The Mist Of Midnight

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New Concepts Publishing www.newconceptspublishing.com Copyright ©2004 by Michelle M. Pillow First published by New Concepts Publishing, April 2004 NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

The Mists of Midnight by Michelle M. Pillow © copyright April 2004, Michelle M. Pillow Cover art by Eliza Black, © copyright 2004 New Concepts Publishing 5202 Humphreys Rd. Lake Park, GA 31636 www.newconceptspublishing.com

Chapter One

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Rothfield Park, England, 1812 "My heart pounded in a violent fit! And the child, she would not quit screaming,” exclaimed Jane Drake to her oldest and most treasured sister. Her round eyes echoed the power of her conviction as they shone through the glass frames of her spectacles. “I swear to you, Imogen. It was real! There are unrested spirits at Rothfield Park!" Jane's usually meek expression was pale fright. Absently, she pushed her sliding spectacles up her nose. Her pink linen gown flowed as she walked, reflected in the flush of her rosy cheeks. The high empire waist was belted with a dark pink sash and ribbons of matching fancy bound up her dark brown hair. Despite the richness of her gown, Jane had an indifferent air to her, an untidiness that was rather endearing. "It was a dream,” returned Imogen calmly. She sighed, her concerned blue eyes meeting her sister's wide brown ones. Jane was such a sweet girl. Imogen loved her dearly. However, her bookish sister had something of a wild imagination when it came to Rothfield Park. Imogen had half a mind to rebuke the servants for telling the girl such fanciful tales upon their family's arrival. Patting her sister's white cheek with a soft, kidskin glove, she whispered, “Oh, Jane, we have let Rothfield Park for nigh six whole months. If there were spirits lurking about the manor they would have made themselves known before now." "But I think theyare making themselves known. I have heard them about this week past,” insisted Jane. “I know there is more than one of them. There is the terrified child. And a man—" "Jane, I will hear no more. Quit trying to frighten me.” Imogen shivered, disliking the supernatural talk. She had no idea why Jane was so apprehensive lately, but it needed to stop. Then an idea struck Imogen. “Did you just read that newshilling shocker novel that Harriet sent to you from London?" "Yes. But, I—” began Jane. "Shhh,” hushed Imogen. “Therein lies your problem. You have been staying up late reading in bed, have you not? And to waste such a gifted mind on such rubbish!" Jane meekly nodded at the loving correction. Imogen smiled at the young girl and gave her an impish wink. Jane was only sixteen and still very impressionable. Harriet loved to exploit the youngest Drake's fancies by giving such gifts. Satisfied that her sister's fears were for naught, Imogen relaxed. "You had best be careful speaking of such things, especially to mother. She will have Reverend Campbell here in an instant to exorcise this house from demons,” Imogen paused to stare with wide-eyed impishness. “Can you imagine such a thing? The Scotsman would—" "Imogen, please,” broke in Jane before her sister could say aught that would insult the poor vicar. “He is a man of God." "He is a self-righteous prig who I believe is taken to drink.” Imogen's prettily coiffured hair tossed around her head in gentle, dark curls, the fine muslin of her blue and cream gown swishing as she moved past her sister to the sideboard. Seeing the customary tray of pastries her parents had the servants set out for breakfast, she ignored the

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stacked plates, chose one and took a bite, leaning over the tray and using her gloved hand to catch any crumbs that fell ... Jane frowned and turned her head away. A maid, seeing her rushed forward with a shake of her head. Grabbing a plate, she held it under the crumbling pastry. Imogen sighed. With a heavenward roll of her eyes, she relinquished the pastry to the fine china. The maid rushed the plate to the table, pulling back a chair for her mistress. Imogen dusted her gloves and waved the woman away with an annoyed toss of her hand. The maid backed from the room with a polite curtsey. "Imogen,” began Jane when they were once again alone. “Please, you must believe me. There was a child in my chamber yestereve. I could hardly sleep from the fright of it." "Oh, my most prudent sister, I would believe you if the idea were not so fantastic a notion. But I think I would rather be more apt to believe you if you were to say my horse grew another set of legs over night. This house is not haunted. And, hate the isolation of Rothfield as I do, I cannot give credence to such a conception." "You think me a silly girl, do you not?” asked Jane. "No, sweet Jane,” Imogen answered. She smiled tenderly, a look saved only for her young sister. Jane was her truest friend. Viscount Sutherfeld, their father, had moved his three daughters far from London and the influence of high London society, believing it had been breeding insensible ideas into the girls’ heads. The middle sister, Harriet Drake, was the first to protest to their Aunt Mildred so that the old woman took pity and invited her to stay in her home in London. Once a month they would receive a dutiful letter from Harriet gloating about the fine society she was keeping and her hopes of snagging a suitable and reliably rich husband of consequence. The thought brought a frown to Imogen's features. Jane looked at her in wonder. "I do not think you are silly,” asserted Imogen. “I think you are bored, as you must be in such a place as this. Too bad a regiment of soldiers will not come to stay in Haventon so that we might for once give a suitable ball." "I do not mind it so much,” allowed Jane softly, who had only been out for one season. That one season was enough to convince the littlest Drake she would much prefer to stay in the country. Scratching thoughtfully at her mousy brown hair, she pushed her spectacles up on her nose. “I should not like it with Aunt Mildred. I do hate having to make conversation with such men as are at balls. I never know what to say to them, and they never seem to be listening to me unless I speak of you or Harriet." "You do say the strangest things,” Imogen mused. Deciding it best to change the subject, Jane forgot about her ghosts for a moment. Shyly, she acclaimed, “You look very prettily done up, Imogen. Is Mr. Tanner coming to call on you?" "Yes,” smiled Imogen forgetting her depression instantly with the name of her most gallant suitor. Sighing, she instantly thought of his dark blonde hair and laughing brown eyes. Her Edward was always in such fine spirits that it was impossible to think of anything contrary to happiness. “He is. I am sure that he will seek permission of father soon. And though he has not a lot of money, I think with my dowry and his smart investing, we will be reasonably well off. Already I have expressed my desire to go to London and Bath. And I have it on good authority that he might have expectations of his own, though he would not

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tell me the exact details." Jane tried to smile, but couldn't. She did not want to think of Imogen leaving her. Hesitantly, she inquired, “And what of the Colonel? He seems very smitten." "Colonel Wallace?” shot Imogen in surprise. Her hand fluttered to her chest. “Please, Jane! Whatever made you think of the Colonel?" "It is just when you were sleeping this morning he came to visit with father. I do not flatter myself that he came for me,” said Jane. Imogen did not see her sister's jealous blush as she turned to glance out the side window overlooking the front drive of the house. The long, straight graveled road disappeared into the distance, hiding all of their neighbor's homes from sight. Along each side of the drive were numerous shrubs, sculpted to perfection. "Is he still here?” asked Imogen, hating that she might be forced to entertain the quiet man. He was as sparing with his smiles as he was his praise. She should abhor such a man as he for company, let alone husband. The only thing recommending Colonel Wallace besides the fact that his uncle was the owner of Rothfield Park, and in essence their landlord, was that he was rich in his own right. Once the Colonel's uncle died, he would come into even greater wealth. But what was wealth if it brought with it no happiness? Imogen shivered. "No, I believe he must have gone away by now. But father wished me to send you to him when you were of a mind to come from your room. I suppose I should have told you right off, but I wanted you to myself before he put you in a mood." "It is not father who I find to be disagreeable. It is mother.” Imogen glowered naughtily as she walked past her sister to the large paneled doors. Resting her gloved hand on the mahogany, she grumbled, “Too bad she could not have gone to London with Harriet. Mayhap, you should speak to her and get her to go. I should like the country better if she were not in it." Jane did not bother to scold. Instead she smiled. Her eldest sister and mother were rarely on speaking terms. It was not unusual for sennights to pass with nary a word uttered between the two. Imogen turned around to face her. "If it would please you, we can exchange rooms. I swear I have never heard so much as a single moan in my chamber,” said Imogen. Jane's eyes lit up. “But that is because my room is in the section of the house that was rebuilt after the fire. I am sure something tragic happened that night. I would very much like to help the poor child." "Nonsense,” broke in Imogen. She refused to pay heed to such things as ghosts. “But, we will trade, if it will help you to sleep easier." "Yes, thank you,” gushed Jane. Imogen nodded, forgetting the bothersome business as soon as she left the dining room. Rothfield Park was an old estate, having been renamed for the Marquis of Rothfield who, in some sixty years past, had restored and expanded the estate to one of grandeur and good taste. Soon after having finished the very last detail of the very last room, however, a fire had mysteriously alighted and burned down a good section of the house. The flames were said to have killed a few servants and a child. It was also rumored that the meticulous Marquis went mad at having all his work destroyed and soon after died

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himself, leaving the estate and title to a cousin—Colonel Wallace's uncle. No wonder Jane believes this house haunted,thought Imogen in hard-pressed amusement. She barely gave credence to the story of the house. She assumed it was exaggerated for the sake of bored country folk.How else are the good people of Haventon going to get the high society of London to visit them way up north in the middle of nowhere? Still, even Imogen had to admit that, for the generously lenient price they paid for the letting of the house, it was a wondrous place. She could not understand why the Marquis would have built it in such an area, but nevertheless appreciated his eye for fine detail, from the tall white walls of the main hall, trimmed and outlined with fine mahogany, to the expansive archways and shutters of the same wood, to the pristine marble floors of the adequately sized ballroom. Only a few of the pieces of furniture had arrived with the Drake family, the aged lines oddly out of place with the fine, understated elegance of the furnishing that belonged with the house. The gentle curves of the Rothfield furniture collection were of an older style, not the fine Palladian style of modern day, but were still very gracious and befitting of a great estate. Rich tapestry lined the chairs and settees. Candleholders and fireplaces, sweeping draperies and finely paned windows, all graced their proper places, and strewn along the carved stone mantles and wooden tabletops were an immense variety of vases, sculptures and clocks. Large portraits of people and dogs lined the vast walls, hung on damask and Genoa velvet. Their clothing was antiquated and their faces unrecognizable so that Imogen found they were hardly worth looking at except out of boredom. Along the east wing were the bedrooms, each large and fine to behold. Imogen imagined that they were not so fine as they should have been, belonging to a Marquis, but they were well enough for the Drake family's needs. The bedrooms had fireplaces and huge four poster beds, potted plants and sturdy furniture. Drawing rooms and dressing rooms adjoined each one. The house was built in the shape of a ‘U', with a paved courtyard and working fountain in the center. Beyond the house were the dense woods fanning in one direction—great for hunting deer her father claimed, though he never hunted—and through the woods a stream. Between the house and woods were beautiful landscaped gardens, not so well manicured as one would desire, but adequate still. There was a beauty to the untamed vining of roses in the spring and summer, and to the broken cobblestone pathways that led around the grass covered grounds, turning to earthen byways as they twisted through part of the woods. There, various plants and flowers grew—some of them wild. Their bright colors dotted the land and added sweet fragrance to the air. Often in the morning hours the land would look foggy with an early mist that gathered in the night. It was not so unusual an occurrence since they were so close to Scotland. However, the mist only added to the servant's superstitious fears and often they would warn about venturing out in it too late at night or too early in the dawn. Imogen laughed at such warnings, shaking her head in tolerant bemusement. Turning her steps to the library where her father could usually be found, Imogen took a deep breath and patted her hair. As she reached for the door, it opened. To her dismay, she came face to face with Colonel Wallace. Realizing he saw her, she curtsied. Her gaze barely moved over his rigid face and what Imogen believed to be a constantly disapproving countenance. "Colonel Wallace,” she acknowledged with a polite nod of her head. She refused to smile at him, not wanting to encourage any misplaced affection he might have developed for her.

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"Miss Drake,” he returned in his usual curt fashion. “I was hoping to meet with you this morning." "Oh,” said Imogen. She looked away. With forced airiness, she claimed, “I cannot imagine what for!" "It is my wish to be allowed to call on you this evening, before supper of course,” said the Colonel. His tone was hard and matter-of-fact, leaving no room for doubts of his intentions. He speaks to me as if I was one of his men to be ordered about!thought Imogen in disgust. Flippantly, she responded, “Well, alas, good sir, it cannot be my wish. My afternoon is already promised to another. I believe you have been introduced to Mr. Tanner?” Imogen waited for his reluctant nod. Smiling, she said, “I thought as much." Before she could continue, the Colonel broke in politely, “Most unfortunate for me. Your parents, however, have invited me to dine tonight and I should be happy to speak with you at that time. Good day, Miss Drake." "Good day, Colonel,” she answered with a curtsey to match his bow, unable to do otherwise after such an abrupt dismissal. Shaking her head, she waited until he was let out the front door before turning to join her father. "Ah, Imogen!” exclaimed the Viscountess, Lady Sutherfeld. She beamed a most gracious smile as she stood from a low chair. Imogen eyed her mother's good humor with a sense of foreboding. Nodding, she acknowledged, “Mother. Father." "Come in, Gennie, come in,” Lord Sutherfeld said with a merry wave, favoring his eldest daughter with a delighted smile and motioned her toward a chair. Imogen seated herself dutifully. As she watched, her father cleared his throat and then turned to some of the papers on his desk. Gathering them up, he organized and stacked them neatly into a pile. Imogen waited patiently as her father went through the ritual of looking busy as he collected his thoughts. Seeing a frown develop the more he collected, she squirmed uneasily. Glancing at her mother's happy blue eyes, she learned nothing from the woman but that she was pleased solely with herself, as was always the case when her mother was concerned. The Viscountess was a pretty woman for her advanced years. And though she was prone to a hearty dislike of her eldest child—whom she blamed for the slight roundness to her figure—she often hid it behind a smiling mask, knowing that many men admired her for her dainty contrivances of pleasure. When her father did not readily speak, Imogen said, “The Colonel has told me you wish him to dine this evening. I wish it were not so for I have already allowed Mr. Tanner to come this afternoon. It was my hope that you would also see fit to allow him to dine." "Well, of course we would not wish to appear inhospitable to your guest,” said the Viscountess. She looked helplessly at her husband, wishing him to deny his daughter's request. When he did not answer, merely continued to gather into thought, the Viscountess uttered, “But, mayhap the invitation would be better if postponed to another night." "I don't see why, mother,” protested Imogen as meekly as she could manage. “Colonel Wallace will

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surely not mind. Already, I have told him of Mr. Tanner's coming today to see me—" "Oh, Imogen!” gasped the Viscountess. “You did no such thing!" "Why, yes, mother. I saw no reason not to. Besides, the Colonel is rather tiresome company and I think that table conversation could be much lightened by what Mr. Tanner has to impart.” Imogen smiled sweetly. Inside she wanted to scream. "I'm sorry to hear you say that,” stated the Viscount before his wife could speak. He saw well the fight brewing between the women. Imogen looked expectantly at her father. The Viscountess looked demurely at her lap. “We will get to the Colonel in a moment. First, I have to discuss something of great discontent to us all—Ms. Martens." Imogen cringed, having completely forgotten her last disagreement with the governess. “Oh, father, you cannot believe that dreadful woman!" "That dreadful woman is the finest governess we could get to come—” started the Viscountess. The Viscount cleared his throat, interrupting his wife. Without glancing at her, he stated, “Ms. Martens was a highly competent woman and you vexed her quiet grievously. She has left her position here as of this morning." Good!thought Imogen. She hid her triumphant smile. It had taken her only two short months to get rid of the insufferable woman. “I wish I could say I was sorry for it, father, but the woman was a bore. And I daresay her French was that of ... lower society." The Viscountess paled at such a thought, but she was for once at a loss for words. "Be that as it may, you need someone to guide you,” stated her father. "I am above the age of needing a governess,” complained Imogen, unable to hide her pout. “I am just turned twenty-one. I am not a child to be led about by the hand." "That has yet to be proven,” mused the Viscount under his breath. Seeing Imogen's stricken face, he stated, “I have decided not to get you another governess." "That's wonderful!” exclaimed Imogen happily. "What?” shot the Viscountess in horror. “My dear, dear lord husband, you cannot mean for me to escort our daughters everywhere? Whenever would I have the time?" "No, my lady,” said the Viscount. His eyes held only a passing fondness for his wife as he looked at her. She was an amiable companion to him, one who had still been blessed with charm and looks even after children. For that he gave small thanks. “I have decided that our daughter needs someone more commanding if they are to properly educate her and not be frightened away by her outspokenness." "Father?” asked Imogen in growing apprehension. "I will hire you a tutor,” stated the Viscount proudly. He beamed with his own cleverness. “I think an educated man is just the thing for our Imogen."

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"But, propriety,” broke in the Viscountess weakly, her face paling with the threat of a swoon. Frantically, she began to fan herself. "Get ahold, my lady,” sighed the Viscount, unaffected by his wife's theatrics. Turning his quick eye back to his daughter, he began, “Mr.—" "Father?” whispered Imogen, not hearing him. The Viscount continued as if she hadn't spoken. "He is beyond reproach. I have here the highest recommendation of his character and have spoken extensively about him with the Colonel. Now, Colonel Wallace has allowed that such a fine character of sound mind and impeccable reputation will not be improper at all, considering Imogen is never alone with such a man in a private atmosphere. And it is my hope that you, my dear Gennie, will learn from him the proper discourse to be had with a gentleman. No more speaking of horseflesh and breeding, do you hear me?" Imogen flinched. Ms. Martens had caught her conversation with Mr. Tanner the week before and had harped endlessly. She should have known the woman would have tattled to her father about it. "And why would the Colonel be involved in such a decision as to my tutor?” inquired Imogen with a frown. Seeing her mother's teary smile, she felt her body weaken. "Colonel Wallace is rather taken with your charms, my dear,” stated the Viscount. "Yes, quite taken,” echoed her mother with a nod of her head. "What are you saying, Father? By all means, speak plainly.” Imogen gripped the sides of the chair, her gloved hands working hard against the rough material. Her cheeks reddened with the threat of anger. "He wishes to marry you, daughter, and I have given him my consent. And it was agreed upon that after some intensive training of your mind and actions, he would claim you for wife and introduce you to his uncle,” answered the Viscount, a bit puzzled by her reaction. “Surely, you know of his feelings?" "No, I do not!” shouted Imogen. "Imogen, your tone!” cried her mother. "I will not mind my tone!” Imogen stood, desiring nothing more than to run away. “You must send him notice at once that you have changed your mind!" "I will do not such thing,” answered her father in a low, calm voice. “A gentleman does not rescind on his word without good cause. And you can forget Mr. Tanner. I will never consent to such a disagreeable man as he." "But, the Colonel? He wishes to change me,” whispered Imogen. Her skin flushed in a mix of anger and mortification. “Am I not suited as I am? He would turn me into a meek and mild plaything?" "You overreact,” stated the Viscount, scowling in displeasure. His tone became hard as he spoke. “We merely wish to see your more desirable traits polished before you are to be a wife. And you will not be entertaining Mr. Tanner tonight or again, unless it is with the Colonel's consent. Mr. Tanner has been a most unwelcome influence over you, Gennie."

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"Youwill receive the Colonel's attentions tonight daughter,” put forth the Viscountess. "I will not!” growled Imogen through clenched teeth. “If he wishes to speak to me he will hear my thoughts. I will not have him. He will be wasting his time for the very character of my person, which he finds so objectionable, cannot and will not be changed. So I beg you, spare the Colonel the embarrassment of asking!" "Will not have him? But he is worth nearly seven thousand a year!” The Viscountess fluttered her hands nervously before her face, hovering between the desire to scold her daughter and the desire to faint. “You could not hope to do much better. And as to change, a wife's place is nothing if not sacrifice." "And, after his uncle passes, he will own Rothfield Park,” put in her father logically. “He will be the new Marquis of Rothfield." Imogen gulped. They were serious! They wanted her to give up her chance at happiness for a man with seven thousand per year and a house whose location she abhorred. "If you don't marry him,” claimed the Viscountess. “I shall never speak to you again. And neither shall your father." "Then I look forward to a long and happy silence!” shouted Imogen in a huff. She rushed through the library door. Seeing Jane's worried face as she passed through the front hall, Imogen met her sister's stricken expression and experienced a moment's regret She refused to cry, running from the house as fast as she could. Ignoring Jane's gentle entreaties, Imogen made her way quickly to the stables. The angry red of outrage and horror stung her porcelain features, burning violently against her skin. Not seeing one groom to help her, she went straight to her mare. Grabbing a set of reins from the stall she fashioned them about the horse's neck. Then, leading the palfrey out into the diffused sunlight, she brought the horse to the stairs so that she could maneuver onto its back with as much incensed grace as possible. Seated without the benefit of a sidesaddle, Imogen nudged the mare and tore off towards the north field where the grass was the most open. The spirited mare bolted forward with a jerk. Imogen, having ridden since the age of four, did not think twice about her wild ride. Her skirts flew behind her, pressing against her legs and fanning over the backside of the horse. When she was well into the field, she discovered she had two choices. Either she could ride out into the clearing, well within view of the library window, or she could ride into the mist, far from the sight of her father's perusal. Imogen chose the mist. Once out of sight, she swung her leg over the mare's back and adjusted her skirts so that she was better seated astride the horse. The mist grew thicker. At first, Imogen didn't notice it. She raced past shrubs and then trees. The mare found an easy path. Its hooves pounded down a gentle incline, through a limb-covered alcove. Imogen reined the mare to a rough stop. She could hear the gentle babble of the nearby stream, but she could not see the water. The horse's hooves pattered nervously. Before her eyes the mist grew, it expanded and thickened until she could not see the trees in front of her. Her eyes rounded in terror. Her head snapped to one side and then another. The trees faded completely, leaving behind a consuming whiteness. The water grew louder until she could not tell from which direction it came. Turning the horse around, she urged the palfrey to move. The horse at first resisted but finally obeyed as she yelled at it to go. Imogen lay down close to the horse's tan back, willing

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it to feel its way home. But the fog only thickened. The horse's movements were slow and cautious. The animal's ears twitched and its head bobbed in agitation. Imogen forced a giggle. Inside she trembled. The flesh on her neck pricked. She hugged closer to the skittish mare. She could feel its hot, sweaty flesh pressing into her gown. As they moved, she watched the white fog, willing her eyes to detect anything familiar. A tree limb passed close to her face. She jolted back in alarm. And then she heard singing, the sweet ringing of a child's voice in play. But the melody was haunted and hard, despite its joyful laughter. It echoed in the trees. At first it was behind her, running through the mist. But as she urged the horse faster, it was beside her, keeping pace with the swift mare. "Play,” she heard the childlike whisper near her ear. Imogen started. Tears poured over her cheeks. She bit her lip to keep from crying out. The singing came from her side, growing louder. The fog became so dense she couldn't see the horse's ears pointed to alert. She couldn't see her hands. "Hello!” called Imogen, her voice cracking. “Who's there?" "Play,” said the pouting voice again, demanding and hard. "Who are you?” insisted Imogen. Her limbs shook. She was too afraid to move from the comfort of the horse's back . She could feel the mare shake and jolt with each ring of laugher, each start of an eerie ballad. “What do you want?" Suddenly, the laughing turned to tears. The mist seemed to press into Imogen's skin. She breathed it into her lungs like the smoke from a fire. Coughing, she wheezed for air. Almost instantly, perspiration dotted her shaking skin. The horse neighed and bucked in protest. Her fingers found her throat, tearing at her gown as she fought for breath. "I want to play with you,” answered the child with a sulk in her voice. The sound of her words was hollow, garbled by a roaring Imogen couldn't make out. Imogen coughed louder, desperate to get out of the fog. Sweetly, the voice called, “Are you my mother? Are you the girl from my bedchamber?" "No!” screamed Imogen. She kicked her horse in the ribs, urging it forward, not caring if she was still within the trees. She would much rather take her chances against the forest. As she began to gallop, she saw a hand shoot out from the fog trying to stop her. The masculine fingers reached for the horse's reins. It was the hand of a man, pale and strained and strong. She saw the ruffling of a shirt. Imogen screamed louder. Her mare jolted violently and she lost the reins. The hand disappeared behind her. Imogen sat up, looking over her shoulder to see if the man was coming for her. There was nothing but mist all around. With a relieved sigh, she turned on the horse to look forward. But her eyes never had time to focus as a branch materialized out of the fog. It struck her across the forehead, knocking her back with a sharp crack. Blood filled her mouth. Her head hit the jolting movements of the galloping rump. Her feet loosened their hold and she flipped off the back of the horse to the ground. And, as her head struck the earth, the white mist turned into enveloping darkness.

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Chapter Two The early dawn came and went, dragging into the lateness of morning. The sun peeked high and warm over the fields and valleys of Rothfield Park, dispersing the misty fog of night with the warmth of day. Trees danced gently in the graceful wind, flowers dotted the land in full bloom of spring. The perfumed air crept into every crack and crevice of the manor until all was fresh and clean with the brilliance of it. To this wondrous delight, Imogen opened her heavy eyes. With a moan, her hands stroked over the comfortable linen of her bed, sweeping dreamily beneath her pillow. Sighing lightly to test her voice, she lifted a hand to feel her forehead. It ached lightly but was nothing to be concerned over and she quickly forgot the dull pain. Imogen's bedchamber was a large square filled with woven rugs and quaint furniture. The raised four poster bed was carved elegantly in dark wood, contrasting nicely with the white painted walls. Her dressing table was long, covered with an embroidered cloth. A low chair fitted by the fireplace, which was raised on a platform of circular design. A long window with paned glass that opened inward was on the side of the fireplace, letting in enough light to see. There was no fire burning on such a brilliant day as this, so the far corner of the room was darker than usual. Imogen sat up, crawling from the fluffy bed to the wooden floor. Her bare feet crushed the mauve floral rug beneath them. Seeing that she was alone in her room, she decided not to call a maid to attend her and hurriedly dressed herself for the day. The lateness of the morning hour was alarming, since she never slept so long. She wondered why no one had been sent to wake her. Then, with a rueful smile, she remembered her mother was angry with her for refusing to wed with the Colonel and had undoubtedly extended her displeasure to depriving her of servants. Imogen donned a lightweight gown of green floral design on white linen and gauze. She smoothed the skirts and managed to tie the little bow in the back of the high waist herself. The draping sleeves were shortened, so she decided it would be best to wear her long gloves, pulling the material up her arms to rest above her elbows. From the look of the delicate sunlight through her window, it would be a perfect day to walk alone in the gardens, mayhap with a book. Next came her white stockings and low cut slippers. She slipped her feet easily into them as she brushed up her hair into a quick coiffure, hiding the dark locks under a matching floral green fabric bonnet. The bonnet had a shallow crown and deep brim and was adorned only with the subtlest of ribbons. Tying the hat under her chin, she looked into the mirror with satisfaction. Even her mother couldn't be disappointed with her appearance this morning. Imogen's skin seemed to shine with the beautiful look of fine porcelain and her eyes were bright with life. She patted her hair and without a backward glance, picked up a stole from her chair as she went to join the family downstairs. Frowning, she secretly hoped her parents had gotten over the disappointment of her not wanting the Colonel. He was just such a dull and dreadful man. Although he was proper and she could find no particular fault with his etiquette, he was not to her liking. Running the light stole through her gloved fingers, she pulled absently at the fringe. Then, dropping the material around her arms as she came to the main hall, she frowned. Outside she could hear a carriage pulling away from the front of the house. Curious, she went to the window, pulling back the drapes. It was their family carriage leaving the estate.

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Before she could investigate, a manservant opened the front door. He bowed slightly as her mother walked in. The Viscountess glanced around the hall. Then, nodding to the servant in dismissal, she came to look out the window beside Imogen. The Viscountess lifted her hand to pull aside the curtain. She did not look at her daughter, choosing instead to sigh out towards the lawn. Imogen studied her mother's face carefully. It was strained, more so than usual. Her eyes appeared sad and wet as if she had been crying. "Mother?” questioned Imogen softly. She lifted a hand to her mother's shoulder. “Is aught amiss? Who is in the carriage? Where are they going?" The Viscountess glanced at her shoulder, shivering slightly as she shook Imogen's hand from her. For a moment, Lady Sutherfeld looked toward Imogen, not meeting her daughter's eye. Then, turning back to the window, the Viscountess whispered, “There goes the last of my daughters from Rothfield Park. Godspeed, my dear Jane. May your visit with Harriet bring you a comfort I cannot feel." Imogen gasped at the deliberate slight. Her face paled in understanding. Desperately, she whispered, “Mother? What do you mean? You cannot be so angry with me as to really ignore me forever. The Colonel—" "The Colonel?” echoed the Viscountess in a dramatically sad whisper. Her brows furrowed. She lifted her chin proudly into the air. Sniffing, tears came to the woman's blue eyes. She dabbed at them lightly with an embroidered handkerchief. Then, without one look at her pallid and waiting daughter, she turned away. The handkerchief dropped from her hand as she walked, the light fabric sweeping over the floor as it fell, forgotten. Imogen started to call out to the Viscountess, but, seeing the little square still stained with her mother's tears, she picked up the fabric and rubbed her gloved fingers over the damp material. Clutching it in her hand, she felt like weeping. Her mother had dismissed her, coldly and callously. Imogen knew the woman to be given to theatrics, but surely such an extreme punishment was unwarranted. And although to be treated with silence was nothing new to Imogen, the pointed refusal to acknowledge her was. But just as she knew the bend of the Viscountess's nature, she knew too that her mother was stubborn in her convictions and it might be a long time until she deemed her eldest daughter worthy of conversation. Imogen had had no idea the Colonel's fortune meant that much to the Viscountess. "Fine, don't speak to me!” exclaimed Imogen in an angry hiss. She refused to cry as she went back to the window. The carriage was gone. Remembering what her mother had told her, if not directly, she stiffened. Jane was sent away to London. "Oh, Jane,” whispered Imogen, already missing her sweet little sister. But her grief was overridden by anger at her mother and soon she found herself storming to the dining room. Seeing a tray of pastries set out, she hurried over and grabbed one. Hearing a gasp behind her, she turned just in time to see the offended maid's pale face. It was the same girl who had given her the plate the day before. The girl's mouth opened as if she might speak. Imogen cut her off with a grimace. Rolling her eyes, she huffed, “Not you too! I will not suffer your accusing glances atop those of my mother. Now begone from

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my sight at once!" The maid scampered off with a pitiful look of horror. Throwing the pastry down on the tray, Imogen stomped angrily from the room without eating. "If no one wants me about, I shall go outside,” she declared to herself. Part of her felt sorry for taking her animosity out on the maid, but she did not turn around to apologize. Without waiting for a servant to attend her, Imogen went out the large front door, slamming it shut behind her Outside the day was as fresh and clean as the morning sunlight in her bedroom window had promised. Imogen strolled over the graveled drive, through the dry grass pathways to the garden. She ignored the paved courtyard close to the house, choosing instead to follow the earthen walkways leading through the rows of flowers and benches. The farther she wandered from the house, the easier her steps became until she could feel no anger, only joy in a beautiful day. Making her way to a bench, she sat demurely on the stone seat. She realized then that she had forgotten to bring a book. Not that she felt like reading, she assured herself, refusing to go back. Time passed with the rolling of grasses and the gentleness of the breeze. Imogen closed her eyes with a sigh, letting the sun warm her features as she turned her face to it. Unfastening her bonnet, she let if fall from her fingers forgotten, her stole loosely clung to the sides of her arms. Suddenly, a chill swept over her and she shivered violently. The crunching steps of footfall drew near, coming from the house. Jolting her head around to confront the noise, she froze. Her features hardened in expectation as the footsteps steadily came closer. A figure appeared from behind a shrub, his tall frame outlined by sunlight. Imogen blinked, instantly realizing she was not acquainted with the man. He was much too slender to be Edward and his gait too relaxed to be the Colonel, as she had first feared. Lifting her chin, she waited for him to reach her. His head turned to the side, stopping to admire some bird taking flight in the distance. The sun bounced off the shiny dark queue of his hair, bound at the nape of his neck. He leaned lightly on a slender walking stick. Imogen coughed delicately, watching him in expectation. At the noise, the man's head whipped around toward her. He took a step forward, coming out of the sunlight into the shade. At first he did not make a move to acknowledge her, watching her with veiled curiosity. The wide eyes of grayish green that stared out from beneath a worried brow struck Imogen deeply with their unmistaken depth. If ever in her wild youth she had been stunned to dry-mouthed silence, this moment was it. Her heart choked in its usually steady rhythm. Another chill worked its way over her and she was forced to blink and look away, as she assessed his effect on her composure. The man seemed to relax when she looked away. Without comment, he took another step as if to pass her completely by, propelling Imogen into action. She quickly stood to block his path. Confusion passed over his face as he studied her. Slowly, he bowed. Imogen curtsied dutifully in return. "Good day, Sir,” said Imogen politely. Her voice was as weak as her legs, but she did her best to control it. She could not let this man move on without discovering who he was. She waited to hear his voice, hoping it was high or off-pitch to counteract the disturbing effect of his handsome features. Her gaze traveled over his attire. His dress was of fine quality, but by no means of the latest style. A stiff

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cravat fitted about his throat, the tall points of his high collar nearly touching his ears. His waistcoat of dark gray looked solemn next to the black of his knee-length jacket. She realized his attire was more suited to the styles when she was a young girl. "Good day,” the man answered carefully. His tone was dark and grave. His eyes shone with wonder and confusion, and his voice was not at all unpleasant, much to Imogen's delight and dismay. "Are you lost, Sir?” she asked. "No, Miss, I am not,” he said in a clipped voice, his words stunted, as if he were afraid to use them. He swallowed a bit nervously, making no attempt to go around her or to leave her, waiting patiently for her to speak. Imogen studied his eyes. They swam with thoughts and dark emotions, but she was not acquainted enough with him to understand. Then an idea struck her. She was expecting a new tutor and surely this man was he. His old clothes were obviously gifts from some previous lord he had served, which explained why he was dressed a decade behind the times. His uneasiness could only mean her parents were still not talking to her and had sent him to introduce himself. It was clear by his stiff demeanor that he was not pleased by the arrangement. Sighing, Imogen said, “You must be the new tutor father has arranged for me and my sister. However, I do believe Jane has left for London just this morning and your services are not required by me." This seemed to shock him. The man cocked his head thoughtfully. Imogen imagined she saw distaste for her bluntness on his features. "Oh, do not tell me you are at a loss for words,” she laughed. “You are a tutor and must know of a great many things to say. Surely you know that it is up to me to introduce myself since my parents will not do it. And I expect you are the man they have sent to change my very disagreeable nature." "I—” he began, cut off by the expectant raise of her brow. Then with a worried frown, he questioned slowly, “You don't know—?" "Oh, I know that you are here to be my tutor. My father thinks I am still in need of an education, though I quite disagree. Already I have had nigh thirteen women as governess.” Imogen laughed airily. “I alarm you with my straightforward nature, do I not? I must warn you, it only gets worse. If I were you, I'd leave your post immediately." The man did not move. He studied her thoughtfully, his eyes roaming for the first time over her unruly hair to the bonnet lying on the ground. Imogen stiffened at the disapproval on his face as he studied her. Patting her hair, she felt her windswept locks, wondering why his disapproval should so upset her when she had gone out of her way to displease so many before him. "I can see by your look that you will consider no such thing. Well, you can't say I didn't warn you away from here. So whatever happens from here on is entirely your fault. Now, you must be called something, what was it again?” she began, her tone more amicable. "Dougal Weston." "Mr. Weston, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I am Miss Imogen Drake, but please, if we are to be forced together, do call me Imogen. I much prefer it."

