracing herself, holding him at bay, until he felt her tugging the tail of his shirt from his breeches. Oh Lord! Now she was the one unfastening buttons. He pulled back, going perfectly still, unwilling to disturb her artless seduction, more compelling by far than the deliberate efforts of a more practiced lover. It was his turn to watch her, avidly, suspense mounting with each button that slipped free. Her gaze was trained on the job at hand, slow deliberate movements with fingers that seemed much steadier than his. For a moment he simply marveled at what a few hours could bring. In the garden tonight he had despaired of ever reaching an accord with his lovely wife, and now they

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were on the verge of making love. At her instigation. What transformation had taken place in the middle of the night that had prompted her to seek him out? Of one thing he was certain. It was a miracle, plain and simple. The last button undone, Brenna glanced up at him. The trace of a smile eased her mouth. “Tit for tat,” she said, tugging the shirt off his shoulders. The shirt stuck halfway down his arms, and she gave a little trill of laughter. “I’m not as good at this as you are. I think you’re going to have to help me.” Gladly. Yanking at his cuffs, Evan wrestled out of the shirt, impatience making his movements awkward, again reminding him of an overeager adolescent. He tossed the garment on the floor, feeling a bumbler, inept…damn! A millennium was a long time. Brenna placed an open hand on his stomach, and Evan’s attention shifted violently, blind to all but the fingers gently stroking him. Her hand moved upward, a slow, questing touch as though she were enjoying the feel of his skin. She cupped his chest muscle, fingers spread wide. “This is definitely not ‘him’. He was soft and flabby and you are,” she raised her gaze to his, “beautiful.” This last was said on a breathless sigh. The throbbing that had been building in Evan’s groin took on new life, and he squeezed his eyes shut as he allowed the heat to roll over him. He was torn between never wanting this tantalizing pleasure to end and an overwhelming need to move forward. He heard Brenna’s voice as if from a distance. “You don’t like it?” she asked, drawing away. Evan clapped his hand over hers, holding it flat against his chest. “Never have I liked anything more.” He slit his eyes open, allowing her to see the banked fire in his gaze. “Do you know what is most exciting of all?” She shook her head. “This is only the beginning.” Brenna leaned forward and kissed the hand covering hers. “So much to look forward to.” At the touch of her lips, the skin along his shoulders and neck rippled with gooseflesh. “You, my love, are a delight.” He laughed softly. “You’ve done such a fine job removing my shirt, how about giving the same consideration to the breeches.” She hesitated only a moment before complying. She bent down and her breasts hung forward, pink nipples erect in the cool air. It was a devastatingly erotic sight, marred only by the interference of her hair also falling forward as she worked.

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Should have left the braid in its bow, he thought wryly. Evan found himself moving his head as Brenna moved hers, so that his view was unimpeded. He clenched and unclenched his hands, overwhelmed with the need to touch her. Her fingers were cool, occasionally coming in contact with his stomach—thrilling sensation—as they danced nimbly over the fabric and buttons. The lower she went, however, the more he felt her reservation. Evan suspected she was somewhat informed regarding the mating ritual, but most likely the earthy details were not part of a matter-of-fact discussion meant to enlighten a female before she was married. All of this was new to her. He vacillated between feeling sheepish and a rather barbaric thrill at bringing her this new knowledge. The last button covered a significant bulge. Now and then the bulge jumped with whatever extraordinary feeling he was experiencing, as though it had a life of its own. Again Brenna paused, attention arrested as she stared at his crotch. Her gaze lifted, meeting his riveted one. “Perhaps you would rather finish from here,” she said. “Oh no, I would much rather you complete what you started.” Now her hands did shake, the button for some reason—for which he could only be profoundly thankful—refusing to slip out of its buttonhole. Evan watched her, mesmerized, lurid imagination conjuring a picture of her taking him in her hand, teasing the hardened flesh into climax. Only the belief that she would not yet appreciate being introduced to such explicit activities kept him from begging her to do so. As it was, her fumbling caused just enough rubbing to make him fear the loss of control. Again the adolescent image made him cringe, even as he vibrated with a new rush of desire. The button finally undone, Brenna looked up at him once more. Her eyes widened, her mouth forming an O. What look did he wear that Brenna should stare at him with misgiving? Evan wondered. Was his gaze as hot as the molten lust flooding through his system while he greedily watched her? Were the planes of his face redrawn with passion, reflecting the fierceness of the hunger? “And the drawers?” he asked, voice so hoarse he hardly recognized it as his own. Her features blank, Brenna did not hesitate this time as she repeated the process, unbuttoning the drawers exposed by the opened breeches. Soft hands grazing his lower belly brought awareness to new heights. Sadly, these buttons opened more easily, not so much fumbling. Surely, she had no notion of the power she wielded over him at that moment. His eyes drifted shut again as he absorbed the pleasure. Task completed, she waited, fingers resting lightly where the breeches and drawers parted open. On impulse, Evan slid a hand over hers, repositioning her grip, giving in to the urge to have her hold him. Brenna returned his gaze, face still unreadable. Was it only his imagination, or did he feel her fingers tighten around him? The moments stretched as doubt gave way to certainty. 151

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“Enough!” he ground out, “or I will disgrace myself.” Brenna straightened, and the gown drifted lower, giving him an intoxicating glimpse of curly dark hair. She wore a quizzical expression that turned swiftly into understanding. “Ohhh…” “Indeed,” he said in self-deprecation. “I have no stamina when held captive by my wife’s charms.” “Seems to me ‘twasn’t my charms holding you captive, my lord,” she said slyly, speech taking on the lilting brogue of her ancestors. “‘Twas my hand.” “Witch!” “Merely statin’ the obvious.” “And so you are.” Brenna placed a finger in the hollow of Evan’s throat and drew an imaginary line the length of his torso all the way to the opening in his breeches, stopping just short of paradise. “Carry on, my lord,” she said in an inviting voice. Growling, Evan clasped her face—palms over her ears, fingers sliding into her hair. He kissed her deeply, stroking the corners of her lips with his thumbs. He pressed his body against hers, no definition between where he ended and she began. Oh the joy of melding flesh, soft breasts flattened against his chest, their lower bodies all but joined. The mating of their mouths grew more intense. Evan savored the growing ardor, drawing Brenna in, feeling her excitement. Her breathing quickened as she clung to him. He stroked her back, up and down. Her skin was like rippling satin, bone and small muscles moving beneath his fingertips. The nightdress, once provocative as it barely clung to her form, was now an impediment. On his next swipe down, he slipped his hands under the gown and, as he slid it from her hips, palmed her buttocks. The gown puddled at her feet, and she stepped out of it. Now his wife stood within the circle of his arms, naked, vulnerable. But no more vulnerable than he, only more visibly so. His emotions were raw, heartfelt. A primal force was at work, no doubt, but the need boiling in his chest was about something else. The old Evan had never felt about another as he felt about the woman he was holding. To return to that barren life would be a death sentence. To remain was to be forever exposed. He must savor this moment, for there would never be another quite like it. Evan stroked the small of her back, easing up across her ribs to caress one firm breast. Brenna was making a sound that sounded suspiciously like purring. Emboldened, he risked a more invasive maneuver.

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He slid his hand toward her belly then moved lower. Brenna went immobile as though holding her breath. When he reached his destination, air puffed through her lips in a startled sigh, but she did not retreat. Instead, she allowed him to fondle her. She glanced up, and his burning gaze snared hers. All at once she caught fire. Evan knew the moment it happened. Not only did he sense it, he felt the need rise in her. She tensed, seeking gratification as she pressed against his hand. The purring had turned to a soft panting, and she held on to his shoulders with balled fists as if she were in danger of falling. What Brenna wanted he wanted. Nothing else mattered. Evan stroked her relentlessly. This time when he took her mouth, she met him aggressively, tongue mimicking the play of his fingers, delving deeply, then retreating. He could feel the gathering storm, the inevitable cresting of overwhelming emotion. He was shocked to find himself on the verge of release, no stimulation other than the sheer ecstasy of sharing her arousal. He took in gulps of air, calming himself, determined that tonight would find him wedded to her body as well as her soul. Anything else, no matter the gratification, was unacceptable. The rapture swept her away on a sob, and Evan clutched her to him, drenching himself in her climax. She held on to him as well, and he avidly noted the shifting expression on her lovely features as the orgasm rose violently then slowly receded. He held her in his arms, face so close to hers. Brenna’s eyes were closed, lashes fanned across her cheeks. She eased them open. His wife was dazed; Evan could see that. The black of her pupils had disappeared into the near black of her irises. The hair along her forehead was damp with exertion, lips swollen from his kisses. To him her beauty was flawless in the wake of passion, and in that moment, the tender emotions squeezing his heart threatened to unman him. Evan had feared her distress when she came to her senses. What he hadn’t expected was the sweet smile she flashed at him as her vision cleared, or the gratitude that tumbled off her lips. “Thank you,” she murmured. “Sweetheart—” Now she kissed him, hand slipping into the hair at the nape of his neck, a kiss both loving and newly seductive. A savage groan rumbled from the bottom of his chest as the hunger erupted once again. Evan picked her up and strode toward the bed, laying her lengthwise on the coverlet, her head against the pillow. He started to remove his breeches, and Brenna sat up, stopping him. “But, my lord, don’t you need help with those?” Evan went very still. “What do you mean?” Brenna scooted to the edge of the mattress and hung her legs over the side. “Come,” she said, waving him forward.

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Fascinated, he did as she asked, stopping when he brushed her knees. Grasping the open waistband of his breeches, she parted her thighs and pulled him toward her. There are moments in life when the world stops spinning, when seconds stop ticking, when the universe holds its breath. For Evan this was one of those moments. It hardly needed mentioning the picture she presented, uninhibited, playful— brave. Be prepared, he told himself, she will always surprise you. And as he could currently attest, surprises could be a very fine thing. Brenna worked the breeches over his hips, down, down, the drawers following. What would her reaction be to baring his “assets”? He vacillated between feeling aroused and feeling uncertain. Now was not the time to put the lady off. His member sprung free, evidence of his state of mind, a throbbing erection that was starting to ache. Evan had taken it slowly, but his body refused to entertain any more such thoughts. He needed to bury himself in her. He needed release. “Brenna?” She was staring, impressed, appalled, who knew? “Yes?” came the distracted response. “I’m beginning to break, love.” She looked up at him, a question in her dark eyes. Understanding lit their depths almost immediately. “Oh, Evan, I’m so sorry.” Brenna fell backward against the bed and held out her arms to him. For the umpteenth time he paused to take in the sight of her while he finished stripping off the breeches and drawers. He drank in her nudity, the tantalizing posture, her seductive invitation. Evan moved back to where he began, between her thighs, her legs still dangling off the mattress. Leaning over her, he held himself aloft, hands on either side of her shoulders. The look they exchanged was filled with the knowledge of where the next minutes would lead them, the physical binding that represented the binding of their shared destiny. Would there be children? He hoped so. “You are…untried?” he asked gently. Her brows came together. “You doubt it?” “No.” “Would it make a difference?” “None whatsoever.” “Then why do you ask?” “I don’t want to hurt you.” Brenna eyed him a moment as if assessing his sincerity then a dreamy smile drifted over her features as she reached for him. “Be gentle, my lord.” 154

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A gentle rending. Was it possible? Evan prayed that it was as he sank into her embrace, lips finding hers. His eager caress glided over Brenna’s skin, his mouth and tongue following suit. He suckled her breasts, inflamed by the moan of pleasure that escaped her. No amount of touching or tasting was enough, however, as desire drove him in a frenzy to the edge of his endurance. The waiting was over. He could hold back no more. Evan straightened and slipped his hands beneath her, cupping her buttocks and lifting her hips to meet his entry. He eased into her then stopped, need once more warring with the fear of hurting her. She was damp, ready. Still he hesitated. He glanced to her face. Brenna was watching him. “Brenna?” “Do it!” she said. He penetrated her in one smooth thrust, her passage closing around him like a warm, moist fist. He felt her internal muscles contract. Evan shuddered. “Sweet Jesus!” he rasped. Brenna lay against the coverlet, unmoving. Her complexion had whitened, but a tremulous smile played upon her lips. “Not so terrible,” she said. He would have smiled with her, but her eyes were awash in unshed tears despite her bravery. Her discomfort should have doused the hunger, but to his shame it did not. His body was in control, and there was no ending this thing until it was finished. “Wrap your legs around me,” he said gruffly. A moment of indecision and then, “Like this?” White thighs now cradled his hips. “Yes, ah…yes.” He swallowed, at once gripped by the titillating sight of their joined bodies. Again, he was aware of her watching him as he drank in the erotic images they were creating. Did his face expose him as Brenna’s had exposed her when he fondled her? His gaze flicked to hers. Aspect impassive, her teary eyes twinkled at him, nonetheless. Apparently so. A less forthright lady would have shrunk away from his prurient interest, perhaps been offended. Not his delightful wife. It appeared their nights were to be fraught with adventure. The thought of their future, situations like this, sent another thrill coursing through his system. His organ jumped. “Oh!” The delightful wife looked surprised. “I am weak.” He meant it. “A weakness I share.” Brenna reached for his hand, pulling him toward her. “Come back. I need you to hold me.” Evan squeezed her hand in return. He needed to hold her as well.

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Leaning down, he eased an arm beneath her lower back and lifted her slightly, pulling them both farther onto the bed. He had managed the delicate maneuver without slipping from her body, inexplicably a most important achievement. He groaned for the countless time that night when he settled atop her. Unable to resist, he withdrew halfway and plunged deeply. Brenna inhaled a sharp breath. Immediate regret. “I’m hurting you?” “So odd,” she whispered against his throat. “I think I understand the pleasure in the pain. The pleasure without the pain would be better…but it feels—” She clamped her legs more tightly around him, drawing him deeper. And thus began the most excruciatingly pleasurable moment of Evan’s life. It was the culmination of desire and emotional devastation and a destiny that would not be denied. “My love…I’ve searched so long. How I’ve…missed you.” He spoke next to her ear, breath ragged, uttering between gasps as he moved within her. Even as he said the words, he realized the depth of their meaning, realized what had been given back to him. It was not a dream. What was lost had been found. He was indeed home. Brenna followed his rhythm, seeking her own release, and he aided her once again by reaching between them to stroke her with his thumb. She whimpered then stiffened. Her nails scored his back—the pleasure in the pain. He understood, also. All at once her passage pulsated rapidly, tightening around him. Evan was lost. The orgasm surged through him in a gush of wet heat, saturating his groin in exquisite sensation. He came, and he rocked with the ecstasy, wringing himself dry until all that remained were tiny eddies of feeling that rippled along his excited nerves. Mind numb, for long moments he felt incapable of movement. As the torpor cleared, his mouth sought Brenna’s, a tender kiss she returned. Their tongues danced languidly now in contrast to the fever that had driven them earlier. He came up on one elbow. Their eyes met but neither spoke. Evan eased off his wife, rolling her with him so they remained face to face on their sides. He yanked at the bedcovers, pulling them loose from the mattress to fling over their naked bodies and enveloping the couple in a cocoon of cozy blankets. They nestled close, and for the first time in a very long time he felt at peace. His eyes drifted shut. “Evan?” “Yes, sweetheart.” “You said ‘he’ doesn’t love me.” He opened his eyes to look at her. “He’s a fool.”