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"Miss Imogen.". "I do hope your journey to Rothfield Park was pleasant? I must apologize in advance for any unpleasantness you will discover here. I am not on speaking terms with my parents, or should I more adequately say they are not speaking to me. You see, they are greatly disappointed in me at the moment." At that bit of personal information, his frown deepened into one of grave distaste, “Surely you do not wish to discuss such matters with me." "Oh? What do you mean?" "I have no wish to clarify at risk of insulting you, Miss Imogen.” Dougal watched her carefully. The crease between his eyes deepened. Imogen noticed he had the most distracting mole beneath his eye, near his cheek. The small mark was quite disarming and handsome. She had the strangest urge to touch it and from that urge grew the desire to feel his skin and hair. "Please speak candidly, Mr. Weston. For how else am I to learn?” she said before she could stop the words. Her gaze moved from his cheek back to his eyes. She couldn't help but meet the challenge his gaze brought forth within her. Any admiration she had felt just moments before left her, to be replaced by a delightfully challenging anger. This man was trying hard to disarm her with his superior attitude. She would not allow it! "I think your words thus far indicate you are in very bad need of a tutor. You are lacking in propriety. I can only hope that by expanding your mind, you will grow more assured and less ... frivolous.” Dougal gave her a curt nod of dismissal. He moved step around her, but she stopped him by stepping to the side to block his retreat. His lips set in a straight, immovable line. "Indeed,” Imogen gasped, feeling like a scolded child. “And do you propose you are the man to teach me this propriety I appear to lack?" Dougal was instantly sorry for his harsh words as he watched the hurt filter through the deep blue of her eyes. Her pale lips trembled, but she held her own. It had been a long time since Dougal had spoken to a beautiful woman. "I daresay we will be spending a great deal of time together,” he answered, his brow lightening. "So that is my mother's game, is it?” Imogen forced a laugh. Turning from him so he wouldn't see her insecurity, she leaned over to pick up her bonnet. Dusting it, she studied the ribbons. She formed them into curls by winding the straps over her long fingers. She couldn't meet his piercing gaze as she uttered resentfully, “They wish to bore me with your teachings until I relent and marry the Colonel. And I suppose her refusing to talk to me and sending away my only confidant is to make me desire your lessons out of nothing better to do." When he was silent, she glanced up at him. "They intend for you to start right away, do they?” asked Imogen quietly .

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Dougal nodded curtly. His face looked almost helpless as he studied her. Imogen refused to see it in him. All she saw was a hard man with an overly disapproving nature and a boorish sense of himself, too arrogant and lacking compassion. And the impudence in him! It was inconceivable that he could have anything to teach her about how to be a proper lady. "Well, I am not ready to begin my lessons. I wish to flounder a bit more in my insufferable impropriety! Why don't you go sit with my mother? I am sure the both of you can find enough faults with me to while away the entire afternoon. Please inform her that I will be dining alone in my room tonight. And at every other meal until the end of time! I want nothing to do with either of you." Imogen skirted the stunned Mr. Weston without giving him time to answer. She could feel his gaze on her back as she stalked off. Stomping as hard as she dared in her little slippers, she did her best to appear as uncivilized as possible. If she were lucky, he would declare her so far gone as to be beyond teaching anything to and leave Rothfield Park at once. Reaching the front of the house in a breathless flutter, Imogen pushed open the door. The heavy wood crashed behind her as she stormed inside. In the hall, her pale mother gaped in surprise, blinking in confusion and turning in horror at the sound. Imogen ignored her, hurrying past the Viscountess to her room. Her mother rushed to close the door behind her. Imogen was gone before the Viscountess could even turn around. Blast that Mr. Weston!Imogen raged inwardly.And his arrogant, vile, insufferable disposition! I should not be forced to endure his presence. She stopped near the window, tapping her fist impatiently against the wood frame. It had been nearly five hours since she had introduced herself to the man and still his coldness stung just as fresh as the first bite of his haughty disparagements of her character. Resuming her pacing, she grumbled, “Who does he think he is, speaking to me as if I was in need of manners! Was it I who stared blankly as if the other did not exist? Was it I who left all the awkwardness of the introductions to a gentlewoman? No, it assuredly was not!" Imogen refused to leave her bedroom. Undoubtedly, she would not find a sympathetic ear with her parents. They were the ones who had hired the man. And she had to admit she was too much of a coward to see her father. After the way her mother had acted, she was sure her father was just as displeased, if not because of her stubborn disobedience, then for her mother's ill humor which he must certainly bear the brunt of. "Oh!” Imogen huffed loudly. Frustration seeped from every pore. Her limbs shook with indignation and outrage. There was no one left to distract her attention or ease the displeasure of her bad mood. Jane was off to London without even a word. Her father had undoubtedly informed Mr. Tanner he was not to visit, as was his intention. And the Colonel, well he was the last man Imogen wished to see. In her mind, all of it was his fault. She was trapped at Rothfield Park. And it would seem her only company in her imprisonment was to be Mr. Dougal Weston. Imogen paused in her pacing tirade to stare at the plastered wall of her bedchamber. Suddenly, she was struck with the image of his handsome face. He had been rightly disturbed by her actions. Assuredly, a man as proper as he was would be offended by her outbursts. And it wasn't really Mr. Weston whom she had been mad at, but he had nevertheless endured the blunt of her wrath.

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A knock on the door broke through her thoughts. Turning, she called for the visitor to enter. Seeing a maid carrying a tray laden with food, she tried to smile at the girl. "Miss,” the girl curtsied. The maid averted her gaze, staring down at the floor. Imogen saw the young girl peek curiously from the corner of her eye when her mistress turned to motion to a table. The maid quickly laid down the tray before turning to leave. "Wait,” Imogen ordered. Then softening her tone, she asked, “Do I know you?" "No, Miss,” the girl answered. Her impeccable red hair was swept beneath a dutiful white cap. The cap bobbed as she again curtsied nervously. Imogen detected the dialect of the north in her words. “I am Charlotte." "Pleased to make your acquaintance, Charlotte,” said Imogen. She cocked her head to see if the girl would look at her. “Are you newly come to Rothfield Park?" The girl did look up at that. She seemed to struggle nervously with her answer, before saying carefully, “New to your household, Miss." "And are you from here?” asked Imogen, desperate to have any type of company, even that of a servant. Again the maid was pained as she said, “From the north originally." Imogen saw that the girl would willingly say no more. Sighing, Imogen waved her hand in distraction. “That will be all. Thank you, Charlotte." "Yes, Miss,” the girl again curtsied and hurried from the room. When she was alone, Imogen uttered ruefully, “Well, I guess I can strike the servants from my short list of allies. No doubt my mother has already spoken to them. And she sends a timid stranger to wait on me!" It always bothered Imogen when her mother would lie bare any of the familial difficulties to servant's willing ear. She walked over to the tray of cold mutton and bread. It was simple fare, but no doubt all her mother figured she deserved. “I suppose I should try to get on with Mr. Weston, if such a thing is possible. Mayhap if I please my parents a little, they will be more apt to see reason and abandon the foolish idea of me marrying where I would not go." Taking a bite of the bread, she did not taste it. She ignored the meat, preferring to drink of the one glass of wine she was allotted. The liquid was thicker than she remembered her father's being and was of a much stronger taste, unusually salty. Gulping it down quickly, she tore off pieces of the bread. Placing the morsels absently in her mouth, she continued to pace. Her decision was made. She would make amends with Mr. Weston.

Chapter Three

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"Mr. Weston.” Imogen curtsied neatly. She watched his dark gaze move to her in surprise from over the top edge of his paper. Upon seeing her, his eyes narrowed in mild disapproval. She stiffened and hardened her expression. Already he was defensive towards her. But could she really blame him? Carefully, she uttered, “Good morning, Sir." "Good morning,” Dougal said wearily as if waiting for her next tirade. His head bowed sharply. Then with a rigid brow, he turned back to his paper, hiding his darkened eyes behind the shield of print. Imogen pushed her lips together thoughtfully, waiting to see if he would finish and speak to her. Already, her mother refused to look at her and the servants bustled past with nary a word. Only once did she see Charlotte eyeing her, only to quickly turn away with a stack of clean linens hugged firmly to her chest. Imogen stood, her hands entwined before her blue gown. She shook nervously, like a soldier waiting to be reprimanded for treason. When he continued to read, she murmured quietly, “Mr. Weston?" Dougal flipped the edge of the paper down to study her. Imogen swore she heard him sigh. She swallowed. "Are we to begin?” she asked with forced meekness. "Begin?” he questioned, lost in his own thoughts. His gaze roamed quickly over her in inspection with no clue as to what she was referring. "Yes,” said Imogen with a modesty she did not feel. Pleasing her parents might be harder than she thought—especially if Mr. Weston continued to stare hauntingly at her. His gaze again traveled over her gown. Weakly, she looked down only to brush the back of her hand over her skirt to straighten it. Realizing what she was doing, she tried to hide her scowl. Already she wanted to yell at the aggravating man before her and they had yet to complete one of his lessons. Through tight lips she uttered, “Are we to begin my tutoring this morn?" "Oh, quite right,” he mumbled. Looking around the library, he said absently, “Read one of those books and we will discuss it later." Dougal flipped the paper before his face again. Imogen scowled, making a childish face towards the vexing man. His long forefinger tapped the back of the newspaper, as if he had seen the rude gesture but was beyond responding to it. Crossing over to the extensive bookshelf, she exhaled noisily. Turning back to her tutor, she asked, “Which?" "I'm sorry?” queried Dougal, looking blankly at her again. His eyes were hard with disdain. The paper snapped in the silent room. "Never mind,” she muttered. He nodded once, turning his attention abruptly from her. The paper snapped again. Dougal waited patiently as Imogen ran her fingers over the library shelves. He was familiar with many of the volumes lining the walls. Watching her from the corner of his eye, he saw her hand pause by a thick old tomb of a book. Then, glancing over her shoulder at him, her fingers skimmed hurriedly past it. Dougal had known Imogen was near him the moment she came into the room and could tell that his ignoring her wounded her ego. He hid his smile, trying to concentrate on the words that had so captured his attention before she walked in. The words faded and blurred. He pretended to study them.

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"I cannot find one of interest,” Imogen admitted at length with a small pout. “What would you recommend?" "Would you take pleasure from the paper? We could discuss current events and the like,” Dougal offered with a terse expression.. He tilted the paper towards her. Imogen eyed him thoughtfully. For a moment, she thought she detected hope within his gaze. "I have no interest in the affairs of men,” Imogen lied, shading her eyes with her lashes. Unable to help her snide smirk, she uttered airily, “What does it matter what current intrigue Napoleon Bonaparte is engaged in? Let the French tend to him. He is their man, is he not? I see no threat of him here at Rothfield Park. And who cares about the war with the New World? I daresay we English should never have discovered so troublesome of a land." Dougal gaped in amazement at her unashamed and blatant ignorance. Imogen hid her smile as she carefully turned back to the books. Slowly, Dougal muttered, “You cannot mean that." "What?” asked Imogen in feigned innocence. Then, laughing delicately, she waved a hand in dismissal. “Oh, you mean about the French? Well, you are right, mayhap the General is Spanish. I can never keep the two races apart, being as their cultures are so very similar. Ugh, and the chattering nonsense they insist on speaking! Everyone civilized speaks English and always has. I see no reason to learn gibberish, just as I see no reason to rub elbows with the lower classes. I daresay both would be pointless and would ruin a good day." Dougal was appalled. Her beauty diminished with each untaught slash of her tongue. He could not find loveliness in a thoughtless vessel, but then, as he looked at her face, he knew that was not entirely true. If she didn't speak, he would be quite content to look at her as one would an exquisite painting. Her naivetÉ was much worse than he could have imagined, however. She was truly a product of foolish societal audacity. He dreaded the idea of being forced to spend too much time in her company. Imogen watched his expressions carefully, delighted that her ruse worked so well. Her wide eyes shone with innocence and her smile never once faltered. Seeing a frown descend upon his handsome face, she said, “I don't see any books here worth reading. They are all very dull. Whatever man chose them would be a bore of a companion." "None of worth?” he repeated in disbelief, looking over the shelves of which he knew almost every line. If he thought she could be no less feeble-witted than she had already shown herself, he was sadly mistaken. "Oh,” Imogen exclaimed suddenly. Her nose scrunched playfully to emphasize her excitement. “My sister Jane recently received a novel from my other sister Harriet before going away to London. Mayhap I will see if she has left it behind. I think it is about spirits!" At this comment, Dougal froze. Folding the paper, he set it aside without looking at it. Carefully, he stood from the chair, refusing to turn to her until he was sure his mask of distress was well hidden beneath an emotionless front. Bracing himself, he turned to study her. Imogen shivered at his immense height. His slender build moved with elegant grace. Every line of him was rigid with perfection—the neatly queued pull of his dark sultry hair held by a black tie, the stiffness of his white cravat against his skin, the mark beneath his eye. Again he was dressed in an old fashion, his jacket the same long black with a gray waistcoat, albeit of a darker gray than the day before. His booted

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feet were planted apart, holding his weight evenly as he waited for her to continue. Imogen turned away, trying to look busy as she faced the books. Her heart quickened with an unfamiliar hold. Suddenly, she became very nervous. The library was too small, and she could feel him watching her with his steady eyes. Her throat constricted as if she were being choked by invisible hands. Her skin tingled and was warm. Absently, she twirled a lock of hair behind her ear. She could not meet his probing gaze. They were so full of disappointment and weariness. And though she had put the ill opinion of herself in him, she could not help being sorry for it now. The leather bound pages blurred before her eyes. "Are you trying to tell me something?” he asked in a low voice. His words were barely above a whisper. A shiver worked its way up her back. Imogen glanced at the floor at her side, hoping to see him from the corner of her eye. She could not. Breathlessly, she whispered, “What, pray tell, would I be trying to say?" Dougal cleared his throat. Her head did not move and she gave no indication of retreating from the books. The silence stretched. Forcing himself to relax, he said, “Nothing." "Is it the rumors of the house you are referring to?” she asked. When she heard his intake of air, she spun on her heels to face him. Impishly, she uttered, “Rothfield Park is haunted. Haven't you heard?" Dougal didn't answer. He refused to meet her gaze. Instead, he turned to look out the window to the northern yard. Pushing the heavy blue velvet drapes aside with controlled fingers, he stared over the curving paths leading to the long, open field. "Oh, yes. It is said all kinds of spirits reside in the house,” began Imogen. “There is a child—" "Have you seen her?” Dougal asked quickly, desperation detectable on his voice. Imogen frowned at his rushed tone and he amended by uttering weakly, “Have you seen any of the spirits, I mean." Imogen studied the stiffening of his back. She wanted to laugh. Surely this learned man sent to teach her did not believe in such things as ghosts? Unable to stop herself from teasing him, she said, “No, but I think my sister might have once. She mentioned hearing a child crying in her chamber one night." Dougal's grip tightened on the curtain. Turning around to study her with great intensity, his voice was strained as he asked, “Is that all she said? Where was the child?" Imogen giggled nervously. She eyed the man before her, the despondency almost pouring from his face. With a perplexed grimace, she said, “It is a jest, Mr. Weston. Ghosts do not exist. My sister Jane learned of the story from the servants and then dreamt it one night. You are not seriously giving credence to this, are you?" "No. Certainly not.” Dougal cleared his throat, turning quickly away. "There are no such things as ghosts,” Imogen asserted. "Are you saying you don't believe?” he asked. The mask once more dropped over his face. He leaned back against the window sill, crossing his arms over his chest. A smile tugged on the corner of his mouth. Imogen was delighted, and disturbed, to discover a dimple threatening to peek out from his boyish

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features. There was hidden merriment buried in his gaze, waiting to be discovered. She wondered at it. "I have never seen nor experienced reason to,” Imogen answered. "Then,” he began carefully. Imogen waited in breathless anticipation for him to continue. Rephrasing his words, he started again, “Forgive my impudence, but what about your accident, Miss Imogen?" "Accident?” echoed Imogen. “I have no idea of what you are referring to." Dougal studied her, realizing she didn't remember falling from her horse or what had happened afterwards. She didn't remember a thing. “I must be thinking of someone else." "Is this part of your lesson? I must say it is rather unorthodox.” Imogen smiled, endeavoring to form a simple mask over her features. For a moment, his look captured her. His eyes softened. His lips curled. Her breath caught in her throat and she had to look away. Shaking her head so that she came to her senses, she giggled nervously. "Read the paper,” he ordered brusquely, pushing up from his perch on the window sill. He grabbed his walking cane in his hands, twirling it thoughtfully. He did not like the reaction his body was having to her. His mind was repulsed, but his senses reminded him just how long it had been since he had been in the arms of a woman. However, he knew nothing would ever come of his feelings and so he pushed all impropriety far from his mind. He was there to do one thing and one thing only. He would not deviate from his task, especially not with a mere slip of a woman that held no true thought in her head. “After you give me an accounting of what you have learned, we will discuss it. I should hope you will acquire something of importance." Imogen glanced down at her hands. The harshness of his words was rather unpleasant to her ears. Pursing her lips to hide her displeasure, she turned around. Mr. Weston was gone. Imogen huffed in disdain. On her father's chair was left the paper from London, a gift no doubt from Aunt Mildred to her father. "All right, Mr. Weston. You wish to speak on current events,” muttered Imogen quietly, a mischievous smile coming to her lips. She walked over to the chair, carefully removing her gloves so the print wouldn't stain them. Quietly, she picked up the news. Riffling through until she found a page of public interest she grinned. “Then, by all means, let us find some current events." As she sat down, her thoughts were not on pleasing her parents or avoiding the most dreadful Colonel Wallace. Her aim was of a much more devious purpose. She was going to vex the rude Mr. Weston and drive him mad until he left Rothfield Park and took his high-handed manners with him. Only, she hoped he didn't leave too soon. She had a feeling that vexing him would be one of the more pleasurable experiences of her life. She smiled, unaware that a pair of gray-green eyes watched her from the cracked library door. A bemused frown formed on his features, the line of firm masculine lips flattening. Dougal scratched his head, wondering what the girl was about. He could sense that she was contriving something, but he could not determine what.

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Then, with a growing scowl of disdain, he remembered her remarks about the current happenings in the world. Could the girl really be so empty-headed? The thought dismayed him. A simpleton would not make his life easier. Muttering a curse under his breath, he stormed away from the library and out of the house. **** The sun sparkled in brilliant summer splendor over the bright garden flowers. Imogen lifted her face to the warmth, the rays kissing her pale skin. Sighing, she felt restless and abandoned. It had been hours since Mr. Weston left her to the paper. She wondered if he figured it would take her a long time to read. The notion made her giggle. Then, as if materializing out of her playful thoughts, Mr. Weston was there. She shivered at his abrupt appearance, looking up at him from her seat on the stone bench. Self-consciously, she got to her feet and brushed off her long skirt, then smiled at him, trying to hide her uneasiness and feeling like a fool. "Miss Imogen.” He nodded.. “Have you finished your work?" Well, straight to the point,she thought, wanting to roll her eyes heavenward at his stark manners. She smiled. “Why yes, Mr. Weston, I have—just a few moments ago in fact." He studied her face carefully. Imogen's simple smile remained intact. She had the feeling he was looking for more than just a few political facts. "And what did you learn?” he asked wearily. "Oh, Mr. Weston,” gushed Imogen. “Please, do sit down first. My head is so full that it might take me awhile to collect all my thoughts into proper order." Imogen turned from him, unable to help her smug grin of merriment. Dougal's face was positively glowering in disgust. His sharp eyes cut through her, willing her to be silent and all the time his lips bid her to speak. She coughed delicately into her hand to keep from laughing out loud. When she turned back to him, her eyes were bright, but her smile was innocently unaltered. "Shall we start simply then?” he inquired with a dark grimace lining his tired eyes. The crease between them deepened, and the severe line of his mouth straightened so harshly that Imogen thought his face might be in danger of cracking open. "Oh, yes please,” Imogen said, sighing prettily. She adjusted her hands in her lap. “Let me start from the beginning. Mr. Darnell of Baker's Street is to wed with Miss Katherine, daughter of Mr. Prynne of Cuntingham's this fall. And I believe that he will be receiving four hundred pounds for his trouble." Dougal paled but did not move. Imogen pretended not to notice. She leaned in secretively to him. "I have met Miss Katherine Prynne and I can say that Mr. Darnell is getting far too little to take her on,” added Imogen. That confidence shared, she continued, “And, let me see, oh yes. His Grace the Duke of Hollingsworth is to wed with the Lady Catherine, with a C not a K like Mr. Darnell's Katherine. The Duke is to wed with Lady Catherine, daughter of the Earl of Ravenshire, next spring. I think it a more sensible time to marry in the spring—the fall is bad luck you know. And I do hope she wears a sensible color—not brown. Brown should only be reserved for old men and stoic gentlemen who never smile, much like you. But you wear gray and that is overly dignified, as well."

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Imogen paused for breath, pretending not to realize her little slight against his character. Dougal watched her, speechless. “Be that as it may, I believe that the Duke and Lady Catherine a fine match. Neither one of them is graced with fine features. The Duke has a large nose, very disproportionate to his slender face, and Lady Catherine—well I am not one to speak ill of nobility—but she has rather large cheeks." Imogen tapped the side of her face and nodded seriously. Dougal looked as if he might retch on her. She smiled her earnest eyes gazing up at him in mischief. "Yes, yes, it is a fine match they have made of it. Marriage is a terrible business, but necessary I am afraid. If I myself did not desperately want a handsome man, I might be contented with title alone. Though mother wishes me to marry more money and father wishes my husband to be of little humor and much common sense. I daresay that if you were rich he might be courting you as one of my prospects. Luckily, you are only a tutor and I will never have to meet with such an expectation. And I am sure you are happy not to be wed with me." Imogen grinned, waiting for his outrage. It did not come. She searched him for repulsion. He hid it well. Usually talk of marriage sent men scurrying away without so much as a by your leave. Or, with the ones who hunted fortune, it brought on amusing declarations that they could never mean. Dougal cleared his throat uncomfortably. He was not immune to her scorn. Imogen smiled with a sweetness that had melted most men and began to open her mouth. Before she could speak, Dougal said in an even tone, “Did you happen to read anything beyond the social pages?" "Why, yes!” Imogen nodded enthusiastically. She thought of her sister Harriet. How proud the girl would be of her conversation. Almost every nonsensical phrase she took from her sister's pattern of speaking. And here Imogen had thought Harriet was a useless sibling. She again tried not to laugh. "By all means,” urged Dougal wryly. His fingers curled and laced in his lap. His eyes shone with a scrupulous hope. As she continued her report, his heart pulsed in repugnance and his mind began to go numb from the insensible idleness of her thinking. "It appears that pink is quite the sensation in London. Which is funny since I read it was blue. Regardless...” Imogen sighed before continuing in her brightly exaggerated way. She waved her hand in distraction and proceeded to prattle on about ribbons and sashes and what exact shades were to be worn and not worn. With each of her words Dougal's face grew paler and more dismal. Imogen was hard pressed not to let him in on the joke. But if she wanted to get rid of the high and mighty man she would just have to continue to put him off. Imogen took a breath in-between explaining the exact way that a man was to knot his cravat. She lifted her hands to pull rudely at the lace folded about his throat to demonstrate how utterly miscalculated his knot was. Dougal lifted his hand in interruption and politely, but firmly, brushed her hand aside. Exhaustedly, he uttered, “What have you read from the first pages?" "The first pages?” Imogen asked in surprise. “There is nothing of import on the first pages. I told you, I have no concern for the affairs of men—so many battles and names. I daresay it is hard enough to remember one's own name, let alone all the names of cities and places that you men go off to. Besides, there is nothing of interest beyond English borders. Even you, Mr. Weston, should be able to agree to

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that—being as you are a learned man of vast knowledge, I am sure." "I will admit to no such thing, Miss Imogen,” muttered Dougal in disagreement. His hand stiffened on his cane until he thought he might splinter it with his grip. The road before him only grew longer with each passing word. "You have caught me, I am afraid!” whispered Imogen under her breath. But her tone belied her guilt. “I only read your dull paper for a short time before finding a delightful copy of a ladies journal. The Viscountess left it in the library on my father's desk. "Tell me, did you at least learn the date from the first page of my dull paper?" "The date?” asked Imogen in surprise. She wondered at the odd question. Then, deciding that he was being insistently unyielding in his pursuit of her studies, she giggled prettily. Part of her wanted to slap him, but she had to remind herself that any unfavorable opinion he had of her was her own doing. "Yes,” he whispered gravely. His eyes narrowed as if the answer was of great importance. “Did you happen to see the date?" Imogen's smile faltered. She turned away from his hard, probing glare. “It is June eighteen hundred and twelve." "Is it?” he asked wryly. His eyebrow rose slightly in question. "Why, yes, I know it is.” Imogen had little time to wonder at his remarks for in the distance she saw a rider on a black horse. The rider sat, within the shade of trees, staring at them. A dull ache began in the back of her head, quickly trickling into her temples and behind her eyes. Turning to Dougal, she realized that he had been speaking to her. Absently, she uttered, “I'm sorry? I did not hear you." "Where did you put the paper? We shall go over it together,” he repeated with an exasperated sigh. He studied her face, wondering what she was looking at in the distance. He could see nothing. Still ignoring him, she uttered breathlessly “Do you know that man, Mr. Weston? He is staring rather boldly like he is acquainted with us. But I do not recognize him." "What man?” Dougal asked, staring into the distance. He still saw no one. "That man there,” insisted Imogen. She pointed into the tree line to the man on the black horse. She couldn't make out the exact lines of his features but could detect the nobleness of his bearing and the arrogant tilt of his brow. Slowly, she stood to her feet. There was something very odd in the way he seated his horse. The horse pawed at the ground nervously. The black coat of the animal was very pale, as if covered by white powder to hide the depths of the black. “Do you not see the very large stallion beneath that tree there?" Dougal stood next to her, wondering if she was having some fun at his expense. Seeing the fearful tinge to her countenance, he squinted towards the tree line. “Are you sure you are not mistaken, Miss Imogen? Mayhap it is only a shadow." "No,” she whispered, insistent. Panicking, she took a step forward. She pointed ahead, moving her finger in hard jabs through the air. Unable to speak, she spun around to look at Dougal to persist loudly, “Can you not see him, Sir?"

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Dougal shook his head. His brow creased deeply. Imogen studied his eyes before spinning back around. "Right th—” she began, gasping when she saw the rider was gone. She had not heard the thud of hooves that would have taken him away. Imogen stumbled, her knees growing weak. In a hush, she whispered, “He was there." Instantly, Dougal was by her side. His hands slipped onto her elbows. Imogen looked up at him in wonder. The touch of his hands sent a chill over her. She jerked away from him. "Are you well?” he asked, eyeing the paleness of her porcelain features. He reached for her again, but she backed away. “You're not going to swoon are you?" "No,” she managed to say, trembling. Her heart raced at his nearness. She could feel a heat coming from his chest as he tried to hold her. He looked over at the trees in confusion. She tried to shake off the remembered feel of his hands. Imogen's gaze flew over his handsome profile, really seeing the stark beauty of him for the first time in his open expression. His touch did something very unfamiliar to her. Her head swam in growing pain. Weakly, she protested, “I do not swoon!" Dougal's gaze darted back to her at the weak declaration just in time to see her blue lips quiver. She fell forward into his arms. Catching her in surprise, he dropped his walking cane to the ground. She hung limply. Looking around the garden, Dougal frowned in worry. Imogen's soft body pressed into his jacket. He could feel the warmth of her soft, womanly curves along him. Her head lolled back on her shoulders. Her arms hung limp and lifeless at her sides. For an instant, he took in her lips, tempted to taste them. He denied himself, wondering why the urge would come at such a moment. Dougal studied her face, lifting a finger to brush a piece of wayward hair from her forehead. With a gentle bounce and a restrained sigh, he adjusted her in his hold. Her hair rocked gently over his arm. Her lips parted in breath. Dougal swallowed. He closed his eyes, ignoring his stab of rampant desire. Then, swooping Imogen into his arms, he quickly carried her into the manor. **** Imogen moaned lightly, a pleasing sound full of feminine promise. Her eyes fluttered open to reveal within their depths the splendor of a dark blue, stormy summer sky. Color returned to her lips in the form of a dusty rose. Her mouth widened in a dreamy smile. Her loosened hair brushed over her skin, curling impishly against her soft, porcelain cheek. Dougal watched her closely, entranced by her peaceful comeliness. When she was lying quiet, not speaking of ignorant things, she was truly ravishing. He lifted his hand to brush her cheek in a tender caress. A dark curl instantly hugged around his finger. The skin was smooth beneath the back of his hand. His body shook. It had been a long time since he had intimately caressed a woman. The gentleness startled Imogen and she blinked, trying to clear her mind. Her headache was gone, but not her confusion. Her lips parted. Breathlessly, she looked up at Dougal in wonder. His face was so close to hers. She could see the texture of his skin, the wondrous shape of his distinctive mole beneath the fields of his eyes. The long sweep of her lashes hid her troubled gaze as his hand stroked over her, and unfamiliar energy washed over her skin, almost painfully. Dougal caught himself, pulling away abruptly. Then, to cover his actions, he placed the backs of his

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fingers to her forehead in a cool touch. Standing up, he said impassively, “You appear to be recovered." Imogen swallowed, only able to nod at his harsh tone. She wondered at his disagreeable temperament and gruff voice. His withdrawal was almost more than her body could withstand and she felt the darkness coming back over her mind. She fought it. Pulling herself up slowly, she looked around her father's library before turning to watch Dougal in silent expectation. "You swooned,” he said at length. "I do not swoon,” she answered. Gingerly, she rubbed her hands together. Her limbs trembled with a peculiar shiver. Dougal tried to hide a small smile of amusement and failed. His eyes sparkled. Imogen stared, completely spellbound. "Are you recovered, then?” he inquired. Imogen shook her head, mumbling, “Yes, yes of course." "Should I leave you?” he persisted. He searched the blush rising in her cheeks. Lifting her hand to her lips, she whispered, “Tell me you saw him." "No,” he stated honestly. He had seen nothing. "I'm not mad,” she insisted. "I never said you were.” Dougal took pity on her confusion and took a seat next to her on the small settee. He drew back, careful to keep his distance. He did not trust himself to get too close. He could not afford to get involved with her. Gently, he offered, “Mayhap you were mistaken?" "No, there was a man on a black horse,” Imogen began, not seeing Dougal's deepening frown or the concern shining in his eyes. “He was strange. I think he was a spirit. The horse was too large to be missed and when he moved, it was odd. Almost like his arms floated but yet were intact. I cannot explain it." "Miss Imogen, I do not think that—" "I am not imagining it,” she broke in fervently. “And I am not delusional. I think it was the late Marquis of Rothfield." At that Dougal stiffened. He pulled away from her. Standing, he turned his back on her to pace to the window. Carefully, he asked, “What makes you think it was the Marquis?" "It is said the Marquis is still around. Oh, how I wish Jane was here. She knows all about the legends. I should have believed her when she tried to talk to me. I think I shall write to her of it in London. I will ask her to come back as soon as she can." At this, Dougal turned to her. Insistently, he uttered, “You must not do that." "Why? She is my sister and I trust her above all others,” claimed Imogen. Dougal's serious face

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frightened her. Suddenly, she realized he was not trying to convince her that ghosts did not exist. In fact, he appeared to believe her. His acceptance bewildered and alarmed her. There was something that Mr. Weston was not telling her. "Who are you?” she asked at last. Doubt began a frightened trail up her spine in little shivers. "Your tutor,” he uttered, turning away, unable to look at her. "You don't act like a tutor,” she stated, backing away from him. His head tilted up with pride. She studied his regal air from behind. This man was no tutor. There was more to him, a quality to his demeanor that bespoke of not only intelligence, but of secrets. "How do you know what a tutor acts like? I am your first one.” He paused before daring her to contradict him with his steadfast gaze. "That is true, but I do not imagine a tutor would act as you have. You have not given me a single lesson." "What about the paper?” he inquired, coming toward her when she would have backed away from him. “Were we not discussing it?" "No tutor would have let me prattle on about nonsense as you did without so much as a scolding,” she murmured. Imogen swallowed. “Who are you?" Dougal raised his eyebrow. A smirk lined his mouth at her words ... Imogen froze at the look. Unmindful of what she revealed to him, she said, “No. A tutor would have corrected me when I said that wars and battles did not matter. A tutor would have instructed me otherwise when I claimed the French and Spanish were the same. A tutor would not have listened to my insane ideals of marriage and the endless chattering of social color. A tutor would have corrected all this. Who are you? What do you want? Why have you come to Rothfield?" Dougal frowned. Lifting his fingers to his mouth, he shook his head. Quietly, he hushed, “Shhh." Imogen saw him move. Her eyes blurred in fear. She moaned weakly, swaying on her wobbly knees. Dougal went to her in three large strides, capturing her easily in his arms as she fainted. Sighing over her head, he carried her over to the settee. His scowl deepened as he uttered, “Let us try this again."

Chapter Four With a light groan, Imogen opened her eyes. Her fatigued body was heavy. Blinking hard, she looked about in confusion. She was in her bedchamber. Turning her head, she looked past the strangely lit candle to the pale morning sky beyond her window, then glanced at the candle again. Wax pooled in a drying puddle on her table. The taper had been left burning all night. Sitting up, she saw that she was still in her gown from the day before. How had she gotten into bed? She couldn't remember anything past sitting in the garden. No, that wasn't exactly true. She could remember teasing Mr. Weston, but then it all went blank. Imogen bit her lip in bewilderment. A knock sounded on the door. Imogen jumped, gasping in fright as it opened.

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"Miss Drake,” said Charlotte with a curtsey. “I thought you might desire breakfast." "Ah, yes,” mumbled Imogen, leaning back as Charlotte entered with a tray of tea and muffins. “How did you know I would be awake? It is early yet." "You ordered a tray to be brought to your room at dawn, Miss, last night before you retired for bed. You said you wished to go for a ride this morning in the forest. I have instructed your horse be readied." Imogen remembered no such order. Shaking her head, she said, “Tell them I've changed my mind. I will not ride this morning." "Miss?” asked Charlotte, lightly probing. "I just don't feel like riding in the forest.” Imogen waved her hand before lying, “I think it is too cold this morning. I will go to the library instead.." "Yes, Miss,” said Charlotte. Imogen hummed weakly, trying to smile and failing miserably. Pushing the hair back from her face, she waited until the girl left before rising and removing her gown. She washed quickly in the water basin, scenting her skin with light perfumes made from rose oil. Then, shrugging into a thin chemise and silk hose, she chose a pale blue gown of soft crepe de Chine. Imogen was nervous. Her heart thudded with unusual thoughts and all of them were of Mr. Weston. She couldn't imagine how all her feelings about him had changed so drastically. That suddenly when she thought of his face, she felt like blushing and her lips tingled with a peculiar sensation. She had the strangest urge to impress him, yet she knew the damage she had done herself in pretending to be dim-witted. Imogen finished her toilette, not bothering to touch the food on the tray. Leaving her room, she slipped silently through the long halls lined with portraits. The painted eyes seemed to watch her progress. Gasping, she stumbled to a halt. Through the corner of her eyes, she thought she had seen one of the painted men move his arms from his chest. Swallowing nervously, she stared up at the opposing figure, waiting. The dark eyes seemed to bore into her. After several minutes, when nothing happened, Imogen chuckled. Shaking her head, she rushed down the hall, refusing to look at another portrait. She found the library lit by a warm fiery glow from the fireplace. The warmth was comforting in the coolness of the early morning. The house was quiet, its inhabitants asleep except for Mr. Weston, whom she found sitting at her father's desk with a book. As she entered, he glanced up at her. His eyes glowed with a soft affection that she was not used to seeing in him. The look took her by surprise and she froze. Something was not right in him. Seeing her expression, Dougal's jaw stiffened. He watched her curiously as she paled and took a step back from him. Her reaction was not as he had expected it to be this morn. He placed his book on a nearby table and stood, waiting for her to speak. "Mr. Weston,” Imogen said weakly. Her words trembled. His handsome face agitated deep emotions within her. She could not understand the broad sweep of responses that stirred in her, fighting to be freed and uninhibited, but she could not give way to such bold proposals as her limbs made. She could not run to her tutor and throw her arms about him. Such actions would surely get her placed in an asylum.

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At the sound of her tortured voice, he took a step forward. His hand lifted as if to touch her. Imogen jerked back in surprise. She could not believe the change in his features when he looked at her. Where was the silent condemnation? As she watched the pull of his lips fighting between a scowl and a smile, a memory tried to force its way from the back of her mind. His mouth drew her full attention as her own began to ache with sensitivity. She bit her lips to keep them from shivering. She couldn't remember what her mind was trying so desperately to tell her and she was afraid to find out. "What is the matter?” Dougal asked softly. His gaze searched her, wanting to read into her depths. His hand again lifted as if to draw her forward by will, but she did not move. Frowning, Dougal inquired, “Has something happened?" "Nothing, Mr. Weston,” replied Imogen a bit harshly. "Mr. Weston?” he echoed in amazement. His eyes darkened. His hand fell to his side, balling into a frustrated fist. "Yes. That is your name, is it not?” questioned Imogen warily. She could see the soft filtering of early morning glowing off his shoulders, outlining him. Her eyes were drawn to the strength of his neck, visible beneath his untied cravat. He did not look so proper this morning. His jacket was discarded behind him. His waistcoat hung open, revealing the fine linen of his shirt. She could she the base of his throat beneath the revealing fall of the shirt's collar. His flat stomach darkened the white linen as it showed from beneath the thin material. Her pulse began to race. She shook violently, wanting to test the firmness for herself. Unable to divert her gaze from wandering, she looked her fill of him. "Yesterday you called me something else,” he whispered softly, not completely unaware of her attention to his person. "I am sorry for it,” she admitted, wondering what she could have said to him. Everything was a blank. “I must not have been myself. I cannot remember a thing beyond speaking to you in the garden." Dougal stiffened at the admission. His expression steeled itself to her, but there was a deep agony within his gaze. Breathing hard, he turned from her. Quickly, he buttoned his waistcoat and straightened his cravat. Then, taking his jacket, he slid it over his shoulders. When he turned back to her, his manner was cold and impersonal like she remembered him. He stared blankly at her for a moment. A war waged behind his expressionless eyes, tortured and alone. Imogen was drawn to go to him, to comfort him, but she held back. Swallowing nervously, she watched him. Dougal took a step towards her. He stood, rigid and proper. His gaze probed her, willing her to remember. Her bright eyes stared back in innocent confusion. Without speaking, Dougal bowed his head curtly and moved past her to the library door. He did not trust himself to speak. "Mr. Weston,” stuttered Imogen helplessly. "Yes, Miss Imogen?” he answered, not looking at her. His shoulders seemed to slump as he waited for her words.

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"What would you have me do today for my lesson? I should like to get started.” Imogen desperately wanted to go to him. Her entire being begged her to hold him. Her lips still tingled, wanting something she could not describe. In bewilderment, she watched him. Her mind reached out, willing him to answer her unrealized questions. "Read,” he voiced hoarsely. Then with a cold harshness, he uttered, “Pick a book—anything." He moved as if to go. Imogen stopped him by insisting, “And we shall discuss it later in the garden?" She waited breathlessly to see if he would smile at her. He did not. Back was his cold demeanor. "Yes, Miss Imogen. We shall.” He bowed his head in her direction, not turning to look fully at her, then he left her alone in the library. Imogen fell to the settee, breathless. What had happened that she could not remember? Why did Mr. Weston think that she should call him anything but his name? Had they fought? Imogen paled. Or was it much worse than that? Had she shamed herself with him? Imogen trembled, refusing to think on it. The previous evening was a blank mystery. Taking her time, she went to the bookshelves, not seeing the binding for the nervous tears that threatened her eyes. She could not determine why her mouth shook, or why her arms trembled with strange longing. And why did it feel as if her heart was being ripped apart? Gaining control, she let loose a deep breath. She grabbed a book from the shelf—the first her fingers fell upon. Then, making her way back to the chair, she sat with a resolve she did not know she possessed and read. The long shadows cast from sunlight shining through windowpanes moved over the floor of the library until they journeyed from one end to the other. And as the light softened into the golden hues of late afternoon, Imogen blinked heavily. With a delicate yawn she looked up from the book in her lap to gaze dreamily around the library. Her eyes focused blindly on the patterns of orange reflecting off the rows of books. Imogen could not make it past the first page of the nameless treatise on animal husbandry and its relations to social economics. A duller book she could not have found. But, refusing to replace it with any other, she read and reread the first page, not remembering a single word past the very first ‘the'. More often than not, her eyes would wander to the embroidered roses on the bodice of her gown. Her fingers would pluck at them absently. She recalled every detail of Mr. Weston's soft look of the morning, when his clothes were disheveled and lovely in their aimlessness, before he once more became rigid and gruff and proper. And the memory only brought with it a profound sense of loss. Her mind tried to recapture the look of him when she closed her eyes—a soft smile, a tender expression, the gentle reach of his hand as if he would touch her. Imogen groaned. Rising from her seat she went to the window to look out over the garden. The book she left on the settee forgotten easily. A gentle mist surrounded the garden, tugging painfully at her memory. Her mind begged her to recall. She struggled to grasp a thought, but as she detected a hand—slender and pale—coming into focus in her mind's eye, she jolted in fear and the image was gone. Behind her, the door opened. She turned, hopeful to see Mr. Weston again. Instead, she found her father—his cravat loosened, his brown eyes brimmed red with drink. Gasping to find him thus so early in

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the day, Imogen froze by the window. The Viscount did not see her as he walked into the room. He glanced at the roaring fire in surprise before kicking off his wet boots. Lumbering across the carpeted floor, swaying only a little, Viscount Sutherfeld stopped at his favorite chair. Wearily, he sank into the stiff folds. He kicked his stockinged feet out with a sigh. Imogen saw only the balding top of his head. She realized he still had not detected her. She had started forward when he cursed. Sitting up, he leaned forward, his gaze on the settee. "Not again,” he murmured, shaking his head. Pushing himself up with a groan he went to the settee and picked up the book. Looking at it dismally, he walked over to the shelf and put it back in its place on the shelf. “Who the devil reads such in this house?" Imogen cleared her throat delicately, thinking it high time she made herself known to the drunken Viscount. The Viscount spun on his heels. Grabbing his head in his hands at the quick motion, he paused, endeavoring not to weave. "Father?” questioned Imogen. "What?” he muttered. Looking up, he squinted. His gaze found her briefly, before blinking heavily to clear them of his self-induced pain. Under his breath, he cursed, “Bloody Hell! I must have drunk more than I figured." His laugh was bitter as he stumbled back to his chair. He sank into it wearily. His eyes closed, his mind falling close to a stupored sleep. "Father, can I get you something?” asked Imogen. "Ah,” he muttered, his lips smacking soundly, “leave me, child." "Father, what has happened?” she inquired lightly. She placed a hand on his head. It was warm. He moved his forehead from her. "Blast it all, Gennie!” he grunted and slurred. “You were always a stubborn child. It is the reason I took you from London's influences. And you resent me for it. I should have taken a heavier hand with you. Mayhap then things would be different." "You mean with the Colonel?” she asked, willing his eyes to open once more. It was not to be. A soft snore escaped his lips. Imogen dropped her hands from his forehead. Lovingly, she smoothed the tousled hair back from his flushed, round cheeks. With a sigh, she moved his limbs, arranging them in more comfortable positions. Her father muttered but did not open his eyes again. Mr. Weston did not meet her in the garden. Imogen waited the remainder of the day, her thoughts preoccupied with him. She walked throughout the curved paths, always drawn back to the stone bench of their first meeting. The wind blew over her gown, pressing it to her body. Occasionally, a chill would work its way over her spine and she would feel that she was not alone. Then the moment would pass and she would decide the chill was from the cool breeze and the feeling was from her desire for Mr. Weston to come. With a wry smile, she realized she had not heard from Mr. Tanner. Not that she was surprised by Edward's absence. It had only been a few days since her father had ordered him not to call on her. Hopefully one of the local families would throw a ball or a small garden party where she might happen

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upon him. Her father couldn't very well keep her from talking to a known acquaintance at such a time. Thinking on it, Imogen realized that she had seen no mail or invitations lately. And beyond that, no one called upon Rothfield Park. Had her mother driven all guests away? Or worse, with the sweet Jane gone, did no one think to visit her? Suddenly, Imogen wished she had been a bit more hospitable to the poor country folk of Haventon. Small society was better than no society at all. And keeping oneself busy was better than so much time given to contemplation. Was this how her mother thought to sway her decision in regards to the Colonel? Was that what her father had meant? Imogen felt a grin fan over her features. So that was their game, was it? Well, they would soon see the strength of her resolve. Imogen decided she should go inside as the sun began to fall over the horizon. The streaks of evening bathed over the earthen pathways and the stone carvings of the beautiful lawn. And, as Imogen walked towards the manor, a fine dust settled over her feet, blowing from the ground to surround her. Darkness seemed to come too fast, like the rapid clicking of time kept by an over-wound clock. Imogen gasped in surprise. Her heart pounded in sudden violence. She did not know why she was scared, but she began to run anyway. Her wide eyes darted about her. She could feel something growing around her, swelling up from the earth, awakening with the night. Spooked by the stillness of the silent grounds and the eerie coolness of the evening, Imogen looked straight before her feet. Within moments she was on the front steps and through the manor's large front door. She decisively slammed the door shut behind her and, with the feeling that all was not well beyond the walls of the house, Imogen flew to the safety of her bedroom. Changing quickly for bed, Imogen crawled beneath the thick folds of her coverlet, comforted by the weight of it on her body and feeling protected beneath the folds of its barrier. She pulled the coverlet over her head, leaving only a small space between the side of the coverlet and the bed to peek out. Refusing to move, she closed her eyes, and fell instantly into a fitful sleep. **** The mist gathered in the night, creeping eerily over the tall grass of the field, around the strong bark of flowering trees. The full moon shone brightly over Rothfield Park. The air was sweet with the scent of flowers, but, to some, another smell could be detected on the breeze. It was the acrid smell of burning wood. Dougal swallowed. He could feel an old presence gathering in the misty darkness. Desperately, he searched through it, looking for signs of movement within the fog. Occasionally he would detect a stirring, so brief that it was gone before his eyes could make out the shape of a hand, the flowing material of a sleeve, but he could tell that they were there—just as surely as they could sense him. Following the path into the woods, he felt his heart beat with a mixture of dread and anticipation. He was too old to give credence to hope, but he felt the stirring of it inside of him, refusing to be hidden away. The speckled light over the path grew dim. Insects hummed in the distance, unafraid of what lingered. The limbs of trees crashed overhead, clanging their leaves in an orchestra of foreboding melodies. "Margaret?” called Dougal softly. He stopped near the stream, trying to listen past the water for any sign of an answer. The wind grew stronger, the stiffness of the breeze was a stout warning that he tried not to heed. He could detect the smell of roses wafting around him. He took a step. The mist grew thicker in warning. He called out again, “Margaret!" He could feel that he wasn't alone anymore. There was someone else on the path and it was not

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Margaret. The mist hid its secrets well, for he could not see ahead of him. He knew he should turn around and go back to the safety of the house, but he dared another step. His heart thudded painfully. The mist began to choke him, growing weary of keeping him at bay. A sudden slash of a tree limb disturbed the fog before him, twirling it about in curling waves, aiming for his head as if to crush his skull. Dougal paled, stumbling. When he righted himself, he knew he could not go on. It would not let him pass. It never let him pass. "Margaret,” he whispered, heartbroken, beyond anger, frustrated. With deep regret, he watched the mist clear as he stepped slowly away and as the way opened before him once more, he was forced to go back to the house. **** Imogen shot up in her bed with a gasp of fright. Sweat beaded her clammy skin. Gulping for air, she threw the coverlet from her legs. It was dark. Only the thin slivers of shimmering moonlight shone on the floor and the only sound she could hear was the beating of her heart in her ears. Jumping off her bed, she padded bare footed over the floor as she made her way to the window. She leaned close to the glass, squinting to see. Beyond the chilly panes were the gardens, swirling with the fine fog of night. She pressed her face against the glass, her nose fogging a pattern over her lips as she frantically searched the countryside for any signs of life. There was nothing. The thudding of her heart lessened. The tremor of her breaths began to lighten and calm. Imogen giggled, nervously berating herself for her bad dreams. She thought she had been awakened by a terrible scream, but all was silent and still as it should be. A scream rent the air. Imogen jumped, then held completely still. Her body quaked in renewed terror. Turning slowly on her heels, she carefully searched her bedchamber. That scream had been real. This was no dream, but a living nightmare. Detecting nothing within the shadows of her room, she crept slowly to the candle on her dresser, striking the flint to light it. Lifting the meager flame high, Imogen looked around the room again before hurrying to her bedroom door. Cracking the door, she moved the candle to light the hall. The orange glow of the small flame haloed her, casting ghostly shadows around in a globe of diminishing light, but she saw the hall was empty. She listened intently for any sound. Without stopping to consider the danger, she moved quickly through the halls until she reached the main foyer. It too was empty. The voice came again, this time softer and almost childlike. A gentle crying followed the pitiful discord. Imogen hesitated. It was coming from outside and it sounded very close. Surely whoever was screaming would be standing on the other side of the door, waiting for someone to answer her. Glancing around the empty hall, before eyeing her long white nightgown, she decided to see who was at the front door. The child continued to cry, not bothering to knock or ring for a servant. Imogen set the brass candleholder on a table before pulling the door open. Outside there was nothing. The crying grew louder. "Who's there?” whispered Imogen. There was no answer. “Please, come forward. You will not be hurt." The crying began to fade, moving around the corner of the house. The sound seemed to travel on the wind. Imogen followed the noise with her gaze. Then she glimpsed the faint gleam of blonde hair formed into thick ringlets, outlined by the full, bright moon. Ignoring the frantic pounding of her heart, Imogen

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raced after the vision. "Wait,” she called softly, coming around the corner. “Where are you going? Come back. I can help you." The child stopped. She turned around, her head cocking impishly to the side. A sly smile formed on her lips, instantly replacing the tears that had so recently occupied rounded features. The brightness of her clear, green eyes struck Imogen. She froze. Her feet stumbled to a stop. The child's yellow dress was old, the tight sleeves and stiffly formed bodice fitting snugly to her thin frame. The skirt was rounded like a bell, swinging back and forth as if it would ring. The child giggled, lifting her skirts to show an abundance of petticoats beneath the little gown. With a small shake of her head, the little girl turned away, running along the path to the flower garden. Imogen followed her. The child seemed to run on the wind, almost seeming to float. Always several paces behind, Imogen raced through the garden, around the stone path until finally the child was out of sight. Breathing heavily, Imogen slowed her pace to walk quickly down the path the child had led her to. She tried to be quiet, listening for footsteps other than her own. As she stepped around a small shrub, she saw the child. The girl sat demurely on the stone bench where she and Mr. Weston had talked. Imogen stopped. The child's face was buried in her hands. When she looked up, Imogen saw tears streamed down her cheeks. Picking up her little shawl from the bench beside her, she tugged it around her shoulders then stood and started to turn away. "Wait,” Imogen said, lifting her hand to stop her. She took a step forward. The girl turned curiously, her head tilting to the side. "Why do you cry?" The child sniffed. “I am lost." "I can help you,” stated Imogen, drawing nearer. “Where are you from?" The child eyed her. She glanced up at the sky and then over her shoulder. Her bright eyes glowed as they searched the distant trees. Again her face turned to the moon as if to see the time in the mystical globe. When the girl did not answer, Imogen inquired, “What is your name?" "Have you seen my mother?” asked the child suddenly. Her sweet voice was soft, carried over like a whisper on the breeze. The words were almost hollow as if they echoed before reaching Imogen. Her pale skin was almost translucent in the moonlight. “Have you seen my father? I am looking for him." "No, I don't believe I have. Who is your father?” questioned Imogen, daring another step forward. The girl, seeing her advance, stumbled backwards, moving down the gentle incline of a small slope. Her small face wrinkled as if she might again cry. Imogen stopped, not wanting to frighten her away. "Are you my mother?” asked the girl. “I can't remember her." Imogen hesitated. The phrase sounded oddly familiar. She could not place it. Anxiously, she motioned her head in denial. She could not speak.

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The girl again glanced around. Then, staring off into the distance, she shook her ringlet head and uttered, “He would not like it." "Who?” asked Imogen. Her gaze followed the child's. That is when she saw him again—a figure on a dark horse, waiting quietly in the distance, watching them. At their attention, the rider nudged his horse forward. The horse's hooves murmured in the stirring mist. Going to the child, Imogen whispered frantically, “Who is that? Is that your father?" "No,” said the girl. She bowed her head as she began to walk toward the rider in dejection. She did not try to run from him as he came for her. "Wait,” cried Imogen, the loudness of her voice sounding harshly out of place. “You don't have to go." The child turned with a sad smile. She did not answer. She waited as the rider approached her. The horse moved slowly, at an easy walk, but covered more distance than his pace should have allowed. Imogen's heart began to thud in warning. She wanted to run, but was torn between her fear and her concern for the child. Unable to look away, she watched the rider as he neared. He was a large man, with shoulder length black hair that flowed around his tunic covered shoulders. His black eyes were cavernous pits in the sharp sockets of his face. Imogen eyed his medieval attire, wondering at the knight-like garb. "What do you want?” she asked shakily. The knight looked at her, his face expressionless as he studied her carefully before he leaned over to reach a hand down to the child. His fingers curled, motioning her to take hold in silent command. "Do not touch her,” Imogen ordered the knight. Her words were weak, but she lifted her jaw into the air. At that, the knight again glanced at her with something akin to curiosity shining on his face. Imogen turned to the girl. “You don't have to go with him. Stay here with me. I will protect you." The girl did not hesitate. She held her hand up to the knight. The man pulled her before him onto the horse. The child wiggled until she was comfortable in the knight's arms. She sat sideways on the animal's back, her head leaning against the broad expanse of his chest. Her round eyes stared at Imogen silently with hollowed sorrow. "Who are you?” she demanded hoarsely. She could see the child was unafraid, used to the man who held her. Imogen drew back in fear as they continued to watch her with intent gazes. The horse pawed the ground. Their eyes grew brighter—too bright for the reflected moonlight. The knight urged the animal slowly towards her. Imogen lifted her hand as a weak barrier. The mist swirled around her, creeping like a fire up her legs, burning her flesh. She couldn't run, couldn't swing her arms to fight as the man came closer. His hand began to reach as if he would curl his fingers at her and take her with him. Trembling, she began to cry, tears streaming down her flushed cheeks. Without warning, she screamed. At the high-pitched sound of her terror, the horse started, rearing in the air, its forelegs flailing against the moon. When the stallion's legs struck the ground once more, the faces of the riders melted.

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The child's yellow dress withered, the soft material scorched with the flames of a past fire, growing dark with ash and soot. Her face crumpled, wrinkling into a red and black mass of scarred flesh, the lips withering like dying roses against her skin until they were tightened lines pulled back from her teeth. Her golden curls melted away until only the mass of her bloodied skull showed oozing through the wound in her head. Her green eyes stared from the depths of her lidless eyes. The knight's transformation was less horrible. His face paled until his skin turned gray with the stark, waxen pallor of death. His lips faded, becoming blue. A hole opened in the knight's chest, exposing the still remains of his bleeding heart, once impaled but now a gaping wound that would forever seep. Imogen's voice stuck in her throat. Her eyes burned with the image, her stomach clenching at the grotesque image. Dragging in a deep breath, Imogen screamed again. The vibration of her voice jerked her legs into action, but, before she could run, the thick mist wound around the knight and his child, enveloping them. They disappeared. Still screaming, Imogen turned, running along the dim pathway. Clouds drifted over the moon. The land became dark—more so now that the mist was curling away toward the trees. Her heart pumped faster. Her feet moved with the speed of lightning. Suddenly, she bumped into an unyielding chest. Her screamed again, fighting the arms that tried to restrain her. "Let me go,” she yelled, blindly. "Imogen!” commanded Dougal with a hard shake. “Imogen!" "Let—” She stopped as the tone of his voice sank in to her harried senses. Staring at him through wet, dilated eyes, she breathed, “Spirits." "What?” hissed Dougal. Shoving Imogen behind him, he started down the path from whence she had come. "No, Mr. Weston, please,” she gulped. She grabbed his arm, tugging him to a stop. “There are ghosts in the garden. Horrible—" "Where?” He turned to her. His hand lifted to her pale face to calm her. She stiffened at his touch but did not fight it. There was something familiar in his hold. The length of his fingers ran down the side of her cheek, over the frantic beat of her pulse in her neck. He demanded hoarsely, “Where did you see them?" "In the garden by the stone bench, but please, don't go there. I think the mist swallowed them up. They vanished—I ... I....” Imogen shrugged helplessly unable to finish. Fearfully, she cried, “Don't leave me." Drawn by his light touch and the kind worry in his eyes, Imogen rushed forward, burying herself against his chest. She needed to feel something solid and real. She needed to know that he was not like the others in the garden. The steady beat of his heart thumped against her flushed cheek reassuringly. Dougal gasped in shock at her sudden embrace. His hands fell wide in surprise, away from her, refusing to hold her in return, but she clung tightly, her slender arms wrapping around his waist, holding him fast. He felt her tremble. Just as his eyes had not been immune to her form swathed in the voluptuous folds of her nightdress, his body was not immune as she pressed her softness firmly against him. Dougal stood for a long, spellbound moment, not returning her touch, stunned to silence as she continued to cling to him. He was afraid to startle her into pulling away, afraid of what it would mean to him if he

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held her, afraid of the memory that would haunt him afterwards if he were to feel her skin beneath his flesh-starved hands. His feelings were wrong, for so many reasons. His lust could not be explored or returned. His passions could not be voiced. His loneliness could not be redeemed. They could never be together. Their paths were only meeting for a brief moment. He knew that soon the crossing of their lives would be over and he would never see her again. After several fevered heartbeats with no response from him, she began to pull away. Dougal could take it no longer. He seemed to have no control over his arms as they surrounded her shoulders. He could not deny her comfort, just as he could not deny himself the painfulness of such a memory as they were creating. "Imogen,” he murmured in dark torture. His caress was stiff, brief, wrong. It could not last. He commanded his arms to release her. "No, don't go,” Imogen begged in a shaken whisper, knowing that it was what he would ask of her. Even with her fear, she was well aware of how different his skin was to hers, how warm his body was to her chilled skin. She was no fool. She felt his stiffness, knew he was uncomfortable. She couldn't give him ease, would not let go. “Don't leave me alone. I'm not crazy. I know what I saw. The ghosts are real. It was the Marquis. I know it was." "How—?” he started. "I just know,” she broke in. Pulling away from his chest, she looked up at him. Dougal studied her eyes, so vulnerable and innocent. The look drove him mad. His limbs shook with a desire he had been hard pressed to keep at bay since meeting her. Only now did he realize how close to the surface it bubbled. When he looked at her, he knew the fates were plotting against him. And the fates were very, very cruel indeed. She still did not understand what was going on at Rothfield Park. Dougal would not be the one to tell her. He couldn't even try to form the words. And, without truth, there was nothing but her innocence waiting to be crushed. He was not the monster to do it, for he needed her more than she could realize—for more than just the fulfillment of his body. He needed her to complete the search for his soul. Imogen swallowed audibly, staring up into his cool eyes. Her gaze dipped over the strong line of his nose, the small mole beside it. The worried crease on his brow deepened until he appeared to be scowling at her, but Imogen did not feel the tension of his eyes in his hold. His arms were tender, gentle, caressing. An unfamiliar wave washed over her skin. Her gown kneaded beneath his fingers, lifting and falling with each gentle stroke. She felt like she was floating, like he could sweep her away across the earth and sky, into the starry night. She forgot the ghosts, forgot that she was scantily clad in the arms of her tutor. She forgot her parents and the servants sleeping within the manor. Her mind did not even think to warn her of how wrong her actions were, for her body screamed with approval. Licking her lips, she glanced at his parted mouth, her attention suddenly drawn there. "I—” she began. She couldn't finish. Lifting up on her toes, she pressed her mouth to Dougal's. He swallowed in surprise at her bold action. The sound did not stop her. Nothing could stop her once her lips felt the firm pleasure of his. A light plea escaped her throat, begging in confusion. Her hands found hold on his face. The stubble of

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his chin scratched her, but she didn't care. Not knowing what possessed her, she opened her mouth. She needed to get closer, feel more. His breath fanned over her teeth and she breathed him in. Unsure how to end the torment of her flesh, she pulled back, gazing into his stunned eyes. Her blue orbs begged him to help her, to show her what she was trying to do. He did not—could not. Taking her hands in his, Dougal pulled her hands from his face. His arms trembled. His body shook. He saw the aching torment in her and was sorry that he was the cause of it. Shaking his head, he uttered hoarsely, “No." "But, I—" "No,” he ordered more forcibly. “You are distraught." "But, I thought that you ... that I—" "You are confused,” he stated, his voice becoming more controlled with each passing moment. “You are tired." Imogen pulled angrily away. “Quit treating me as if I were a child!" "Then don't act like one,” he returned harshly. His limbs stiffened with the effort it took not to pull her back. “You are not thinking clearly right now. Tomorrow—" "Tomorrow!” she screeched. She backed away from him, her fists balling at her waist. “Quit telling me what I am!" "Shhh! You forget what is out here!” he hissed. “Would you draw attention—?" "You high and mighty ... boor! You think that just because you are my tutor you can order me about? I'll have you know I didn't even want to kiss you. For a passing moment, you looked like my dear, sweet Edward and I thought I was kissing him. If it wasn't for the ghosts that gave me such at terrible fright, I would not have....” Her words trailed off. Her face grew pale as she remembered why she had been running in the first place. Weakly, she uttered, “There are spirits in the garden." "What did you see?” he asked bluntly, ignoring her other remarks. He could not handle the pain that her cutting tone caused him, though he had expected little else. Grabbing her arms, he shook her. “Tell me what you saw." "Let me go! You have no right to order me about." His tone softened, but his grip remained tight. “What did you see?" "A ghost,” she stated slowly, as if talking to a child. Her eyes grew round. Imogen thought of her sister. Jane knew all the stories. She needed to write her, find out who the ghosts were and what they wanted. What had happened to the poor child. The burnt face worked its way into her mind's eye. Imogen grew nauseous. “Now let me go. I want to go inside. Your touch is making me sick." Realizing he was hurting her with his force, Dougal released her. Imogen stumbled away from him, staring up at his face with injured pride. Rubbing her arms gingerly where he had gripped her, she sniffed. Her jaw jutted up into the air. He opened his mouth as if to speak,

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but her dark look of warning cut him off. Turning, Imogen ran to the house without a backward glance. She found her candle where she'd left it, still lit, and grabbed it with trembling hands. Panting for breath, she hurried to her room. Dougal watched her go. Seeing her safely inside, he closed his eyes. Then with determination, he rushed to the gardens, and, as the darkness of night consumed him, he whispered into the wind, “Margaret. Margaret. Where are you my sweet Margaret?"

Chapter Five The next morning found Imogen lost between embarrassment for her inexcusable behavior toward Mr. Weston and her fear over what she had seen in the garden. Were there ghosts?she wondered over and over again.And did I actually kiss my tutor? Whatever possessed me! Not one to sit around, and feeling reasonably safe once the light of dawn illuminated her room, Imogen hurried to her writing desk to pen a letter to Jane in care of her Aunt Mildred's home in London. Sparing no detail, she told Jane everything that she had seen and begged her to come home. When she finished, she made her way down to the library to leave the letter on the tray her father used for outgoing mail. As soon as a servant saw it, they would have it delivered. She would have ordered the letter posted straight away, but that would have only drawn suspicion and her mother would undoubtedly read what she had divulged to her sister. The last thing Imogen wanted was to explain herself to the Viscountess. Her mother only needed an excuse to have her committed. Imogen was determined not to give her one. No,thought Imogen,the ghosts will have to be my secret. Well,she amended ruefully,Mr. Weston's and mine. She doubted the man would care to mention the night's happenings to her parents. If they even thought aught improper happened he would be relieved of his position and his reputation ruined. He would never tutor in fine society again. In the library, she hid her letter within the stack of her father's missives. Imogen sighed in relief when her task was done. Mr. Weston was not there to greet her with his usually dismal self. Part of her longed to see him, but it was a small part she thought better to ignore. After her behavior, she wanted to fall into a hole and die. The knowledge of her attempt to kiss him was almost worse than the knowledge of the ghostly Marquis. She could still feel his lips, rigid and unmoving against hers. He had not returned her tender sentiment, but only gasped in revulsion. Turning to leave, Imogen jolted in shock as her gaze fell on Dougal. She blinked to clear the image of him from her mind. When he did not disappear, she froze. His expression tautened. He looked as if he hadn't slept and in fact he had not. Wearily, Dougal looked at the tray where she had deposited her letter. Then, glancing back at her face,

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he uttered with a polite nod of greeting. “Miss Imogen." "Mr. Weston,” she whispered back with a stiff bow. Never had propriety stung her as it did now. She cursed herself for the weakness of her voice. Her hands shook dreadfully. She could not meet his eyes. Having nothing else to say, she moved to skirt past him. Dougal's hand shot out, grasping her elbow to stop her. Wincing, she looked up at him through her lashes. "You have a guest,” he said quietly. He studied her face for any signs of affection. He desperately wanted to explain, to wipe away the anguish he saw in her, but he did not know how. "A guest?” she asked in surprise. She glanced at his face. The sight tugged at her heart. She pulled away. She could not stand his cool indifference. He would most likely only scold her again and mayhap she deserved it. She had acted like a child. "Yes. A vicar,” he murmured quietly, pleased to see that she at least did not run from him screaming as she had the night before. "A vicar?” she said in surprise. That did get her attention. With a grimace she uttered, “Not Reverend Campbell. He is a dreadfully disapproving man. I cannot endure him today. I will not sit through one of his self-righteous sermons." "No. His name is Reverend Stillwell." "Did you send for him to lecture me about morality?” she muttered defensively. Lifting her chin, she listened to him sigh. "No,” he replied. He could feel the tension radiating from her, flowing over him like a drift of snow. "What does he want with me? Have we a new vicar at Haventon?” she inquired. "Yes and no,” Dougal said. With a frustrated sigh, he released her and moved away from her. He could not think with her so near. He could smell the sweetened scent of roses wafting from the perfumed oil on her skin. "Is he angry because my attendance at church has been ... irregular?” she wondered pensively. “He has come to lecture me?" "I think you should talk to him. He is in the garden." "Oh.” Imogen sighed, reluctant to go there. Sensing her hesitancy, Dougal asked, “Would you prefer I direct him somewhere else?" "No, no. Don't be silly. The garden is fine ... perfectly fine." When the door shut behind her, Dougal drew a deep breath. Going to the letter tray, he glanced down at the stack. On the top was a payment of a bill addressed in the Viscount's script. Dougal groaned slightly. Shifting through the letters, he found one made out to Miss Jane Drake in a decidedly feminine scrawl. Grasping the letter in his palm, he rearranged the other correspondence on the tray into a neat pile.

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Wandering to the window, he watched Imogen cross the yard. Her sunny smile as she politely greeted the vicar washed over him like the brightness of the sun. He swallowed, closing his eyes. Then, regaining his composure, he turned away, focusing his attention on the letter. Breaking the seal, he sat near the window so that he could keep an eye on his wayward student, then he began to read,Dearest Jane, you will not believe what it is I have to reveal to you.... **** Clouds blanketed the sky, covering the blue like splotchy, white ornaments. The white heavens diffused the light, brightening all of the earth so that hardly a shadow was cast over the ground. Imogen straightened her straw bonnet, hoping she looked more pious than she felt. Her gloved hands smoothed the richness of her linen day gown. The folds of the cream material flowed with every movement. Seeing someone she knew must be the new vicar waiting for her, she glanced at the library window. For a moment, she thought she saw Mr. Weston watching her, but then decided she'd been mistaken. Pasting a cheery smile on her lips, she approached the short man, who held his hands out in greeting. Without waiting for introduction, Reverend Stillwell said merrily, “Oh, Miss Imogen! What promising things I have heard of you!" "Good morning, Vicar,” said Imogen, bewildered by the compliment. She bowed her head politely. Seeing his kind blue eyes squinting up at her from the depths of his ruddy complexion, she grinned. The man's good humor seeped infectiously from his very being. “You must be Reverend Stillwell. I am sorry to say that I have only just now heard of you." "Yes, yes, certainly. Young people have so much more to worry with than meeting an old man like myself.” The vicar waved his hands in a sweeping gesture befitting a man on the pulpit and urged her to join him in a walk. Chuckling merrily, his two chins giggled as he moved his head about to soak in the day. "So, are you to take over the parish at Haventon, Father?” asked Imogen politely. “I assume you are new to our town." "No, not at all, I have lived here many years and have worked at the parish just as long,” he answered, content to take his time divulging his purpose. "But Reverend Campbell...?” Imogen looked at the man in confusion. "The good Reverend Campbell and I share the duties of the parish,” the vicar said with a laugh. Imogen did not get the joke, but smiled politely nonetheless. “He tends to the church and pulpit and I tend to the old and sickly souls of the parish. We keep out of each other's way." "Oh." "Mr. Weston tells me that you had quite an adventure last night,” the Reverend Stillwell said without warning, turning toward the wooded area by the stream. Imogen didn't pay attention to where they strolled, her mind focused on the vicar's words.He did not, thought Imogen in horror.He could not have confessed such a thing! Noticing the vicar was eyeing her pale expression, Imogen gulped. “Well, yes. I...."