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“Doesn’t matter. I don’t even like him.” That remark kept him silent, waiting. “Was that your way of saying—” He interrupted, “That I love you? Absolutely. Never doubt it.” Again that sweet smile that made his chest ache. “I love you, also,” Brenna said. “I’ve really tried not to, I’m afraid.” He cleared a throat filled with emotion. “I know.” “I’m tired.” Her eyelids fluttered closed. Evan petted her hair. “Sleep.” Brenna went unconscious almost instantly. Evan, however, lay awake a long time, watching her slumber, fearful of losing a moment that could not be recreated. Eventually he would trust his good fortune. But tonight he would allow the wonder to claim him. Tonight he would thank the Gods.

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Chapter Eighteen Evan stood on the threshold of the drawing room, composing himself, determined that the coming interview would be productive. The occupant of the room stood looking out one of the windows, as yet unaware of him. He watched her through jaded eyes, wondering if he could be reasonable. His twin turned around when he entered. Evangeline’s hair was pulled back in a tight knot at the nape of her neck, a sure sign of her continued defiance regarding her wound. Her skin was pale, no color except for two spots of red high on her cheekbones. The stitches that held the side of her face together looked grotesque, exposed by the unforgiving daylight streaming through the opened drapes. He detected no love in the look she sent him. “You survived the night, I see. Is your wife suitably, ah, tamed?” “That is a subject you will not broach with me again, Geline. Ever.” “As you will.” The response was conciliatory, however, her hostility grew more evident. She moved toward the sofa, sitting and pulling her legs up on the cushion and under her skirt. “Is it an accident that we happen to find ourselves in the same room, or have you sought me out for some purpose?” Geline nodded at the seat next to her, but he ignored the gesture, preferring to stand. “I want to know what you think you’re doing,” he said. So much for being reasonable. “Though I owe you no answers, brother dear, in the interest of clarity, I ask you to explain your meaning before I tell you to go to hell.” “Very well. You brought Jason Fricker into this house for an assignation last night.” Geline’s face went whiter, if that were possible. “Who told you that?” “It’s not important.” “Our sweet little Brenna?” Her lip curled scornfully. “Mocking my wife will not divert me, Geline. It’s unimportant who saw Fricker. Why did you bring that miscreant into my father’s home?” “For an assignation, remember?” She spat the words at him. “You have someone to warm your bed. Would you deny me that pleasure simply because you do not like my choice in partners?” Evan felt his gut tighten with revulsion. “I have no wish to deny you anything. But I don’t trust Fricker, never have. I don’t want him on our property, much less under this roof.”

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“Since when have you not trusted Jason? You were in his pocket more than I. Best of friends or have you forgotten?” “Let us just say that in recent weeks my eyes have been opened to what he was— is—and what we were as his followers. His message was unclean. I suspect it still is.” “Bah!” She moved restlessly, flapping a negligent hand. “All this talk of morality makes me ill. Jason is the most honest man I know. He does not pretend to be one thing while being something else. At least I know where I stand with him.” “And where is that, Geline?” Evan asked, unable to hide his cynicism. “We are lovers. It’s no deeper than that, and once upon a time you would have agreed that was deep enough.” “If I believed warming your bed was the extent of his ambition, I would turn a blind eye. What you do in your chamber is of no concern to me.” “It wasn’t always that way.” Geline tossed that last out between them, forcing him to hurt her. Evan stepped closer to the sofa, leaning over her. The look he sent her was cool and direct. “It was always that way.” Her chin quivered. “You loved me.” Despite the anger that churned in his belly, he pitied her. “You are my sister, my twin, closer to me than anyone in the world. We understood each other as no one else could. Yes, I loved you.” “But no more.” Evan’s gaze faltered and he straightened. “Geline—” “You’ve changed.” “I have,” he agreed. “The change is not insubstantial, Evan.” “I know. I can’t even relate to the man I used to be. I have his memories, but they don’t belong to me.” “You say it as if you have not only changed but are an entirely different person.” “I suspect you’re not far from the truth. Certainly, that’s how I feel.” Geline put her slippered feet on the floor and pulled her rump to the edge of the sofa. “You sound completely daft; you know that, don’t you?” “And yet, you of all people understand.” Her gaze was sullen, filled with dislike. “I hate you now. I understand that. Is that the answer you wanted?” “I don’t wish to disappoint you, Geline, but how you feel is the least of my concerns. I realize the alteration in me has come as a blow, but from my standpoint I would rather be dead than return to the man I used to be.” “Yes,” she said slowly, as if speaking to herself, “sometimes death is preferable.”

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For no reason Evan could explain, the hair on his neck lifted. They had veered from the original subject, and he felt a sudden need to finish his business and leave her company. “I will reiterate, discontinue your relationship with Jason Fricker.” “And if I do not?” “You will have cause to regret it.” Geline came to her feet, languidly, adopting an attitude of indifference. “I don’t think you are man enough to follow through with your threat, Evan.” “You are, of course, welcome to test your theory. But I need not wait for you to do as I ask. If I approach Fricker, I guarantee you will never see him again. Assuming you wish to tell him yourself, I’m giving you that opportunity. However, I won’t be patient.” The impassive façade disappeared. “What are you afraid of? Jason is no threat to you.” Evan raised his hand to stall her, as she seemed on the verge of moving toward him. It was unacceptable that they have any more violence between them. “Stop and listen, Geline. You are right about one thing. I spent many hours in Fricker’s company. I understand the workings of his mind. He is not content with the status quo. The man delights in creating havoc. He is capable of vile deeds. I know, I’ve seen him.” “I’ve had no indication that he wants anything more than to spend time with me.” “That may be true.” Evan doubted it. “Regardless, I’m not giving him the opportunity to cause trouble. I want him gone, off the estate, out of our lives. For good.” A truly malignant quality radiated off her now. “Is that how you feel about me?” He found himself backing up away from her. “Don’t be foolish,” he said quickly. Too quickly. “One has nothing to do with the other. Merely do as I ask, and we’ll speak no more of it.” Evan turned and exited the drawing room, aware of her baleful stare. He could feel it between his shoulder blades, anger and hate needing expression. He knew his sister well enough to believe she would find a way of doing just that. At once he felt soiled, in need of a thorough washing. What was it recently that made him feel tainted whenever he and Geline had dealings? Why was her very nearness repulsive and any escape a relief?

***** The world was a beautiful, miraculous place, a blessed place to be alive. Brenna darted back and forth across her bedchamber, dressing with Emma’s help, taking quick bites of toast and sips of tea from her morning tray, fussing with her toilet

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when she finally sat at her dressing table. Was her hair groomed perfectly? Should she wear scent today? Which looked better, the pearl or amethyst eardrops? “Don’t believe I’ve ever seen you quite so full of energy, my lady,” Emma said as she picked up discarded clothing—both male and female—from the floor. “To be honest, that’s saying something.” “I’m happy today, Emma. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt so hopeful.” “This can be placed at his lordship’s door?” the maid asked, eyeing the chaotic bed. Turning in her chair, Brenna smiled at her sheepishly. “Hard to imagine, isn’t it?” The maid gave her a searching look. “Yes,” came the simple response. “Do you…do you think I’m making a mistake?” “Not for me to say, my lady.” “Oh come, since when have you been reticent to share your mind with me?” “Since your mind has been made up.” “Why do you say that?” “It’s clear, isn’t it?” Emma’s gaze drifted to the bed again. “Last night would not have happened if you hadn’t made a decision.” Brenna’s face heated despite her effort to remain unfazed. “Fair enough. But I’ve reason to believe my decision is a good one.” “Then I must accept that you know what you’re doing.” “You disapprove.” It was a statement. “I have no right to disapprove. I’m worried. I’ve cared for you since you were a girl. It’s hard to give over the responsibility to another. I’m not certain his lordship is up to the task.” “He’s different, Emma.” “Yes, ma’am, does appear that way.” “But you don’t trust what is before your eyes?” “I don’t trust the little I can see. I want a glimpse of what’s below the surface before I decide.” Emma moved toward the bed. Voice becoming brisk and matter-of-fact, she said, “These sheets need to be laundered.” Brenna turned back to the mirror, deflated and not a little embarrassed by the backhanded reference to last night’s lovemaking. She stared at her reflection for several moments, trying to steady a sudden feeling of insecurity. All right, let’s be reasonable, she told herself. Of course, Emma would be cautious. She had witnessed the viscount at his worst, and most likely it would take more than his improved behavior to convince her. And in all fairness, even her husband could not swear that the change in him was permanent. They must live with the uncertainty, and for them both it would be a disaster if he regressed. At any rate, she was unwilling to give up her newfound happiness because it might be short-lived. After last night, it was a risk she was willing—nay, compelled—to take. 161

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Brenna stood up and took a bracing breath. Another decision made, now she felt better. She approached the maid. “I appreciate your concern, Emma. I know it’s because you care for me and don’t want me to be hurt.” The maid stopped fussing with the bed linen, her troubled gaze coming to rest on her charge. “I suppose the most difficult part is wondering how you could forgive him.” “I’ve struggled with that as well.” “I started out hating him, and I’m having trouble changing my mind.” “I understand. I despised him myself.” “Then—” “I’m not asking you to accept him simply because I say it’s now all right to do so. My husband has much to live down. Trust is earned. And you must make your own decision, just as I’ve made mine.” The maid nodded, but she still looked unconvinced. “Perhaps I’ve made a mistake, but in my heart of hearts I believe Lord Rutherford can be trusted. I’m resting my future on that belief. Please wish me well.” Emma’s eyes misted over. “Oh, my lady, all I ever wanted was your happiness. ‘Course I wish you well.” Brenna felt an answering lump rise in her throat. Incapable of speech, she nodded her gratitude and turned toward the door. Once in the corridor she swallowed the emotion and sniffed, pressing at the tip her nose with two fingers. Movement down the hall caught her attention as Riley arrived on the landing from downstairs, carrying several thick towels. He smiled when he saw her, stopping at the door to her husband’s chamber. “Milady,” he greeted as she came toward him. “Good afternoon, Riley. What are you doing here?” “Bringing his lordship some towels. He took it in his head to have a bath in the middle of the day.” The servant shook his own head as if such a thing were unfathomable. “Did he now,” she said. Her mind took a sudden odd turn that shocked her into silence. Brenna realized she was staring at the man, for he had raised his brows in question as though waiting for her to speak. Dare she be so bold? She vacillated only a moment. Now that the thought had occurred to her, she would never forgive herself if she missed this opportunity. “Give me the towels, Riley.” For a moment he looked confused, then his eyes widened in understanding, and he paused just long enough to bring a furious blush to her cheeks. He handed her the towels without speaking, and Brenna pretended not to see the gleam of appreciation

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that lit his gaze. Perhaps she was imagining it, for his expression was blank, posture noncommittal. No, no, she was right. The fellow was amused. As he turned to leave she caught the hint of a smirk on his face. Brenna opened her mouth to warn him about carrying tales to the other servants then clamped it shut. Why bother? Within the hour everyone below stairs would be regaled by their mistress’s request, and she might as well come to terms with that fact. She stared overlong at Riley’s retreating back, her nerve seeming all at once to desert her. The big man had the audacity to flash her a grin as he stepped from the landing and descended the stairs. Brenna found herself standing alone in the hall, arms loaded with towels, courage fleeing like a mouse to its burrow. Well, no turning back now, she thought. Evan was expecting towels, and she had sent away the one assigned to the task. She breathed in deeply through her nose—air for bravery—and placed her hand on the knob, turning it slowly. The drapes were pulled closed, probably a concession to privacy. An oil lamp had been lit, infusing the room in a soft yellow glow. A cast-iron tub was partially concealed behind a dressing screen, and she tiptoed toward it. Her husband was soaking, knees breaking the surface of the soapy water, arms hanging over the sides of the tub, head resting back against the rim. Heat from the bath formed a cloud of wispy vapor that drifted toward the ceiling. Evan’s eyes were closed, and she wondered if he were sleeping. “Put the towels on the floor by the tub, Riley.” Brenna jumped as if a gunshot had gone off. “I can take it from here,” her husband continued. His voice was thick with drowsiness. “This is so pleasant, I may stay the day.” She moved forward, heart thumping madly, aware her behavior was brazen and uncertain if she were doing the right thing. Perhaps he would dislike her intruding on a private moment when he was relaxing. But then her thoughts returned to the evening before and the overwhelming need that had consumed them both. Whether or not he was disconcerted by her visit, she reasoned hopefully, there was nothing to suggest he wouldn’t welcome her. Brenna stopped just behind his head and placed the towels on the floor next to the tub as he had asked. She straightened, unsure how to proceed. Evan remained motionless, eyes still shuttered, his wet chest rising slowly then lowering as he breathed in and out. Soap bubbles floated on the water, revealing more than they hid. She was intrigued, aroused and surprised at feeling that way. Brenna had a sudden impulse to run her fingers through his damp hair, to feel the stubble that darkened his chin, to slide her hands over his chest muscles, moving downward under the water until she touched him as he had wanted her to touch him last night. Would he still be interested in such play? She suspected he would. 163

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And yet, she continued to hesitate. Their relationship was too new, too fragile to take for granted. Though on a fundamental level Brenna believed she understood him, there was uncertainty, a feeling of knowing but not knowing enough. It wouldn’t have mattered so much if the confidence she had felt the night before were still there to sustain her. What had she been thinking to come in here like a seasoned trollop? Perhaps she could kneel down behind him and put her arms around his neck, she thought even as she sank to her knees. What was meant to be a seductive ploy might startle him instead, but she was unable to think of another way of revealing her presence without feeling vulgar. What if he thought Riley was hugging him? Now there was something to contemplate. She gulped down a nervous titter as that extraordinary image came to life in her mind. Oh well, what had she to lose but her pride? She’d sacrificed that more than once and lived to tell the tale. She drew in another one of those sustaining breaths then leaned forward to embrace him. As she did, Brenna opened her mouth to coo an endearment in his ear. Evan’s hand shot out and grasped her wrist, and rather than cooing, she shrieked, a high-pitched scream that jolted them both. Evan jerked upright, and as he still clutched her hand, he yanked her arm into the water almost to her shoulder. He looked surprised, but a broad smile parted his lips. “You frightened me!” she cried. “Did I now? Bellowing in my ear frightened me.” Brenna pulled from his grasp. Her sleeve had acted like a wick, soaking her gown to the shoulder and across her bodice. She shook the water from her fingertips. “If you had grabbed Riley that way, he’d have been quite angry with you,” she said. His grin broadened. “If I’d thought it was Riley, I wouldn’t have grabbed hold of his hand. I’m not certain, but I believe he has calluses.” “You knew it was me?” she asked in a small voice. “‘Fraid so.” “How?” “Last time I caught a whiff of Riley, can’t say lilac perfume came to mind.” “My perfume gave me away?” Evan’s eyelids drooped. “Lovely scent,” he murmured. His gaze drifted over the front of her wet gown. “Why are you here?” Caught off guard, she stared at him, thinking. “Well,” she licked her lips, “I understood you needed towels.” “And so I did.” Now he was looking at her mouth. “Shame on Riley for shirking his duty.” “Oh no, I intercepted him,” she said quickly. “It wasn’t his fault at all. I made him give me the towels.”