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"You saw spirits,” offered the vicar when she hesitated. Imogen almost swooned with relief, only to be overcome by embarrassment. She couldn't answer. "I believe you, if that helps you regain your tongue, dear.” The man smiled at her. “I know for a fact that spirits wander this world just as the living do." "You don't think I imagined it?” she whispered, her gaze fixed on the ground. "There was a time when I would have,” he admitted. “But I have seen them too. I see them often in fact." "What do they want?” she asked. "It's hard to say. It depends on what is keeping them bound to the earth. Some want to be helped. Some don't. Some don't even know they have died and only need direction to find their way." "And you help those souls find their way to heaven?” she asked. The vicar nodded. He scratched his round, balding head. “More or less. I help them to find peace if they don't already have it and, for those that do, I help them to find their way." "So they have spoken to you then?" "Some,” answered the vicar easily. He led her closer to the forest. “Usually only the ones who don't know they are deceased and only if they are generally at peace. But, occasionally, there is a soul that needs my help and, by the will of God, I help them in whatever way I can." "I don't think the two I saw were at peace. I don't know what happened, but their faces melted into something horrible right before my eyes.” Imogen shuddered at the remembrance. She hugged her arms about her waist, feeling a chill sweep over her skin. "Hum,” mused the vicar thoughtfully. “Did you startle them?" "Startle them?” shot Imogen with a wide-eyed laugh of disbelief. Seeing the seriousness in his expression, she uttered, “I did scream. Their horse—" "Horse?” gulped the vicar. “You saw a horse with them? An actual animal spirit?" "Yes, one of them was riding it. I think that it must have been the Marquis of Rothfield, although he was dressed as a knight.” Imogen wondered at the man's tone. His face stayed cheerily the same, but his voice dipped in a concern he was hard pressed to hide. Imogen detected it immediately. “Why? Are animal spirits rare?" "Yes, indeed. I myself have never seen one, only heard rumors. Honestly, I did not think they existed." "They do,” asserted Imogen. "As a knight you say?” the vicar encouraged, not wanting to lose the way of their conversation by digressing too far.

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"Yes. At least I think he was a knight. He did not wear his armor but a tunic shirt and breeches from long ago. I got the impression he was a knighted man. And I seem to recall a sword at his waist.” Imogen paused, trying to remember and finding the exact details unclear. “He was very proud and handsome in a ruffian's way." "Proud? How so?” asked the vicar. "Just his carriage,” she said, unable to really explain. “Do you know of him?" "Were those the two you saw?” inquired the vicar, his jowls shaking with an urgency he tried to hide. “The horse and the knight? Did you say that there was another with them?" "Yes, a young girl,” mumbled Imogen weakly. Seeing that they were about to cross the path leading into the small alcove of trees, she stopped, raising a hand to her cheek. She felt sick to her stomach. “Can we turn around, father? I don't want to walk in the woods today." "Are you afraid?” he asked, masking his eyes from her with the excuse of examining the front of his black smock. "All this talk of spirits is making me weak,” she said. “I should like to stay near the house." "All right, child,” he said. As they turned to retrace their steps Imogen had the distinct impression he was disappointed in her decision. Changing the subject, he asked, “Do you ever ride, Miss Imogen?" "Yes, often,” she admitted, smiling. The vicar hummed at the admission. “When was the last time you went out to ride? We have had fine weather for it, have we not?" Imogen paused, trying to recall. “I have been very busy,” she said at last. “Surely I have gone within the last week? Truth be told, I cannot remember the exact time." The vicar nodded as if it was no consequence. They walked in silence until they were back in the garden. "A young girl, you said,” reminded the vicar, prompting her to continue her tale. "Yes, perhaps eight or nine years. She had golden hair and the brightest green eyes I have ever saw. When I startled her, her hair melted off her head and her skin became all ... wrinkly. Tell me, do you know who she is? Is she the Marquis's daughter?" "Mayhap,” said the vicar. “I have never seen them." Imogen glanced up at the library window, wondering if Mr. Weston was still within. Blushing, she looked away. The vicar caught the look, but said nothing. "Tell me, why are they showing themselves to me? I have never before seen them and we have lived at

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Rothfield now for nearly seven months. My sister Jane has often claimed she could hear them about. If anyone should have seen them, it would have been her. She believes in them, I don't ... didn't.” Imogen paused to study the vicar earnestly. “What do they want?" "It is natural that you would have a lot of questions,” he said.. “Some people are born seeing them." "But, that is not me,” protested Imogen. “I didn't even believe or want to believe." "It is not a matter of want.” He smiled kindly. Clearing his throat, he added, “Sometimes when a person comes near death, they begin to see death—mayhap from an accident or particular trauma." Imogen paused in confusion. Her eyes narrowed in thought.. She knew there was something she was not getting, but she could not remember. “But, why me?" "The ghosts may not want anything to do with you. Perchance you have stumbled upon them. Death is a great mystery. I have heard that sometimes spirits can dwell within the same place and not even know the other is there.” The vicar motioned his hand for her to continue around the house. Imogen walked, absently following his lead. “They pass each other by, never even feeling the other's presence. Mayhap you were just at the right place at the right time. Mayhap your mind opened in some way or mayhap it was your heart." "Is that why you have come this morning? To reassure me?” Imogen turned her kindest smile on the man as he led her back to the house. "Yes, I suppose that is why,” he answered. Imogen wondered again at his meaning, but did not press him. "Mr. Weston mentioned that you had seen a ghost. He was worried that you might be having a hard time of it." He was worried?thought Imogen, torn between happiness and bewilderment. Her heart fluttered in tentative pleasure. Aloud, she said, “Then, Mr. Weston sees them also?" "Not so many, but yes, he has seen a few. So you see, my dear child, you are in good company with us.” The vicar smiled, moving to climb the front steps to the house. Imogen turned to take her leave. "Reverend Stillwell, it was a pleasure to meet you. Please feel free to come whenever you wish. And you must have supper with us soon. I am sure the Viscount will be most pleased to receive you. Though, I would not mention this business of spirits if I were you. The Viscountess does not like to hear of such things." "I will be sure never to utter a word to them,” he said diplomatically. “Now, if you will excuse me, I would like to speak with our young Mr. Weston. I think it best if I set his mind at ease and tell him you are adjusting quite well. As you may imagine, he is aware of how unusual an experience this can be for someone." "Yes,” agreed Imogen, with a thankful nod. She did indeed feel better after talking to the man, although she could not help but wonder why Mr. Weston didn't tell her personally of his experiences. Taking her leave, Imogen made haste to her bedroom. Her heart overflowed with emotions—most

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predominately confusion. Why was Mr. Weston so concerned about her? Imogen dared not hope he felt anything above the general, dutiful affection of a tutor to his unruly charge. Flinging her weary body on her bed, she closed her eyes. Her arms reached out, finding the softness of her pillow. She hugged it to her stomach, curling herself atop the soft mattress. The exhaustion of her long night set with resoluteness on her limbs and within moments she was fast asleep, dreaming of ghosts in the mist and one man standing solid amidst it all. **** "Reverend,” acknowledged Dougal. He stood from his chair, waiting anxiously to hear what the vicar had to say. “Did you take her to the forest?" "I tried,” he admitted. “She would not go." "Did she remember her accident then?” he insisted with a hopeful tone. “She remembers what happened?" "No,” the vicar answered. “She just would not go. And when I asked her when she last rode a horse, she could not remember. Mayhap you should get her to go riding with you? Take her over the north field and then see if you can race her into the trees. That one has a wild spirit in her. I think she might meet a challenge if issued right." "I don't know that such a thing would be possible. She is angry with me,” Dougal admitted. "Make it up to her then,” uttered the old man wisely with an unconcerned shrug. “Apologize." "But I did nothing wrong,” Dougal said before adding wryly, “not really." "It does not matter when it comes to women. Surely, you can remember that much of the fairer sex?” The reverend laughed. “Apologize and take her out on the horse. Take her on a picnic, just the two of you. You are her tutor, are you not? She will not think twice about being alone with you. If you do this, mayhap then she will recall what we need her to. Mayhap she will remember what spooked her." "And what saved her,” Dougal whispered quietly. Reaching behind him on the desk, he grabbed Imogen's letter to her sister. Holding it up for the vicar's inspection, he said, “She wrote to her sister." "Really?” the vicar said in surprise. “About this?" "She wrote about what she saw. She told Jane everything.” Dougal swallowed. He dared not hope. Whispering, he said, “It was Margaret. I know it." "Are you sure?” asked the vicar, reaching for the letter. He scanned the letter's contents. Mumbling awkwardly, he said, “She mentioned seeing a child and a knight on a horse. But there could be hundreds of children—" "A black horse,” broke in Dougal eagerly, pointing at the letter. “I know it is Margaret! It is all there. Margaret's yellow dress, her golden curls. It has to be her." "Even her burns,” murmured the vicar, his gaze traveling over the letter. Dougal swallowed. He nodded, fighting the decades of pain that rolled over him. Going to the window,

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he looked out over the expansive lawn. In a whisper, he said, “Yes, even her burns. It is Margaret. It is my daughter. It has to be. And Imogen is somehow the link between us. She has talked to her! She has talked to both of us!" Dougal's fervent whisper hissed through the library. Turning his tortured gaze to the man of God, he went to him. “Imogen saw her and the man who holds her prisoner. She is the only one who can bring Margaret to me. Cannot you make her remember what happened? Cannot you make her understand that I need her to remember? She is my last hope. She is the key to ending this torment." "I cannot force her to remember until she is ready,” said the vicar. “You know that Dougal." "But...” Dougal began, but, he knew the vicar was right. Bitter with helplessness, he whispered, “Can I not tell her my secret? Mayhap that will help her to come around. I cannot abide lying to her. Every time I see her face, so trusting in me, I grow ill with my deceits. I just want it to end." "No, it is too soon for that. For whatever reason she is comfortable with you as you are. Stay her tutor for now. When the time is right, she will discover the truth on her own.” The vicar glanced once more over the letter. Silently, he held it out. Dougal did not take it. "But will she accept it?” Dougal wondered aloud. He did not expect, nor did he receive, an answer. Bowing his head, he swallowed. He hated being helpless. He hated being out of control. He wanted his daughter back. He wanted his life back—a chance to redo what was already done. “What if it takes her years to come around?" "Right now she believes that you have also seen a few spirits. In that she will feel connected to you. It might enable her to trust you, talk to you about it,” offered the vicar as a small comfort. "She thinks I am alive. She believes it. She touches me as if I was a real man and I feel her as a real man feels a woman. I would tell her the truth of it,” murmured Dougal darkly. “I would stop lying. Until I do, she has no reason to trust in me." "People believe what their minds wish them to believe. Her mind wants you, needs you to be Mr. Weston, her tutor and new friend. Aside from you, she is very alone right now. Think about it from her view—her parents aren't speaking to her as a sort of punishment. Her sister's been banished away, and the servants are ordered to avoid her. You are all she has at the moment. If we tell her too soon, before she is ready to hear it, it might frighten her and incapacitate her in some way.” The vicar motioned soothingly to Dougal, not moving to touch him, knowing he couldn't. “There have been those in my care who have gone mad from the realization. She is strong and has handled the idea of the spirits better than I could have ever hoped. But she is not ready for everything. You must wait. You must be patient. You must be her friend." "But what if it is too late? What if the knight takes Margaret away from me? I cannot find her without Imogen.” Dougal sat wearily in the chair. He rubbed his forehead, knowing he had no choice but to play along with the woman's little fantasy. The crease between his eyes deepened. The vicar offered him the letter again. Dougal shook his head and held up his hand in denial. He could not read those damning words, the horrible description of his little girl in the hands of a monster. It was his first sign in so long that Margaret was still around and it was grim. “I just wish she would tell me what she saw the day of her accident. I know something frightened her horse in the forest." "She will tell once she remembers,” said the old man soothingly, not knowing if it was true. “She sees you for a reason."

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"We shall see,” muttered Dougal. "It is better if her sister does not get this,” stated the vicar. He took the letter and threw it into the fire. They watched the flames eat up the edges until it was well on its way to disappearing into ash. "Thank you for coming, Vicar,” uttered Dougal. He tried to give the reverend a weary smile and failed. Dougal's had been a hopeless journey—until now. Now there was the promise of Imogen's memory to reunite him with his daughter. If her mind did not hold the key, he knew nothing ever would. “Thank you for speaking with her. Mayhap it helped." "It is always a pleasure to see you, my lord Marquis,” the vicar answered with a polite bow of respect. "It is a burden to be seen,” Dougal answered back, quietly reserved. The vicar gave a wry laugh and nodded as he walked from the room, leaving Dougal to wallow in his own agony. There was nothing he could do to lift the man's burden. It was a sorrow the Marquis of Rothfield carried with him from life into death and it had haunted him for the last fifty years. Dougal's unrested spirit had been doomed to roam the manor and gardens of Rothfield Park, searching for a daughter who would not be found and might never forgive him. No one could lift the burden of such a curse, mayhap not even the woman who held within her the only dim ray of hope.

Chapter Six Imogen winced. Rubbing her head gingerly, she examined it for lumps. Her scalp was smooth, but the pain did not lessen. It was a peculiar sensation that coursed through her mind, throbbing with warning, yet vaguely refusing to release the secrets within her. It seemed the pain was most persistent the moment she awoke, and it was becoming harder to ignore. "Mayhap, it is because I sleep overmuch,” muttered Imogen, scolding herself for laziness. Yawning, she shuffled from her room. She wondered how she could have once again fallen asleep, it being so early in the day. Then, deciding she must not have gotten much rest after her encounter with the spirits, she shrugged the notion away. Since it was still morning, Imogen walked to the library, anxiously wanting to see Mr. Weston. She desired some answers. The pain lessened as she touched the library door. Throwing it open, she went inside. Dougal looked up from his book in surprise. Imogen's heart beat at his handsomeness, so unexpected in his soft look. She paused, waiting for his face to stiffen and his demeanor to harden. It did and she was once again able to breathe. "Miss Imogen,” Dougal said at length when she did not speak. “I wondered where you had gotten off to." "Oddly enough I napped. Last night left me overtired." Imogen blushed the moment the words left her mouth, her gaze darting to his lips. Quickly, she averted her gaze.

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Uncomfortable, Dougal looked away, as well. Finally, he stood under the pretense of putting up his book. He wanted to reach out to her. He knew he could lure her to his side, into his arms. He was still a man, after all, and being a man of vast experience, he knew when a woman was attracted to him. He knew how to manipulate that attraction. He held back, unwilling to take unfair advantage of her. Everything she understood about him was a lie. Imogen, unaware of his turmoil, suffered qualms of her own. He was her mentor, sent to polish her for marriage—a man whom she could never dream of pursuing. To do so would ruin her. Such men as he were poor. Her father would disown her. If her parents were so outraged over Mr. Tanner's station in life, they would be livid if they discovered she had any feelings of a tender sort toward Mr. Weston. He was, after all, a lowly tutor, a high-ranking servant at best. Tentatively, she mumbled, “I must apologize for—" "Do not think on it,” Dougal said sternly. He frowned, sorry that she was regretful of her actions, but he knew it was for the best. Nothing could ever come of the attraction between them. “You were distraught. I will never mention it." "Yes, I was distraught,” admitted Imogen. Her heart cried with the knowledge that he could forget the touch of her mouth much more easily than she could his. “However, I still feel I must apologize." Gaining her nerve, she lifted her head to look at him. His gaze met with hers. For a moment she was lost in the clear depths of his green-gray eyes. They were the color of a field shadowed beneath the clouds of a gray storm. Her heart sped in her chest. He said nothing. Feeling the need to explain, she rambled almost incoherently, “I did not mean to be cruel, if indeed that is what I was. I know that naught could come of us. And in fact I wish to make you understand that I know such a match, as ours, would be futile at best—not that I am saying we would be matched. You are a poor man and I the daughter of a nobleman. I am expected to be with a man of a certain station in life—as you well know because you are here to prepare me for him. I cannot very well go about kissing servants, can I? It just isn't done. And I promise not to do it in the future. So please, let it be our secret." Dougal's expression did not change. He felt as if he had been kicked by her candid honesty. What she said, in essence, was true of course, but the fact that she thought he was beneath her was insulting. She was rejecting him on the basis of his lack of wealth. If ever he had thought she cared for him, he stood corrected. She might feel attraction, but she did not favor him enough to defy the standards of society to be with him. Inwardly, Dougal cursed. What was he thinking? Even if she was willing to defy the will of her parents, they still could not be together. Why was he being so sensitive? Position and wealth did not matter in death. And such attraction and love that she hinted towardcould not matter in death. The time for love had passed. Moving to the settee, Imogen sat down lest she swoon. He did not reply, which meant he must agree with her. She tried to hide her disappointment. All it would have taken was one word from him for her to forget her words. She trembled beneath his watchful gaze, as she said, “So, having explained, I do apologize for making you uncomfortable. It was not a fair position to put you in, Mr. Weston. I suppose I was acting out of spite." "Forget it,” he said shortly, wishing she would quit talking.

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"And I thank you for sending the vicar to me." "He is a wise man. I hope he was able to help you." Imogen stood abruptly, her gaze focused on her hands as she picked nervously at the tips of her gloves. “Yes, it would appear so. Have...?" The sound of her small voice tore at Dougal. Slowly, he closed the distance between them, taking a seat in the Viscount's chair, unable to risk being too near her. His hands ached to reach out to her, but he knew he couldn't. Imogen glanced down at him, feeling all too exposed standing. She sat down on the settee again. "What is it?” Dougal asked quietly. "Have you really seen them too?” she inquired weakly. “Is that why you were not surprised when I ... when I told you I saw them?" "Yes,” Dougal said softly, forcing himself to remember the vicar's words. “I have seen sprits." "Here? You have seen them here?” asked Imogen. He nodded, not speaking. Hastily, she rushed on, unable to stop the flow of words, “What do they want? Am I to help them? Should I be afraid? I would have imagined I would be afraid of them, but I'm not—not exactly. I mean there is the general shock, which is the least to be expected in such a case as this. But beyond that I only feel as if I have acquired a new, living acquaintance. Well, except they were a bit scarier in appearance at times." At that Dougal shrugged. His lips tightened. It would be so easy to blurt out the truth, to tell her what he longed to. But Reverend Stillwell had been sure that they should not rush her to remember too quickly. If he tried to rush it, then all might be lost. He had tried to force her once, in this very room. He had tried to make her remember that day she fainted away in his arms. For a moment, she had accepted the truth, albeit numbly. But, she had gone to bed only to awaken without memory of the whole evening. If he tried again, Margaret might be lost forever. He could not chance such a grave error. No, for now, he must remain silent. "Nothing,” he said hoarsely. “My guess is that most of them want nothing from us. And we should not be afraid of them." "Most?” gasped Imogen in growing dread. “You say most want nothing. How can you tell the difference between themost and the others whodo want something from us?" "I cannot say for certain the minds of others. We must remember that all spirits were once human and from that we can logically assume they still carry feelings and desires that keep them here. And, being once human, their numerous traits and motives must vary. So I say fear them no more or less than you would a living being. Distrust them no more or less." "That would be the logical way to see it, would it not?” murmured Imogen, nodding in acceptance. “But what if I was meant to help them? Do you think I should endeavor to seek them out? Should I try to find them and talk to them?" Yes,Dougal desperately wanted to cry out. Instead, he said, “Mayhap, if you see them again, you should

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try and see what they are about. Mayhap you can help them find peace. Mayhap they don't know they are dead and all you need to do is tell them." "Do not know they are dead?” Imogen gasped in surprise. “They fade into the mist. How can they not realize they are dead, Mr. Weston?" His face softened as she challenged him. Hiding his smile, he said, “Why don't we forget the ghosts for now, Miss Imogen? If they wanted to hurt you, they would have done so already." "All right,” she allowed, captured by his hint of humor. “Though I do not know what could ever take my mind from it." "What about a picnic?” inquired Dougal suddenly. He recalled the vicar's words. If he could get her out on a horse, then maybe she would remember on her own. And he could be with her to help her fill in the gaps of her memory. "A picnic?" "Yes, a picnic,” Dougal said. When he saw she would protest the idea, he added, “I am your tutor. I will tell your father that I am taking you out to practice the names of the local flora. It is quite a noble pursuit to know of landscaping." "And will we learn of plants?” asked Imogen breathlessly.A picnic? Alone with Mr. Weston? thought Imogen. Her heart fluttered at the very idea. She could not pull her gaze away from the charming expression in his eyes. "Most assuredly. I would not want to lie.” Dougal stood. Smiling down at her, he held his hand to help her to her feet. As they touched, they stood transfixed for several moments in each other's expression. Taking a deep breath, Dougal regretfully let her go. “What do you say? Shall I go have something prepared in the kitchen? Would you not like to dine somewhere other than your bedroom?" "All right.” Imogen nodded, liking the idea of getting out of the house. It was no grand ball, but at least it was something. And, for some indiscernible reason, she was caring less and less that she had no other company but her stoic tutor. His rare moments of ease well made up for his usual stodgy temperament. "I'll ready the horses,” Dougal said. With a quick bow of his head, he rushed from the room before she had time to protest a ride. Imogen's knees wobbled as she watched him in his anxiousness. It would seem he was almost as excited as she was. Could it be she affected him more than he let on? Imogen grinned. There was only one way to find out. Swallowing nervously over the heart wedged in her throat, she hurried to follow behind him. **** The horse's hooves thundered over the northern field, racing through the tall grasses beneath the summer sky. Imogen felt strands of her hair loosen from its coiffure to fall in long tresses, haphazardly lying around her shoulders. Urging the tan mare onward, she tried to catch up to her tutor. Mr. Weston glanced back to look at her. A smile formed on his lips, a competitive edge to his tilting brows as he galloped. Imogen smiled brightly, basking in the delightful diversion of his company. His shoulders lost their rigid pull as he rode farther from the house. Her smile became wicked as she pulled her mare back behind him to watch him seat her father's brown stallion. He was an experienced horseman, well trained. Imogen

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sighed in appreciation even as she tried to catch up to him. Suddenly, he changed directions and pushed his horse toward the forest. A strange lethargy fell over Imogen's limbs, drawing them with a prickling sense of trepidation. She kicked her mare. With desperation, she finally managed to pull up along side Dougal. He glanced at her curiously. Hiding her frown, she called as joyously as she could muster, “No, Mr. Weston! I know of a much better place! Come!" Without giving him time to answer, she took off in the opposite direction. Dougal cursed under his breath, glancing toward the trees with longing. Then, with a troubled growl, he turned to race after her. It was his turn to watch her legs trailing along the side of her horse, dangling from the most proper of sidesaddles. Her skirts fanned out over the animal and when she urged her mount to jump, the wind picked up the hem, displaying a good amount of ankle and calf. Dougal almost balked, jerking his head up to keep from staring. She wore no hose, the creaminess of her flesh quite fetching in the sunlight. His grip tightened on the reins. Imogen led him to a nearby tree, its long willowy branches hanging down toward the earth. Nearby was a tall oak, allowing for perfect shade. Slowing to a jog and then a walk, she turned her mount to wait for him to catch up. Smiling tentatively, she waved to the ground. "What about here?” she asked. "Perfect,” he said with a slight smile. He glanced back at the trees. He would just have to think of another way to lure her to the forest path. Forcing the worry from his expression, he dismounted. When he looked up at her from the ground, he had himself firmly under control. He managed a tight smile. "Help me down,” she said, holding her hand out to him.. Dougal went to her, catching her about the waist as she slid from her horse. Her hands glided to his shoulders for support. He held her effortlessly, and Imogen's smile faded nervously as she looked up at him. Slowly her hands slid down the front of his chest to rest above the steady beat of his heart. Her breath became deep to match his. "I believe I won the race past the hedge,” he said, a grin threatening to pull up the corner of his lips. "I would have beaten you if you had given me a better saddle. I say we have a rematch, only this time we switch horses. You can ride on that lady's perch." At that Dougal laughed. “I will do no such thing." Imogen became entranced. Then, realizing he still held her, she glanced down at his strong hands about her waist. She hid a sly smile as he hastily pulled away, and turned to busy himself with the basket tied to his horse. As if nothing had happened, he said, “I should have known you would prefer to ride astride. But what sort of tutor would I be if I allowed it? Am I not supposed to show you how to be a proper lady?" "Oh, most assuredly,” returned she in her most serious tone, but her expression of feigned penitence

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couldn't last. The day was too brilliant, Dougal's smile too warm. “I would not like to see you relieved of your post because of my impudence. But I must tell you that my father already understands that such things are the fault of my character. He would undoubtedly believe you if you told him my imprudence was beyond repair. Already I have outwitted some of the best female scholars of our time." At that Dougal turned. The side of his mouth lifted at the admission. “But I am a man." "Yes,” Imogen answered breathlessly. “You are." "Are you of a mind to match wits with me?" Imogen froze, wondering at the challenge in his gaze. "How will you best me, Miss Imogen? By reciting the social pages to me?" "I—” Imogen began, a blush forming on her pale cheeks. In mortification, she gasped, “You know, don't you? You know I was trying to fool you. How?" "I have my ways, Miss Imogen. You will have to try harder to outwit me.” His gaze roamed easily over her face before he caught himself. Turning hastily, he busied himself by drawing the blanket from the horse's back. "No, not there,” Imogen said when he headed toward the shade of the tall oak. “Let us sit in the sunlight." He spread the blanket in the sun as she'd asked.. Imogen grabbed the basket he set on the ground and carried it over to the neatly arranged blanket, pulling out the light picnic lunch as Dougal tethered the horses to a low hanging branch, letting them graze. They ate in silence, enjoying the light afternoon breeze. When they finished the fair of cold meat and cheese, Imogen sighed in contentment. She cleared their plates and arranged everything neatly in the basket. Dougal watched her silently. When she caught his small smile, she flashed him a modest one in return. "What shall we do now?” asked Imogen as she put the basket away from her into the grass. "Do you forget your lessons or just hope I have?" "I was hoping you had,” Imogen admitted. She turned away from the steady clearness of his gaze. “What a dunce you must think me, if you insist upon instructing me further. But truly, since you have already uncovered my deceit, I must tell you I have no need of training. I have mastered my lessons long ago." "Then why was a tutor sent for?” he inquired. "Because I ran off my boring governess ... again." "You mentioned you had had several." "Yes, I have,” she admitted. “But, they are all so bloody boring. They insist on treating me like a ... like a...."

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"Like a what?" "Like a lady,” she finished with a sorrowful frown. Dougal wanted to laugh but noted the seriousness of her voice and refrained. Edging carefully closer to her, he said in a husky murmur full of manly appreciation, “But you are a lady, Miss Imogen." "I know,” she persisted honestly. Shyly, she watched him from beneath her lashes. She noticed he was closer to her. “But that is not what I meant. I just mean that ladies are only expected to know of certain things. Most of which I mastered by the time I was twelve. Can you imagine what it is like to be forced to sit and listen to some old crone droning on about needlepoint and the proper way to set a nobleman's table? The Duke sits here and the Duchess here, unless they are estranged and then they sit there, the head is reserved for the man of the house, his lady may be placed at advantage—ugh." "So you ran them off?” he whispered, entranced by her beauty and spirit. His low voice moved over her in a light caress. Imogen shivered, unsure as to the feeling inside her. His voice was soft, but his body was as rigid and as controlled as ever. This man at her side confused her. She couldn't tell if he liked her or if he merely put up with her because he was forced to. Unbidden, the whole truth came out of her, unabashed by propriety. She told him things she had never revealed, not even to her sweet Jane. "Yes, I did. At first I would show them how well I could master their skills. But that only seemed to aggravate them until they found fault after endless fault with what I did. Once I was forced to practice lifting a fork for hours on end.” Imogen shivered in repulsion, drawing her arms over her waist as she spoke. "And after mastering did not work?” he prompted. Imogen smiled sheepishly. “I would pretend to be ignorant, like with you. It drove them to distraction. I would stomp about improperly and recited endless lines of nonsense until they could no longer stand to be in my presence. Ms. Martens, my last governess before you, only lasted a few months." "And what, pray tell, did you do to the poor woman?" "I pretended not to speak French. I daresay her vocabulary was vulgar.” Imogen turned red thinking of it. Swallowing, she could not meet his eyes. "That isn't all, is it?” he prompted. "No,” she said, flustered. Imogen was unsure whether she wanted to laugh or run away in shame. But something in the easy acceptance of Dougal's tone urged her to continue. “I would purposefully say very improper things to her in French and pretend that I didn't know what was said. Often she would curse at me in the foreign tongue, thinking I did not understand her. Once I told her that her backside must be ... never mind it looses something in the translation, I think." "And what is it you are planning for me? Should I be on my guard?" "I was sure I could have scared you away before now. You should have seen your face when I told you nothing existed outside English borders. I almost couldn't contain my laughter.” Imogen giggled, thinking of it.

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"Yes, very amusing,” Dougal said wryly. He remembered that he had dreaded her opening her mouth. He watched her laughing face, as captivated by her beauty as he was by her wit. "Shall we call a truce then and start over?” Imogen asked shyly. “I shall promise not to play too many tricks on you if you promise not to make me recite the duties of a housewife and other such dreadful nonsense." "All right. But then, what shall we study?" "I was reading up on horse breeding,” she admitted. “However, the dreadful Ms. Martens burned my book." "Breeding, eh?” Dougal murmured, shielding his expression. His gaze wandered over her form, sitting easily before him. The folds of her long blue skirts covered her legs now, but the material molded around her form, and his imagination filled in where reality left off. She was gazing up at the sky, and Dougal took the opportunity to study the long line of her neck, dipping beneath the fine lawn covering her chest. He could see the top curve of her cleavage, soft and inviting to his lips. His hands ached with a hunger born of years of torment. With an inward curse, he squeezed his eyes shut and turned his head to look into the distance. She had no clue what she was doing to him. Imogen lowered her gaze before lowering her chin. She saw the strong outline of his masculine nose, the firm pull of his mouth. Shivering, she sighed as her gaze swept over his form before she looked away again.. "I did say I would teach you of the plant life at Rothfield,” Dougal said to break the uncomfortable silence. "I would not want to make you a liar, Sir,” she said playfully. Standing, Imogen smoothed her skirts. Glad to have something to keep her mind busy, she strolled in the field. Leaning over, she plucked a couple flowers from the ground. Dougal watched her, not trusting himself to follow her. He did not know if he would be able to stop from touching her. When she looked at him, her eyes were bright with innocence. She trusted him. And she shouldn't. Angling a white clustered flower towards him, she inquired, “What's this?" "Conopodium majus,” he answered without hesitation. His eyes were distracted as he added, “Pignut." "And this?” Imogen quickly asked, dropping the white cluster to replace it with a blue-petaled bloom. "A meadow cranesbill,” he answered dutifully. He waited until she held up another and again he answered. Testing him several more times, Imogen smiled. When she was finished, Dougal said, “You knew all that, didn't you?" Imogen smiled sweetly as she nodded. Leaning over, she picked another flower. She twirled it in her fingers, keeping it from view. “I was testing your knowledge." "Did I pass?” he asked, careful to keep his gaze shielded from her lest she be able to read his alarmingly

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wicked thoughts in them. Imogen nodded before admitting, “I only picked ones I knew." Dougal chuckled inwardly at her honesty. He watched her lean over to pluck another from the ground, liking the proud tilt to her face as she glanced at him. "But I don't know these,” she whispered shyly. She hid the two flowers in her hand. "Let me see,” Dougal answered, his tone coming out sharply in his efforts to hide his mounting desires, as he sat up. She shook her head mischievously. Sunlight bathed over her flushed porcelain skin, kissing her golden with its rays. Imogen swung around in merriment, holding her flowers cupped to her chest. Wistfully, she cried out, “I love to dance. I would do nothing else if it were possible. Tell me, Mr. Weston, do you ever go to balls?" "Not for awhile,” he admitted. Grabbing a blade of grass, he twisted it in his fingers, absently following the movements of her young, lithe body. Spinning, she twirled her way back to the blanket. She stopped at the edge to look down at him. Her flushed cheeks glowed a healthy rose. "Then I will insist that father allow you to come with us the next time we are invited to one,” stated Imogen. Dougal hid his frown. Dropping next to him, she asked with wide-eyed innocence, “Would you ask me to dance if we were at a ball?" "Mayhap,” he murmured quietly. Imogen smiled. Trying to adjust herself on the blanket, she pulled on her skirts, arranging them properly about her legs. Then, with a dreamy sigh, she fell back. Dougal watched her with a curious smile. But instead of righting herself, she gazed up at him and giggled quietly. His head was outlined by the sun, the shadow of it falling over her features to shade them. Without thought, Dougal moved to lean next to her. His body came to lie beside hers, not touching. Lifting his knee, his arm rested over the bend absently twisting the weed as he forced himself to study it instead of her. At his closeness, Imogen's laughter subsided. The smile faded from her features to be replaced by uncertainty. Her whole being pulled at her to go to him and she could not resist the magnetic call of his nearness. It was as if his heat jumped from his skin, luring her to him like a fish on a hook. Coyly, she lifted one of her flowers to stroke the petals down his cheek. He stiffened but did not move. Brushing it over his cheek to touch the edge of his lips, she let it trail over his neck. A husky film fell over her words as she whispered, “And what flower would this be, Mr. Weston?" "Call me Dougal,” he returned with a tortured breath for air. Unable to stop himself, he turned to look at her. His gaze caught hers. She dropped her hand to her waist and glanced away. He could see the pulse beating rapidly in her throat. His lips parted as he studied the thin thread of skin blocking the beat from his kiss. "But such a thing is not done,” Imogen whispered nervously. Her body shook, too apprehensive to move.

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"It will be our secret then,” he whispered. Unconsciously, he gravitated towards her. “We will just have to break a few rules of society to keep us sane." "All right, Mr. Dougal.” Imogen felt him come closer. With a gasp, she looked up at him. When she met his piercing gaze, she was unable to look away. "No, just Dougal,” he whispered in a soft, inducing trance. No one but his mother had ever addressed him as such. And she only had when he was a babe. Since his birth he had been ‘my lord’ or ‘Lord Rothfield’ or ‘Marquis Rothfield'. Somehow hearing his given name formed so easily on her lips sent a thrill through him. It made him feel closer to her than he ever had to anyone. "All right,” Imogen swallowed in trembling excitement. In a thick murmur, she sighed, “Dougal." She smiled tentatively at the look of pleasure that flitted through his eyes. His gaze found her lips. Feeling unsure, she licked her mouth. Dougal wanted to moan with the agonizing torture of watching her pink, darting tongue. He could feel the heat of her body, could see the texture of her lips as they moved. "What kind of flower is this?” she inquired, never looking away. Dougal drew his attention down to the pinkish petals swirled in a perfect circle. The individual petals formed in the shapes of hearts. Taking it from her fingers, he said lightly, “This would be thesilene dioica, a red campion." "And this one?” she asked. When she moved to touch him with it, he jerked his head back. "That is bittersweet, a cousin to nightshade. It is poisonous,” he whispered. Dougal plucked it from her fingers to hold it before her. “It is also considered a flower of secrets." "Poison and secrets,” she muttered with a slight smile. Her gaze flitted to his lips. Languidly, her lids fell over her gaze as she offered her mouth to him. Dougal hesitated. He could smell the fresh scent of rose on her skin, mixing with the breeze. Every fiber in his being begged him to take her, taste her. He told himself that no one would see. What could happen to him if he gave her what she asked for? He was dead. No harm could come of it. When he didn't take her offering, Imogen swallowed. With a look of embarrassment, she pushed past him to sit up. She fought the tears that threatened her eyes. He didn't want her. He just thought of her as a student. "I'm sorry,” she began feebly. Her lips trembled in violent suffering. She couldn't breathe. "What about your Edward?” he asked, unable to forget her words of anger the night she had kissed him. He would not want her to repeat them, not if he held her in his arms. He would not have her comparing him or claiming she did not want to be with him after they finished. If they came together, it would be because they both wanted it. It would be because they both knew what they were doing. "Who?” Imogen asked in confusion as Dougal sat up next to her. “Mr. Tanner? What about him?" "I will not be mistaken for him,” he said. He tilted his face to better study her expression. He forced her to look at him with a strong palm to her cheek. Imogen shivered at the seriousness of his gaze. Remembering her words, she wished she could take them back.

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"I could never mistake you for Mr. Tanner. You are nothing like he is.” Imogen tried to smile but couldn't. Dougal was too close, his scent too overwhelming to her senses. Her mind fought to concentrate, wanting nothing more than to pull his firm mouth to hers. “Mr. Tanner is lighthearted and merry, you are so stoic and ... and different than he. The way you talk, the way you...." "The way I kissed?” he questioned harshly when she faltered. He hadn't kissed her back. His lips had not moved. "No,” she said in surprise. “I have never kissed him. I have never kissed anyone before you." "You don't have to say that,” he said. “I don't expect you to." "I'm not just saying it. It's true.” At his doubtful look, she rushed on. “I've read about kisses. Mayhap that is why I could, why I knew what to do. And once I saw a kiss between a maid and a man from town. They were behind the stables." Dougal didn't answer. He could feel the truth in her words. Shyly, she pulled back. He regretfully let his fingers fall from her face. "You didn't like it. Is there something wrong with me? With the way I ... I'm sorry.” Imogen began to pull farther away with a small groan of embarrassment forming in her throat. Dougal couldn't let her. He grabbed her arm. "Imogen...” he began. Then, with a growl, he pulled her to his chest. He could deny himself no longer. The press of her mouth haunted him. Her lips parted with a rush of air as he held her roughly in his embrace. His hands instantly found the windblown strands of her hair. Delving his fingers into the silken depths of the dark locks, he met her parted lips with his own. His hands refused to release her as she moaned weakly in reply to the brutal force of passion. Dougal tasted her offering to him. His body lurched with desire. He wanted her. He wanted to take her, to claim her. Her innocent mouth moved against his in hesitation. He pressed his tongue between her lips, opening them gently, but as he felt the barrier of her teeth blocking his entrance, he suddenly pulled back. Rising abruptly, he turned away from her. Her lips were swollen from his touch, her eyes hazy. She was beautiful. She was not his. Dougal cursed. He was losing his mind. Imogen watched him. Her gaze took in the stiff line of his back, the proud lift to his head. Her fingers itched to pull him back, to press into the soft waves of his dark hair. She had been about to venture a touch when he pulled away. Now she wished she hadn't hesitated. Before he turned around, she could already see the damning calm of his features as they scornfully took her in. "Was this a test?” she asked delicately. Her shoulders shook with the effort it took not to cry out in dismay. She felt so alone. His rejection was a cold reminder of how ostracized she was from her family, how no one came to call on her, how even her own mother ignored her very presence. The pain of rejection choked her words, but she managed to stutter, “Were you testing me? Is this what my father wanted? He wanted to see if I was of loose morals? Is that why he sent you to tutor me? What are you, some kind of doctor for the mind? Are you to see if I am unfit?" The biting sound of her pain ravaged him. Dougal released an agonizing breath. His body racked at the

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unfairness. But, before he could answer, she ran past him towards the horses. "Imogen,” he said hoarsely. At the sound of his uncontrolled voice, she stopped. Whipping around to look at him, her hands on her mare's reins, she waited. His lips pressed into a severe line. "This cannot be." Imogen nodded, thinking she understood. “Because I am the daughter of a nobleman and you are a poor tutor." If that were but it,he mused bitterly. He closed his eyes as he regained his control. Control was all he had. With a nod, he began his lie, but could not finish it, “Yes, you are a...." "I am a what?” she demanded. Dougal did not answer her. When he didn't finish, only continued to stare in his hard way, she spat, “I'm a spoiled girl? No, that's not what you were going to say, was it? You think me something else entirely. I'm just a job you have to do. I'm just an unruly child you must test and tease into ladylike submission." His jaw worked violently in anger at her words. "That is it, isn't it?” she demanded. "No, you are not a child,” he said. “But you are beginning to act like one." "Oh!” she gasped. Dougal did not give her time to say aught else. “I should not have kissed you. You yourself said I have nothing to offer you. I am just a poor man.” Dougal swallowed, flinging his lies at her with greater ease once he began them. “Would you wish for me to continue? Should I deflower you? Would you marry me? Come away with me to live in some poor cottage on the outskirts of London? Or worse? Would you be happy to live with me above some dingy tavern listening to the calling of whores whilst we slept in our one room next to our numerous, dirty children?" "No,” she stuttered, shaking her head to relieve it of the picture he painted for her. Dougal nodded. She was attracted to him, that was all—purely physical attraction. The kind of feelings that she must have to choose the life he described would not have been enough to bring two beings, such as they really were, together. Naught, but the divine intervention of some higher power, could make anything but the briefest of passions between them. There was no hope in their future. Even she, who denied herself the truth of what happened, could see that. Imogen fought her tears. She hated his cruel words, but knew he was right. Her father would never allow such a match. And was she really ready to risk everything for a man who didn't even pretend to love her? Weakly, she muttered, “Will you tell my father?" "No,” he sighed. Seeing her torment, he felt his anger slip. He wasn't being fair to her. She was confused, more so than he. Running his fingers through his hair in frustration, Dougal took a step toward her. He wanted to draw her

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back to him. But how could he explain himself? How could he live with himself for an eternity knowing what he had done to her? How could he let himself get distracted from finding his daughter? He should be concentrating on finding Margaret, not rolling about on the grass at picnic. Who knew what kind of agony his little Margaret's soul was suffering in the hands of the deadly knight? Imogen watched the anguish crossing over his features. She felt that there was more to it than her undesirable behavior. The pain in his eyes drew her forward, releasing her briefly from her anger and hurt. "Can we forget this happened?” she asked at last, knowing she could never forget. She was branded. “I should like for us to be friends." Dougal nodded, relieved, though part of him cried out at the unjustness of it. He needed her friendship more than her passion right now. With her friendship he could find his daughter. But, as he thought it, his body protested its abhorrence at being neglected. It screamed at him the number of years that he had been alone and untouched by anyone—not even a handshake was he allowed. And here before him was softness and warmth, begging him to feel. "Do you want to ride?” Imogen asked with a forced smile. Her lips could not forget his brand, but she could pretend. "How about we take the horses for a walk to the stream?” he asked, avoiding eye contact with her. He looked over the distance, ashamed that he must deceive her. “I think we should let them drink before taking them back." Imogen agreed, leading both horses to him as he picked up their picnic. In mutual silence, they walked towards the forest, neither one knowing of the pain they shared as they tried to deny their battered hearts.

Chapter Seven "What happened?” murmured Imogen as her eyes fluttered open. Above her was the library ceiling. Sitting up in surprise, she stared at Dougal's face. His eyes were strained with worry. He searched her expression, as if desperate to read what was in her mind. Finally, he managed a smile for her, though his eyes were sad. "You swooned." He turned his back to her as he made his way to the window. Imogen ached to go to him, but held back. “I don't swoon,” she muttered, taking offense at such a notion. He glanced back at her. For a moment, his eyes softened and he took her breath away. "You keep telling me that, right before you collapse.” He chuckled at her horrified expression. "What were we doing?” she inquired, feeling the back of her head for bruising. A dull ache threatened her with blackness. She resisted its pull, not understanding why she should feel ill. "You don't remember?” he asked, swallowing nervously. Had she forgotten time again? Had he pushed her too hard?

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"I remember that we...” Imogen stopped. She looked at his mouth with an expression akin to horror. Weakly she amended her original thought. “Agreed to be friends." Dougal hid his smile at her modest portrayal of all that had happened between them. She watched his mouth carefully as he spoke. The avid attention drove him to distraction. “And beyond that?" "Did we walk the horses?” She furrowed her brow, wanting desperately to recall. All she could remember was the feel of his kiss, the tight hold his hands held on her hair, and the deep wretchedness of her spirit when he pulled away from her. "Yes, we did. We walked to the forest by the stream." You turned pale and refused to go on once we heard the water. When I tried to make you, you grew weak and fainted. Come on, remember. Tell me why you are afraid of the forest,he added silently, as if he could will her to remember with his thoughts.Tell me what happened the day of your accident. Tell me what you saw. "I cannot remember the forest,” she said at last with a delicate shrug. Dougal sighed in frustration. He wanted to shake the truth from her, scream at her until she told him what had happened that day. He hid his feelings behind a blank mask. Once again he turned to the window. The sun shone over the garden, threatening the grasses with the golden hues of evening. His heart pulled at him desperately. Tonight he would search again for his daughter. And tonight he would again fail. The knowledge slammed into him like a rock to the head. "What happened in the forest?” she wondered aloud, disturbed by his brooding silence. She slid her feet from the settee, fitting them neatly on the carpeted floor. That is the question, is it not my lady?Dougal frowned. “Nothing. I think you were overtired from the walk. You mentioned you haven't been sleeping well." "That doesn't sound like me,” she said, wondering why she got the impression he was lying. His face had not changed when he turned to acknowledge her. “I didn't do aught that would be construed as improper, did I?" "No,” answered Dougal truthfully. He had not allowed her to seduce him again with the blue tint of her eyes, though she had inadvertently tried. Seeing color returning to her pallid features, he announced abruptly, “I need to go. There are things to which I must attend." "Oh,” gasped Imogen, part in question, part in surprise. Hopefully, she asked, “Will I see you later this evening?" "Mayhap." "I should find my father. Have you seen him?" "He has left for London with your mother,” Dougal answered quietly. “I believe they were needed by your sister, Harriet, for some reason." "Oh, Harriet,” mumbled Imogen with a mischievous laugh. “No doubt she has run up her bill with the

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dressmakers again and father has gone to take her to task for it." "I couldn't say,” Dougal replied, desperate to go. Her next question washed over him in a wave of agonizing torture. "Then it us just the two of us?” she wondered. “They have left us to our own devices?" "It would appear so." Imogen's eyes narrowed at his hoarse tone. Before she could inquire as to his mood, he abruptly took his leave of her. "Good day, Miss Imogen.” Dougal bowed and strode from the library as if he could not wait to be free of her. "Good day, Mr. Weston,” she uttered to the closing library door. When she was alone, she whispered, “My most darling Dougal." **** "You sent for me, my lord?” asked Reverend Stillwell kindly. The cheery smile faded from his smooth, ruddy complexion when he saw the Marquis's hollow grimace. It had been his greatest hope that the all would have been resolved. It was a clear day, the sun bright with the perfection of summer. Coming around the tree to sit next to Dougal, the vicar waited for him to speak. He didn't have to wait long. "There has to be another way. It's not working,” Dougal said without preamble. “She is not remembering. Every time she gets close she blacks out and then forgets time." "Did you take her riding?” inquired the vicar. He leaned his back against the bark of the oak, taking brief pleasure in the cooling shade. "Yes,” answered Dougal. “It is like you said, she avoids the forest. When I finally got her to walk the horses to the stream, she fainted as soon as we heard water. There has to be a way to make her remember. Mayhap I should tell her who I am." "No. If you do that she may be lost to us completely. You know as well as I that she must come to it on her own." "But she seems fine knowing about Margaret and the man who holds her prisoner,” Dougal insisted. “She admits to not being frightened by them. Mayhap she will not be frightened by any of it. She is strong." "It is because she learned of it on her own when she was ready to learn of it. Her mind won't let her take in more than she is ready for. Her swooning is proof of that. And if you force it on her, bad things could happen. She could go mad.” The vicar stood, pushing his weight up from the ground. “You are both my flock. I will not favor the happiness of one over the other. I will not allow you to send her down into the abyss of insanity." "You know I don't want that! It's just that I don't know what to do,” growled the Marquis angrily. “I cannot stand this waiting. I am losing Margaret. And we are so close to finding her, to getting her back.

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You read Imogen's letter to her sister. The demon has my daughter. He comes for her every night and whisks her away on his black horse. How long until he takes her to the fires of damnation?" "Mayhap it is not the demon that has her,” said the vicar. “We cannot know for sure." "It is,” insisted Dougal. “It was a knight who killed me. And it is a knight who has my Margaret." "There is no way of knowing for sure. There is no telling how many spirits linger here. I have heard mention of over twenty, all not visible to the other." "This you have told me,” murmured Dougal. “And all have said they were killed by a knight. Margaret's knight." "And some have mentioned being protected by an unknown being,” offered the vicar. “If the knight were taking Margaret to damnation, would he not have gone?" "Who can tell with such as demons?” growled Dougal darkly. His helplessness made him bitter. “And we won't know until Imogen remembers." "Perchance there is something else bothering the woman,” mused the vicar. He rubbed his thick jaw thoughtfully. “Mayhap she is facing too many things and needs to sort through them before she can handle remembering that day." "What do you mean? What else is there for her to face?" "There are things—” Stillwell began.. "Speak clearly man,” Dougal snapped impatiently. “I feel like I am losing time. I know I am losing my daughter. I will do anything. Just tell me how I can help Imogen remember." "All right, mayhap she is having trouble with her feelings for you." "For me?" "Do not forget that she is foremost a young woman with a heart. And if her heart is confused, she will need time and help putting it right." "Did she say anything?” Dougal asked hoarsely. An unfamiliar tremor shot through him. “Did she speak with you about me?" "No,” answered the vicar, seeing that the girl's affections were not going unreturned. He read well the hope that the Marquis was trying to hide from him. “She said nothing. But I can see it in her. She is not unaffected by you. And perchance her preoccupation with you is keeping her mind from focusing elsewhere. If she were secure on that front, then mayhap she would be more apt on others." "Are you suggesting I take advantage of her?” Dougal demanded in disgust. He would not use her for his own purpose in such a way. No matter how desperate he was, he could not purposefully mislead her. On that he had decided. “Would you have me seduce her to have my way?" "I am suggesting you be honest about your feelings and not send her differing messages. Either show her affection or don't, but stay constant.” The vicar sighed with weariness. Closing his eyes, he felt the wind

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blowing on his face. “Once she figures you out, she will be able to see the rest of it." Dougal couldn't answer. "Be careful, my son.” Stillwell opened his eyes to stare pointedly at the pale Marquis. “Do not take advantage of her. Do not make her love you if you do not return the sentiment. Love is a splendid burden. Do not burden her heart unless you are prepared to share in its suffering." "How can you speak of such things? You know what I am and you know what she is. There can be no love between us.” Dougal stood. He knew he spoke the truth, but hated the words nonetheless. His was a lonely existence. "It is God's place to decide who shall love and who shan't. You would do well not to question his decisions." "You still believe in him after all these years?” Dougal asked in amazement. “After what you have seen?" "Yes, I still believe. And so do you. You are just lost right now. But you will find your way.” Rising, the vicar turned, moving down the path from whence he had come, calling over his shoulder, “We all, eventually, find our way." "But what if our path is one of heartache and loneliness?” Dougal muttered. He received no answer. The vicar hadn't heard him. He watched the man go until his portly figure disappeared into the distance. The Marquis scratched the back of his head, confused. Then, turning toward home, he followed the path to Rothfield. **** The power of the night fog once again overwhelmed the land. It stayed nestled about the countryside, hugging to the gardens of Rothfield Park like a thick blanket. Shadowed by moonlight, the ample cloud inched its way closer to the house, twisting and creeping like vine up the sides of the manor. Drawn by a power outside her own mind, Imogen made her way through the labyrinth of halls toward Jane's empty room. She followed her feet, not thinking to question their path as they led her over the hard floor. In a dreamlike state, her eyes were fixed ahead of her. From the holder clutched in her hand, candlelight flickered, threatening to blow out. Imogen lowered the flame to her side. The soft illumination alighted on her white nightgown, glowing on her bared feet. Outside the world was dark and quiet. With her parent's gone to London to visit her sisters, she had seen no one in the house. Dougal did not return to be with her and the servants kept from view. Not even Charlotte stayed after dutifully delivering the evening meal to Imogen's bedroom. The fine swirl of a smoke trail curled around Imogen's feet, seeming to move around her body as she turned the corner. Numbly, she watched the white fog spiral from the base of Jane's door, pulling her closer as it was sucked back. Imogen stopped to press her ear to the thick wood. The door trembled, seeming to quiver with life. She swallowed, refusing to retreat as she listened. She heard a movement within. "What are you doing?" Imogen jumped at the sound of Dougal's voice, nearly dropping the candle in fright. His words broke through her trance, clearing her mind of the fog. Spinning around to face him, the candle blew out. She

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couldn't see him in the darkness. "Dougal? Is that you?” she asked in a fearful whisper. The smoke withdrew, hiding inside her sister's chamber. Its trance was gone. "Yes,” came the low response. She detected a chuckle in his words. “What are you doing? Why are you whispering?" "I thought I heard something in my sister's room,” said Imogen. Unconsciously, she moved towards the sound of his voice. She felt for him in the darkness. Her hand came up against his chest and the beating of his heart. The fine material of his waistcoat was warm from his body. Imogen shivered, mesmerized by the feel of him. "Step aside,” he commanded seriously. “Let me look." "We will look together,” she said, no longer scared now that he was with her. Dougal stepped past her, reaching for the door. Finding the latch in the darkness, he pushed it open. Imogen dropped her hand from him in disappointment, but stayed close to his side. Jane's room was lighted by the silvery flow of moonlight. It streamed in from the window, falling over the cherry wood bed with its yellow coverlet. The room was cold, empty. The fireplace, newly built since the great house fire, was barren. Imogen huddled close to Dougal's back. Her hand reached up to touch his jacket, resting between the blades of his shoulders. Dougal angled his chin to her to whisper, “There's nothing here." "Mayhap I imagined it,” Imogen said, unconvinced. She had heard something—something that drew her from a deep sleep to travel across the manor. "Are you sure?" As he turned, her hand did not leave him. Her fingers glided over his jacket around to rest on his arm. She could feel the firmness of his muscle beneath her palm. Swallowing, she met his eyes. Weakly she nodded, unable to speak. A blush colored her cheeks and she bowed her head. However, her fingers could not be persuaded from their perch. They wanted to feel him near. Dougal looked at the line of loose hair about her shoulders outlined by silvery light. Glancing once more around the room to look for a trace of his daughter, he saw nothing. The smell of roses engulfed him, making him forget all but the woman before him. Suddenly, nothing else mattered but her nearness. "Imogen...” he began. She lifted her face to him and he was lost to her. Her porcelain skin shone, the moonlight glistening from her moist eyes. She tried to smile and failed. Her gaze dropped to his lips. He knew what she was asking for. And, heaven help him, he wanted to give it to her. "Imogen....” he said again, his voice thick with longing. His hand shook as he lifted it to touch her cheek. His long fingers brushed softly over her skin. Tortured, he whispered, “I want to kiss you." You mustn't,cautioned his brain, trying to spin him with guilt.She is not for you! Dougal paid his reasoning no heed. With her he could not think, only feel.

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Imogen smiled insecurely at the admission, but nodded her head. She would allow him anything. Closing her eyes, she lifted her lips to him. Her mouth puckered in waiting. Dougal chuckled, a dark sound, holding no merriment. His fingers continued over her skin to touch the pad of his thumb to her offered mouth. Imogen waited. He balled his hand in a fist, pulling it stiffly away. He did his best to resist her. His best wasn't good enough. She was a force beyond his control. "If I kiss you,” he murmured, pulling off his cravat. “I won't be able to stop there. If I kiss you, you can't ask me to try." At that, Imogen opened her eyes with a nervous flutter of her lashes. She didn't understand his words, didn't comprehended the depths of their emotion. Seeing his eyes, the gray-green orbs she trusted, she nodded her head. She was not afraid of him. Inside her chest, she wanted him to kiss her—to do what he would with her for he already claimed her every waking moment. "Kiss me,” she begged earnestly. “I want you to. I don't care that you are poor and that it shouldn't be. I want it to be." Dougal closed his eyes in pleasure. Resolutely, he grumbled, his tortured voice hoarse, “Sweet woman, you don't know what you ask for, but so help me I cannot deny you." Imogen's face brightened at his words, but she had no time to answer before his lips crushed down to claim hers. This time, she did not hesitate. Her hands climbed up over his arms to wrap around his shoulders. Her shaking fingers buried themselves in the warmth of his jacket behind the nape of his neck. Her lips parted for him, allowing his tongue to lick between them. His kiss deepened, moving slowly in languid desire. Imogen's knees weakened at his deliberate force. A moan escaped her lips. Dougal stepped forward, forcing her back toward the bed. His hands began to roam over her body, stroking over her shoulders, moving down her arms until they found hold on her waist. Pulling her back, Dougal broke for air. "Oh,” gasped Imogen in wonderment, unable to say aught else. She looked at him in wide-eyed wonderment. Dougal released her to hurriedly shrug out of the confines of his jacket. Imogen saw his purpose and lifted her hands to help him. The material slipped to a pile on the floor. Instinctively curious to see him, she began to unbutton his waistcoat. Her eyes stayed steadily on his. He felt her fingers trembling as she worked the buttons loose. His hands found her, pulling at the back of her nightgown, looking for laces. His mouth once again claimed hers. Imogen freed him of his waistcoat, gliding the material off his arms. Moaning into his kiss, she murmured, “You're so hot." "Yes,” he agreed with a tormented groan. His hands became frenzied when they couldn't find the laces to her gown. Giving up, he pulled her hard to his chest. Imogen gasped in surprise. She could feel the hard length of him against her. She could smell him all around her, invading her head with the headiness of his masculine scent. The linen of his undershirt fit against him like a second skin, molding to his form.

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His mouth trailed from her lips to her throat. Imogen's eyes rolled in mindless pleasure. Her body sought the warmth of his. Panting, she breathed, “What are you doing?" Dougal flicked his tongue over her skin, eliciting prickles of sensation on the valleys of her flesh. In a husky murmur full of promise, he said, “I'm going to have my way with you." "Oh,” she said, sighing in agreement, nodding her head as he continued to deeply kiss her body. “Can I have my way, too?" Dougal stopped, pulling away to study her. A dark smile found his mouth as he forced her to step back. With stalking grace, he nodded his head, “I insist upon it, my lady." His fingers pulled at his linen shirt, unfastening the buttons with urgency. Once free of the linen, his hands went to the buttons at his waist. Imogen watched his fingers, her eyes warring over where they would roam next. "Get out of that gown, lest I rip it off you,” he growled. "I don't look like you,” she observed hesitantly. Her eyes waited for his hands to move from his waist so she could see the protrusion that had pushed naughtily at her stomach. "I should hope not,” he said wryly. "Can I touch you?” she wondered, her eyes still straining at his waist. “I want to touch you." "If you don't, I think I'll die,” muttered Dougal, the irony of his statement not lost on him. Seeing her attention fixed in the direction of his manhood, he grimaced in pleasured longing. Softening the command, he ordered, “Take off that gown." Imogen obeyed, tugging the laces at her shoulders. Dougal finally managed to undo the last of his buttons. The soft linen slid off her shoulders to crash silently onto the hard floor. She stood proudly before him, a blush threatening to stain her cheeks. Seeing the tip of his member peeking through his breeches, she gasped. "Touch me,” he ordered her. Instantly, Imogen reached for his manhood. Her hand cupped him boldly, her fingers wrapped around his length. Dougal groaned, his hips flexing into her palm. "On the bed,” he commanded. Imogen did not mind his forceful way. She liked being controlled by him. He was a controlling man. Only now, even as he ordered her about, she had the feeling it was she who commanded him. His words were too desperate, his urgency too visible. Falling onto her back, she scooted to the pillow. The soft coverlet pressed into her length as she waited for Dougal to kick off his boots. When he was completely naked, he followed her. Crawling with determined purpose, he moved over her. His gaze swooped possessively over the creamy valleys of her skin. Closing his eyes, Dougal lowered himself against her. Their bodies met for the first time, free of any encumbering barriers. He grunted as she moved her legs to allow for his weight. The softness of her thighs rubbed him.

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Instantly, his lips parted with a kiss. Thoroughly laying possession to her mouth, he found he could not deny himself the complete taste of her. His tongue trailed hotly to her breasts, taking a solid nipple into his mouth. Imogen's back arched. A passionate cry escaped her. Dougal chuckled, pleased with the desire she showed so freely. Next, he explored her waist. His hands discovered the untouched peaks of her body. Her skin was on fire with his caresses and Imogen was no less bold in her exploration of him. She ran her hands over his chest, his back, urging his lips onward when he would linger, only to draw him back. Unable to stand the curious fire in her body, Imogen began to push at Dougal's shoulders. He glanced up in surprise. Hoarsely, he muttered, “I told you I cannot stop. Do not ask it of me. I want you too badly. I've waited too long." It was Imogen's turn to be surprised. Her eyes shone with an innocence consumed by passion. Weakly, she said, “If you stop, I swear I'll kill you myself." "Then—" "I want you on your back,” she commanded fervently. “I told you I wanted my way with you." Dougal could not deny her as she forced him to roll to the side. Her legs threaded around his thighs holding him prisoner under her silken guard. He could feel the heat of her womanhood pressing near him, growing moist as he rubbed his leg up against her. Her lips lacked his precise skill as they roamed and tasted his body, but she easily found ways to return the pleasure he had given her. He cupped her breasts, massaging the tips with his fingers. He couldn't hold back much longer. His flesh was smooth but for the hair roughened stretch of his legs and arms. His thigh pushed more frantically against her as she tried to move against him, seeking an end to the torment of her body. The hard, stiff length of his member burned hotly into her tender stomach. “You must end it,” Imogen gasped, licking up the side of his neck to kiss his ear. Whispering frantically, she pressed herself fully against him. “Please, I don't know how to put an end to it." "Sit up,” he ordered. His hands wrapped her waist. “Straddle my waist as you would a stallion. I'll show you how to put an end to it—how to put my end into it." Imogen did as he commanded though she did not understand. Unknowingly, she opened herself up for him. Being parted from him only brought a new agony to her chest. Her skin begged her to fall back against him. When she would heed her desire and once more press flesh to flesh, his strong hold stopped her. "I was meant to fit inside of you,” he groaned when she would protest his restraint. “You were meant to take me inside of you." To prove his point, Dougal lifted her by her hips. Imogen shot him a look of utter confusion. She could not comprehend how he proposed they become one person. Dougal saw her hesitation and knew she didn't understand. With a groan, he flipped her on her back. "No wait!” Imogen gasped in protest, her hands flinging wildly to stop him. “Don't go."

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Dougal stopped only to kiss the worry from her brow. His hands reached to position her body beneath him. His strong hand came up beneath her knee, lifting her leg to hold her still. Nuzzling his nose to hers, he whispered, “Next time I will let you control it my little vixen, but for now...." Imogen felt his member rubbing against her opening. She gasped. Her calf stirred uselessly in the air as he held it firm. Dougal took her breath into his mouth as he placed a light kiss on her lips. "...for now it will be easier if I just show you.” And with those heated words half whispered, half growled into her mouth, he thrust himself inside. Her eyes widened in surprise at the forceful entry of his conquering hold. Dougal moaned, his body leaping with delight. His hands gripped her knee and the coverlet by her head in sweet anguish. He kept his forehead to hers, barring his hips from their natural sought rhythm as he waited for her to adjust. The sweet scent of her skin engulfed him and he knew he was where he wanted to be. As he felt the boundary of her purity fitting around him, molding tightly to his skin, his body tensed, shaking with violent need to find his release within her. "Could...” began Imogen in breathlessness. The sharp pain of his entrance took her by surprise, but quickly subsided, to be replaced by a wave of fulfillment. Dougal slid his hand from her knee down the side of her thigh to the rounded curve of her buttocks. Hooking her leg on his shoulder, his hips thrust unwittingly as his weight adjusted more comfortably on top of her. Suddenly, she gasped, “Oh, yes! Do that!" Dougal growled at her passionate call, the noise a loud, brutal possession over the chamber. His stroke was slow and deep and measured as he pushed boldly toward her core. He expertly ignited a fire within her loins. He took his time, enjoying the bittersweet temptation of his climax as he held back, wanting their touch to last forever. Imogen's hands fitted around his shoulders, falling to his chest to tweak his nipples as he rose up to better control his movements. Grasping her free leg, he mindlessly lifted it above his waist. His hands grasped her thighs, using them for leverage and control as he deepened his powered thrusts. Imogen thrashed in the senseless web he wove around her thoughts. He was everywhere—above her, at her sides, within her. And he was everything. Dougal's hands stroked her flesh in worshipping caresses. His eyes bore into hers, keeping her with him. His lips sought the taste of her lips, his hands the feel of her slick body. He gripped her as he rode her more feverishly—grasping her shoulder, staring at her proud breasts bobbing before him. He felt the beginning tremble of her mounting desire as she tried to kiss his wrist by her head. Her kiss turned to a bite and then a moan and then to a scream of surprise and fulfillment. And as she shrieked her rocky climax, clutching desperately at him, the shockwave of her feelings poured out onto her lover, caressing him intimately with her quivering hold of flesh wrapped around hard flesh. An instant later, Dougal lost himself, stiffening with the pleasure/pain of it, rejoicing in the agony her body wrought within him, grunting his primal release inside of her like a barbarian staking claim to his property. And as his hold on her loosened, he was oblivious to anything but her.

Chapter Eight A sigh escaped Imogen's lips, her mouth forming into a dreamy smile as she slid her hands over the soft

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linens of her sister's bed. Stretching with a delicate yawn, she blinked in the heavy fall of sunlight coming through the window. Her arms discovered the wide expanse of the mattress, not meeting with flesh as her limbs swept over the field of crumpled bedding. Imogen frowned. Again, she searched blindly for Dougal. He was not beside her. Sitting up with a start, she pulled the yellow coverlet up to hide her naked body. "Dougal,” she called. Her head whipped around in nervousness, searching for him. The tousled length of her hair flowed down her back in tangled locks. A worried frown formed fully on her face when she received no answer to her summons. He had left her. For a moment she wondered if the night she had spent in his arms was a sweet illusion. If so, she willed herself back asleep so that she might continue such dreams. She never wanted to wake up again, but when she moved, she felt a twinge between her thighs. The night had been very real and her body very sore from it. With a contented smile, she assumed he must have left her for the sake of her reputation. It would not do for her parents to come home to the gossip of servants. Not that she cared, she assured herself. Nothing in her life had been as real as lying next to Dougal—the sweetness of his touch coursing through her body, the smell of him lingering on her skin, the texture of his flesh branded onto hers. With him she was alive for the first time in her life. After their lovemaking, he had been quiet. Imogen didn't mind. He was always quiet and reserved. For a long moment he had held her, stroking her hair from her face with a look of intense agony in his eyes. Then, kissing her forehead, he had bid her to sleep. And she had, falling under the spell of his tenderly whispered words. Slipping into her nightgown, she hurriedly straightened Jane's bed. A momentary wave of guilt washed over her as she thought of her sister. She decided she would just have to tell Charlotte to have all the rooms cleaned before her parent's arrived. Oh, how she wished Jane was home. She would love to be able to talk to her, to tell her the curious feelings that poured out of her heart. After sneaking off to her room to quickly bathe and dress in a gown of light linen, Imogen made her way to the library in search of her tutor. Her steps were lively as she skipped through the empty halls, pinning up her hair as she moved. The long swing of her skirts bounced with merriment as she fluttered about. A smile found her lips, freezing her delight beautifully on her features. She couldn't stop grinning and didn't care to try. To her disappointment, the library was empty. Sighing, she crossed to the large window overlooking the garden. Her heart sped as she saw Dougal strolling over the earthen paths. The sun outlined the subtle movements of his body, movements she was only beginning to appreciate. With an excited gasp, she smoothed her hair and pinched her cheeks to coloring, unaware that the natural flush that fanned her features added more life than the pinching ever could. Spinning on her heels, she grabbed a book from the wall. As she passed the empty fireplace she stopped. A quizzical frown crossed her features. Looking down, she noticed a burnt corner of parchment. It was her letter to Jane, burnt from the fire. "Mother,” uttered Imogen in disgust. She wondered how the woman had found it. Panic threatened as she imagined the Viscountess reading the words it had contained. She shrugged off any worry with the happiness that would not stop bubbling in her chest. Imogen slid the burnt paper into her book and forgot it.