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“You did? Why?” “From the looks of him, that’s what Riley was wondering as well.” Brenna had evaded the question because she had difficulty admitting her motives, such as they were. “I see. What do you think they are saying below stairs about now?” “I know, I know,” Brenna moaned, stricken. “My very thought, though it occurred to me when it was too late.” “Too late?” “I had already sent him away, and I caught him smirking as he left. I was mortified.” “How dare he smirk.” She heard laughter in his voice, but his eyes had grown quite hot. Brenna felt an answering pulse in her belly. “First last night and now today,” she said. “You must think me the most forward of women.” “I think I am the luckiest man alive.” “You do?” she asked, feeling very vulnerable. Evan reached out with one wet hand, cupping her neck and pulling her toward him. “I love you, Brenna.” His lips were soft and warm and Brenna melted into him—never mind the water. She put her arms around his neck and kissed him back, wondrously pleased that her impromptu plan was a success. Evan moved to the hooks of her gown, but she forestalled him, taking matters into her own hands. He eased back in the tub, watching with undivided attention as she stood and quickly undid the garment to the waist, stepping out of the skirt and dragging her petticoats with it. Her shoes and stockings followed. Wearing only her shift and drawers, she paused, uncertain what it was he expected her to do. He wasn’t climbing from the tub to join her, and she felt self-conscious continuing to disrobe while he avidly watched. “Come here,” he said. Brenna obeyed, moving nearer, fascinated to see what he had in mind. He lifted one languid hand from the water. With forefinger and thumb he grasped the drawstring that held her drawers up and tugged on it slowly, releasing the tie. Just as slowly, he hooked a finger into her waistband, opening it further, causing the drawers to droop low on her hips. All at once Evan dragged her close and wrapped an arm around her middle, using the other to work the drawers down her legs. As she kicked free of them, he buried his face in her stomach. Uncontrollable shivers shot through her system when she felt his tongue graze her skin.

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Hands buried in his hair, she allowed the moment to take her, immersed in the joy of being touched as he caressed her buttocks and the backs of her thighs. But then his mouth dipped lower, low enough to thrill as well as scandalize her. Brenna was shocked by a longing so intense, she broke his hold on her before she could give in to the utter wickedness of it all. With difficulty she met his gaze, swallowing hard, shaking her head. His eyes as he looked up at her were filled with lust, a simple uncomplicated need shining from the light blue of a summer sky. No cloudy swirling today, no ambiguous messages, just clear pools of pure intent. “No?” he asked. As she stared into that intoxicating blue, Brenna felt herself slipping under his spell. Mute, she continued to shake her head even though her imagination was rife with visions that were seducing her. She could not bring herself to say aloud the words that would deny him when her body was begging her to reconsider. “Another time?” Evan asked. She was relieved—and disappointed. “I don’t know. Is that done?” “Oh yes.” Evan’s heated gaze drifted to the place he had nearly kissed. “All the time.” Brenna gulped. “Right then. Perhaps later.” His smile was as wicked as the southerly direction of his tongue. “You’re certain?” “No, dammit, quit torturing me.” The anguish in her voice startled her. Startled him too apparently. His gaze darted to hers then he barked a delighted laugh. He put his arms around her waist and hauled her into the bath on top of him. Sudsy water splashed everywhere, rising almost to the rim of the tub with her added weight. Brenna found herself straddling him as he leaned forward to embrace her, nuzzling her neck. “Later it is,” Evan said as he nipped gently at her throat. “Later,” she agreed, tantalized by the erotic thought and dismayed because of it. “I like the implication of later,” he continued. “Means there’s something to look forward to.” He pulled back to look at her. “And I do, I really do.” Uncertain how to respond, she said, “My shift is all wet.” The grin that seemed to have become permanent blazed at her again. “See what happens when you visit a randy gentleman in his den? That randy gentleman demands satisfaction.” He followed that comment by kissing the tip of her breast through the clinging cotton. “I’ll remember that,” she said, breathless. “Is it a warning or an invitation?” “Both.”

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He ran his hands down her sides then back up, this time skimming his fingers underneath the shift, tracing her ribs then cupping her breasts. She moaned, unable to help herself. Brenna was surprised by the urgency that consumed her. So quickly had she caught fire, she felt as though she were in danger of bursting from her skin. Modesty was losing ground to an immediate craving. One thing and one thing only could satisfy the fever burning in her—a “connection” of the most intimate kind. Evan must have sensed her frenzy, for he became quite still, attention arrested as she scooted her bottom backward. She braced herself against his shoulders and raised her hips. She paused briefly, preparing herself, for her nether region was still sore from the night before, but the overwhelming need to feel him inside her again was a greater demand than avoiding a little discomfort. She trembled, at once uncertain. Brenna realized she was staring at the water as though it could enlighten her as to her next move. She felt clumsy and gauche, hardly the temptress she had tried to be. She glanced at her husband. The kindest smile eased his mouth, love for her transforming his features. “Sweetheart,” he said, his voice an emotion-filled groan, “may I help?” Brenna felt tears sting the back of her throat. “Yes, please.” He moved into position, placing his hands on her hips for guidance, and in the blink of an eye she rode him, her slick passage swallowing him in nature’s most basic and compelling union. Perhaps desire mitigated pain because she felt only immense pleasure, the sudden releasing of the last of her inhibitions. Was she making love to a demon? At that moment she didn’t care. Let the heavens beware, she thought defiantly. She loved her demon, loved him with all her heart. And Brenna told the demon just that, her panting whispers laying bare her soul. She leaned forward and kissed him. As the passion crescendoed, so did the emotion that betrayed her. Tears continued to gather along her lashes and heedlessly she let them fall to mingle with the water they thrashed over the sides of the tub. Evan’s response was as eager as her own. “Come, my love,” he urged, his breath hot and excited against her lips. In an effort to help her, he grabbed her hips and ground his pelvis against hers. She was close, teetering on the edge of fulfillment, wallowing in amazing sensations, tiny shocks of exquisite pleasure concentrated where he filled her body. Brenna sat upright, lost in the feel of his swollen member, lust now her greedy companion. Snatching the wet shift over her head, she flung it onto the floor, reveling in her nudity and the salacious appreciation that kindled his gaze. She held her arms up high as she rocked her hips to and fro. Evan ran his hands over her torso, palming her breasts until her nipples ached delightfully.

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And then, as he had the night before, one hand slipped between her legs, teasing the delicate nerve that now controlled her every thought, her every movement. It took no more than one erotic-soaked minute of pleasuring her before the room dimmed, Brenna retreating into herself, a wave of ecstasy rolling over her. A hollow moan huffed from her throat. She felt him buck beneath her then he rose up to envelop her in a fierce hug, mouth finding hers. His frenzied movements prolonged her release even as he sought his own, a guttural exclamation escaping him as he emptied himself within her. For long moments they clung to one another, only their heavy breathing filling the quiet. Gradually the mist cleared from Brenna’s sight, and she gazed into the summersky blue of her husband’s eyes. Eternity stared back at her. There was no world beyond their world, no time that did not belong to them. Now she understood. The old Evan would not be returning. Although there had been no corpse, he was as dead to this place as the father she had buried. Brenna did not ponder how she knew nor did she care. Instead, with profound gratitude she would unwrap the gift life had given her and enjoy it until the end of her days.

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Chapter Nineteen Brenna exited the house as the sun was on the verge of rising. Daylight would shortly inch its way over the horizon, turning the grayed landscape into a multicolored panorama. There was a nip in the predawn air. Soon the days would be turning colder. She stared around her with newfound appreciation. Her husband’s home was beautiful, and for the first time she was truly glad to be a part of it. She was exhausted but could not sleep, thus her foray into a world still slumbering. Yesterday Evan and she had climbed from that tub and fallen onto his bed, only to sleep away the afternoon. Sometime after dusk they had awakened and made love once more, a slow and leisurely exploration that had taken the last of her strength. They had talked after that, cuddling naked under the covers, the intimate whispers of lovers, sharing their hopes and expectations. The relationship between Geline and Jason Fricker had been broached, raising questions but supplying no answers. Finally, emotionally, they had for the first time dissected the odd yet overwhelming feeling that their fates had been connected long before they had met in this life. “Do you know what is really odd?” Evan had said near midnight as she lay nestled in his embrace, his thumb drawing lazy circles on her upper arm. “What?” “No one has knocked on that door.” There was laughter in his voice. “They’ve decided to let us starve.” Even in the dark, Brenna had blushed. It seemed a decision had been made that the couple wasn’t to be disturbed. However, neither was her husband one to suffer. He had donned clothing and disappeared out the bedchamber door, only to reappear some twenty minutes later with a tray of bread, cheese and cold roast beef and—Lord above—hot tea. If she hadn’t loved him before, she loved him then. They devoured their midnight meal in gleeful companionship as though they had outwitted the entire household. And then Evan had slept again while his wife, not used to napping during the day, had lain awake listening to his deep even breathing and the silence of a house at rest. It wasn’t worry or dissatisfaction that had ultimately driven her from the bed. As dawn approached, she was tired, yes, but the exhilaration of her budding relationship with the viscount kept sleep at bay. It seemed she was to be happy after all. Brenna wanted to dance, but she would settle for walking. As she made her way down the lane that led to the main road, she was aware of an ache that reached deep into her body where her husband had penetrated virgin flesh. In fact, the repeated lovemaking had made her sore all over. It was a physical reality that

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disturbed her not at all. She assumed with time—and practice—those pains would go away. Brenna smiled secretly, eager to test that idea. Out from the hedgerow that skirted the lane stepped a lone figure. A man. She stopped, at once aware of the fading night and her vulnerability outside, alone, unprotected. The man approached, and Brenna turned to flee. “No, wait,” he called. Jason Fricker. She turned back around, certain Evan would be unhappy with this unexpected encounter. She didn’t understand the relationship between him and the sandy-haired man, but her husband had made clear the animosity and distrust he felt for Evangeline’s lover. She waited until Mr. Fricker was within easy hearing distance and then held up her hand. “Stop.” He did as she asked, a cynical smile twisting his lips. “I mean you no harm, Lady Rutherford.” “What are you doing here, Mr. Fricker?” she asked without preamble. “My husband has said you are not welcome at Covington.” “Actually, he hasn’t spoken to me directly.” “So I understand. But Geline was to pass on that message. If she has not done so, I know Evan will do it for her.” “Your husband and I were friends once upon a time.” He was trying to disconcert her. “A circumstance he now regrets.” “Indeed. But do you really believe a person can change so completely? I have my doubts, my lady. You see, I knew him before.” The suggestive quality in his voice set her teeth on edge, but Brenna was determined not to allow his insinuations to bother her. Clearly, there was nothing this unpleasant man would like better than to unravel the hard-won trust that had developed between Evan and her. “As did I, Mr. Fricker, as did I. The past is not the issue. It’s the future that concerns me.” “Very trusting of you.” Snide. “Why have you approached me? You risk my husband’s wrath by having done so.” “You fascinate me, my lady.” “Oh?” “Yes. What manner of woman has Divine protection?” “Why, any woman who does not claim evil as her master, Mr. Fricker. Surely, that should be obvious to a man such as yourself, a man who is supposedly learned in the 170

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ways of the spiritual world.” Now she was being snide. “There’s nothing special about me.” “I disagree. That meadow weeks ago was filled with an avenging Presence. I’m not gifted with the Sight, but I felt something, and it was powerful. Others there that night have sworn they felt it also, most even more blind than I.” Brenna had felt something too, but she wasn’t about to admit it. “Why am I at the center of your theory? Perhaps this—this Presence, as you call it, was there for another reason.” “Lady Rutherford,” he shook his head as though she were a fool, “you are naїve if you believe that.” “If what you say is true, doesn’t it worry you that maybe I’m still being protected?” Brenna asked shrewdly. “That I’m being protected even as we speak?” Evidently her shot hit its mark, as he looked thoroughly taken aback. “I suppose it has occurred to me, my lady, but I’ve already said I will not harm you.” “Meaning this Presence need no longer protect me based solely upon your word?” He shrugged, the irony clearly not escaping him. “And what of Lady Evangeline?” she asked. “What of her?” “You mean her no harm as well?” “Of course not. What are you insinuating?” “I think your relationship with my sister-in-law may be detrimental to her.” “Oh come, are you saying you care what happens to Geline? I can tell you, she does not return your concern. Hardly a surprise, is it?” “My caring has more to do with Lord Rutherford and his parents. Lady Evangeline’s welfare means something to them. If you hurt her, you hurt them.” “You should worry about my welfare,” he said in a dry voice. “I’m sorry?” “I serve only one purpose for the insatiable lady. She has an appetite of grand proportions. For now it pleases me to feed her hunger, for I also have an…appetite.” Brenna swallowed her disgust. Of all things she did not want to know about their “appetites”. The man was watching her through half-lidded eyes, and she had the unnerving suspicion he once again was drawing her into his libidinous relationship with Evan’s twin. Clearly, he was aroused by the sharing. The notion appalled her. “I don’t wish to hear this,” she said, forcing the words through tight lips. “My husband is right. There’s no place for you at Covington.” He smiled slyly. “From what I understand, you and your sanctimonious spouse have appetites as well. Too bad you did not realize your desire for him the night you were married. It would have been a most gratifying exhibition.”