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In the garden, Dougal's mood was less buoyant. Damning guilt propelled his stiff movements. His night with Imogen had been sweet—sweeter than anything else in his life, or death, had been. And, when he closed his eyes, he could still see her pure response to him. He could smell her perfume on the wind as it caressed him with the ease of her hands. But it should never have happened. He had nothing to offer her. His whole existence must be dedicated to finding Margaret. And once he found his daughter, there would be nothing keeping him to the earth. It was the way of things. But for all the years he had spent searching, he now found he was not so quick to leave as he had once been. And it was all because of her. Imogen bewitched him with her mere presence. "Dougal!" Dougal froze. A tentative pleasure threatened his good sense at the sound of her voice. He had worked all morning, and most of the night, steeling himself for what must be done. And with one call of her voice she destroyed it all. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath. Slowly he turned as she again beckoned him. "Dougal,” this time her voice was nearer. He refused to look at her—afraid the torment of his soul would shoot out from his eyes to curse her as it did him. He forced all emotion from his body. He stood rigidly before her. Imogen beamed happily at him, not stopping as she raced forward to greet him. Seeing his handsome face, she couldn't help herself. The book dropped from her hands with a thud. She flung her arms around his neck and pressed her lips to his. Moaning lightly, she took a quick taste of his mouth. Dougal gasped in surprise, his arms automatically wrapping about her waist to keep from falling over with the force of her affections. Despite the screaming of his mind, he returned her kiss, deepening it as she did. "Mm,” Imogen murmured contentedly against his mouth. She brought her fingers to hold his face. Her lids drifted open to gaze adoringly at him. She pulled back to study his solemn features. Dougal gulped, his eyes meeting hers more slowly. He tried to harden his expression and failed. Her face was too beautiful, her joy in seeing him too palpable. "Imogen,” he said and sighed. "I know you had to leave me this morning,” she whispered, not letting him go. “But still I missed you. I just had to find you.” Then, with a shy cast of her features, she admitted, “I wanted to see what other lessons you planned for me." Her reminder of their deed hit him like a slap in the face. He untangled his hands from her back, drawing away from her. Swallowing, he disciplined himself against her blissfulness. "We shouldn't...” he began rigidly. When he pulled her from him, he took a step back. Undecided, he looked around the garden for he couldn't look at her. "What?” Imogen said in stunned surprise. Why was he not smiling at her? What had happened to the sweet man who had held her so tenderly? As an idea struck her, she began to relax, swallowing to get her nervous heart from her throat. “Oh, you're worried that someone will see us, aren't you? I don't care. I want the world to know how I feel this fine morning!"

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"Imogen, don't,” he pleaded. Guilt flowed through his veins. "Don't what?” she questioned, her tone growing sharp with indignation at his coolness. “Don't be happy?" "Just don't,” he muttered, disturbed. He turned his back on her. “We can't do this." "But, why?” she implored. “Has something happened? Talk to me, we will fix it. Is it because you are my tutor? Does that worry you?" "No—" "It is my father you are worried about, isn't it? I can handle my father. He will naturally be upset that I am still refusing the Colonel, but he can hardly find fault with your character—" "Imogen,” Dougal snapped sternly to get her attention. She eyed him, her face so innocent and sweet. Swallowing, he looked over her shoulder, unable to meet her steadfast gaze. Dougal hesitated, saying at last, “You dropped your book." "Oh,” Imogen turned to pick the volume up from the dirt. Brushing it off, she noticed the letter from Jane fell out. She grabbed it in her hand. "What have you there?” he asked with a sinking stomach. He already knew. "A letter to my sister,” she answered carefully. “After I saw the spirits in the garden, I wrote to her about them. She knows more about the history of Rothfield Park than anyone does. I thought that mayhap she would know what the spirits wanted with me." "She cannot help you,” Dougal said. "Oh, I know,” sighed Imogen. “But I just thought that maybe she could ... explain it to me. You're not angry I wrote to her, are you?" "No, of course not.” Dougal frowned. He was not saying what he must. In frustration, he turned from her. "Dougal, wait,” Imogen called, racing to walk next to him. “About what happened—" "It shouldn't have happened,” he broke in piercingly with a growl. "Well, no, I suppose it shouldn't have happened like that, but I do not regret it.” Imogen tried to give him a pleased smile but his hard glare stopped her. In a rush, she said, “It is all right, Dougal. Really it is. You are so proud and honorable. That must be why you are so upset with yourself." When he didn't answer, merely snorted in self-disgust, she took his arm. Forcing him to look at her, she gave him her most brilliant of smiles. Her eyes shone with the force of her feelings for him. "That is why I have fallen in love with you,” she murmured shyly. Her expression dimmed with insecurity as she waited for him to answer in kind. She knew he cared for her, could feel it in him.

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"You don't even know who I am,” he muttered darkly. Her words endangered his resolve. But the truth of what he was, what he had been, outweighed any sentiment she must believe herself to feel. "Then tell me who you are,” whispered Imogen. Her lips tried to meet his face as she leaned toward him. Lovingly, she stroked back his hair. “It cannot be as bad as you make it to be. I already know you are a poor man without prospect of title or much property of great consequence. If you are worried about supporting me, I shall just have to demand a large dowry from my father. He will curse the both of us but will see how right a match it is. And we can live here if we must or rent a small cottage near London if you would be by the city. I care not where we live—" "I am not the man you think I am,” he growled, jerking away. He could listen to no more of her talk. If the situation she believed was real, his heart would have sung with the truth of her loyalty to him and the strength of her feelings. But the world she described was an illusion. Money and property did not matter to a man like him. "I know. You are so much more than a tutor. You are kind and gentle and so very honest,” Imogen said. “I did not mean to insult you by my words." Honest?thought Dougal in disgust. Honest was the last thing he had been with her from the beginning. "I don't care if you are not a rich man. You are a man and that is what I would have." "What if I told you I wasn't that man you describe? What if my treatment of you has not been ... honorable?” he questioned, reaching up to caress her cheek. His piercing glare was bitter. "Oh, but you are honorable. If you don't see it, I do. An honorable man would not feel such remorse as you show me now." Balling his hand into a fist, he thrust angrily away from her—the truth of what he was on the edge of his tongue. But how could he tell her now? How could he tell her whom he was—a dead Marquis searching for his daughter? How could he say that he believed she was the key to finding the child? How would she react to knowing that he had used her from the beginning, that he manipulated her still? How could he tell her he was afraid what he felt for her came from his own desperation to find Margaret? And if it didn't, what would keep her from making the same conclusion anyway? These were not questions he could answer. He needed more time, time he did not have. "Dougal?” she beseeched with worry. Her body trembled when he did not favor her with a smile. "We shouldn't have come together. It was wrong,” he muttered at last. Inside his heart broke. "It didn't feel wrong,” she protested weakly, her lips and voice atremble. Tears pooled in her eyes. She wanted to reach out to him, erase his pain, but she didn't understand where it was coming from. "It was,” he growled more forcibly. “What happened between us can never be! It was a mistake. We were weak and it will not happen again!" "So you just propose to use me and throw me away like a stained handkerchief? I won't accept that,” she yelled, her lips tight with rage. “I know you feel something for me. Why won't you face the truth?" Imogen ran to him, hitting his arm in frustration. Dougal grabbed her about the wrists, shaking her violently to get her attention.

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When her round eyes met his, he muttered, “Iface the truth? What about you?" "What about me?” Imogen demanded incredulously. In confusion, her voice rose. “I told you how I feel for you. You are the one in denial! Tell me you love me. Admit to it!" "Love,” he spat. “I speak naught of that." "So you won't say it?” she groaned, heartbroken and near bitter defeat. “You are a coward." "Love is not the denial I speak of, Miss Imogen.” Dougal's grip tightened. Narrowing his eyes into dangerous slits, his face bent towards hers. When he came near, she could smell the hint of mint on his breath as it fanned over her flushed cheek. The power of the light caress along her skin sent prickles of awareness over her, breaking down her defenses as easily as his smile. But he wasn't smiling as he whispered questioningly, “Why won't you go into the forest by the stream? What have you to fear there?" "What? The forest?” cried Imogen. “I am not afraid of the forest. I have been there countless times. I have waded in the stream! I have ridden my horse endlessly over the pathways! I have fished there and ... and picked flowers with my sisters." "When was the last time you went?” he asked in a low voice, hiding his desperation. “When is the last time you rode through there?" "Last week? I do not remember the exact date,” stammered Imogen, growing uncomfortable. Her temple began to throb, her body to sway. She felt like passing out. Dougal's grip held fast to her, the sharp sting of his touch keeping her with him. He jerked her shoulders again and again as his words hit harshly upon her. "If you are not afraid, then come with me now. Walk with me to the forest and prove it,” pleaded Dougal. Desperation continued to shoot through his very being. "I am not the one with anything to prove, Mr. Weston,” Imogen quipped. “Now take your hands off me at once!" Dougal realized he held her arm in a bruising grip. Regretfully, he let her go. Imogen stumbled away from him. Accusation dashed painfully from her eyes. Gingerly rubbing her arm, she glared at him. "Imogen, come with me,” he begged softly. His eyes turned gentle as he tried to convince her to join him. His fingers reached out to her, bending in as he motioned her to take them. “Just walk with me to the stream. If you do, then we will talk of other things. I'll say anything you want of me." "I don't want to go anywhere with you,” she spat. Leaning over, she grabbed her book. Her body shook with outrage at his callous treatment. She knew he cared for her, not once did she doubt it, but she couldn't understand why he would try and deny it. “I don't see what you would say to me there that you have not said to me here and now. And if I get you near water, I just might take it to mind to drown your worthless hide!" Furiously, she stalked away. Dougal let her go. There was nothing he could say to stop her. She would have to come to terms in her own time. He only prayed that it wouldn't be too late. ****

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The day passed in agonizing slowness. Time did not lessen Imogen's pain or her feelings of betrayal. She did not seek out Dougal again. The ominous feel of his words disturbed her as they repeated themselves endlessly in her head. What was he hiding from her? What was it she was not supposed to know? And what was his silly obsession with the forest? She took out what was left of her burnt letter to Jane and laid it on her writing table. Grabbing a quill, she set to writing to her sister again. Although this time she would be more careful in what she revealed. It would not do for her mother to read aught into it if she intercepted the message. The late afternoon fell into the approaching darkness of evening. Imogen hid away in her room, confident Dougal would not seek her there. Not even he would risk being seen coming from her chamber. If her father suspected what had happened between them, he would demand Dougal marry her at the point of his pistol. And she did not wish to gain him as husband in such a degrading way. No, she did not need to force a man to be in her company. She would much rather be alone. Imogen was watching the sun set in the distance in a display of reds and purples when Charlotte knocked on her door. She bid the serving girl to enter with a sad smile. Charlotte bowed silently, setting a tray of food on a table. As she turned to leave, Imogen beckoned, “Wait, Charlotte." "Yes, Miss?” murmured the timid creature. "I have a letter that must be delivered straight away,” explained Imogen. “Can I trust you to see to it?" "A letter, Miss?” asked Charlotte in surprise. Her round eyes narrowed curiously. "Yes,” stated Imogen. “But don't worry. It is to my sister in London." "Yes, Miss,” nodded Charlotte, not questioning. "Thank you,” said Imogen, picking up the letter from her desk. She handed it over. “I would prefer that no one else in the house knew of it." "Of course, Miss,” agreed Charlotte. “Will there be aught else?" "No. Wait one moment, yes, there is one thing,” Imogen said. “Could you make sure that the bedrooms are cleaned and that fresh linens are put on all the beds before the Viscount and Viscountess arrives home?" "Yes, Miss,” muttered Charlotte. With a dutiful bow she was gone. Imogen sighed, turning back to the window to stare off into the distance. She ignored the tray of food, having no appetite for it, and as she watched the land grow darker, a fear crept over her skin, for the mist came with the night. **** Charlotte fingered the letter she was charged with curiously. She couldn't read it and could not determine to whom it was made out. It wasn't her business. She knew that. Crossing soundlessly through the hallway, she made her way over to the oldest part of the house. Looking around, she knocked lightly on a tall door. Within moments, it opened. Charlotte curtsied.

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"What is it, Charlotte?” asked Dougal. His eyes were brimmed with red, his face sunken with grief. Stepping aside, he let the woman into his bedchamber. Old, dusty furniture lined the walls. A large antique bed, which had been his in his lifetime, graced the middle of the room. Aged tapestries hung on the walls. In his human existence, he had favored medieval things and had the tapestries made for his home. Along the wall were also sconces for torches. They were not in use, but when he did light them, the room would brighten and the dust would disappear as if he were still alive and lord of the manor. "You bid me to inform you if Miss Imogen tried to contact anyone outside the manor.” Charlotte handed over the missive she had been entrusted with. “She gave me this and bid me to tell no one of it." "Thank you.” Dougal's hand shook as he reached out. He was careful not to touch the maid, knowing his fingers would slide through her like air. He took the letter, threading it with his fingers behind his back. “Was there aught else?" "She bid me to have the family's bed linens changed and their rooms cleaned afore the Viscount Sutherfeld and his wife arrived back at the manor,” said Charlotte. Dougal smiled softly at that, thinking of their use of Jane Drake's room. Sighing, he said, “Do not worry about it. If she asks you, tell her it is done. She will not know the difference. And if she inquires of the letter, tell her it is sent." "Yes, my lord.” Charlotte bowed obediently. "You can go. I will deal with this,” he muttered holding up the parchment. Dougal waited for her to leave. Then, breaking the seal on Imogen's letter, he sat down by the fire that burned in his room. Dearest Jane,he read.As I endeavor to write this to you, I can only feel sadness at your absence. No doubt mother has expressed her worry of me to all in London by this time. You must not listen to what she says until you have spoken to me. That is what I wish to plea to you. Please, come home, dear sister. So much has happened to me that I do not dare to write about. I can only say with certainty that I need your wisdom and guidance. If you ask her, mother will let you come home. Tell her you wish to make me see reason in regards to the Colonel. No doubt she will be happy to have another ally against me. I wait breathlessly for your return. Imogen. Dougal frowned. Wearily, he rubbed his head. Crumpling the letter in one hand, he threw it into the fireplace. He rolled his neck on the high back of his chair, his legs stretched out before him, his gaze focused on the licking flames. This time he would watch to make sure the letter burned completely. Sensing the late hour rather than seeing it, he rose from his chair. His hands were steady as he grabbed his jacket off his dusty bed. Shaking it with a hard jerk to free it of dust, he slid it over his shoulders, and, with a weary sigh, he lifted his hand to the fireplace, smothering the flames with the breeze the movement caused. The Marquis knew it was time to resume his search—hopeless as it was.

Chapter Nine Imogen watched the creeping mist as it reached out from the garden, swirling over the yard until it slithered in wispy trails up the side of the manor. Her hand rested against the glass pane, feeling the unusual coolness of the summer night against her skin. She couldn't sleep, mindful of what stirred out in

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the darkness. Strangely, she felt no real fear of it, just apprehension over what she witnessed. There was movement beyond the windowpane. She couldn't see it, but felt it as sure as she did the glass. Glancing up at the sky, she saw a curling path of clouds hiding the twinkling stars from view, mimicking the isolating mist on the earth. Suddenly, she felt a pull in her mind from outside her bedroom. With a curious melancholy flooding through her, she was induced by a power outside herself to walk to the hall. It was the same feeling that had awoken her the night before, luring her to Jane's bedroom. She had had the strange suspicion that she was meant to see something. That was until Dougal came and the spell had been broken.. Her heart began to pound. As she walked down the hall, she realized she was holding a candle. She did not remember lighting it. She had little time to wonder over it as she made her way forth over the same direct path on which she'd been led the night before, past figures shadowed and dark in their paintings, watching her with emotionless eyes. A fog overtook her mind, refusing to let her think or feel beyond a moment. Her heartbeat slowed into a comfortable thud. Her breaths became even and slow. Arriving at Jane's door, she paused. Leaning forward, she listened. She glanced down the hall, waiting for Dougal to come to her. This time her eavesdropping was not interrupted. Her hand trembled slightly as she reached for the doorknob. The metal turn was solid and real against her palm. Imogen paused. The sound of a child's voice drifted from beneath the thick oak, the song she sang a vaguely familiar tune—eerie and high in its childlike nonchalance. Swallowing, Imogen pushed the door open. Despite the late hour, the room was bright with daylight. She froze in the entryway, bombarded by the heat of the sun. The door continued to swing open on its own. She blinked , adjusting her eyes to the light. The chamber was not as it should be. A small bed carved from honey colored wood sat where Jane's larger one had been, its coverlet decorated with embroidered pink roses. Atop the bed were dolls, too numerous to count. A little table and chair were next to the bed, along with the small trunk of a child. The fireplace stood on a circular platform just as the one in her room did. It was not the square mounted fireplace of Jane's room. Looking out the window, past the rose embroidered drapes, Imogen saw a tree. Its buds were not in full bloom as they should have been, but only showed the beginning signs of spring. The tree should not have been there. The child's singing became louder and more clear, drawing Imogen's attention around to the far corner of the room. On the other side of the bed, Imogen could see the top of a blonde head. She took a hesitant step forward, instantly recognizing the large curls and yellow dress. The child sang her pretty song, stopping in mid-sentence to hum as she made two of her dolls dance together. "Hello,” said Imogen quietly, not wanting to startle the child. The girl did not move. Clearing her throat, she said louder, “Hello. Do you remember me?" The child looked up, a pout breaking out over her features. For a moment, Imogen thought the child saw her, but the bright green eyes only looked through her. "There now, Lady Margaret,” came a soft scold behind Imogen. Imogen jumped at the sound, spinning to look at the door. Near the door stood a portly maid. She

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placed her hands on her hips and shook her head. Imogen stiffened, realizing that neither the child nor the maid saw her. The maid sighed heavily, moving into the room. She passed right through Imogen, her body disappearing through her front and coming out her back. Imogen gasped, feeling as if nothing more than a chilling breeze passed over her. With a nervous hand to her stomach, which was still solid, she turned around in alarm. "Now, Lady Margaret, you know your father is expecting you to be on your best behavior today,” said the maid. "I know,” grumbled the child, loath to put down her toys and thus end her game. "There now, up off the floor with you. You don't want to wrinkle your new dress, do you?” said the maid. She hauled the child up by her arm and began brushing off her little yellow gown. It was the same gown she had worn when Imogen talked to her in the garden. "What is this?” asked Imogen, growing sick. She did not receive an answer. She remembered too clearly the look of the child's face burnt with fire. Looking around the chamber, she watched for signs of a starting flame. There was nothing. As the maid turned to retrieve a stole from Margaret's trunk, the child wrinkled her nose defiantly at the woman's back. Imogen suppressed a giggle at the child's impishness. When the maid turned around, Margaret smiled sweetly. "I do not want to wear this dress,” Margaret said with a pout. “I want my green one." "This is the one your father bought for you in Paris,” stated the maid. "He cares more about this house than he does for me. I doubt he'd notice if I didn't go to his fete at all,” Margaret said sullenly. “I don't think he likes me." "How could you say such a thing, Lady Margaret?” returned the maid, appalled. “Never have I seen a father dote more on a child." "He blames me for mother leaving,” Margaret insisted. “That is why he is never home." "You mother leaving had nothing to do with you,” said the maid. She gathered up the dolls and placed them roughly on the bed. Their porcelain heads bounced and clanked before settling over on their sides. "I heard them fighting about me. Mother's furious that father made her have me. She said I ruined her figure and that father destroyed her chance at happiness by moving her out here to the barbaric countryside. That is why she moved away to London.” Margaret did not see the maid's pained expression as the woman turned her back. The maid sighed heavily in frustration “She told me she would send for me as soon as she arrived." "Now, now, enough of that,” said the maid gruffly. “Her Grace said no such thing. She's been away from Rothfield Park for nearly two years now. You were too young to hear such things." "I know what I heard,” Margaret said defiantly. “She lied. I saw a letter father burned in the fireplace. I couldn't read it all, but it was from her—" "Now, Lady Margaret...."

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"It said that she did not want to see either of us again. And that if father wanted a male heir he would have to have it himself." Imogen saw the girl shiver before lifting her chin with a regal air. Her little eyes watched the maid carefully for a reaction. The woman merely shrugged and said nothing. Imogen wanted to hug the child and reassure her, and she wanted to slug the maid for her indifferent treatment of the girl's feelings. It was obvious that Margaret was lonely for her parents and needed comforting. Imogen could well understand. Although her own mother did not leave the family, she did constantly remind her oldest daughter how much she was to blame for her all her life's unhappiness. "Why doesn't father have a male heir on his own?” asked Margaret. “I should like a brother." "Lady Margaret, you know well enough that women carry the babes. I will hear no more of your nonsense, lest I have to inform your father of it.” The maid needlessly slapped the coverlet free of wrinkles as she made her way around the bed. Imogen ground her teeth in frustration, wanting to scream until she was heard. Her fists balled at her sides as she tried to stand in the maid's way, determined the woman should see her. The woman reached through her, picking up a glove from the floor. Suddenly a foreboding chill worked up the back of Imogen's spine. The maid passed through her again, the air stirring over her flesh, but the maid's passing was not what caused her chill. At first it was a slight tingle, but quickly it grew to slam into her like a stout winter breeze from behind. Imogen glanced at the maid, hearing her exclamation next to her. The maid's eyes were rounded in horror. Margaret paled, backing up into a corner of her room with shaking steps. Imogen shivered, terrified by their pallid expressions. "By All the Blessed Saints!” the maid hissed. She tore out of the room as fast as her feet would carry her without a backwards glance. "Don't leave me, Mary!” screamed Margaret, her small hand reaching out to the servant. Her cry went unanswered. Her eyes rounded so wide that they flooded her face with frightened tears. Mist began to curl over the floor from behind Imogen, binding her feet to the floor like shackles. Shaking violently, she turned to look over her shoulder. Margaret's crying echoed loudly. Her gaze found first the fire, growing frisky in the fireplace, but she could not feel the fire's heat. It was as cold as death in the sunny bedroom. A dog began to bark violently, a loud ugly sound that reverberated darkly in the chamber. Imogen heard a snarl, extinguishing Margaret's frightened whimpers. Behind Imogen a knight stood. He was a tall figure, swathed in lethal armor. The metal plates fitted to his skin, the links marred and caked with blood. In his hand rested a sword, standing proud and tall as it pointed maliciously into the air. The weapon gleamed brightly. The blue steel of the blade was clean and bright as it reflected the firelight. Atop his head rested a helmet, gruesome spikes jutting out from the cheek plates. A narrow slit showed only the black gaze of his deadly eyes as they searched over the chamber to finally land on the quivering child. Margaret sniffed, frozen in her fear. Imogen was propelled to action. Even though Margaret couldn't see her, she rushed to the girl. She tried

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to shield Margaret's body with her own. The figure loomed forward, his breath coming like the snarl of his dog. The knight said nothing as he once more looked around the room in confusion. His dark, soulless eyes searched, only to rest finally on the now frantically screaming girl. An enraged growl escaped the knight's lips, its sound as endless as a bottomless well. His black companion's fangs dripped with spit and blood, the mist coming out of the dog's mouth with each breath to fill the room with an evil cloud. Margaret's little voice began to plead, her howls dying into a fearful sniffle. She tried to bury her body into the comfortless press of the wall. Imogen could feel the child shaking, desperately afraid and alone. Just like the child and maid, the knight didn't see her. His eyes skimmed past her. It did not lessen her fear. She wrapped her arm around Margaret willing the girl to feel her. As the last of the monster's growl subsided into the harsh silence of their breathing, the knight lifted his hand to the fire. He grabbed the flame from the distance, controlling it with his will, pulling it out like a serpent from hell. "Come get me, Father, come get me,” Margaret repeated in a desperate whisper, over and over. Her hands clutched frantically at the wall, her little bleeding fingers digging holes into the plaster, crumbling it to the floor. With a swing of his arm, the knight threw the flame onto Margaret. Imogen saw it coming toward them. Her scream joined the girl's as the intense heat flooded their skin. She tightly closed her eyes to it, hearing the roar around them, drowning the sound of Margaret's screams from their ears. Melted flesh dripped over Imogen's hands in rivers of blood. She kept herself closed to it. When the roaring stopped, the child's crying remained. Imogen felt Margaret stir in her arms. The texture rubbing against her flesh was not that of a smooth child. Skeletal hands of rotting tissue pulled frantically at the front of her gown. As she slowly peered down, lidless eyes stared back at her. Imogen gagged, smelling the reek of burnt flesh. Smoke curled from the variegated texture of Margaret's face and neck, whispering out of the two flat holes of her missing nose. Imogen's first impulse was disgust. She wanted to push the child away and run. The child wailed, pitiful and scared. Imogen pulled her closer, trembling as she forced herself to stroke the chunks of melted curls barely covering a bleeding skull. The soot from Margaret's skin blackened Imogen's gown. Her blood spilled forth onto Imogen's fingers. "It's all right,” gasped Imogen in a feeble attempt to calm her. She tried not to breathe. In truth, she didn't know if it was all right. She didn't know when the knight would come back for the girl. For come, the knight would. Imogen had seen him swoop up the child from atop his steed. She closed her eyes to the charred body in her arms as she gently rocked the girl. “It's all right. He's gone. I won't let him hurt you anymore. I will protect you. Just stay with me. Don't leave." The child's hand lifted, covered by the sleeve of the scorched yellow dress dark with ash. The red and black mass of her scarred face began to fill, her lips growing around her teeth. Margaret sniffed, pulling away. Imogen opened her eyes as the tears subsided. In a flash the blood disappeared, the soot melted from her gown to the burnt floor. "This is the part where Father comes,” whispered the girl. “I can't be here. He'll be mad that his house is burnt."

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"No,” Imogen whispered. “No one is coming. Stay here with me. I will protect you." "I don't want to see him. He didn't come for me. He never comes for me. Always the demon comes, but never Father. When Mother left he promised to take care of me. He lied.” The child said in resentment. She tore free of Imogen's arms, standing and backing away. With an urgent gasp, she whispered, “I must go. He's coming." "What do you mean? Go where?” asked Imogen. Glancing around the room, she saw that it was scorched. The breeze blew in from outside. The fire was gone from the fireplace, leaving a crumbling hollow shell in its wake. Imogen's arms fell helplessly to her lap. Margaret disappeared into the wind. Her body blurred as her spirit vanished. Glancing at her hands, Imogen gasped. Her whole body trembled. She didn't understand, but she was unable to deny what she had seen and felt. Beside her was the corpse of the child. She could see the yellow of her gown peeking from beneath the ashes, her charred face but a skull with sunken features. Her small hands wrapped around the bony impression of her arms and legs, as she slept eternally curled into a fetal ball. She was no bigger than the size of the small trunk. Imogen's breath rushed with fear. The acrid smell of burning flesh imbedded in her clothes, her skin. She tried not to breathe it. Tears moistened her eyes, but she couldn't cry. She was too scared to make a sound. The ash did not stir as she slowly climbed to her feet. Her legs swayed unsteadily. She looked around. She didn't know what she was to do. She didn't know how to escape the nightmare she had been brought into, and she didn't know what it was she was supposed to see. Imogen blindly eyed at the remains of furniture. The fire the knight had started had spread through other areas of the house. Numbly, her eyes traveled over the bed. She could see the sooted faces of Margaret's dolls staring back at her from the rubble, mimicking the death of the child's corpse. "Margaret!” came a wild call from the charred door hanging limply on the frame. The cry was desperate, the voice too familiar to Imogen. Imogen gulped. Her eyes bore into the door in disbelief. Her heart refused to beat, her lungs stilled. And then he was there. It was Dougal, not as she knew him, but as a nobleman from the past. His clothes were fine and rich, from the silk stockings hugging his calves to the long coat with braided trim. Imogen realized the fashion was at least fifty years old if not more. His face was strained with disbelief as he stumbled into the blistered ashes of his daughter's bedroom. Imogen's tears spilled down her cheeks. She remained silent, wondering if at last Dougal would see her. He looked past her. Imogen quickly moved to stand before him, to block his view of the girl. With a swipe of her eyes, she held her hands to stop him from seeing. Bracing herself, she stepped forward to push him back. His body passed through hers. For a moment, she felt him inside of her, felt his pain, close to her as he passed over her heart. "No, no,” he said, pulling the powdered wig from his head. It dropped from his hands to land in the soot, sprinkling the white flecks like falling snow. The pain in his voice was overwhelmed with grief. "Dougal,” Imogen whispered in mounting despair through her pouring of tears. She shook her head in denial, backing away from him. He did not see her—couldn't hear her. More insistently, she said, “Dougal? What is happening? Why are you here?"

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She watched him fall to his knees, his smell wafting her in the face as he went to gather his daughter's withered body to his chest. Rocking the ashen remains of the dead girl, he began to cry. It was a pitiful sound that tore at her with the reality of it. She could feel his pain, mixing inside of her with her confusion. Gasping, she backed away. It couldn't be. She would not allow it. But the evidence could not be denied. Dougal was Margaret's father. Dougal was the Marquis of Rothfield. Dougal was dead. He was a ghost. She was in love with a ghost. "No,” Imogen gasped, shaking her head in agony. She began to grieve loudly with the distress of her torment. Her lungs could not take air as she tried to heave a tattered breath. “Please God. No. Not him. Not him. Why have you shown me this? Why have you shown me! Make it go away. Oh, Dougal, no. No!" Dougal did not hear her. Her stomach lurched. Covering her mouth with her hands to keep from retching, she turned to run down the hall. The burnt passageways of the past faded almost instantly into the present. Imogen crashed blindly into walls as she made her way. She didn't care what happened to her. She wanted to faint. She wanted to die. Dougal was a ghost. He was dead. And she was surrounded only by the sharp betrayal of her love. **** A day passed under the breaking of Imogen's heart. The sorrow of her realization was more than she could bear. But bear it she must and so she did with a non-existent smile and eyes that were too bright from her tears. She cried until her body could weep no more, until her eyes grew swollen and red. At first she hid in her chamber, waiting for the sun to claim the land beyond her window. Its golden rays rose to force back the mists that brought nothing but pain to Rothfield Park. When the sun delivered its relative safety, Imogen crawled from the corner of her bed. She dressed. Her mechanical actions were more a habit than self-will. Like a corpse walking lifelessly to his grave, she went through the halls. She saw nothing and no one as she found sanctuary in the library to wait for Dougal. It was worse than if Dougal had unexpectedly died, for then she would have had a chance and would have known his intentions toward her were honorable. But, he was dead and he had come to her under false pretenses and hopeless gestures of caring. As a ghost, he did not have to pay the consequences of their actions. She most assuredly did. And he had, quite possibly, used her. Only too well did she remember his desperation the night she met with Margaret in the garden. Margaret had said she didn't want to see him and he had appeared desperate to know of her. Could it be that he searched for the child? Could it be he believed she could find the girl for him? "Then why didn't he just ask me?” she muttered bitterly, slapping her hands against the arm of her father's chair. “Why go through the farce of deceiving me?" She nervously waited out the day in the library. She had no more tears to cry. Imogen forced herself to face him. She wasn't scared at the prospect of seeing him, just hurt that what she felt could never be. No wonder he was unable to return her sentiments of love. And the knowledge that he had never tried to trick her into loving him redeemed some of his honor.

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The day turned to evening. Dougal stayed away. Imogen remained patiently in the library, not once leaving. She would watch for him out the window, never seeing him in the garden. She wondered if he would ever come again. Weakly, she fell back into her father's chair. "He should have told me,” stated Imogen with a biting glare directed at her pale hand. "What?" Imogen looked up with a gasp. The hatred melted from her icy features. Her heart broke as she saw Dougal's handsome face. Pensively, he studied her as if waiting to see if she would fight with him. He was even farther from her now than when she believed him to be a poor tutor. He doesn't realize I know,thought Imogen in surprise. Swallowing, she turned her eyes away from him and said nothing. She couldn't speak. Part of her screamed that she was crazy, that she had hallucinated, and when she glanced back up she could see that he was real. "I wanted to say I was sorry,” he said at last. The disarming dimple on the side of his cheek deepened as he shot her an apologetic smile. “I never meant to hurt you. I was confused. There is a lot that needs to be said between us." Not that it matters now,she thought dejectedly to herself, surrounded by her broken dreams of him. She said nothing and carefully turned her eyes away from him lest she begin to cry anew. "Imogen, please, this isn't easy for me.” He strode into the room to stand before her. He shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. Imogen stared at his boots. Quietly, she whispered, “Why? What are you hiding?" "I...” he began before turning his head to the side, glancing away from her in frustration. He let loose a long, tired sigh. Imogen looked up, studying his face with her reddened gaze. His eyes shone with the same steady kindness she had fallen in love with. Dougal leaned over, his arm reaching out as if he would touch her. The fingers trembled and pulled back. She could see the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed, feel the stirs of his breath on her cheek as he desperately waited for her to speak. The fine texture of his skin, the mole beneath his eyes, the crease of worry between his brows—it was all there, very real. For a crazed moment, Imogen wondered if she had dreamt it all, but as she looked at him, she knew it was true. He was dead. Silently, she forced herself to stand. Tears came to her eyes. Dougal tried to smile. His arms widened as if he would take her into them. Imogen opened her mouth, letting loose a piercing scream that echoed shrilly through the library. Dougal jumped back in surprise. His body jerked. His skin faded. His mouth opened with a gurgle, blood pouring over his chin and neck. A long wound formed beneath his jaw, revealing the old slitting of his throat. Imogen jolted back in terror. She stumbled away from him to the window, desperate to put distance between them. Dougal's flesh faded to blue, his clothes turning to the white linen of styles past. Crimson stained the white to red as his life's blood spilled onto his chest. Weakly, his hand lifted to stop her from leaving him. Falling to his knees, he grabbed his gurgling throat. He couldn't speak.

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Imogen watched, horrified. She wanted to go to him, but knew there was nothing she could do to help him. Her heart pounded from her chest to her throat. She had her proof. It brought her no comfort. Her eyes pooled with moisture. Unable to bear seeing him thus, she turned her back on him. Her hands fell against the windowpane. She began to weep. "Imogen,” she heard at length. Sniffing she lifted her head, but did not move to look at him. Dougal came up behind her, his body returned to normal. She could see the impression of him reflected between her hands on the glass. Her thumb moved to stroke over his reflected cheek. He did not touch her. Whispering mournfully, he asked, “Why did you do that?" "I had to know,” she whispered under her breath. Wiping her face on her sleeve, she turned. Her red-brimmed eyes were full of sorrow. Gently, she lifted her hand to touch him. Her fingers fell through him like air. Her face contorted with pain as she spat, “Who are you? What do you want from me? Why are you here?" "Imogen, wait. I wanted to tell you.” He reached to stop her from leaving. She slipped through his grasp. He couldn't touch her, couldn't hold her. "Then why didn't you? You lied to me. Everything you said was a lie. You're not my tutor. You're some dead Marquis haunting me!” Imogen dashed the tears from her face. It did no good. They were replaced by more. “Are you trying to make me crazy? Was it all a lie?" "It's not like that,” he protested in despair. He wanted to hold her. His hands reached out to her to plead for understanding. “Please understand." "I understand completely. You saw the opportunity to mingle with the living girl, take advantage of her,” she spat. “And there are no consequences for you, are there? But what about me? I am ruined for any other man." Ruined because I can never love any but you,she added silently.Why did you have to make me love you? "Imogen, no, I wanted to be with you. I still want—” Dougal again reached out to hold her. Seeing her pain, none of his other excuses mattered. He wanted her. He wanted to be with her. He wanted to turn back time to when he was alive and take her with him. He wanted Imogen and Margaret to be his family. If only she had been his wife, then his life would have been a truly blessed one. "Stay away from me. Get out of my house!” she yelled, pulling farther away as he advanced on her. “You don't live here anymore. I would that I had never met you or any of your kind. And my one wish is that you could make me forget it all! Take it back. Take all of it." "No, wait, you must listen to me. If you believe that you can feel me, you will. Here take my hand. I'll tell you everything,” he pleaded. “You must try." "How often have you done this over the years? How many of us has there been?” she questioned. Anger and hurt seeped in every hurtful word. “How many have you made fall in love?" "No one, Imogen, I swear it,” he answered. “You are the first one to touch me since my death. And it is because you believed me to be real. I am real. Believe in me again. Take my hand in yours. Let me explain. I will tell you everything."