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Brenna’s hand flew to her mouth. He had cruelly turned aside her pronouncement, striking out with what he knew would hurt and humiliate her most. “You dare speak to me of that wretched evening? Have you no shame?” “None whatsoever.” His stare had taken on a reptilian cast. “Life is too brief to worry with such things. Shame is for the timid.” Temper made her blurt the thought foremost in her mind. “To what purpose do you exist, Mr. Fricker? Or do you simply take up space in an unsuspecting world?” The smile turned grim. “I believe we are about to discover my purpose, Lady Rutherford, and do not be surprised if our fates, yours and mine, are somehow intertwined.” An icy dread slithered up her backbone. “What will surprise me, sir, is if we meet again. You would be wise to take my advice and leave the vicinity.” “And when I’m gone, what then?” He now exuded a ruthless disregard for civility. “Geline will return to her brother for gratification. Are you certain there’s room in your marriage for Rutherford’s possessive sister?” For a moment Brenna could not move, could not speak, could hardly breathe. He was implying a relationship so sick and depraved, she felt a momentary urge to retch. But she refused to give him the pleasure of knowing how badly he had wounded her. She sent him a silent haughty stare then grasped her skirt, lifted the hem and swiveled on her toes. She trudged back down the lane, each step a determined show of defiance, all the while her chin quivering with outrage. Brenna felt his eyes on her, knew he watched her until she entered the house and gave the door a decisive slam. Because she could not prevent herself, she raced to the window in the drawing room and peeked through the drapes. He was gone. The dawn was breaking. The scene looked blissfully peaceful as the impending change of seasons scattered the first autumn leaves over the ground. Dappled light filtered through the trees onto grasses that swayed in the cool morning breeze. The lane promised a lazy jaunt down a well-worn path. Utterly breathtaking. Only now, as she watched the sun creep over the countryside, Brenna detected an evil her eyes could not see. She suspected it wasn’t a supernatural evil, however, but the evil perpetrated by ordinary men. Her return upstairs, unlike the joy that had sent her from the house, was filled with foreboding. She stopped at her husband’s door and placed her hand on the knob. She paused, deciding not to disturb him. Regretfully, she turned toward her own bedchamber. As she did so, Brenna shrank from the unwelcome thought that something else kept her from seeking out her husband’s arms when she needed him most. She didn’t want to take the sudden fear that gripped her into that room, could not bear to look at him with doubt in her heart.

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Once behind her door, she undressed quickly and donned a nightdress, weary beyond measure. Getting off her feet had taken on a sudden urgency. Her bed felt cold and uninviting, sterile, lacking the earthy warmth that had invaded her senses in Evan’s chamber. Ignoring an overwhelming desire to return to him, Brenna stayed where she was. The last twenty-four hours of emotional ups and downs had taken their toll, and she was forced to slumber despite her chaotic thoughts. Her dreams were formless landscapes, winding paths that led nowhere, erotic one moment, fearful the next. True rest was a long time coming.

***** Brenna woke to movement in her room. Still bleary with sleep, she lay on her side, paralyzed by inertia as she came slowly to consciousness. The first thing she noticed was the open door to the nest. Strange. Her thoughts coalescing, she rolled onto her back, seeking the person she instinctively knew sat by the fireplace. Her husband was sprawled in an overstuffed chair, shirtless, barefoot, wearing only black trousers. He was watching her, expressionless. “Evan? What are you doing here?” she asked. “That’s my question.” “What do you mean?” He stood and walked to the bed. His trousers were undone at the waist, no drawers, as though he had negligently pulled them on as a concession to modesty when he left his room. Because they had been lovers for only two days, Brenna was acutely aware of his lack of clothing, the intimacy of their situation. She sat up, plucking at the coverlet, her glance shifting sideways. “I fall asleep with my wife beside me, and I awake to find she has sought out her own bed. Why?” “I went for a walk and decided not to disturb you when I returned.” “I was more disturbed by your absence.” “Am I not to use my bed anymore?” “Only when I’m in it.” Uncertain how she should take that, she was nonetheless surprised by a thrill of pleasure. “But…don’t most couples desire privacy?” “Is that why you left me? Privacy?” There was no belligerence in his question. More she sensed his need to understand. “My motives are not sinister, Evan.” Sinister no, evasive perhaps. Her husband leaned forward on the bed, hands balled into fists. “There’s something you must understand, Brenna. I feel your emotions. I sense when you are upset. Don’t

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ask me why, I haven’t a clue. But your distress woke me. I’ve been sitting there,” he waved at the chair, “for more than three hours waiting for you to stir.” Did she sense his emotions also? She thought maybe she did. “Why didn’t you rouse me?” she asked. “You were clearly exhausted. Seemed unfair to bother you. But your dreams were restless.” “How do you know that?” He straightened, his gaze locking with hers. “I know.” Her fingers returned to the agitated picking at the coverlet. Evan sat on the edge of the bed. “Why did you go walking in the dark? It’s not safe. You didn’t even take Othello.” Brenna smiled. “You make it sound as if Othello is not the best of all guardians.” “Come, Brenna, you are trying to distract me. What drew you from my bed before daylight?” “Happiness,” she murmured, attention centered on a spot in the middle of his handsome chest. She lifted her eyes to his. He was staring at her, his expression one of elation and wonder. “Oh, love,” he said gently, “what then has happened to make you unhappy?” She didn’t bother to deny his assumption. He was right. But baldly stating what was on her mind was no easy subject to broach. “It’s nothing really—” she began. Evan huffed out an impatient breath. “Right then,” Brenna said quietly, capitulating. “Tell me about your relationship with Jason Fricker. That is, before you married me.” “Why?” he asked, attitude now cautious. “He and I met while I was walking.” “Bloody hell!” he barked, coming to his feet. “I knew it. I don’t want you anywhere near that unprincipled wretch. What did he say to upset you?” “Were you friends with him?” “I don’t know how to answer that.” “Yes or no will suffice.” He shrugged, anger seeming to abate somewhat. Now he was the one unable to make eye contact. “You can’t be friends with a man such as he. We were, for wont of a better explanation, teacher and disciple.” “How did you meet him?” “Through a mutual acquaintance. Fricker peddled a religion of sorts, called himself a high priest. His was a corrupt agenda, appealing to the most base of human emotions and desires. I admit I was fascinated and, to the extent I could be persuaded, aided his

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cause. He recruited many in this area with Geline’s and my help. We attended several of his gatherings.” “Similar to the one in the willow grove?” “That was our meeting place, yes.” “And the altar?” “An excuse to put on a bawdy show. I swear there were no reluctant virgins, however.” He spoke quickly. “Only me?” Her husband visibly cringed. “I don’t know why I agreed to that deplorable ceremony, except that I was a different person, and at the time it seemed…acceptable. I wish I could say I was forced, but I, like the rest of Jason’s flock, was a willing participant looking for excitement. Bored individuals indulging in fornication and drink. That simple.” “No qualms?” she asked. Clearly embarrassed, he shook his head. “Not at the time. But, Brenna, you know all this. Perhaps I’ve not explained myself precisely, but who I was before has always been evident. I did things of which I’m not proud. Surely, you’re not surprised to hear this.” “No, but…” The silence stretched between them, and Brenna felt his eyes on her as she once again searched for nonexistent lint on her coverlet. “There’s more, isn’t there?” he said dully. She nodded, licking her lips. This was harder than she had thought it would be. “Ah, Mr. Fricker implied that you and your sister were—” Brenna stopped. She simply could not speak the words aloud. “Go on.” She looked at him beseechingly. “Oh, Evan, I don’t know how to say it.” All at once his eyes widened, until a truly awful rage contorted his features. “That filthy bastard speaks of such things to my wife?” He moved across the room and turned around. “And you believed him?” Brenna was stunned into silence. Was he angry with her? “Answer me!” She jumped nervously, still mute, disconcerted by his unexpected attack. Not since his change had she felt so flustered in his presence. “Do you think me capable of such behavior? Do you?” he asked. “Of course not. Not now.” “Not now?” “I said that improperly. What I meant was—”

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“How could you suggest such a thing?” He was shouting. “Even the old Evan was not so vile.” He turned and marched toward the nest, clearly intent on abandoning the conversation. Despite her discomfort, Brenna refused to let him walk out without having her say. “Evan, would you prefer I had suppressed Mr. Fricker’s accusation? Kept it from you?” She addressed his back. He had paused at the door, hand on the jamb. As she spoke, his chin fell to his chest. “Do you wish secrets between us?” she continued, moving to the edge of the bed, legs folded under her. “Isn’t it better to address this now, rather than let it fester? I didn’t say I believed him, only that the issue had been raised.” “And it disturbed you.” “Yes, of course it did. And according to you, you can sense when I’m upset. Would it do me any good to pretend nothing has happened? After all, isn’t that why you are here, because you sensed something?” Evan turned to face her. A white line of pain surrounded his mouth. “I came because I missed you and feared I had only dreamed you in my bed.” Tears stung her eyes. “I was wrong, forgive me,” Evan said. “I was slaying the messenger. It’s not your fault that Fricker decided to spread his loathsome poison. But I can hardly bear to think that you might accept his lies.” “Never.” Brenna rose up on her knees and held out arms to him. Instantly, he moved across the room to the bed, taking hold of her and burying his face in her neck. For long moments they clung to one another. She could feel his suffering, the torment of a good man who must live with a past that brought him shame. Bad enough he must deal with the truth of his former conduct but to have to defend himself against lies. She understood his anger. “What am I to do?” he asked at last. He pulled back to look at her. “She’s my sister. I should love her but I’m no longer able to do so. For the life of me, the best I can summon where she’s concerned is indifference.” Brenna understood that as well. For her, indifference was a high emotion when referring to Evangeline. “I wish I had an answer for you. I do think you’re right though. Mr. Fricker is a bad influence.” “I can’t blame Fricker for what’s wrong with Geline. Her mind is not healthy, and I’m not quite certain when she began to fall apart. It’s as though the deterioration has been happening all along, gradually, so only now has it become apparent. Having said that, I don’t think Jason is helping. And if I had been inclined to give him some latitude for Geline’s sake, that ended when he approached you.”

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Something entered his gaze that made her stomach drop. The muscles in his jaw knotted as though he was reining in his temper—only just—and at once she was filled with foreboding. “He didn’t harm me, Evan.” “You think not? I disagree. And I can damn well tell you he’s harmed me.” Brenna opened her mouth to argue but decided against it. His attitude was implacable. She could hardly blame him. Just as happiness had entered their lives, it was threatened. Evan released his hold on her and again turned toward the nest. “Where are you going?” she asked. He paused to look at her. “This has gone on long enough, Brenna. If we continue to do nothing, believing all is well, we’ll be like Nero, fiddling away while Rome burns. I’m not willing to let that happen.”

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Chapter Twenty “Tell me what you want me to do, Evan.” The earl spoke to his son, sorrow etched in every line of his aging face. “One thing to threaten, another entirely to carry out that threat.” “I know, Father.” In the library since finishing the noonday meal, Evan sat across the desk from the old man, doing his best to remain patient. They had been talking for nearly an hour, discussing not only Geline’s relationship with Jason Fricker but the state of her mental health in general. A short while ago, his mother had joined them, sitting in a chair to his left while father and son had gone round and round as to how to solve their dilemma. No agreement was in the offing. As the minutes ticked by, Evan’s frustration grew, until he was convinced he would have to take matters into his own hands if anything were to be done. “But, Father,” he said, “you’re the one who said you would send her away. Didn’t you mean it?” “I’m not a man of idle threats. Of course, I meant it. But truth is, I don’t know who will take your sister in. Who in our families, either your mother’s or mine, is prepared to contend with Geline and her many idiosyncrasies?” “Perhaps she needs to be committed.” “Evan, noble families take care of their own. That’s not done unless the individual is deranged. Your sister is hardly that.” Evan wasn’t so certain. Mary, who had done more listening than talking since entering the room, spoke up, “That’s a harsh remedy, dear, not one I would have expected you to suggest. You and Geline have always been so close. What exactly is it that has you so upset? Has your sister done something in particular, more than her usual questionable conduct?” How did he explain a “feeling” that had no actual proof? How did he tell them of the worry that haunted his sleep and leached the joy from his days? He couldn’t put his finger on it, but knew he had reason to be apprehensive. “Geline dislikes my wife. And that makes me uneasy, nervous to be honest.” His mother leaned over in her chair, putting a hand on his arm. “Has she threatened Brenna?” “Yes and no.” Basil’s brows drew together. “Explain yourself.”

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“She’s done nothing overt, I don’t mean that. But her attitude is so hostile toward Brenna and possessive toward me, I begin to wonder what she’s capable of.” “You’re only guessing,” Basil said. Evan looked the old man in the eye. “You forget, Father, I know Geline better than anyone. She and I have had our adventures—don’t ask,” he said, when it looked as though the old man intended to do just that. “Suffice it to say, my sister’s conscience is not always engaged, and though it pains me to voice it, she’s a stranger to kindness.” “Oh, Evan,” Mary said, “it pains me to hear it.” Sad eyes sought out her husband’s. “What did we ever do, Basil, to have produced such a…a,” clearly she was searching for the right word, “difficult child.” Her gaze drifted back to her son. He sensed her uncertainty. “You meant children, didn’t you, Mother?” “Forgive me, Evan. I didn’t mean to suggest anything. You’ve become the son I always knew you could be. I’m so happy for you and Brenna.” Basil shook his head, a morbid gesture. “It’s my fault. It’s in the blood. My family is rife with buggers.” “Basil!” “It’s the truth, my dear. I have an uncle who went to the gallows. Murder. And a cousin who said he wanted to be a woman.” He shuddered. “Of course, no one mentions either of them.” “A woman?” Mary looked scandalized. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.” Evan sighed. “We digress. It’s not about blame, but what are we to do now?” “Perhaps she’ll grow accustomed to your marriage, accept the unalterable,” Mary said. “Do you believe that?” Evan asked. That brought silence to the room, for truly none of them believed any such thing. The consensus finally was that they must closely watch the situation and be prepared to act. For Evan there was little enough reassurance in that action—or lack thereof—and he left the library no more optimistic than when he had entered it. The quiet dialogue of his parents followed him from the room, Mary having joined Basil behind the desk. Evan stopped and glanced at them as he moved out of the doorway. His mother stood with her arm draped over his father’s shoulders, their heads close together while they talked. There was a gentle awareness of each other that pervaded the room. They were still lovers, he realized, smiling to himself. As his former self, despite his own decadent ways, he would have found the notion appalling, disgusting. They were his parents after all, though that attitude was hardly fair. But now, through his love for Brenna, he was reassured by the affection his mother and father shared. It gave him hope. It promised a future. He needed that. That hope buoyed his steps as he moved down the long hall from the library to the foyer. He stopped abruptly. 179

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Geline stood just outside the drawing room, hands laced demurely at her waist, as motionless and cool as an ice sculpture. The only thing animated about his sister was her eyes, projecting a darkness that seemed to crowd the spacious entry. Even as their gazes met, the hair on his neck lifted. Along with the sensation came the almost certain knowledge the conversation in the library had been overheard. He played ignorant. “Geline, what are you doing there? Waiting for me?” He heard the aloofness in his words but felt incapable of anything more. “As you see.” “What can I do for you?” She walked toward him. Evan had to brace himself not to step away as she neared. Why had he never noticed the aura of oppression she exuded? An aura that blighted the joy of those she touched. Her spirit was twisted, malignant, unbearably cruel. “What are you doing?” he asked, afraid he had revealed his unease. Geline smirked as though she understood perfectly the effect she had on him. “What am I doing, brother? Why, getting a closer look at a traitor.” She thrust her face into his. “No, you can’t be my brother. My brother would never have done what you’ve done to me, what you’re hoping to do to me.” “Geline—” Her lips drew down in a grimace that distorted what had once been a beautiful veneer. “You’d do anything to rid yourself of our dirty little secret.” A jolt of rage now forced him into her face, their noses almost touching. At once she was the one pulling back. “Is this yours and Fricker’s little game, Geline? To what purpose? Why not keep to the truth? It’s disgusting enough.” His voice was ragged with fury. “Why make up lies when it’s so unnecessary? I was a gambler, a prodigious drinker. I whored my way through most of London’s lower echelons. I am profoundly fortunate not to be riddled with disease.” Her mouth crimped with distaste. “Yes, indeed. Don’t want to mention that, do we? There’s a price to be paid for treating this vessel,” he tapped his chest, “without respect. As to that, we’ve both been fortunate.” Geline shrugged a thin shoulder, attitude still scornful and unrelenting. “God forgive me,” Evan continued, “I joined a sect whose main goal was to further the decadent behavior of its followers. Oh was I in my element! Sanctified sinning. Whatever I wanted I could have and the heavens would bless me for it. So why did I never make use of my sister? Quite simply because I never wanted to.” He grabbed her arm. “I demand you stop saying or implying differently.” Geline yanked free of him. “Easy to say what you did or did not want. What proof do you have?”

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“I make no excuses for myself, Geline. My proof is that I never touched you.” He felt bile enter his throat as the truth of his next words struck him. “The man I was would not have held back if that were his true desire.” His statement was a solid blow. She staggered backward, bringing a hand to her mouth as though he had indeed hit her. The ensuing silence held the death of what remained of the affection between them. Geline dropped her arm, her façade of indifference slipping back into place. She recovers quickly, Evan thought cynically. “One more thing,” he said aloud. “I want Jason Fricker gone immediately, or I’m contacting the authorities. He accosted Brenna when she was walking this morning, spreading his filth. He’s lucky I don’t call him out and have done with it.” The look she gave him was oddly calculating. “I’ve told him.” “Really? Are you saying he’s ignored my demand?” “He wants to talk to you. Feels you owe him that much.” “I owe him nothing.” “Still, he asks that you meet with him.” “Why didn’t you tell me this before?” “That’s why I was waiting for you,” Geline said. “But you started a disagreement before I had a chance to explain.” Evan did a quick mental retracing of their conversation, fairly certain she was the one who had started the hostilities. However, it wasn’t worth the effort to contradict her. “When?” he rapped out. A sudden smile curled her lips. “Tonight?” “Where?” “Oh, Evan, you know where.” For a long moment he merely stared at her. “Right then,” he said at last. Sick unto death of the animosity between them, Evan swung away and left the foyer through the front door of the house. Perhaps the sun and a fresh breeze could relieve the pall on his spirits, the sense of the world tilting wrongly. He stood on the stone step, breathing deeply and trying to clear his head. Tonight he would end this madness, and Geline would either agree to his terms, or he would have her sent away. Otherwise, her sickness would infect them all, until every one of them was a candidate for Bedlam. He raked his hand through his hair. He felt half mad already.

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overhead as they slipped in and out of traveling clouds, a gray band of weather had been gathering along the horizon for the last hour. Evan suspected rain would fall before daybreak. With any luck, he would be back in bed beside his wife long before that happened. He rode toward his destination, the mare beneath him blowing plumes of warm breath through her nostrils into the nippy night air. Though he was in a purposeful frame of mind, he allowed the horse to amble, surprised by his reluctance to reach the end of his short journey. Memories resided in that place, sharp and disturbing, more disturbing still because he had once found them arousing. Evan felt foolish and manipulated, having allowed Geline to lure him back. He should have refused. Earlier, Brenna and he had gone to bed, exhausting themselves in an intense bout of lovemaking. He understood the newness of their physical relationship would slowly ease into more comfortable patterns, but for now he was mesmerized by his desire for his wife, the intoxicating, heart-wrenching pleasure of making love to her. Afterward, Brenna had given him one sweet smile, curling up next to him and falling asleep almost immediately. Her body was warm and comforting, and Evan was loath to leave the security of their bed. He lay in the dark, forcing sleep at bay until he was able to ease from the covers, dress and exit the room without disturbing her. Resigned to his ruined evening, he left the house a few minutes later. On his way from the stables, horse in tow, he met Riley who was it seemed returning home from an excursion of his own. “Milord, last person I expected to meet this time o’ night.” “I have business that needs attending to,” Evan said without elaborating. “Late to go riding, sir. Smells like rain. Are you certain it can’t wait ‘til morning?” “I’m afraid not. As to that, why are you not abed?” Though dark, Evan imagined he saw the big man blush. “Been visiting a…a friend.” Evan contained a smirk that begged to break free. “Good for you. We all need a good, ah, visit from time to time.” The servant’s sheepish expression turned to one of relief. “Indeed, sir.” And then, “Would you like me to go with you? Not safe after dark. Brigands, you know.” Unfortunately, brigands would most likely be an improvement on those he planned to meet, Evan thought sardonically. For a moment he actually considered accepting Riley’s offer. He was not looking forward to his mission, and the company, if nothing else, would be welcome. But why should the big chap lose sleep just because his master was determined to suffer? “Seek your bed, man. I’ll be all right.” “You sure?” The servant looked unconvinced.

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“Yes, yes. It’s simply a chore that can’t be put off. My sister—” Evan stopped, shaking his head. “Never mind.” Instead, he asked, “Since when have you worried about the likes of me?” “Truthfully, sir?” Evan nodded. “Truthfully.” “Since your lady took a likin’ to you. I trust her judgment.” What a humbling revelation! For the life of him, Evan did not know how to respond. “Fair enough,” he said at last. “I trust her judgment as well.” “And the dog, sir.” The man’s eyes twinkled. “Othello’s a great judge of character too.” The viscount shook his head, chortling softly. “No, can’t forget the dog.” He turned away then mounted his horse and headed the animal from the stable yard. Oddly, he was aware of the servant remaining where he stood, watching until Evan had ridden out of sight. And thus he found himself on a convoluted path to the middle of a godforsaken place, frustrated and weary, uncertain what he intended to do once he got there. To think he had greatly anticipated these gatherings once upon a time. The ride was accompanied by a moon playing peek-a-boo with clouds that raced across the blackened sky, one moment his path visible as though he rode in daylight, the next obscured as though he were suddenly blinded. Memory kept him pointed in the right direction, however. He didn’t know whether to be pleased or dismayed by his powers of recall. Evan entered the grove just as the moon resurfaced from behind another traveling layer of clouds, bathing the entire clearing in an ethereal glow. To someone who did not understand the sinister aura of the place, it was a beautiful scene, leaves of the willows drooping in silvery tendrils that swayed languidly in the midnight breeze. The smell of autumn scented the air. And rain. No doubt about it, a storm was brewing. He scanned the area but saw no one. However, an oil lamp was lit and resting on the altar. The sight of that stone monstrosity made his stomach muscles recoil. Beside the lamp was a full decanter—brandy or sherry, he wasn’t certain—and three glasses. Immediately, he felt a twinge of misgiving. “Geline?” His voice was loud, a hollow echo in the clearing like a clapper in its bell. “It’s late. I haven’t time for games. Show yourself or assume this meeting is at an end.” A moment of utter quiet and then a rustle of vegetation. Geline appeared from the willows that edged the clearing. With a regal air she walked to the altar, an apparition in white. She was dressed in her ceremonial robe, but the hood was thrown back. Her long hair hung loose, flowing to the middle of her back. She was magnificent, beautiful despite her ravaged cheek. And she revolted him. “Where’s Fricker?” he asked without preamble. “I’m here.”

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The voice came at his back, and Evan swung around in the saddle. “Any particular reason the two of you come at me from opposite sides?” Jason Fricker had stepped into the clearing and he too wore a white robe. “Feel flanked, do you?” He smiled, a seeming show of goodwill that hid none of the rancor. Evan merely stared at him. He felt no need to address the obvious. Fricker chuckled. He adjusted the leather thong at his waist, as if in doing so he were engaged in a most important activity and then took a slow walk to the altar where he joined Evangeline. Evan watched him through a critical gaze, uncertain why he was filled with mistrust. After all, the situation appeared harmless enough, just the two of them, one his sister who ultimately meant him well—or so he hoped—and a man he had once called friend. He swung his leg over the back of the saddle and dismounted, leaving the mare to forage in the middle of the clearing. He moved toward the couple, stopping several feet from them. Silence reigned as they took his measure and he in turn took theirs. “Well?” Evan said when no one spoke. Fricker reached for the decanter. “Brandy?” he asked, eyebrows raised in question. He poured three quick glasses and lifted one toward the viscount. He must be jesting, Evan thought. Share a brandy with him? “I’ll pass.” “Oh come on. What harm is there in a friendly nip?” “Let’s dispense with the insincerities, shall we, Fricker? Geline says you wanted to talk. Let’s have it out and be done with it.” “Very well, we’ll do it your way.” Fricker carefully replaced the glass even as Geline lifted one, putting it to her lips. His sister took a sip, all the while eyes locked on her brother. She rolled the brandy on her tongue then swallowed. Her smile was sly, challenging. “What’s the matter, brother dear, don’t you trust us?” “You do have a tendency to, shall we say, ‘enhance’ the brandy,” Evan said. “No, I don’t trust you.” “I’m hurt,” she mewled. Not bloody likely. The air shifted slightly, bringing with it a chilly dampness and again the scent of rain. Evan heard the first rumbling of thunder, still very distant, but undoubtedly moving in their direction. On impulse, his gaze drifted over the scene in front of him, his thoughts slipping inward. He was arrested by an unexpected quiet. Geline and Fricker faded into gray nothingness as an odd crackling came to life at the base of his skull. At once sightless, he no longer saw the soaring outlines of the trees or the moon and stars that lit the heavens. Nor did he see the mound where the altar

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rested and the willows parted to reveal fields turned colorless in the black night. No, instead he was consumed by the images taking his thoughts captive. Evan was transported to another time in a distant past, to another clearing much like this one. But the trees were oak. And torches aided an overcast sky. It was a day of reckoning. Surrounded by white-robed figures, fierce anger was directed at him. It was palpable, righteous and unforgiving. He had sinned and would be punished. He wept, overcome by a crippling fear and grief so torturous his throat closed over it. He was losing everything, including his life. Anguish spilled from his chest, a groan of unrelenting despair. My love, how I have failed you! Redemption is at hand. What? His mind screamed the question. Redemption? Was it possible? Would he be forgiven after all? You have earned your future, Owein. Do not falter now. The winds of evil have not yet ceased to blow. Even as the alien words filled his head, his vision cleared. Unbelievably, he still stood on the same spot, Geline and Fricker watching him curiously as though the episode that had unfolded before him had never occurred. Was he hallucinating? Did he have a moment of insanity, or had the very fabric of his eternal life been revealed to him? Disoriented, he felt as though he had been spinning round and round and had come to a sudden stop. He lifted a shaking hand to his brow. His head pounded sickeningly. Evan suspected he was on the verge of rejecting what was left of his evening meal. He swallowed on bile. Geline was the first to break the silence. “You look unwell, Brother. Perhaps you should have taken the brandy.” “This is a mistake,” Evan said, a sense of danger truly alarming him at last. “I should have stayed abed.” “Come, Rutherford,” Fricker said, approaching. “What’s the harm in talking?” “Stay where you are, both of you.” Evan feared the nausea was near to overtaking him. The man halted, but his gaze had narrowed. Evan looked past him to Geline. Despite his warning, his sister had also taken several steps forward, but her manner was expectant as if she were waiting for something. Waiting for what? He glanced over his shoulder to locate the mare, and as he did, he sensed Fricker bending down. Damn! The horse had wandered out of range, making escape more difficult. Hardly mattered, for as Evan turned back, he realized his mistake.

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The man was rushing him, wielding a stubby tree branch. Where had that come from? Before the viscount could react, his assailant reared back, delivering him a forceful blow to the temple. His legs collapsed. Stunned, Evan landed forcefully on his knees, the gray beginning to descend once again. Only this time, it wasn’t a mirage stealing his sight. This was real, very real. In that brief moment between awareness and oblivion, he raised his eyes to his twin as she moved toward him. Her features were distorted to his fading gaze and thus grotesque. “Why?” he whispered. If she answered he never knew. His vision dimmed completely and he cast forward, landing with a thump on the hard earth. After that his chaotic mind went still.