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"It's too late for that,” she whispered. “I want you to leave me alone." "No, Imogen,” Dougal beseeched. A frown of worry fell over his face. “Do not send me away." "Go away,” she said loudly. “Just go away." Dougal watched her. Imogen lifted her chin in determination. Slowly, he nodded his head. Sorrow poured from his tortured gaze, as he whispered, “As you wish." Pain crossed over his features mirroring her own. Deliberately he faded until he disappeared into air. "I'm sorry,” she heard him whisper as he left. “I never meant to hurt you." "Dougal...” she began, but it was too late. He was gone. Mournfully, she expressed with a trembling sigh, “I'm sorry, too." Imogen did not try to call him back. She knew what she did was the best for both of them. She could not waste her life pining for a dead man. And he could not wait around for her to grow old, meddling in her life whenever she might try to seek happiness with a man who could hold her. Imogen didn't want to think of other men now. Her heart belonged to one. One she could not have. Where she thought there could be no more tears, a dam broke in her heart. Keeling over to her knees in pain, she lay helplessly on the patterned rug, wailing her agony into the leg of her father's chair. And when the sobs subsided enough to allow her breath, she whispered to herself, “Forgive me, Dougal. I love you still." **** Reverend Stillwell flipped through the pages of his texts, searching for anything that might comfort those under his care. Dust drifted around him as he looked. There was nothing new that he had not already learned long ago. Glancing up in surprise as a flicker washed over his candle, the good vicar looked up from his studies. Dougal appeared before him. Instantly, he saw the tortured lines and pallor of the Marquis's face. He swallowed in foreboding. Standing, the reverend closed his book. Dougal looked around the sparsely decorated square chamber in the back of the old church before speaking. "Imogen knows about me,” Dougal said. “She discovered the truth somehow." "Then she told you what happened in the forest?” asked the vicar. "No, she still refuses to remember that much,” Dougal said. He crossed over to sit on the man's bed. “I have lost her. I have failed Margaret yet again." "What happened?" Dougal quickly explained most of what had transpired in the library, leaving out the details of their intimacy. Solemnly, he added, “She commanded me away from her. I cannot appear to her so long as she refuses to see me. She would not believe in me enough so that I could touch her." "Keep trying, perchance she will come around.” The vicar sighed, moving to look out the narrow slit of his window. “I will see if I can visit with her."

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"There is more,” Dougal said quietly "More?" "I'm in love with her. But after I find Margaret, I will have nothing more to offer her.” Dougal swallowed. Closing his eyes to the pain, he whispered, “I have nothing to offer her now." The vicar opened his mouth to protest, but the Marquis faded from his chamber. The reverend watched for a moment, hoping Dougal would come back. When he didn't, the vicar sighed and moved back to his work with renewed purpose.

Chapter Ten Imogen rushed through the dim hallway, unmindful of the late hour or the presence of those whom she might awaken. Her loud footfall clamored, pounding an even rhythm over the manor. A happy grin formed on her face. It exploded over her features. For the first time in nearly two weeks she was happy. The sorrows of her familial ostracism were about to be lifted. Jane was home! Imogen threw open her sister's bedroom door with a flush of excitement. She did not bother with knocking, too eager to be swayed by such a task. Her cheeks were tinted pink with the efforts of her run. Instantly, she saw her sister unpacking the contents of her trunk onto her bed. At the noise, Jane dropped her folded gown to the floor and spun around in white-faced surprise. Gasping, she lifted her hand to her throat, taking an involuntary step back. She tried to calm herself as she stared at her sister's form in the doorway. "Jane!” shrieked Imogen happily. She rushed forward. “I didn't mean to frighten you." "Imogen,” gasped Jane with a frail gesture of helplessness. She shook her head to clear her mind. "Why, sister,” admonished Imogen. “You look as if you have seen a ghost. Aren't you happy to see me?" Jane giggled nervously. “Of course I'm happy, Imogen. You did give me a start. Being back in this room I didn't know what to expect and you made quite a noise." "You should have known I would come straight away,” scolded Imogen with a lighthearted grimace. Her fondness for her sister shone too brightly for Jane to take offense. “Seeing you back, I feel more like myself. You cannot imagine how lonely I have been." Imogen leaned over to kiss Jane on the cheek before patting it. Jane fidgeted nervously, her gaze darting to the floor. Imogen smiled fondly at her little sister, eyeing her from head to toe. Then, moving to sit on the bed, Imogen exclaimed, “I swear you have grown! Look at you! It appears as if Harriet got her claws into you and took you shopping. I wish I could have been there." "Oh, yes the gown,” mumbled Jane, looking down at herself. Self-consciously, she tugged at the low neckline of the green bodice trying to pull it up. Then with a delicate shrug, she opted for grabbing a shawl. Wrapping it over her shoulders, she murmured, “Harriet insisted that ... well ... I—"

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"You look beautiful,” Imogen said, liking the way Jane's features colored with the praise. “I am quite envious of you. I have been so pale and sickly of late." "How I have missed you,” sighed Jane, changing the subject with grace. She moved to sit by Imogen on the bed and pushed her glasses up on her nose. “I didn't think I would ever see you again." "I know the feeling,” muttered Imogen, thinking of her mother with a grimace. Seeing Jane's forming frown, she forced a smile. Cheerily, she added, “How was London?" "You know about London?” exclaimed Jane in awe. "Yes, I saw your carriage pull away when you left. Mother told me where you were going. Well, she didn't exactly tell me. She and father aren't talking to me these days. They're still upset at me for my impudence,” admitted Imogen wryly. She waved her hand as if it didn't matter. "Yes, I know,” replied Jane. “They took it pretty hard." Imogen wrinkled her nose. If she thought of it, she would begin to cry. She hadn't realized how badly she missed everyone. She was so alone at Rothfield. It had been two long weeks since she banished Dougal from her. She had even begun to wonder if she had imagined their short time together. Every night as she stood in her room, looking out her window at the mist, she would start to call out to him. But she held back, knowing that if he was there, then she had best forget him. And if he wasn't real then it was better she left it alone. The illusion of him having been was better than that of him being a figment of her bored mind. "So how was London?” inquired Imogen, standing and moving away to hide her face from view. She didn't want Jane to see her tears. She didn't want to admit that her decision about the Colonel's proposal was wavering. If she couldn't have love, then what did it matter if she married a tedious man? At least with the Colonel, she would always have Rothfield Park. Weakly, she whispered, “What news?" "Mother made me go,” explained Jane with a concerned narrowing of her eyes. “She thought it would be good for me. And I must admit that it was." "How so?” inquired Imogen, turning to watch her youngest sister's face. “You hate the London season and you abhor high society." "Yes, that is true,” mumbled Jane. Hesitantly, she added, “But, Colonel Wallace was there. He was really very nice to me. We spent quite a bit of time together." "Really? You and the Colonel?” mused Imogen in wonder. "Oh, Imogen, you don't mind, do you?” Jane asked worriedly. "No,” Imogen said wryly. “Why should I mind?" "Good! I was hoping you harbored no ill will towards the Colonel because we are to be married." "What?” Imogen gasped, taken aback by the news. She shook her head in confusion.Jane and the Colonel? “I don't believe it. You and the Colonel? Will mother stop at nothing to get him in the family?" "Oh, Imogen don't be so harsh. It was our idea. You see, I love him,” Jane said with a boldness Imogen

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had never seen in her. Her face positively gleamed with happiness. In light of it, Imogen couldn't be angry. "Then I am happy for you,” answered Imogen truthfully. She ignored the twinge of disbelief at the arrangement and the poking of jealousy that prickled her mind at seeing Jane so happy and in love. She thought of Dougal. Her heart squeezed in her chest. Holding back her tears, she inquired in a low voice, “When is the wedding?" Jane did not notice her sister's discomfort, believing Imogen's bright smile to be real. “The Marquis—" "The Marquis?” echoed Imogen, instantly thinking of Dougal. She pictured him in his silk stockings and powdered wig, standing frozen in his daughter's ashen chamber. Imogen shivered. Looking around the room, her eyes found the spot where Margaret's body had lain. The spot was unmarred, repaired to hide the past tragedy.. "Yes. The Marquis of Rothfield, Wallace's uncle." "Oh, that Marquis,” Imogen said in disappointment. "The Marquis approved greatly of the match. But, unfortunately, he passed away soon after giving his blessing. The wedding will have to wait until after the Colonel is done with his mourning. You aren't mad that I will be titled?" "No, silly girl, how could I be? Please give Colonel Wallace my condolences,” muttered Imogen, not really paying attention. She crossed over to the window to stare out into the evening. "Oh, I will,” Jane hesitated. “Were you terribly upset to hear about Harriet? Is that why you are so sad?" "Who said I was sad?” Imogen said breathlessly, forcing a veil over her words. “I am just surprised by your news and so very happy for you. Wait ... what about Harriet?" "You don't know?” Jane said, dismayed, not wanting to be the one to tell her sister the news. "Know what?” Imogen asked sharply, growing concerned. "She and Mr. Tanner ran off to Gretna Green to marry. He was after the family money. It seems Mr. Tanner is a bit of a gambler without a shilling to his name. Father is in London trying to calm the gossip and was quite put out enough to pay off Mr. Tanner's debts. And, naturally, Harriet could care less about what she has done. It is why they left the manor so suddenly, if you noticed.” Jane stood, rushing over to the window. Forcing Imogen to look at her, she said, “Are you upset?" "Harriet and Edward?” gasped Imogen, stunned. It seemed everyone's lives were working out and she was the only one left alone. All she had was the memory of a man fifty years dead. “How? When?" "You're not upset are you? I know how you favored him,” admitted Jane. "No, not at all, I have long stopped thinking of Edward,” answered Imogen, knowing it to be the truth. The only man she could think of was her darling Marquis—her darling dead Marquis. Imogen gulped and paled. She forced herself to stop thinking of it. She concentrated on her sister's words. "I am so glad. After your accident—"

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"My accident?” echoed Imogen, drawing around. "Yes.” Jane's brow furrowed. “You remember your accident, don't you?" "Jane, I think you are mistaken. I've not met with any accident, save maybe bumping into a table when running in the hallway just now to see you.” Imogen began to feel sick to her stomach. Her head started to throb. "Imogen? Are you well? Can I get you something?” asked Jane, beginning to panic. "I didn't have an accident,” protested Imogen in determination, growing loud. Her limbs shook with fear. "Mayhap you hit your head too hard and can't remember,” Jane said desperately. “The doctor said you hit—" "My head,” Imogen echoed, reaching to feel her skull. It felt fine to her. “How Jane? How did I hit my head?" "You were upset. You went riding in the forest along the shaded path by the stream. Can't you remember? You were angry at being forced to wed the Colonel.” Jane's words became a mere whisper. Her face paled as she studied her sister. “You must remember it." "The forest,” murmured Imogen. Her mind pricked with a sound she could not place. Quietly, she said in sudden realization, “Something happened in the forest. That is why he was trying to get me to go there. I must have seen something." "Imogen? Who tried to get you to go into the forest? Father? You make no sense,” Jane said in panic. Imogen stood, moving blindly from the room. Jane followed her into the hall. “Imogen, wait. Let me help you." "I'm sorry Jane,” she called breathlessly. She moved like a woman possessed. “I have to be alone for awhile. I'll visit you later, I promise. I want to hear all about your wedding." Jane nodded helplessly, not wanting to let Imogen go. As her sister disappeared around the corner, she sighed. Turning back to her trunk, she continued to unpack. Imogen rushed through the house, oblivious of the late hour. The long trail of her cream colored skirts whisked behind her in a fleeting whisper. Sweeping to the front door, she threw it open. It was the first time she had braved the night since discovering Dougal's secret. She could feel a presence beyond the door. She knew what was out in the mist. She knew that spirits roamed the earth at night, claiming the late hours as their own—even if she had not seen those spirits since sending Dougal away. Without thought, Imogen ran toward the forest. She did not wait to close the front door, leaving it to hang open. She had to find out what had happened to her. The mist grew thicker as she charged around the house. Her steps rushed her over the garden paths. The full moon lit her way. Desperately she ran. Her face began to stream with tears. She had to know. Seeing a figure in the darkness blocking her path, she stumbled to a stop. Imogen tripped on her tangling skirts. With a groan, she tumbled to the ground.

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"Dougal,” she began, pushing up from the ground. But, as her gaze focused, she saw it was not he. Black eyes stared back at her silently, watching as she froze in fear. It was the knight. Gone was his armor, replaced by a tunic and breeches. His thick arms crossed over his chest as he waited for her to stand. Imogen eyed his sheathed sword hanging at his side, the large weapon glittering dangerously. Her heart thudded until she felt as if she couldn't draw breath. Hyperventilating, she spat in dread, “It is you." "Where dost thou think to go, m'lady?” The knight's voice crackled like the chipping of ice. The wind whipped his hair over his shoulder, the locks the same soulless color as his black eyes. Imogen swallowed, stiff, unable to answer. The knight took a step forward to tower over her. Imogen cringed. Leaning down, the dark knight demanded, “Can you hear me?" "Yes,” she stuttered. With a deep breath, she nodded frantically. The knight relaxed as he watched her face. He straightened once more. More pointedly, she demanded, “Yes, I can hear you. Who are you? What do you want?" The man studied her carefully before scratching his head in thought. He glanced over his shoulder down the path. A frown marred his features when he turned back to her. "He hunts,” said the knight cryptically. “You should begone." "Who?” persisted Imogen as she pushed up on shaking limbs. "The forest is no place to be at night,” he stated. He did not move to help her from the ground. “You should go inside where ‘tis safer." "You are the only one to be feared,” countered Imogen, thinking of the child. "M'lady?” He cocked his head in confusion. "I have to go to the forest,” murmured Imogen. “Something happened to me there. I must know." "Not now,” he said. “'Tis not safe in the mist. Go in the daylight." "You're a murderer,” she spat, standing up defiantly. In the moonlight without his beast from hell, the knight didn't look so scary. “That is why you try to stop me." "Not me,” declared the man darkly. “My brother." "There are two knights roaming the countryside? I don't believe you. You're lying. What did you do with Margaret? I'm taking her with me,” Imogen said with feigned bravado. “Hand her over." "She is my ward, not yours,” denied the man easily. He watched as the little woman charged up to him in defiance. He faded from her path only to materialize again behind her. Imogen tripped, tearing her dress as she landed. Looking at the skirt, she glared from the ripped material to the knight. "Who are you?” she growled. "Sir Josiah of Merton,” he said easily. Then, sighing heavily, he reached his hand down to lift her. Imogen had no choice but to let him as he grabbed her arm. His hand was warm. She shivered. Josiah let her go.

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Imogen studied the man's face now that he was closer. True, his eyes were black as the midnight of a starless sky. However, she could see kindness in them. It was a kindness the demon that attacked Margaret did not have. There was mercy and pain in Josiah's gaze. "What does your brother want with us?” she demanded. “Why did he kill Margaret?" "'Twas a mistake. He was after the Marquis, Margaret's sire,” answered Josiah. When he sighed, the weight of his world spread over his face. Josiah motioned his head for her to walk with him down the path. Imogen followed. “Lady Margaret got in the way of things. She has the same blood as the Marquis and ‘tis why my brother found her first. He never would have picked her intentionally. The innocent souls of children are harder for him to capture. They are too nimble and flighty and hard to hold." "Dougal,” whispered Imogen. "Yea,” Josiah acknowledged. "Then, why isn't Dougal with Margaret if you have her?” questioned Imogen. “Why are you keeping them apart?" "'Tis not I who keeps them apart,” admitted the knight. “I found Margaret wandering the grounds searching for her sire soon after she died. I could not find the Marquis in time. His spirit is lost to me." "But I've seen the Marquis. I saw you look at him that day from your horse. You saw us.” Imogen pointed into the distance where he had watched them from the trees. "Nay,” interjected the tall knight. “I saw you. Methought I saw you speaking to someone, but I could not see whom. You say ‘twas the Marquis? You have spoken to him?" "Yes, spoken to him, touched him,” murmured Imogen, trying to hide her blush. The knight was too preoccupied to notice. "Then mayhap you are the solution betwixt them. You can see Margaret and her sire. ‘Tis you that must join them." "Me? The solution?” Imogen shook her head uneasily. “I don't know about that." "You must be the one meant to get them back together. My brother still hunts them. He cannot find either of them. In death, their souls are harder to capture. But soon I fear he will succeed. Each eve he gets closer." "What is your brother's name?” questioned Imogen, wondering if she had heard of him. "It cannot be uttered. To say his name is to summon him,” whispered the knight. "You say he still hunts?” she prodded. "Yea, m'lady,” Josiah said darkly. "Can't you stop him?" "Nay,” the knight admitted with a mournful toss of his head. “Wouldst that I could. But I did not stop

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him in life as was my duty. In death he is too strong for me to try." "How do you know you were meant to stop him in life?” she asked. She saw the pain on his face as he spoke. She wanted to reach out to him but refrained. "Long ago, this was my family's holding. My brother made his pact with unholy dark wizards. They gave him power and riches beyond imagination. But as he took his seat of power, the dark ones struck him dead. As payment for that which they bestowed he has pledged his death to bringing them other souls. So long as he feeds their fire with others, they will not take him.” Josiah sighed heavily. His face hardened as he admitted, “'Twas within my power in life to stop him. But I loved him too much and missed my one chance. So now ‘tis my destiny to roam the earth, trying in vain to protect others from him. My curse is to see the evil my hesitance caused." "Do not say in vain. How could you have known the depths of his heart? You could not have known—" "I should have seen him for what he was,” the knight said bitterly. “My brother is lost. Now he is a demon who consumes souls." Imogen shivered. “Then that is how we stop him. If he can't make payment, they will come to collect." "I have tried. ‘Tis why I intercept the souls of those he kills. ‘Tis how I came across Margaret. There are many spirits lingering here that I have saved. But he is too fast. By the time I find one, he has killed another and taken them away. And each time he kills, he gets faster." "And the spirits, they just stay here?” she wondered allowed. “Can't they move on?" "Some do, if all they must attend to is done,” he answered. “I believe that Margaret stays because she is searching for her sire. My brother still wants her. Methinks if you help her to find the Marquis they can both move on. So long as no other love is keeping them here, they will be safe from the fires of damnation. It must be why you can see us all." "Move on?” she whispered. Her heart hit against her chest in heavy thuds. If Dougal moved on, she would never find him again. Selfishly, she wanted to refuse what she knew the knight to be asking. He wanted her to help him reunite the parent and child. "Yea, you must help me get them together,” urged the knight. Hope shined in his eyes, though it was a dim happiness compared to the years of evil he had faced and would continue to face. “'Tis only a small deed, but if we can save them—" "No, I cannot,” Imogen said through tight lips. She shook her head stiffly, stopping. Josiah's eyes narrowed, outraged at her denial. “But—" "I sent the Marquis away from me,” she muttered, torn between relief and sorrow. Gulping, she fought her tears. “I cannot see him anymore. I cannot help you." "Call him back,” Josiah said with a fierce determination. "Will that work?” she whispered, trembling at the simple solution. He nodded. Tears burned her nose, threatening to flood her heart in grief.

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Do not ask this of me,thought Imogen. She wanted to scream.Dear God, do not make me give him up completely! Do not make the decision mine! Imogen realized that so long as Dougal was near, there was a chance for them to find a way to be together. She had refused to call out to him for fear that she would discover he was in her imagination and didn't exist, but he did exist and now she was told she must deny her love for him to save him. The pain choked her, making her limbs go numb with the agony of it. She could not imagine a life without him. "How long do we have?” she whispered, a coldness coming over her words as she faced what she knew she must. She turned her back to the knight, studying the distance. The mist continued to swirl. As it parted, she heard Margaret's laughter as the child ran through the garden. "He must give them a truly good soul about every fifty years when the moon is right. In the mean time, he feeds the fire what souls he can gather—good or bad. He will need the Marquis in a few days by my estimation.” Josiah moved past Imogen, walking the way they had come. Giving a low whistle, he called for his horse. The horse appeared out of the darkness. The destrier stopped to paw the ground. "Will he be coming after my family next?” whispered Imogen. She thought of Jane in her room. If she didn't find a way to stop him, Jane could be next. Maybe she, herself, was next. "I don't know. I never know until ‘tis happening." The knight swung onto the horse. He gave her a curt nod of his head and without another word, took off into the night. The animal thundered down the path. Imogen watched as Josiah leaned over, darting his hand into the mist to grab ahold of Margaret. The girl appeared from the darkness, swinging up into his arms. Seeing Imogen, the girl smiled, nestling into her protector's embrace. And into the mist, they disappeared. **** "Dougal!” called Imogen, running through the halls. “Dougal, come out! I need to speak to you. Please, it is important!" Imogen received no answer. She searched all over the garden and manor. Dougal was not speaking to her. Slumping against the hallway wall, she slid to the floor. Her head fell into her hands as she buried her face. It was useless. With a groan, she banged her head back into the wall. Seeing the portraits before her, their dead eyes appearing to watch her, she grimaced. A man in a green tunic caught her attention. His arms were folded decisively over his chest. The portrait was vaguely familiar. Shivering, Imogen crawled to her feet. She did not like the depiction. As she backed away, she kept her eyes on the painted man. He did not move. Feeling the beginning of a bad headache, she decided to look for Dougal in the morning and wearily crawled into bed. Almost instantly, she was asleep. And while she slept, her dreams brought her no answers as she drifted through a black world of comfortless images.

Chapter Eleven The smell of hot tea banished the chill of morning from Imogen as she made her way to the dining room. As she opened the door, she thought of how odd it was that she had not been there for quite some time. Since her parents punishment she had dined alone in her room. There was no one in the dining room, but

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the smell grew stronger as she entered. Despite her desire to sit and drink a cup of the English blend, she denied herself the luxury as she turned to go to the library. She must find Dougal. Until she made amends with him and helped him, there would be no peace for her. And unless she helped him, there was a great chance the demon knight would get him and send his and Margaret's soul into eternal darkness. Imogen trembled at the very notion. Looking around the still library, she took a deep breath. After careful consideration, she determined that if she were to get Dougal to reappear to her, it would surely be from the same place that she bid him away. And the Marquis did seem to favor the library. Making her way to the window, she turned to face the room. Looking around, she said carefully, “My lord, are you there?" She got no answer. Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes as she said loudly, “Dougal. Come and see me. I must speak to you." When she opened her eyes, Imogen saw the dark top of Dougal's head appear from behind the back of the chair. She sighed loudly in relief. At the noise, Dougal started, spinning up from his chair to look at her. Imogen was not prepared for the handsomeness of his face. Two weeks was too long a time to be parted from him. How ever would she manage the rest of her life? Choking on her emotion, she held still. "Imogen,” he breathed. He moved to her, his arm lifting to touch her. “Are you really here?" "Yes,” she said calmly. “I have been calling for you. Didn't you hear me?" "No, I ... what's wrong?” he demanded, seeing the etched lines on her face. “What has happened? Are you hurt?" "I am just tired,” she stated. She ignored the pain the lie caused her. His lips kept trying to smile at her, but she would not encourage them. Stiffening her expression, she waited until his face matched hers in hardness. It would not be. "Then, why have you called me?” he questioned, hopefully. "I must speak with you. But, first, I have to ask you—” began Imogen. "Yes,” broke in Dougal eagerly, “anything." "You are the Marquis, are you not?” she whispered. "Yes,” he murmured regretfully. “I am the Marquis of Rothfield, or should I say was the Marquis of Rothfield. I am sure someone else now bears that title." "Is your name really Dougal?” she whispered. She refused to tremble before him. "Yes.” His hand shook, wanting to know if she believed in him enough to let him touch her. He had waited for her to come back, prayed for it. “It is. Formally, I am Lord Dougal Weston. I have a long list of family names between those, but truthfully it has been so long I have forgotten most of them. Dougal

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Thomas ... Anthony Montcalm—" "Yes, fine,” waved Imogen in distraction. At least he had not lied to her about that. “I quite understand, my lord." "Don't,” he muttered, his eyes darkening with sadness. “Do not call me by such, not now. Call me Dougal." "All right,” she said, though she did not say his name. Eyeing him, the proud tilt of his head seemed much more in place when backed by such a title of nobility. And whereas before she found him to be self-possessed, she now realized it was his natural bred aristocratic nature. "Did you miss me?” he asked expectantly. "No,” she lied. Imogen turned her back on him. Dougal felt as if she had kicked him. He took a deep breath. She continued, “No more than I would miss the company of a dear friend." "Then why are you here?” he inquired, pain making his words sharp. "I was meant to help you find your daughter,” she answered. “But, I don't know exactly how to get you two together. And I am not sure you would see each other if I did get you to the same place." "Imogen, that is well and good. But first, I must know,” Dougal paused, reaching for her. His hand fell onto her shoulder. Closing his eyes briefly, he sighed in relief. He did not pass through her. Lightly, he touched her. “What about us?" "We are friends, are we not?” she replied candidly. When she turned back to him, she had her tears under control. She steeled herself against him. “Other than that, there is no us." "But, what about—" "What?” she broke in, knowing she would have to say the words sooner or later. Before she lost her nerve and threw herself into his arms, she said boldly, “You mean us coming together as we did? I suppose it should not have happened. Though it was ... pleasant ... enough and I do thank you for the lesson. I was emotional afterward and I find it quite embarrassing, really. I was meant to help you find Margaret, not lie to you and myself. I should never have told you I loved you. Thank goodness you were smart enough to realize it and not return the silly sentiment, lest we be in even bigger—" "Then you don't love me." "No,” she said, glad that it was finally said. She could see he believed her lies. How easy it would be to take them back, but she couldn't. Reaffirming her words, she whispered, “I don't love you. I was confused. But now I know what I must do. I will reunite you with your daughter and your spirits will be released from the earth. You'll be able to move on." "And you?” he whispered. "What about me?” Imogen shrugged as if it was of no concern. Flippantly, she said, “I will live out my life. My sister Jane is to marry the Colonel and I will marry Edward. He really is the man for me. I have always loved him."

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"Edward?” asked Dougal, seething with jealousy—an emotion he perceived he was not justified in feeling. "Yes, we are the same. He will take me away from Rothfield.” Imogen stared at him pointedly. “I hate it here. I can see why your wife left it." Dougal paled at her deliberate strike. “Who told you of—?" "It does not matter now,” she said with an annoyed hiss. The sting of his hurt eyes was almost too much to bear. “I only mean to say that I shall be happier elsewhere, just as she was. This country is no place for a woman of fine society. We need the excitement of the city life to ... to be alive." "No, Imogen, you mustn't—” began Dougal. He moved as if to touch her again. Imogen artfully dodged his hand and skirted past him. "It is my life to live,” she stated. "But, that is what I mean, you mustn't—" "I will not discuss it with you. You are dead. You have no possible say in my life. Now tell me how I can help you get back with your daughter.” Imogen lifted her chin defiantly. His face became a blank, emotionless mask. She was glad for it. If he smiled at her all would be lost. His soul would be lost. As she looked at his hardness, her body was cast into anguish, knowing it was partly her fault. "I don't know,” he stated after great length. He couldn't abide looking at her face. With her he had felt for the first time, since his before his death, an emotion that was not borne of pain and suffering. With her, he had felt happiness. The emotion was so foreign to him that at first he did not know it. But after she banished him, he knew that only with her could he be whole. Imogen and Margaret were his existence. And Imogen didn't want him. She didn't love him. And she still did not understand. Darkly, he asked in a hoarse murmur, “Have you been to the forest?" "I tried,” she admitted. She was glad to be off the subject of her feelings. “The knight stopped me." "The knight?” Dougal asked with mounting alarm. "You cannot see him. I can,” she replied. “He cannot see you. He has been taking care of Margaret." "Imogen, I don't understand. What has happened?” Dougal forced his feelings aside. He had to focus on finding his daughter. He would have an eternity for self-pity. "It is too hard to explain,” Imogen said. "Try." "All right,” she said with a sigh, moving to sit on the settee lest she faint. “When Margaret died, Sir Josiah found her. It is his brother, an evil knight, killing everyone. It has something to do with a pact the man made with the devil." "And Josiah told you all this?” inquired Dougal skeptically. He had never seen a knight such as she described. But he had heard rumors of the evil that lurked. And he knew that it was an evil that most likely held his daughter.

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"Yes and I believe him.” Swallowing, she said, “I have also met Margaret." Dougal paled, falling into the chair. He couldn't speak. He knew that she had seen his daughter, but for her to say the words aloud was too much. "She is well,” offered Imogen, trying not to think of the child's animosity towards her father. Seeing his reaction, her words softened. She couldn't imagine filling the years as he had, endlessly searching. Dougal did not need to know Margaret blamed him for not protecting her. The two would have to work that out later. “She misses you." Dougal nodded. His eyes became moist, but he did not cry. Placing his fist before his lips, he waited silently. "Something happened in the forest. I had an accident.” Imogen frowned at the words before rushing on. “Which is ridiculous since I have never fallen from a horse in my life." Dougal smiled ruefully. Imogen suppressed a chuckle. "So something must have frightened my horse,” she continued. “I hit my head and that is why I can see you. Reverend Stillwell told me that sometimes a traumatic accident could make people see the dead. It is how he came about his power and obviously how I came about mine." "He told you that?” asked Dougal in disbelief. It did not sound like the vicar. "Yes.” Imogen leaned forward, placing her hands on her knees. Dougal's gaze traveled down her throat to her cleavage. Imogen colored, sitting back up. Dougal gave her an unabashed smile and lightly curled his hand in a helpless gesture. “So, when I fell, I must have triggered a part of my mind that allows me to see you. I am meant to help you." "How will you help?” he asked. "I'm not sure. I thought that mayhap I could get you and your daughter to the same place at the same time,” she answered. “It would be a place to start." "I mean, how will you help, if you don't remember what happened at the forest? If you don't know what frightened ... your horse? It could be the answer you are searching for. Shouldn't you go and find out?” insisted Dougal. His eyes held a passion and desperation she didn't understand. “Are you still scared of going?" "No,” she lied. He saw it on her face. Leaning back, he gave her a challenging smile. "Would you like me to take you?” he offered. "No, I can do it.” When he arched a brow in doubt, she hurriedly added, “I will do it—today." Dougal nodded. Rising from his chair, he walked over to her. Unable to resist, he touched her cheek. He again sighed in relief as it rested on her skin and didn't pass through. He felt her warmth and softness beneath his palm and began to tenderly caress it. In a whisper, he said, “I still think that I should go with

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you." "No, I should go alone. It might not work if I get distracted,” she replied. Her pulse began to race at his probing gaze. Her calm faÇade crumbled before his look. Shivering, she said, “It might not work anyway. It really doesn't seem all that important. I merely fell from my horse. Who is to say aught else happened? I might not remember a thing." "You will,” he murmured with confidence. With the tips of his fingers, he urged her to stand. She did, following his commands without question or thought. Her gaze moved to his lips. Her head fell to the side. Dougal knew the look on her face. She was not immune to him. She felt more than she let on. The realization gave him hope. "Dougal, I don't think,” she began. Her words were silenced by his kiss. His warm lips captured hers. Her body remembered all too well what her mind had tried to force it to forget. Taking his breath into her own, she muttered, “We cannot—" "We already have,” he persisted with a devilish chuckle. “As you said, it was pleasant." Imogen moaned, her arms moving up his shoulders. That wasn't entirely true. Being with him was more than pleasant. And the weeks apart had only heightened her longing to be with him. She had missed his touch, dreamed about it until she awoke sweating in the night hours. Besides, they had come together once. What harm would there be in doing so again? It was not as if it would change anything. And she might as well take one last memory with her. "Yes,” she sighed, moving her lips more fervently to encourage his. “Pleasure. We might as well take some pleasure. It is not as if we can do aught at this moment anyway. And it will mean nothing." "Absolutely nothing,” he agreed, deepening the assault of his mouth. Her mouth spoke, but her body proclaimed the words a lie. The energy between them was more than a meaningless affair of the flesh. He felt it and he knew that she felt it too. "And it is not as if we don't understand each other,” she insisted. "Oh, we understand perfectly. This is just pleasure—pure, hot pleasure,” he growled. His hands wrapped around her, his fingers sliding to her laces to untie them. He was determined to make her feel. "And—" "Shhh,” hushed Dougal. His fingers continued to work on her bodice. "The door,” she gasped. His lips trailed over her neck to the pulse that beat wildly for him. "Locked.” Dougal waved his hand, latching it, though he knew no one would interrupt them. "Where?” she asked. Her eyes tried to focus past him to find a place to lie down with him. Her hands worked their way into his jacket, pulling the heavy material from his shoulders. Dougal chuckled throatily, not answering. His fingers successfully loosened her bodice. The material fell forward exposing her chest. Instantly, his lips moved to taste her in his bittersweet torment. His tongue lapped the sensitive flesh of her breast, focusing its attention on her ripened nipples. Imogen moaned, oblivious to all but his touch.