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Chapter Twenty-One Rap, rap, rap. Brenna thrashed impatiently under the covers, ignoring the persistent sound. Go away, she pleaded silently from the comfort of a compelling dream. I’m sleeping, can’t you see? The rapping came again, and with a start she was roused to consciousness. Dazed, she lay unmoving, trying to gain her bearings. What had awakened her? Again the rapping, and at last she was able to identify its source. Someone was knocking on the door. She sat up and leaned over to speak to her husband. He was gone. “Just a moment,” Brenna called. She climbed off the bed, hurriedly pulling on a wrapper, all the while wondering what had happened to Evan. Perhaps it was he in the hall. Had he locked himself out? She shoved her feet into slippers, dashed across the room, and threw open the door. “Oh!” She could not contain her surprise, but she tried not to let her disappointment show. Riley stood on the threshold, hat in hand. “Milady,” he said by way of greeting. “Riley, what are you doing here this time of night. It must be very late—” She glanced over her shoulder into the room, seeking the clock on the mantle. “What time is it anyway?” “Half past two,” the servant answered. Brenna brought her gaze back to him, brows pinched in a frown. “I’m sorry to waken you, milady, truly I am. But I’m worried.” He did indeed look worried as he plucked at the hat he held. “What is it?” “Lord Rutherford left on an errand some time ago, and he hasn’t returned.” The gravity of his expression made her heart thump heavily in response. “He’s not here, true. But why do you think that’s reason for worry?” “Can’t say exactly. It’s more a feeling than anything. But he seemed unhappy about whatever he had to do. His lordship—” He paused abruptly. “Yes?” Brenna hoped she didn’t sound as impatient as she was beginning to feel. “He started to say something about his sister but then changed the subject.” “That’s why you’re worried? He made mention of Lady Evangeline?” “Not entirely, no. But it did get me to thinkin’.” The servant blew a puff of air through his lips. “As I was returning home—I’d been visiting a friend—I happen to see his lordship’s sister and that Fricker fellow riding out on horseback.” 187

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Uncertain why, Brenna felt her pulse stutter. “Go on.” “It’s more puttin’ two and two together, I think. I see Lady Evangeline then Lord Rutherford makes mention of her. Wouldn’t bother me so much if it were just his sister. But I don’t like Fricker. Something about him makes my flesh crawl.” You’re not the only one. Now breathless, Brenna said, “Do you think my husband had a meeting with them?” “Wouldn’t know, but it seems likely given what I saw.” “Yes it does. Where do you think they went?” The servant raised his brows at her as if she were missing the obvious, and in that moment Brenna felt a true stab of fright. “My God! The willow grove?” “Seems a logical guess.” “Why does that frighten me so?” His look was knowing and almost sad. “That’s a place where the wicked gather, milady. Can’t imagine anything good happening there.” “As you say.” She plucked at his sleeve. “I don’t know the way to the grove.” “I do.” Sudden relief made her gasp. “You do?” He nodded. “Spent one long and miserable night watching people do things no God-fearing folk should ever be part of.” Brenna wanted to ask why he had been in attendance at one of those ghastly assemblies but feared she knew the answer. He was, after all, her husband’s man. If the Evan of old had demanded he be there—most likely to make certain his drunken master made it home safely—then Riley would have had no choice but to do as he was told. “Will you escort me?” she asked. He looked taken aback. “I was more asking your permission to go find him myself, milady. Actually, what I’d really been hoping was that you knew where he’d gone, and I was worrying for nothing.” “I wish I could ease your mind. But now that I’m aware, you can’t leave me here to fret all by myself. I’ll go daft.” “It’s not safe.” “If I’m not safe in your company, a big strong man like you, then safety is an illusion.” An ironic twist to his mouth, he clearly was not falling for her flattery. “Milady—” “Right then,” she continued in a rush, “we’ll take Othello. Surely, we’ll be safe with him along.” “Lord Rutherford will have my hide if anything happens to his lady.” He was wavering.

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Brenna smiled at him. “You’re a good man. My husband is most fortunate in his people.” “He’s had to earn it,” he said, his gaze unflinching. “It wasn’t always so.” “I know.” She touched his sleeve again. “Will you take me?”

***** “We’re likely to get wet before the night’s over.” Riley spoke to his mistress from the driver’s seat of the buggy he drove. Their transportation was not luxurious, but it was well suited to the rough dirt path they were required to follow once they’d left the main road. Brenna gazed up at the sky over their heads. “Does seem to be the case.” Stars, visible only an hour earlier, were now obscured by gray clouds that boiled with the promise of torrential weather. Lightning flashes along the horizon did little to illuminate the dark that was as suffocating as it was impenetrable. She wondered how the servant was able to find his way without so much as a shred of light to guide them. “I’m glad Othello’s here. He’ll help us find our way home if we get lost.” She placed her arm around the neck of the mastiff where he sat wedged between the two humans on the bench of the one-horse buggy. The dog rewarded her with a doggie kiss that left her cheek sopping. Riley turned toward her, but she sensed his doubtful expression rather than actually seeing it. “Don’t know, milady. Our Othello’s a homebody. Don’t believe he’s ever had to find his way anywhere. And I can tell you for certain he don’t like to be wet. We may have brought along a liability.” An enormous, hairy liability. Brenna sighed. “Wish I could see where we’re going.” At least she now understood in which direction the willow grove lay with regard to Covington. They had veered off the main avenue, taking a left turn onto a primitive road not five minutes after leaving the earl’s estate. However, as on her last journey over this rutted path she soon lost her bearings. Only this time she was coming from the opposite direction, traveling deeper into the countryside rather than out of it. “Do you think my husband’s in danger?” Brenna asked, vocalizing the fear uppermost on her mind. “I expect he’s all right, milady.” Brenna heard the false note in his voice as he tried to reassure her. He was no more certain than she. But then she should have realized that before she posed the question. After all, were they not abroad in the middle of the night—at Riley’s instigation— accompanied by a dog the size of a small horse, in danger of drowning in a deluge?

*****

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The pain in Evan’s head had a sinister quality, slicing down the side of his face, pooling behind one eye, making the act of clenching his teeth an agonizing experience. He was aware of lying flat, a hard surface beneath his back. Wind buffeted him, coming in gusts. He felt cold. Despite an intense desire to remain ignorant to the world beyond his shuttered lids, he forced his eyes open. He looked directly into a darkened sky that churned overhead. The occasional raindrop splashed him. At once his gaze shifted anxiously. Where was he? The viscount tried to sit up, but he was restrained in some way. What the hell? Now he struggled in earnest, frustration and fear making his efforts more violent. “It will do you no good to fight.” He jerked his head sideways toward the voice. Evangeline stood several feet from him, the wind whipping her black hair in a tangle around her shoulders. She held an oil lamp with a glass shade, and the wildly flickering flame shining up into her face gave her a macabre appearance. He lay waist-high to her and, as he gathered his bearings, Evan realized he was lashed to the stone altar with hemp rope, arms and legs akimbo, wrists and ankles tied down, preventing all but the most feeble movement. Cold, he glanced to his body, dismayed to see his shirt had been removed. He was too stunned to make sense of it. “Geline, what are you doing?” His voice came out in a croak. His sister smiled, a strange little smile that shot a chill of misgiving through his gut. “Righting a wrong,” Geline said. She’s insane. The truth hit him like a blow as he watched an unholy delight alter her expression. When had that happened? When had his twin gone from simply being eccentric to being mentally unbalanced? In that instant, though nothing else was clear to him, Evan realized he had made a grave mistake. He had underestimated her anger toward him and might pay dearly because of it. His thoughts turned to Brenna, and he felt a moment’s desperation. “What wrong are you righting, Geline?” She moved closer, the smile disappearing. “Don’t play the innocent with me, Brother. I know you, remember? I knew you before, and I know you now.” “All right, you know me. But I still haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.” Evan saw Fricker enter his field of vision, coming to stand behind his sister. However, the man held back, allowing Geline to have her say. It suddenly occurred to him that his former “friend” was most likely not the one who had called this meeting. “Haven’t you been listening to me?” Geline asked, voice shrill. “I’m talking about bringing my brother back.” The chill in his belly returned. “I am your brother.” “Don’t you dare defile his memory by pretending to be who you are not!”

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“Be reasonable, Geline.” He found himself struggling again, but the rope was rubbing painfully against the exposed flesh of his torso. His wrists already felt raw. “Who else could I be if not Evan Richmond?” She moved closer, raising the lamp higher and spreading the light. “Now would be the time to confess to your sin.” “My sin?” “Reveal thyself and seek mercy.” He sent a panicked gaze to Fricker. “What in God’s name is happening here?” Fricker moved forward out of the darkness, the glow of the lamp exposing him. His expression was ironic but nonetheless detached. “This is Lady Evangeline’s affair. I am here for moral support only.” “Moral?” Evan flung the word at him. The man held his hands up as he shrugged. “View it any way you wish, Rutherford.” Geline placed the lamp on the altar next to Evan’s head and turned up the wick, temporarily blinding him. She leaned over, brushing a lock of hair off his brow. “Oh, Evan,” she whispered, “I cannot wait for you to come back to me.” “Is that what you believe is going to happen tonight?” he asked quietly. Her eyes locked with his. “Yes.” “Explain where I’ve gone.” “Where ‘he’ has gone. And as to that, you would know better than I.” “I don’t even know what you mean. How could I know better than you?” “And still he pretends innocence,” she said, disgust coloring her words. She straightened. “All right, have it your way. I’m speaking of theft. The stealing of what does not belong to one.” “And I am the thief?” “Yes.” “What have I stolen?” “My brother’s beautiful body,” she said, running her hand lightly across his breast. “The other half of me.” Her gaze, soft and emotional, lingered on his chest. “You don’t understand.” When she looked back at him the softness was gone. “So says the demon.” “The demon? For Christ’s sake, Geline, have you lost your mind?” She grabbed his chin, fingers biting into his flesh. “Tell me something did not happen to you when we were last here, when you were struck down on this altar. Tell me!” He tasted blood as a tooth broke the skin on the inside of his lip. He yanked his head and pulled free of her grip, staring at her in horror. They both knew he had

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changed, but they had come to entirely different conclusions as to what that change meant. “Something happened, yes.” She beamed triumphantly, swinging toward Fricker. “There! I told you, didn’t I?” Fricker’s gaze shifted between the siblings. “I never said something didn’t happen, Geline. What I said was you might not have the right of it.” “Is this the Evan Richmond you knew?” she cried, jabbing a finger at her brother. The man looked at the viscount for several moments before responding. “No,” he said slowly. “No, he’s not.” “And you agreed we must rectify the situation.” Again, Fricker’s response was measured. “Yes, if it’s possible.” “Possible is an attitude. I say it can be done. We must cast the demon out.” “There is no demon,” Evan interjected, appalled. “Oh there is, a filthy creature who is a master at dissembling. But he hasn’t tricked me. I see him clearly.” “It was a cleansing, Geline. Not the other way around. In my heart of hearts I pray the filth is gone. I’m a far better man than I was.” She slapped his face. Hard. His cheek stung from the blow, eyes watering. However, he did not look away. If it was her desire to cow him, a show of fear would not help him now for, despite her outrage, he sensed she was not entirely free of fear herself. Neither was Fricker, he decided, his gaze switching back to Geline’s lover. The man’s demeanor was watchful, vaguely apprehensive as if the situation were playing out in a way he had not anticipated or wished. He’s a coward, Evan thought. Ultimately, he’ll protect his own skin. And that might be the viscount’s only hope. Geline reached inside the folds of her robe and extracted a knife. Evan recognized it as the ceremonial dagger used by the congregation. It had a curved blade, approximately twenty-five centimeters long, the hilt encrusted with paste jewels in many colors. A gaudy piece, it had been used to sacrifice small domesticated animals that were later roasted on an outdoor spit and eaten, and for minor bloodletting of the members in pagan ceremonies. Oh how gleefully wicked he and his fellow worshipers had felt, participating in those small rituals. Only recently had Evan come to understand how spoiled and selfindulgent they were, how they had misunderstood followers of an ancient faith who had worshipped the earth and heavens with a simple sincerity that was truly admirable. He didn’t question where the knowledge came from. It felt intuitive, a part of him, as if he had lived and thrived in that primitive culture. He believed he had. And if that were true, regardless of how tonight ended, he would live again. His only regret was that he and Brenna would once more have to find one another through the millennia.

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That thought more than any other made all pain insignificant in comparison to losing her. Now he stared at the knife in his sister’s hand, a strange calmness coming over him. “What ritual are we performing this evening, Geline?” His composure seemed to shake hers. “I’m going to release the demon,” she said. Her voice trembled with emotion. “How do you propose to do that?” “I will let him leave willingly. If he does not…” “Yes?” “I will destroy the vessel.” Despite himself, Evan felt a shiver of apprehension. Again he looked to Fricker. “Was murder on your agenda tonight, Fricker?” The man stepped closer. “Can’t say it was.” He turned to Geline. “You never mentioned killing—” Geline raised the dagger, aiming it at her brother. “Stand back, Jason.” Immediately, Fricker stepped away, holding his hands up in surrender. “All right, love, no need to overreact. Let’s discuss this reasonably.” “There’s nothing to discuss. Tonight I intend to end this charade,” with slow and deliberate care she lowered her arms and placed the tip of the knife on Evan’s sternum, “one way or the other.” Now was the time to distract her, the viscount thought, or he would be dead in minutes, for he had no way of summoning the old Evan or forcing the new part of himself back into oblivion. For good or ill he was convinced the deed was irreversible. Heaven had spoken. “How does one invite a demon to leave, Geline?” Evan asked. “Do you simply tell him what you want, or is there some rite you must perform, smoke and incantations that only he can understand?” Her lips peeled back in a grimace of distaste. “I am not amused. Do you really think it’s advisable to toy with me? You were once a believer. Use your imagination.” “I never believed,” he said dully. Evan felt the knife point as she held it against his skin, her anger adding pressure to the blade. He was fairly certain, without looking, she had drawn blood, whether from carelessness or intent, he did not know. However, he knew she wasn’t bluffing. She believed the brother she had loved all her life had been taken from her, and she was desperate to get him back. He also feared that, whether the old Evan returned or not, the new Evan might not survive this night. “How will you know if he…I am gone.” Again he felt the dagger cut.

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“Haven’t you been listening to me? I know him as I know myself. The lines of your face are different from his. The way you smile,” her voice trembled, “the way you look at me. My brother loved me. You feel the opposite.” He was surprised by a sudden rush of pity. “I don’t hate you, Geline.” “It’s worse than hate. Hate is an emotion I can appreciate.” One lone tear escaped and dripped off her lashes. “You’re indifferent. You no longer care. I’ve become invisible, and if I died tonight all you would feel is relief.” “That’s not true.” But it was, and Evan knew he had not convinced her. And thus he understood the source of her pain. In her entire life only one person had accepted Evangeline as she was, warts and all, and loved her without reserve. Now she was alone and frightened beyond measure because of it. Fricker could not fill the void. He was using her for his own selfish purposes. Geline, being an intelligent woman, was undoubtedly aware of it. Her face hardened again. “Bring my brother back.” “I tell you, I haven’t a clue how I’m to do what you ask, Geline.” “Would you if you could?” “No.” The word slipped out before he could stop it. Though absolutely honest, what a ridiculously stupid answer, he thought. He was a fool and most likely would perish because of it. The last thing she wanted to hear was the truth. “Right then.” Grief contorted her features. “When you awake in Hell, don’t say I didn’t give you a choice.” Geline lifted the dagger once more. Evan thrashed against his restraints, ignoring the coarse rope as it tore at his flesh. If he didn’t get off this damn stone, he was going to die. Brenna! his mind cried out. He must not fail her this time. “Fricker!” he yelled. “Do something, you bastard. She’s insane. Do you think you can escape culpability because you’re not the one wielding the knife?” “Shut up!” Geline said. As Evan had supposed, Fricker’s safety was more important to him than any supposed agenda. The man moved forward again as though he might intervene. Geline swung toward her lover, dagger poised above her head. The scar on her cheek was a vivid slash, accentuating her crazed expression. “I’ll gut him, I swear I will!” She had resorted to shrieking but was beginning to look confused. “You’ll be an accomplice,” Evan said urgently as Fricker hesitated. “Party to the death of a peer of the realm. The gaol for certain, most likely the hangman’s noose.” “Geline, listen to me—” Fricker began. “Nooo!” she wailed. “I have to, can’t you see?”

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Evan had to strain to hear over the wind as it whipped the willows to and fro. The ominous crack of splintering wood rent the night then a dull thud as a heavy tree limb hit the ground somewhere close by. The steady crackle of lightning erupted around them, exposing the grove before plunging it back into darkness. The lamp had long since gone out. Never, however, did his eyes waver from the knife blade as his sister wove it in the air, first pointing it at him then at Fricker—even in the gloom it glinted menacingly. Geline no longer appeared to understand whom she was fighting. Madness had truly taken her. All at once it seemed she came to a decision. His twin took a quick step toward the altar, the hilt of the knife clasped in both hands, the blade pointing downward. She raised her arms. In the illumination of another lightning flash, from the corner of his eye he saw Fricker lunge at her, but Evan was unable to take his gaze off the dagger. He knew he was moments from death. Geline took aim at his chest, and he watched the arc of the blade as it flowed toward him. And then the world stuttered, seeming to slow down. An odd calm drifted over him, infusing his body and mind with a reassurance that belied the danger now confronting him. All around him was chaos, but he was no longer part of it. If he “died” this night, he knew a decision had been made by powers far greater than he. He was at peace with that decision. He hoped Brenna would be. Evan saw Fricker grab Geline from behind. Lord, she was strong! She fought savagely, screaming obscenities, and still the blade fell inexorably toward Evan’s exposed body. Only now, because of the tussle, it appeared he would take the knife in the stomach. A more treacherous cut, he thought idly. It took a long and painful time to die from a gut wound. Why he chose to look away at that crucial moment he did not know. But his gaze centered on the heavens above and, as he watched, a bolt of lightning flashed vertically, streaking toward the ground. Close, it would hit close. Geline had managed to wrest control of the dagger, and she was holding it aloft once more, even as Fricker continued to grab at her arms. Evan opened his mouth to warn the struggling couple. He was too late. The bolt in a stream of liquid fire poured into the grove. And struck the hilt of the knife. Sparks flew in all directions. Agonized screams and a resounding boom followed. And then all was quiet.

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Chapter Twenty-Two Brenna stood at the edge of the clearing in the willow grove. She had run ahead of Riley from where they had parked the buggy, Othello close on her heels. But shock had brought her to a sudden stop as the scene in front of her came into focus. The giant willows were being lashed by the wind, lightning crackling overhead instantly followed by thunder. She heard a branch snap then hit the ground. Fat drops of moisture spattered the night, but that was only a promise of what was to come from the bloated clouds. More frightening than the mayhem from the storm, however, was the spectacle playing out on the other side of the clearing where the altar rested. Unfortunately, when the lightning flashed she would get just enough view to begin putting the picture together. Then darkness would descend once again, and her imagination would take over. Two people were fighting over what appeared to be a knife. And someone was tied to the altar. It required little logic to come to a stunning conclusion. Evan! She took a step into the clearing, stopping abruptly as the grove filled with the blinding energy of a lightning bolt accompanied by a deafening roar of thunder. The resulting shock knocked Brenna helplessly onto all fours. She felt current crackle through the ground beneath her, a stinging sensation that traveled up her extremities and caused her to yelp with pain and terror. Othello yelped as well, dancing over the electrified earth. As the last of the current cleared the ground, the dog whined anxiously. She was aware of Riley’s approach as he called to her, but she had no attention to spare him. The magnitude of what had just happened—surely it could have taken no more than a moment—left Brenna unable to think beyond her own survival, the primal reaction of one on the verge of dying. She felt as if she had been caught in nature’s ruthless fist and carried to the brink of extinction. She shuddered. A fair assessment of what had occurred, she realized, amazed and truly thankful she still lived. Brenna lifted her head, and at once her gaze centered on the field, shrouded in darkness. Memory assaulted her. Now that she could think past the instinctive response of blind terror, she was overcome with dread for the fate of her husband. If anyone near that altar had survived, it would be a miracle. She wanted to wail her panic and frustration. Had they come this far only to ultimately fail? At that moment Riley reached her side. “Milady! Milady!” he said, dropping quickly to his haunches. He grasped her shoulders from behind as he bent over her.

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“Please, milady, answer me. Are you unharmed?” The servant shook her roughly as he spoke, his concern for her probably making him less gentle than he intended. Brenna could feel hysteria welling in her throat, interfering with speech. “I’m fine,” she forced out. “Go to my husband.” “Where, milady? Where is he? I can’t see him.” As if in answer to the servant’s plea, the heavens lit again and briefly exposed the clearing. Oddly, the lightning must have moved from directly overhead because the thunder now sounded more distant, returning to a mere grumble in the midnight sky. But there had been enough light to momentarily reveal the prone figure on the altar. Two unmoving lumps on the ground were most likely Evangeline and her unprincipled lover. “There!” Brenna whispered urgently, pointing, her voice breaking. “Oh, Riley, I beg you, do not tell me he has been killed.” The big man rose to his feet and moved into the grove. “Wait here.” He trotted away from her and Othello, after a moment’s hesitation, followed him. The occasional flash traced the servant and dog as they traveled across the clearing. The air was filled with the smell of scorched vegetation. A lone tree, close enough to be affected by the lightning, smoldered down one side, casting off sparks and heavy smoke without really burning. The singed bark hissed and popped when touched by the infrequent raindrops. As he reached the other side of the grove, Riley stopped to examine the bodies on the ground, seemingly pausing only long enough to determine neither was the viscount, then moved on to the stone altar. Othello sniffed the bodies as well, his disinterest just as clear. Brenna, watching the duo’s progression, found waiting a sudden impossibility. She bounced to her feet and staggered forward, her momentum propelling her swiftly toward the other side of the clearing. Her head hurt abominably, but she ignored the pain as she prayed all the way, making bargains with her maker, promising never to disappoint him again. Of course, that was an impossibility, but for now all that mattered was Evan’s well-being. She would face her unrealistic vows later. The God she worshipped would understand. Unlike Riley, Brenna did not pause at the bodies of Evangeline and Fricker. In fact, she purposely avoided them both, not caring whether they lived or died. To her way of thinking, they deserved whatever punishment had been meted out to them. The harsher the better. “Does he live?” she asked breathlessly, coming abreast of Riley at the altar. The servant was busy loosening the ropes that held the unmoving viscount captive. Evan’s torso was bare, and a wound was opened on his sternum. Blood seeped from the cut and dripped down his side over his ribs. How could those two miscreants have done such a thing? she wondered, reaching to help. Especially Geline. She loved her brother. Didn’t she? 197

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“Riley?” The servant glanced over at her briefly, his glittery gaze penetrating the gloom. “He breathes,” he said then turned back to the knotted rope. He did not say it, but Brenna heard the “for now” in his terse answer. Until that moment she had been unable to look at her husband directly, terrified she would be staring into his lifeless face. Riley’s words took her breath, and she let out a pent-up sob. It required all her flagging strength to remain standing, for her legs had gone weak with relief. Tears that had refused to come earlier squeezed through her lashes and trickled down her cheeks. They mixed with the heavy drops of rain that fell intermittently. Too dark to truly see Evan’s features, there was no disguising his unconscious state. He showed no signs of wakefulness, limbs loose, body lying flaccid like a cloth doll as Riley and she yanked at the ropes. The viscount’s head lolled to one side. He made no sound. Brenna would have to accept Riley’s assessment of her husband’s condition. “Damn me, why didn’t I think to bring a knife,” Riley muttered. “Some things can’t be prepared for. Did you know what we were facing?” she asked. “Maybe. Not that damnable thunderbolt though. Nothing predictable about that.” Now there was an understatement. His voice was so dry and matter-of-fact, Brenna released an inadvertent burble of laughter. At once aghast, she thought, laughter? Dear Lord, was she losing her mind? “Wait a minute!” She looked down, her gaze traveling over the ground as she circled the altar. “I saw Lady Evangeline and Mr. Fricker fighting over a knife. Perhaps I can find it.” Riley grunted, what she assumed was encouragement but continued his efforts without glancing at her. Within moments Brenna gave up the search, unwilling to waste more precious time looking for the elusive knife. “Oh, Riley, please get these ropes off Lord Rutherford so we can take him home. I’m so frightened for him!” Bless him if her cry didn’t appear to bring the servant extra strength. The tussle suddenly ended as Riley gave one more Herculean jerk, and the ropes loosened enough to be removed. He dragged the viscount free of the restraints and, without pausing, slipped his arms under his master’s body and lifted him off the stone. He swung around, long strides taking him back through the clearing to the buggy. Brenna walked as speedily as she could, occasionally running to keep up. She slipped on a patch of wet earth, instantly righted herself, and kept moving. Her hem was heavy with moisture and mud, and she found herself struggling to continue. She pressed her fingers into a burning ache that had begun in her side, forcing her to stop once as she bent over to catch her breath. Othello, following closely on her heels, stopped also and resumed walking only after she did.

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When she reached the buggy, Riley was already carefully positioning the viscount on the narrow bench of the vehicle. “We’re going to get soaked,” Brenna said, panting. The wind had picked up again, and the impending deluge was no longer in doubt. The big man looked up as if assessing his surroundings. “I think you’re right. Not much we can do about it.” His gaze centered on her. “Can you drive?” “Yes, of course. Why?” “I need to stay with Lady Evangeline. We won’t all fit in the buggy.” Brenna stared at him. “But you can’t!” “His lordship’s sister may have done a terrible thing tonight, but I’m still sworn to protect all the Covingtons, not only the ones I approve of. Let her family decide to support or abandon her.” “She may not even be alive.” Brenna knew how unsympathetic she sounded, but she could not bring herself to care. “True, but I can’t shirk my duty because of a maybe.” Her shoulders drooped. He was right. “If you insist, but I’m the one to stay. You take my husband to safety.” “My lady, I can’t leave you out here alone.” “You have no choice. I don’t know the way back, especially in the dark. Lord Rutherford can’t wait for help if I should become lost. At any rate, I won’t be alone. Othello will stay with me, won’t you, boy?” Othello, resting on his shaggy posterior, jumped to his feet as if in agreement. He yipped, clearly prepared to do his part. Brenna grasped one ear and gently tugged it in gratitude. “Milady, the master will have my head.” “He’s hardly in any condition to protest.” “I was speaking of the father.” Oh, dear. It was true the earl could be formidable when angry. However, she had made up her mind. In the order of important persons, Evan must take precedence. Thus followed two minutes of argument before Brenna grew impatient and insisted Riley do as she bid him. “I shall hold you blameless,” Brenna said. “Now please, we’ve wasted enough time.” “If anything happens to you,” he said mournfully, “you won’t be here to keep that promise.” “Point taken. I’ll try not to let that happen.” Brenna’s gaze shifted to Evan where he lay propped on the bench of the buggy. Her eyes filled again. She loved him as she had never loved another. Against all odds, he had won her over. She still could not believe it. 199

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Only a miracle could have wrought the bond that had developed between them after the grossly inauspicious beginning of their relationship. Unbelievably, once she had hated him, and now all she wanted was to take him in her arms and hug the life back into him. On impulse, she moved to the buggy. She leaned over and touched Evan’s face, pushing back the wet hair that clung to his brow. If he didn’t survive this night she felt quite certain she would perish as well—from a broken heart. “Do not disappoint me, my love,” she whispered brokenly. She pressed her lips to his forehead and breathed in the scent of him. Swallowing the painful lump that rose in her throat, she turned to the servant. “Go now. His life rests in your hands.” Brenna grabbed Othello’s scruff and, with as much dignity as she could muster, marched toward the clearing, towing the dog. She paused and looked over her shoulder. Would this be the last time she saw her husband alive? Her heart sank as the buggy disappeared from sight. Then the rain fell in earnest. Most of the wind had died down, thus the rain came in a steady, oppressive downpour. Within moments she was drenched. Hoping to find some cover from the elements, Brenna trudged onward, kicking through plant debris and mud, that vile stone monstrosity her destination. As she reached the altar, Brenna released the dog and sat down. Resigned and weary, she leaned against its base. The relief was paltry, if at all. “Othello, come,” she said, patting the spot next to her. Her hand flapped in a puddle. “If I’m to sit out the storm, you must help me.” The dog looked as if he must do no such thing, but after a moment, he joined her. He circled several times, clearly hoping to find a dry spot on which to lie. He released what sounded suspiciously like a doggie sigh then flopped. “I know,” Brenna agreed. She leaned over and touched her head to his. “There’s nothing for it. We’ll have to wait.”

***** Evan was floating. There were no thoughts in his head—there was no need to think. Time was meaningless, a concept that had no place in this “now”. Light surrounded him, cozier and warmer than the softest down quilt. He wrapped it around himself, simply content to be. A whisper, seeming to emanate from the gray beyond his restful sanctuary, caught his attention, so faint he wondered if he had imagined it. He ignored the intrusion, certain it was meant to disturb his peace. But the “voice” grew louder, insistent. “What?” he asked irritably. Now he struggled to hear, but the message remained elusive, on the periphery of understanding. His inclination was to give up, to let the joy of nothingness have him. 200

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Why should he continue to fight? What existed for him outside the safety of this moment? Brenna… He sensed a stirring from deep within himself, a painful longing that felt as if it had always been with him. Always. At once memory came, sharp and poignant. “Please,” he pleaded. “Tell me what I need to know.” The breath of eternity settled next to his ear. You are free. Evan opened his eyes. His bedchamber swam before his bleary gaze. He lay on his back with his arms folded neatly over the turned-down covers. Strange, he could not remember having gone to bed. If he had to guess, the purity of the sunlight coming through the open drapes suggested early morning, the beginning of a new day. The beginning of much, much more, he thought, then wondered why he should think such a thing. Someone moved next to him, and he turned his head, suddenly aware of the body curled against his side. The warmth of affection seized him, and he smiled. His wife. Her face was turned toward him, and she looked exhausted, dark purple smudges under her eyes. She lay atop the covers, fully dressed, as though falling asleep there had been an afterthought. Huh. Also strange. He adjusted his position, stiff, as if he had lain without moving for a long time. The mattress shifted with him, jiggling them both, and Brenna’s eyes fluttered open. She stared at him smiling, a sweet blank smile. As the sleep drifted from her gaze, she jerked up on one elbow. “Evan! You’re awake!” She sat upright and grabbed his face, kissing him repeatedly, first on one cheek and then the other. “I’m so glad to see you.” Her voice had grown thick with emotion. He gave her a bemused grin and pulled back to look at her. “And I you. But what’s happened?” As he spoke, Evan struggled to sit up also, however a sharp pain over his breastbone forced him to abandon the effort. “Ow! What the hell?” A quick inspection as he drew open the neck of his nightshirt revealed a bandage applied to the middle of his chest. A hint of blood had seeped through the gauze dressing. He glanced at his wife again. “Brenna?” She was watching him closely, expression noncommittal. “You don’t remember?” she asked. “No, dammit. I—” Evan stopped, mind working furiously. All at once he thought perhaps he did recall…at least something. “Last night—it was last night, wasn’t it?” “Night before last.” 201

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“Really? So long?” “Yes.” “I was to meet with Geline and Fricker.” “You did meet with them.” He fought for recall, and slowly a picture came into focus. “In the willow grove?” When she nodded, he said, “Yes, yes, now I remember—oh, my God!” The image of his sister standing over him with a knife, a violent storm threatening in the night sky, filled Evan’s head, a chilling recollection. Unfortunately, beyond that his mind remained stubbornly blank. “Geline had a knife, and she cut me,” absently he patted at the wound on his chest, “but from that moment on…” Evan shrugged to indicate his failing memory. “The grove was struck by lightning,” Brenna said. “That’s why I was unconscious?” “So it seems.” Just like on our wedding night, he thought. How odd. “I imagine that explains the pounding in my head,” he said slowly. At once worried, Evan paused to examine his thoughts, his feelings, his motivations. Had he changed in any way that he could detect, or perhaps—even worse—returned to the man he used to be? For the moment at least, the answer appeared to be no. He breathed an inward sigh of relief. Pray God it remained so. “Jason Fricker was killed,” Brenna continued, apparently unaware of his brief withdrawal. “Your sister and he were fighting over the knife. I think that’s what drew the lightning. At any rate, he was badly burned, so it looks as if he were directly hit. There was nothing we could do.” “We? What do you mean we?” “I was in the willow grove when it happened.” “The hell you were! What were you doing there?” “Riley came to me when you didn’t return home. Said he had a bad feeling and wanted to see if I knew something, if I could reassure him that you were all right. I couldn’t, of course. I didn’t even know you were gone,” she added accusingly. “I’ll have Riley’s hide,” he said, ignoring that last. “Oh no, you won’t. I insisted he take me along. I promised you wouldn’t punish him for my actions. He did try to dissuade me. I can be very stubborn, you know.” “Humph,” he grumbled. He eyed her as another thought struck him. “What of Geline?” His wife refused to meet his gaze, instead reaching for the strings on the neck of his nightshirt and tying them loosely. “We don’t know yet.” “But she lives?” “For now.” 202

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Evan plunked back against the pillows, too shocked to think. Sorrow filled him. His sister, once his dearest friend, how sad it had come to this. Brenna rubbed his arm, sympathy in the touch. He covered her hand with his, acknowledging the gesture. “It would be easier if she had—” He stopped, unable to voice such treachery. He looked at his wife conscience-stricken. “Sorry, I shouldn’t think it, much less say it.” “Don’t feel guilty, Evan. It would be easier, perhaps even for Geline. She’s been as miserable as she’s made the rest of us.” “My mother wouldn’t feel that way.” “Mothers never do.” The rubbing on his arm resumed. “I think I should let your parents know you’ve awakened. They’re very worried.” “In a minute.” He put his arms around her and pulled her down next to him, ignoring the pain in his chest. She snuggled into his embrace. Her body was warm and comforting, and he realized he was loath to let her go, even for a moment. They lapsed into a contemplative silence. “You know, my lord,” she broke the mood, “it’s becoming a bit of a habit for me to be attending you at your bedside.” Evan felt a smile tug at his mouth. “Is it, now?” “Yes, it is. I think we should try another habit, one that has you hale and hardy and on your feet.” “Good idea.” His hand found the small of her back, lips brushing her ear. “Can’t make love to my wife without being hale and hardy.” His voice was husky. “Don’t need to be on my feet though.” Brenna rose up to look at him again. “You are wicked, sir. Thinking of such things when you should be concentrating on getting well.” “Can you conceive of a better way to test one’s strength?” “Evan! Why, I believe you’re serious.” “Indeed I am.” His wife scrambled off the bed. Her eyes were wide with disapproval as she straightened her gown, patted at her hair and slipped on her shoes. She shook her head, lips pursed. “I’m going to save you from yourself,” she crossed the room, still speaking, “and in the meantime, I’ll reassure Lord and Lady Covington they have no reason to worry about their son.” Brenna opened the door and paused at the threshold to look at him. Her gaze took on a glint of mischief. “Tonight we’ll see if you are as well as you profess. Gather that strength you speak of, my lord. You’re going to need it.” She blew him a saucy kiss then gently pulled the door into place. All right, tonight then. He’d spend the day in pleasurable anticipation. And when the sun went down he’d be ready. Hale and hardy, by God. Evan settled back into the

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pillows and grinned. His beautiful bride was in for the surprise of her life, lightning bolt or no.

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Epilogue

England—May, 1843 Brenna exited the French doors leading to the garden. There was a lightness in her step today, aided by the pleasure of a balmy afternoon. A cloudless sky, a gentle breeze that felt like silk flowing across the skin and new vegetation covering every inch of soil for miles—for what more could one ask? She inhaled a breath filled with the verdant scent of that new vegetation and sighed blissfully. She loved springtime. Lifting the hem of her skirt, Brenna moved toward the two women taking sun on the terrace at the end of the walk. “How is our patient today?” she asked as she came abreast of the pair. From her seat on the stone bench, Mary’s steady gaze met hers. “No change, my dear. We are as we have been.” She patted the place next to her. “Sit.” Brenna made a sympathetic sound as she joined her mother-in-law on the bench and turned her attention to the other woman who sat across from them. Evangeline occupied a wheeled bath chair, hands crossed sedately in her lap, no doubt positioned there for her. Wearing a plain, high-necked cotton gown, her hair was tucked inside a straw bonnet. The scar on her cheek miraculously had faded to a fine white line and, in years to come, with a dusting of powder, would probably be nearly invisible. She was still beautiful, and because her powerful personality no longer influenced her expression, she looked years younger than her actual age—and oddly sweet. Didn’t matter, however, for Evangeline most likely would never care one way or the other. Her body was here, soaking up rays from the sun, but where her mind had gone was anyone’s guess. And so it had been since she had returned from the willow grove many months before. Her stare was as blank and unanimated as the night she had tried to kill her brother. Not once since then had she shown a spark of recognition or tried to communicate in any way. Why she continued to breathe was a mystery, one the doctors had failed to unravel. It happened on rare occasions, they said. No one knew why. Hence, the family must live with that unsatisfactory explanation. Evan had his own ideas as to what had happened to his sister. “She’ll not be back, not as she was,” he had told his heartsick parents. “If she ever wakens, be prepared to greet someone else, for the Geline we’ve known won’t return until she’s atoned for her sins. And that will not be in our lifetimes.”

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He never elaborated on his cryptic remarks to anyone save his wife, and strangely, no one asked. To Brenna he poured out his innermost thoughts, what he believed had happened to him—and Geline—and why. Had Evan and Brenna known each other in another, distant life as he maintained? Had he committed a transgression so severe that only now he was being forgiven? Most intriguing question of all, had he been given the body he now inhabited as a reward and the soul of the old Evan cast out to seek his own salvation? There was no way to know for certain. And Brenna didn’t care because knowing was merely an exercise in satisfying curiosity. It changed nothing, made no difference to her situation. As long as Evan remained as he was now, kind and honorable and loving, her world was a hopeful, blessed place to be. She could ask for no more. Mary reached over and touched Brenna’s arm, bringing her back from her reverie. “Too lovely a day to be morbid,” the older woman said. “Agreed.” Her mother-in-law’s gaze was focused on some distant scene, thus her next words took Brenna by surprise. “Have you told my son about the baby?” “Beg pardon?” The smile Mary turned on her was shrewd, knowing. “Your secret is not a secret.” Blood rushed to Brenna’s face. “There’s no secret. I’ve been unsure until this morning. How could you possibly know when I didn’t?” The woman laughed softly. “I suppose I didn’t know, not for certain. However, you’ve just confirmed my suspicions. Let me be the first to tell you how very pleased I am.” “Thank you. But…why were you suspicious?” “You’ve been a little under the weather lately, a bothersome stomach, headaches, which you’re not prone to. Yet there’s been a glow about you, and this morning you nearly danced your way to the terrace. Looked as though you were bursting with some monumental news.” At once shy, Brenna said, “I didn’t want to say anything until I was positive. Miscalculations can be the source of much disappointment.” Mary patted Brenna’s arm again. “Disappointment should be shared. It’s easier to bear that way. At any rate, unless I miss my guess, you’re past the point of miscalculation. Tell Evan, dear. It’s safe to share your news.” Perhaps the man in question knew he was being discussed, for at that moment the French doors opened, and her husband appeared on the step. He was lean and fit, so handsome, exuding such newfound generosity and warmth that, as she looked at him, Brenna felt a rush of gratitude. Across the distance her eyes locked with his, and she was inordinately pleased by the look of delight that lit his features. He struck out toward the terrace, his steps purposeful. 206

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When he reached them, he leaned down and kissed his mother’s cheek. “Beautiful day, beautiful ladies. What a pleasure!” He winked at Brenna before his attention shifted to Evangeline. The spark of enthusiasm in his gaze dimmed. “Unfortunate some of us can’t enjoy it.” “I have faith she’ll return one day,” his mother said. “I know, Mother,” Evan said gently. They all fell silent, and after a moment, Mary twitched her skirts, an impatient gesture. She stood up, briskly moving behind Geline’s chair and taking hold of the handles. “Sit down, Evan, and join your wife. This is a day of celebration. As I’ve told Brenna, we’ll not ruin it with unpleasantries.” She started maneuvering the chair toward the walk. “Let me do that—” Evan began. Mary pushed past him. “Absolutely not. I’m old, not enfeebled.” As she spoke, she glanced to the house and waved. Now the earl had come outside. “Your father will help me.” Basil stood just beyond the doors, beaming at his family as Mary wheeled Evangeline toward him. Othello, as always, was only a step behind him. “Having a party without me?” he called. “Ho, Father, we wouldn’t dare,” Evan returned. Her husband sounded jovial, in the best of spirits, and Brenna felt her own spirits rise in response. Every day with him was a gift. She still couldn’t believe her good fortune. A year ago she had been certain her life was over, that happiness would forever be beyond her grasp. She had accused God of forsaking her. Now she spent her days in humble apology for her lack of faith. Basil met Mary halfway down the walk, took over the pushing, and the two escorted their invalid daughter inside. Now alone, Evan took Brenna’s hand, threading his fingers through hers. “Geline’s most fortunate. Despite all, my parents will not abandon her.” “Basil and Mary are wonderful people,” Brenna agreed. “Sad Geline will never know of their loyalty.” “Not true. On some level she knows. I believe that.” “Perhaps you’re right. If I’ve learned one thing this last year, it’s never to be absolutely certain about anything.” “Not entirely true either.” He squeezed the hand he held, gaze warm and sincere. “You can be certain I love you. Absolutely.” Brenna looked down at their clasped hands. “The miracle of which never ceases to amaze me.”

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“You stole my words, exactly,” he said in a husky voice. “I’ve taken you to the depths of hell, and my only punishment is to have my heart’s desire.” “But there’s the difference. I was not the heart’s desire of the man I married and surely he was the one with whom I sojourned in hell. How fortunate for me you came along.” He laughed, a deep-throated laugh. “You know, I’ve been thinking we should try that little ceremony again. You deserve an eager groom. I promise I can do that now.” Her eyes misted over. “Oh, Evan…” “Now, now, don’t get weepy on me. It’s just a suggestion.” “A lovely one.” He cleared his throat. “Yes, well, what are we celebrating?” “Excuse me?” “Mother said this was a day of celebration.” “Oh. She did, didn’t she?” As she returned his look, Brenna felt an eruption of sheer joy course through her body. All at once she wanted more than anything to unburden herself, for she had the best of all secrets to share. And she knew Evan would be as elated as she. She pecked him on the cheek, a coy smile touching her lips. “What?” he asked suspiciously. Brenna slipped her arm through his, pulling him to his feet. “Let’s walk, shall we?”

***** Owein in his new guise has saved the earthly existence of the viscount, thus saving his eternal self in the bargain. Alas, there will be no salvation for Geline. Not yet…

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About the Author Cynthia Wicklund has been “writing” stories long before she put pen to paper—or fingers to keyboard. A voracious reader, her earliest love was fairy tales, until she read her first Georgette Heyer novel and fell in love with the Historical Romance. She admits to a fondness for urban fantasies and things that go bump in the night. Now, when she’s not writing either Historicals or paranormals, she’s creating stories that combine the two. Cynthia makes her home in Texas with her family and a tribe of rat terriers, rascally fur babies who could use a little quality time with the Dog Whisperer. Cynthia welcomes comments from readers. You can find her website and email address on her author bio page at www.ellorascave.com.

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