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Moving his hands from her, Dougal urgently tried to help her in her task of undressing him. His hands went straight to his breeches. His mouth once again claimed hers as he turned her around by the force of his kiss. Freeing his member from the thick material, Dougal's legs hit the settee. He slowly sat down before her as he stopped to eagerly kiss her exposed chest and stomach. Then, as he fell fully onto the seat, he reached his fingers to dig beneath her heavy skirts. Imogen gasped as his head fell near her waist. He pressed kisses to the thick material, sending chills over her body in the form of worshipping caresses. Imogen ran her fingers eagerly through his hair, threading precariously into the silken strands. Her flesh drank in his heat. She had waited so long to feel him again. Dougal growled. He tugged her petticoats off of her. As the material pooled on the floor, he ran his hands over her thighs. Imogen swayed, growing weak with desire. She moaned and gasped. Dougal found her center heat, moist and ready for him. Growling in primal agony, he touched her, parting her to test her depths. Imogen bucked against his hand. "Come,” he ordered with a masculine groan. Pulling her forward, Dougal grabbed her about the waist. And after artfully arranging the thick material of her skirts, he lowered her to him. Imogen gasped at the sweltering feel of his hard length, waiting like the conquering sword of a hero. Her knees pressed into the padding of the settee, spreading as he impaled her. Roughly, he thrust. Imogen arched in delight as he filled her. Dougal's lips found the peaks of her breasts as they swayed enticingly before his face. Imogen ran her fingers through his hair, over the fine linen shirt covering his shoulders. "Ride me,” he growled against her skin. Instinctively, Imogen obeyed. She pushed herself up only to come back down on him. A rush of pleasure was awarded to her as she tried again. Urgently, Dougal commanded, “Ride me hard." Pushed by the fervor in his words and the reckless longing of her body, Imogen submitted. Grasping at the back of the settee for support, she slammed her hips against his with an angry force. All that she must face built within her, driving her forward with a mad, fervent passion. She was going to lose him. This was their moment—their one last moment together and she would take all of it. Dougal's hands could not feel enough of her as they helped to guide her hips. The sweetness of roses surrounded him. He died within the folds of her arms, lived within the heat of her center. She was life to his unyielding death. Their bodies moved in harmony until they met with heated release. Their moans joined in a song of absolution and trembling liberation. Imogen fell weakly against him, his body still joined with hers. The hotness of his breath hit her neck as she pressed her forehead against his shoulder. She didn't ever want to let go. In the aftermath of pleasure came the pain. Imogen could not say to him all that she desired. Her heart bubbled over with love, with tenderness. And as her mind deflected the sweetness of her emotions with logic, she didn't allow herself to cry. Regaining his sense, Dougal felt her thin body tremble beneath his fingers. Angling his head, he tried to study her face. Weakly, he asked, “Did I hurt you?"

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"Hurt me?” she echoed. Slowly, she shook her head. His tender concern brushed over her, more painful that any physical torment. “No, you didn't hurt me." "Then?” Dougal pulled her back. He saw the sadness in her eyes. It tore at his core. He cursed himself for his weakness. He knew he should never have made love to her. “Are you regret—" "Do not say it,” she tried to smile and failed. Pushing up, she turned to right her gown. “Never even think it." Dougal watched her back before righting his own clothes with a wave of his hand. She did not see the power in him to do so. When she turned back around, he was sitting calmly on the settee, fully dressed. Only his eyes gave away the tormented drowning of his heart. "You should go to the forest,” Dougal said, lacking the ability to say aught else. What he wanted to talk of, she would not want to hear. "Yes, the forest,” she muttered, taking a deep breath. "Imogen, you must remember what happened,” he insisted. Dougal stood, reaching to touch her face. “It could be important." "I know,” she said harshly. “I'm going." When he would speak, she held up her hand to stop him. Patting his chest lightly as she passed, she left him without a backward glance. The aftereffect of their shared passion still raged in her veins. Her legs trembled weakly, begging her to return to his arms, to forget what she must do, to beg him to choose her, to stay with her. But that was something she would never do. Margaret needed him. And he needed Margaret. It was the only way to keep them safe. **** Imogen stared gloomily at the path ahead of her. She tried to get the courage to go to the forest, but kept hesitating every time she made it within view of the tree line. Glancing up from her feet, she didn't see the vicar until he was well upon her. "Reverend Stillwell,” gasped Imogen in surprise. The elderly vicar stepped into her path. "Miss Imogen,” he acknowledged. “You look lost." "Just my soul,” she muttered. "Miss?" "Nothing.” Imogen tried in vain to smile at the vicar. “What are you doing here? Have you come for a visit?" "I came to see Mr. Weston,” said the vicar. "You mean the Marquis of Rothfield?" "Yes, yes. Quite right,” murmured the man with a humorless chuckle.

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"He's inside. The library I believe. If the servants give you trouble at the front door, inform them I told you to attend me there.” Imogen glanced off into the distance, growing sick to her stomach at the very sight of trees. The closer she walked to them, the stranger she felt. This was the perfect excuse to not face whatever it was in the forest. “Mayhap, I should take you." The vicar nodded, seeing her agony as she looked at the tree line. "There is something I should discuss with you, being as we are the same,” said Imogen. She turned to make the trek back to the house. Inside, her mind screamed at her for being a coward. "The same?” he asked, curious. "Yes, being as we both met with accidents and can now see ghosts,” she explained. "Ah, yes,” murmured the vicar thoughtfully. “What is it you need to discuss?" "I need your help.” She wrinkled her nose as they neared the house. Looking at the sky and then the garden, she motioned her hand to the latter. With a sad smile, she inquired, “Do you mind?" "No, not at all,” said the vicar. Imogen changed course for the garden paths. Bluntly, she said, “I am meant to join Dougal with his daughter. I can see them both. And the knight on the horse I told you of is protecting Margaret." Imogen quickly explained to the man what the knight had told her of his brother, before adding, “So tonight I want you to bring Dougal here to the garden. I will get his daughter. Together we will make them see each other." "But they have never seen each other before and surely they have crossed paths." "It is possible,” admitted Imogen. “But we must try. It is a place to start." "All right,” agreed the reverend. They quickly decided the best route to go about their mission. When the last detail was in place, the vicar declared that they should tell Dougal at once. Imogen agreed, casting a guilty glance over her shoulder to the waiting forest. What harm is there in putting it off another hour or so?she told herself. As they made their way up the front steps, the reverend stated, “You say little about what is between you and the Marquis, yet when you say his name your face becomes saddened." "You are too perceptive,” muttered Imogen. "A hazard of the profession, I'm afraid,” he stated. “Do you love him?" "I cannot love him,” she denied wearily. “He would never be free to leave here if I held him back. If he doesn't leave, he and Margaret will be killed. I lose him either way. Only one of the ways I can live with, albeit barely." "Not necessarily,” said the vicar.

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"I will not risk it. If it was my life and soul I risked then I would fight. But I cannot do harm to theirs. I cannot hold on to him.” Imogen bit back a sob. She thought of the rough tenderness of Dougal's touch. She would never know another like him—dead or alive. "You would sacrifice your love for his soul?” questioned the vicar in quiet thought. "Yes,” she replied without thinking. Then sniffing, she swiped a hand across her nose. “I do not want to speak on it. If I think, I will lose my nerve. Promise me you will say nothing to him. He believes that we are only friends. I told him I don't love him." "Did you convince him?” inquired the vicar, hoping that the Marquis could see through her bad faÇade of calm as easily as he could. "Yes,” answered Imogen with certainty. “When it is time, he will be ready to go. And we must let him. It is why you must be the one to get him to the garden. I will not allow myself to rethink my decision. If I am alone with him, I might not be able to complete my task." "Yes, Miss Imogen. I will do as you ask." **** "You didn't go to the forest?” demanded the Marquis incredulously. He turned his frustrated glare on the vicar. “How could you keep her from going? She must remember." "I'm right here,” muttered Imogen resentfully. “I will go later—tomorrow. Right now, we have to find a way to reunite you with your daughter. I've told the good vicar here what has happened...." Dougal raised a brow, glancing mischievously at the settee. Imogen colored. The vicar looked on in wonderment. "...and he has agreed to help us,” finished Imogen with a tight jaw. When Dougal didn't immediately lose his smile, she uttered vengefully, “You are interested in seeing your daughter, are you not. my lord? Or should I tell her to not to expect you?" Dougal stiffened. “Yes, Miss Imogen. I am most interested in seeing my daughter again." "Then it is settled,” declared Imogen. She hid her eyes under the veil of her lashes. “At dusk, just as soon as the mist rises, I will go look for Sir Josiah and Margaret. You and the vicar will await my word." Dougal nodded once, refusing to look at her. Imogen swallowed, seeing him from the corner of her eye. The vicar put forth his instructions, knowing the couple didn't really listen. Imogen and Dougal nodded dutifully just the same. The plan was agreed between them. The vicar took his leave, wanting to review his books for a clue as how to make father and daughter known to the other. Dougal refused to look at Imogen, the sting of her words like a slap across his face. Of course, he wanted to see his daughter. Margaret was his reason for being. And Imogen quietly ducked out of the library, retreating to her room to cry alone in her misery.

Chapter Twelve

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Imogen tugged her stole around her shoulders. She watched the mist from the front door, wishing that it were already morning and her task was complete. She had not seen Jane. No doubt her sister spent the day attending her friends in the country. Imogen thought it better if Jane did not seek her out. She did not know where she would even begin to explain her actions. "Imogen.” Dougal said, coming up next to her. He glanced over his shoulder at the cloaked vicar. The man held a book of prayers to his chest. Leaning over, he whispered into Imogen's ear, “Let me come with you." "No,” she murmured. “I might not be able to find her if you are with me." At her immovable look, he nodded. “Take care. If you see the demon knight, run back here." "I will.” She managed a small, downhearted smile, turning back to glance at the vicar. In a louder voice, she said, “The sun has been set for awhile. I will go and see whom I can find. Wait here on the steps. I will send for you somehow." "Yes, child,” the vicar murmured with a grave nod. He looked about the outside with a shiver running over his skin. He did not like her going out on her own either, not now that they knew of the evil that was out there looking for souls to feed upon. Imogen took a step, listening to the front door closing softly behind her. Suddenly, she paused. Dougal watched her back curiously. He was about to speak, when she continued on her way. Imogen walked down the familiar path, hating the taking of each step. As her agitation mounted, her steps became faster until she strode into the gardens. Looking around, she abruptly stopped. "Josiah?” she called out softly. With wavering steps, she walked deeper into the mist. Her feet passed by the buds of summer flowers. Lightly, she touched a shrub, tracing the pointed lines of its top as she moved by. “Margaret?" She received no answer. The fog coated the pathway like the unsettling of dirt. Imogen shivered despite the warm night. She hugged the stole to her chest. "Margaret,” she called a bit louder, stopping. “Won't you come and play with me?” She cocked her head to the side to listen and heard the soft pattering of little feet running across dirt. Encouraged by the sound, she tried again. This time, she began to hum the tune the child was fond of. After singing a few bars, she stopped and listened. Following a moment of silence, Margaret's sweet voice rang out, finishing the tune. Imogen smiled. Looking out into the fog from whence the sound came, she whispered, “Margaret, come and see me. I want to talk to you." "You said you wanted to play,” the child said in a pouting voice from behind her. Imogen jolted with a start. Twirling around, she saw Margaret. Her little arms were folded defiantly over her small, heaving chest. Her rosebud lips curled down in a pout. Her cheeks were stained red as if she had run a great distance to get to where she was. "I want to play. I never have anyone to play with me."

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"We will play, darling, but first we must talk,” murmured Imogen. The girl smiled at the endearment. Her blonde ringlets sparkled with silvery threads as she moved forward, pacified by the promise. "Very well.” She threaded her hand into Imogen's, smiling up at her. They began to walk the paths—Margaret skipping more that walking. The girl kicked absently at the mist, twirling it with her feet, commanding it with years of practice to dance in various directions. Imogen followed the child's lead dutifully. When Imogen didn't readily speak, Margaret asked, “Are you to be my new mother?" Imogen hesitated. How could the girl know the secret desire of her heart so readily? She shook off her surprise at the question before saying, “No, I'm not. But I do wish to speak to you about your parents." "Yes?” asked Margaret. She let go of Imogen's arm. Falling to the ground she leaned her face close to the earth. Lightly, she petted the petals of a flower before leaning over to sniff it. Leaving the bud intact, she stood back up. "Namely, your father,” Imogen added. Margaret stiffened. She tilted her head, but said nothing. "Do you remember your father?” asked Imogen. Margaret nodded. Imogen knelt on the ground, lightly touching the girl's arms. “He misses you a great deal. He wants to see you." The girl swallowed nervously. Still she did not move. "Would you like to see him?” inquired Imogen. Slowly, the girl nodded. Weakly, she whispered, “Is he angry with me for the fire?" "No, no,” Imogen reassured her, smoothing the girl's hair when she saw the child's eyes were wide and frightened. “He knows it is not your fault. He never was angry with you. He misses you. He has been looking for you for a long time." "You've talked to him?” she whispered in surprise.. "Yes,” Imogen said, glad to see the child wasn't running away from her. “And I think I was sent to help you find him. Would you like that?" "Very much,” Margaret said with a little nod. "Good. Now I cannot promise you will see him right away. But I will not give up until you do.” Imogen stood. She took Margaret's hand in hers and began to lead her to the house. "What will happen?” asked Margaret tentatively. She gazed trustingly up at Imogen. Imogen saw a change come over the childlike features, as if they matured beyond her round-cheeked years. She swallowed, not wanting to think about it. But, she had to answer the girl. "Hopefully, you will both move on to a better place,” stated Imogen. "Like heaven?” questioned the girl.

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"Yes, heaven,” said Imogen. “I bet your real mother is waiting there for you." "No,” returned the child, matter-of-factly. “She won't be." "Well, still. You must want to go to heaven,” Imogen said. “I hear that it is a beautiful place." "I suppose I must,” muttered the child. "What is it? Are you frightened?” asked Imogen. "Not really,” said Margaret. “It is just that I never got to live. I have been stuck all these years as a child. I don't feel like a child anymore. Well, sometimes I do. But, mostly, I don't. Do you think I will have to remain a child in heaven?" "I couldn't say,” Imogen whispered helplessly. "Are you like an angel? Could you make me real again?” inquired Margaret with a hopeful smile. "No, I cannot.” Imogen swallowed. "That is what Josiah said,” muttered Margaret. Her sorrowful green eyes lost some of their shine. “There is so much I want to do yet." "Like what?" "I want to grow up and go to a ball. I want to wear a big beautiful gown covered in jewels and silks. I want to be asked to dance. I want to play the piano again and sing for an audience. I want to ... to have a...." "What?” asked Imogen. Her heart went out to the girl. All the things she had taken for granted, this child had never gotten the chance to do. All Margaret had been able to do, was to spend the last half of a century dreaming about them. "I want a gentleman to call on me. Not now,” stated Margaret with a look of disgust down at her body, “but when I look as old as I feel to be. And I want a wedding—a big wedding here in the garden with lots of cake and white doves." "I think that would have been a fine thing to have,” murmured Imogen. "There is so much,” whispered the child. Sadly, she shook her head. “Plays, operas, traveling. I have had many years to think about it. It just isn't fair. Why did that man have to come to my room?" Imogen hesitated. She remembered too well the girl's burnt flesh. Margaret saw her expression and smiled. "It is all right,” the girl said in easy acceptance. “Sir Josiah has told me all about it." Imogen continued with the girl to the house. "Oh!” Margaret gasped suddenly. “I will get to say goodbye to Josiah, won't I?"

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"Ah, sure,” muttered Imogen. She had not thought of it. “Where is he?" "In the garden,” answered the girl. She pulled her arm away and began to run. “I will fetch him." "Margaret, wait!” Imogen cried, rushing after the swift child. "I will meet you by the stone bench!” the girl cried before disappearing into the mist. Imogen stopped, turning around. She made her way to the front of the house. Dougal, upon seeing her, rushed forward. His eyes scanned anxiously all around her for his daughter. Not seeing her, he murmured, “Where?" "She is not here,” answered Imogen. Dougal's face fell in disappointment and she quickly added, “I will take you to meet her. She has gone off to find Sir Josiah." "Is she,” began Dougal, unable to finish. His voice trailed off into a tortured gasp. "She is fine,” whispered Imogen. Seeing the raw emotion on Dougal's face, she knew she was doing the right thing. Unable to help herself, she threaded her arm into his and began to lead him forward. Dougal looked down hesitantly. She felt his arm tremble. Patting it lightly, she turned to motion to the vicar to follow. The man silently acknowledged her and kept several paces behind. "Imogen....” Dougal began. His gray-green eyes studied her carefully. The silver moonlight reflected off his dark hair. The queue in back pulled the locks neatly from his handsome face. She refrained from lifting her fingers to touch his cheek, able to see the dimple forming in her mind's eye. "You don't have to say it,” she whispered. “I already know." "What?” he questioned. “What do you know?" "You wish to thank me for helping you,” she whispered. She looked away, torn between the need to memorize his every line and wanting to escape the pain looking at him caused her heart. No matter what, she knew the image of him was burned into her soul. "There is more,” he whispered, “that I would say to you." "There is no need,” she returned quietly. “We are friends. There is no ill will between us. And I am glad that I can help you with this. I only hope that it works." "Yes, friends,” he murmured. The words felt bitter to his throat. It seemed hardly an adequate word to describe what he felt. “Whatever happens, I know that you tried. And for that I do thank you." "Mayhap someday, many years from now I will see you again. Only, you must remember me young for then I will be an old woman and you might not recognize me." "It would ... will not matter,” he choked out. His hope of finding Margaret was overshadowed by the thought of losing Imogen. "Then I expect to see you the second I get to heaven,” she quipped. The command of her tone hid the pain she felt.

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"It is a promise,” he returned. “I will throw a grand ball for you and we will dance over the clouds. It will be the angelic event of the century." Imogen laughed. It was a nice dream—one she could spend a lifetime picturing. Truthfully, she knew she would probably never see him again, not even after death. For who knew what was to come for any of them? With a tremor, Imogen realized they were nearing the stone bench. She could not see Margaret. Letting go of Dougal's arm, she motioned him forward. “We are to meet them here." "Do you see her?” asked the vicar, coming forward to join the couple. "Not yet,” returned Imogen. She tried to smile. It was a weak attempt. Turning to gaze down the path, she squinted. “No wait. I think I see her coming." Imogen watched as Margaret came forward. Behind her, she dragged Josiah by the hand. The knight nodded his head in greeting but said nothing. His pale features were drawn and tight. Dougal stared at Imogen's face. Following her eyes, he scanned the distance. He saw nothing. Glancing at the reverend, he shot him a questioning frown. The vicar looked, shook his head and waved his hand in confusion. The good vicar also saw nothing. "Is she there?” asked Dougal. Imogen glanced over at him in surprise. “You can't see her?" "What?” asked Margaret, coming to stand in front of Imogen. She let go of Josiah to place her hands on her hips. “Did he not wish to come?" "No,” began Imogen. "It wasn't her then?” inquired Dougal. His voice was sharp out of helplessness. "Yes,” tried Imogen glancing back at him. "Then he didn't wish to see me,” gasped Margaret, instantly coming to tears. She looked in horror at Josiah. “I told you he was still angry with me for the fire." "Nay,” began Josiah. He lifted a hand to comfort her. He shot a disconcerted frown at Imogen. “The fire was not your doing." Holding up her hands, Imogen commanded loudly, “Wait. Everyone just wait." All eyes turned to her. Margaret sniffled, wiping her eyes. "Don't cry Margaret,” began Imogen. Josiah and Dougal began talking at once. "What is happening, m'lady?” inquired Josiah. "What is wrong?” Dougal demanded. Loudly, he called out, “Margaret! Margaret!"

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"Quiet,” Imogen snapped. “I cannot think with all of you talking." The men instantly quieted. Imogen took a deep breath. Turning to the vicar, she said, “Can you at least see them?" "No,” he shook his head. “I only see us three." "Everyone is here,” sighed Imogen. Gesturing as she spoke, she said, “Margaret and Sir Josiah, Father Stillwell and the Marquis." Imogen reached out to Margaret. The girl took her hand. Turning to Dougal, she lifted his hand in her other palm. Bring her hands together, she asked, “Can you feel that? Your hands are touching." "Is this a game?” asked Margaret. "No, Margaret, this is not a game,” answered Imogen. Dougal couldn't help himself as he started to chuckle in faint hope. He tried to cover his short laugh. Imogen again questioned, “Can you feel each other? Both shook their heads in denial. Dougal's eyes bore forward, willing his daughter to appear, but he felt nothing, saw nothing. "Reverend?” asked Imogen helplessly. She looked at her hands, trying to force the two of them together. Though they were solid to her touch, they fell through each other like air. Turning to Josiah, she asked, “What do we do?" He peered at her hands. Shaking his head, he frowned. And then, before she could speak, she heard the vicar began to chant behind her. She couldn't understand the Latin words he read aloud from his book. Keeping quiet, she glanced from Dougal to his daughter. A soft glow came to their features. Imogen glancing at one and then the other. Dougal saw a form waver before him. Its small body became outlined as if by a million little stars glowing like the sun. The radiance of it grew around him. Imogen's hands fell away. He kept his out stretched. He felt flesh form in his palm, molding into fingers. Swallowing, he watched, as green eyes appeared where there was nothing. The vicar's words continued, fading softly against the blood rushing in his ears. Seeing the yellow gown he had bought in Paris, he fell to his knees. "Margaret,” he whispered, not daring to release her hand. He needed to touch her, to confirm to his eyes that she was real. The girl was not so quick to know him. She blinked heavily, confused by what she saw. Then, hearing her name, she threw herself into his arms and began to cry. Dougal pressed her to his chest, his eyes shining gratefully at Imogen. Imogen stumbled back, waiting for them to disappear. Her lungs heaved, her heart pounded in a terrible rhythm. Soon it would be over, she told herself. She felt the vicar take her arm, his words completed in a stuttering finish. A moment passed and then another. Dougal and Margaret stayed before her. Shaking her head, she did

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not take her eyes away as she whispered to the vicar, “Why aren't they going? What is wrong?" "I don't know,” muttered the vicar in distraction, turning to his book. He began to leaf through it. Dougal stood after whispering several declarations of love to his daughter. Margaret smiled, returning his sentiments. His hand in Margaret's, he looked around. Seeing the tall man towering over them, he hesitated. "Father,” said Margaret happily. She jumped in excitement. “Can you see him now? This is Josiah." "Sir Josiah,” acknowledged Dougal, holding his hand out to the knight. Josiah took the offered hand in his to return the acknowledgment. “Thank you for looking after my daughter. I am eternally in your debt." Imogen didn't hear Josiah's response. Turning around to the vicar, she placed her hand on his book to get his attention. Lowly, she hissed, “What happened? Why are they still here?" "I don't understand it. I was so sure this would be all.” The reverend scratched his head. Closing the book, he lowered it to his side. “Maybe they were meant to avenge their deaths. Though, it does not make much sense. Usually—" "No, they have to go,” insisted Imogen. She couldn't stand for her suffering to be drawn out any longer. Rushing to Dougal and his daughter, she caught his smile as he moved around to face her. "Can we all play now?” Margaret asked, beaming. “All of us?" Imogen ignored the girl. Staring Dougal in the eyes, she asked, “Why are you still here?" "I don't know,” he murmured. His eyes softened as they took in her finely arched features. It was a lie. He did know. He was there to be with her. He hugged his daughter to his waist. "Dougal,” Imogen gasped in warning. “You must leave. Take her out of here. Go!" "Don't you want us here?” asked Margaret. Imogen tried to control her shaking. Seeing she was frightening the child, she whispered, “Yes, but—" "Mayhap this is heaven,” said Margaret innocently. “I almost feel as if I am in heaven." Dougal's gaze hardened. A frown lined his features as he watched Imogen carefully. He would have thought she would be happy to have him stay. "Dougal,” she pleaded. Coming up to him, she glimpsed Margaret before whispering, “You must go, Dougal. Your work here is finished." "I cannot,” he murmured. He saw the torture of his soul mirrored in her gaze. His eyes softened. A smile spread over his features. The whole of his heart came unbidden to his eyes, shining brightly for all to see. "There is nothing to keep you here,” Imogen insisted. Josiah bowed behind them, turning to leave. Margaret let go of her father, running to the man to give him a big hug. They could hear her begging him to stay with them. Dougal glanced after her to make sure she

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was all right. He didn't want to let her go, but he didn't want the child hearing his conversation with Imogen. "There is you keeping me here,” he whispered. "No, don't say such things. You mustn't think them.” Imogen felt his body lean into her. She felt his arms stir as if to hold her. She pulled back. “Save yourself. Save your daughter. You are done here." "Mayhap I am meant to help you,” he murmured quietly. "I don't need your help. You must go. We will deal with what must be done here,” she pleaded. “Josiah and I and the reverend will take care of it all. Your duty is to protect Margaret. Please, you must let go of this world." "I cannot leave,” he whispered. He lifted his hand, cupping her cheek in his palm. “I'm in love with you." "No, you're not. You are grateful to me,” hissed Imogen. She wanted to cry out with the pleasure of his admission, but in truth he was only making it harder on her. Closing her eyes, she muttered, “I don't love you. I love Edward. We will be married. So you see there is nothing for you at Rothfield Park." "No, you're not in love with him!” he growled in return. “You cannot be." "Go on,” she ordered weakly. Her body was quickly losing the fight. “Take Margaret and leave me be. I wish for my life to get back to normal." "I'm not leaving,” he mumbled. His handsome face twitched up at the corner. Imogen was almost trapped by the look in his eyes. Only Margaret's interruption pulled her back to her senses. "We don't have to go, do we?” asked Margaret shyly. “I don't want to go." "No, we aren't leaving,” stated Dougal, never taking his eyes from Imogen. Her face paled dramatically. Her lips worked in protest, but his solid look stopped her from speaking. She might be denying her feelings, but his affections must be founded if he was still standing before her. He felt the pull of something greater the instant he held Margaret. And though his head told him to go, to protect her, his heart had chosen otherwise. And so they stayed. Finally glancing down at his daughter as she pulled on his hand, he said, “I wish to stay here also. There is much we need to do." "Can we go inside now?” inquired Margaret happily. She beamed up at Imogen. Imogen stood helpless against their good humor. She looked from father to daughter and then back again. In light of both their faces, she knew she would never win. Dougal's smile widened. Looking Imogen directly in the eyes, he answered, “Yes, we most certainly can go inside. It is our home." And without another word to Imogen, he turned. Swinging his daughter easily into his arms, he carried her joyfully towards the house. "Will she be my new mother then?” Imogen heard Margaret ask her father. The child certainly had a one-track mind. Margaret's happy laughter rang over the yard. Although Imogen's ears strained, she could not hear Dougal's reply. She held still, watching silently until

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they disappeared. Looking around, she saw the vicar was gone. She turned her head to Josiah and sighed wearily. "'Twas a good thing you did this eve, m'lady,” murmured Josiah. “A very good thing, indeed." "What now?” she asked. “They are still here. Your brother still looks for them." Josiah shook his head. “I know naught, m'lady. Methought it would work to bring them together. But, mayhap, their work is not done." "Vengeance,” determined Imogen darkly. “It must be that they seek vengeance. It is the only reasonable answer." "Perchance,” muttered Josiah carefully. When Imogen frowned suspiciously at him, he regally bowed before fading into the night, leaving her to wonder at his ominous mood.

Chapter Thirteen The night passed too quickly, but with more happiness and joy than either Dougal or Margaret could have imagined. They did not rest. Their bodies did not need to. Margaret chattered incessantly about all she had seen—only frowning when she told her father of her death, but the dark mood did not last long as she again turned to happier things. Dougal was amazed at the changes in his daughter. The years had not aged her sweet, innocent face, but they had wizened her mind beyond her years. Except for the occasional wish for her mother, she did not seem to be the girl he had lost. Dougal noticed that many of her tales concerned Sir Josiah. And, although he knew he owed the man much for rescuing and caring for his daughter, the Marquis could not help the jealousy that seethed every time Margaret mentioned her hero. Worse than the jealousy was the self-loathing knowledge that it should have been he who had saved and protected her all those years. Imogen stayed away, going to bed although she was not tired. Her mind raced, trying to find ways to make Dougal and Margaret understand that they must leave. All the time, she knew that they would not listen to her. No, the only way was to make Dougal understand that he mustn't wait for her. She was living, he was dead and there was no hope of it being otherwise. She would not kill herself to join him. Suicide was not an option, for if she committed that gravest of sins her soul would be lost forever. And, if the demon knight did not consume his soul, she would not have him wait until she was an old woman. It would be torture to look at his eternally youthful face and see her reflection wrinkling and decaying next to it. She could not bear to see his admiration fade with her beauty. As the morning dawned, Imogen was still awake. Wearily, she pulled herself from the bed, dragging her feet as she dressed slowly. Absently, she chose an empire waist gown of light blue linen with a dark sash and a matching stole of cream lace. Her hair took more time, the dark locks not readily obeying the will of her fingers. Finally, she managed to get the unruly tresses into a suitable coiffure adorned with a silver clip her sister had given her. Only when she felt she portrayed the very model of untouchable feminine perfection did she deem herself ready to see Dougal.

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She found him easily in the library. Margaret was no longer with him. As she opened the door, he smiled happily at her before turning to look out the window. Imogen came up beside him, placing her arm naturally next to his as she leaned on the windowsill to look out into the garden. Margaret was picking flowers, stopping to wave at her father to make sure he was watching her. "She appears well,” murmured Imogen. Realizing she was close to Dougal, she leaned away to put distance between them. "Yes,” he agreed, keeping an eye on the child who was no longer a child. Glancing sidelong at Imogen, Dougal swallowed nervously. He could feel the tension between them. Imogen felt his steady gaze. Her mouth became dry. Shyly, she murmured, “I think you should go." Dougal didn't answer her at first. She trembled under his gaze. It felt so right with her next to him, watching his daughter playing in the yard. He refused to let go of his feelings. Sighing, he told her flatly, “No." "Do not stay out of misguided gratitude or duty,” she whispered. “You owe me nothing. I expect nothing." "How can you say that after what I did to you?” he asked. "You did nothing,” she began. "I took your...” Dougal paused, frowning, only to finish weakly, “your maidenhead.”But I wanted your heart, he added silently. "Yes, you did,” Imogen said. Stepping away, she added, “But I gave it to you freely. The loss of it is my own doing, my lord." "My lord,” he growled bitterly under his breath. "What?” she gasped, turning to face him. "Then if you care nothing for you reputation—” Dougal stopped, realizing how ridiculous he was being. Things like reputation didn't pertain here. Imogen realized it too. “What would you do to redeem mine? Marry me?" His gaze narrowed at the biting tone of her voice. She watched him skeptically. "Dougal, I am fine. Aside from your sense of honor—” began Imogen. Dougal's scowl of anger stopped her. She never remembered seeing him so enraged. She saw all of the honor and pride in his expression, all helpless next to his death. She saw the good breeding of his life, the dignity and nobility he still carried. He took a deep breath before trusting himself to speak. "Yes,” he spat, “I have honor. I may be dead, but I have honor. It is one of the few things I still possess in this world. Do not scoff at it." "I—"

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"What is stopping you from admitting you care for me?” he interrupted. "Edward—" "No! Do not say you love Edward. We both know it is a lie. Edward married your sister. He is just an excuse to hide your feelings behind!” seethed Dougal. His fingers curled. He did not trust himself to touch her. Imogen froze in mortification. It had never occurred to her that he would know. "So I ask again. What is keeping you from caring for me?” snarled Dougal. He began to stalk her, coming around the desk as she backed away. "I am alive,” she whimpered, frightened by his dangerous face. This man before her was not what she was used to. Never had Dougal acted so forcefully enraged. She could see it in his eyes, feel it jumping off his skin like sparks of fire. His body was tense, inches away from pouncing upon her. His hands worked as if eager to test her throat if she lied. So, honestly, she finished, “...And you are not. What other reason is there?" "And yet here we are,” he muttered. "Would you have me declared insane when I am discovered speaking with you? Would you have me kill myself to be with you?” she demanded. The torment of her world poured out of her expression. Weakly, she lifted her hand to him. She wanted him. She couldn't deny it, couldn't hide her feelings. "No,” he whispered softly. “I would never ask it." "You were married once,” she said, desperate to change the subject. She was digressing from her purpose. He was not supposed to convince her that he should stay. She was to get him to leave. “Don't you want to join her? Do you not think of your wife?" "Marianna is not my wife. The vows I swore ended with death,” he grimaced. "And what of love? Does it end with death?” she asked. "You surely know that marriage and love rarely have aught to do with each other. My marriage was arranged. I met with her for the first time a week before the vows were spoken. She was a terrible mother, an unfaithful wife and an untrustworthy friend. She was vulgar and vain. There is nothing I miss about that woman. Margaret was the only thing of worth that came from her and leaving us was her only kind act." "Oh,” Imogen muttered weakly. His wife had been one of her best defenses and he easily pushed it aside. “Why are we even discussing this? You have completed that which you were meant to do. You found Margaret. You found your daughter. And now it is time for you to move on. You have to go. If you stay here you will be killed again. The knight is after you. Don't you understand?” she pleaded. As his face softened before her passionate speech, she dared to venture forward. Laying a hand on his taut cheek, she said, “Don't you realize you have to go on?" "I won't leave you to face him alone. I am not a coward,” he returned stiffly, jerking back from the softness of her touch.

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"I know you are not. It has taken bravery to be as you have—alone for so long,” insisted Imogen. She let her hand fall from him to her side, but she did not back away. "One does what one must,” he murmured in return. “Do not ask me to be a coward." "It is not cowardice, but prudence that I ask of you,” she said beseechingly. “What of your duty to Margaret?" "Margaret is now a grown woman,” Dougal said thickly, the words sounding strange and shaking in his ears. Imogen's brow furrowed in doubt, so he explained, “She is still my daughter, but not as I knew her. I have truly lost my little girl and have gained a young woman. The years have passed knowledge to her. She knows what is out there. It was also her decision to stay and it is her decision that I must also respect. Out of anyone, her life was cut the shortest. She has lost the most." But, how do you—?” Imogen voice trailed off weakly and Dougal quickly took the opportunity of her hesitance. "Have you been to the forest?” he asked pointedly, already knowing she had not. At Imogen's start of surprise, Dougal nodded. “I thought not. I will make you a deal, Imogen. If you go now, right now, straightway to the forest and try to remember what has happened to you—" "But—" "No, listen.” Dougal lowered his face close to hers. As he spoke, his words brushed in whispers across her cheek to her neck. Imogen shivered. In a low tone, he continued as if she hadn't stopped him. “If you go, I will leave if you ask me to. But you must try to remember what happened to you." "It may be nothing,” she protested, not wanting to admit she was scared. Her gaze dropped to his mouth. She could feel her body weakening to him. She could feel the pulse in her throat quicken. Her knees became like water, urging her body to spill forth onto him. Swaying, she looked away. “I don't see why you all fuss about the forest." "It may very well be nothing,” he admitted. His lips brushed the side of her cheek in a soft caress. Imogen's head snapped back around. Despite what he said, she could see in his eyes that he knew. Bringing his lips to hers, he whispered, “Something happened to you. You must discover what it was." "You know, don't you?” she said in amazement. She jerked her head back when he would have kissed her. Dougal grimaced in disappointment. “You know what I saw that day. You know why I have forgotten it. Tell me." "No,” he said sharply. He was not happy in having his kiss denied. His lips burned with the need. "But you know what happened,” she declared. “Tell me." "You must see for yourself." "Are you trying to hurt me?” she inquired in growing apprehension. “Am I to be punished?" "How can you even ask that?” he snapped. His fingers pushed through his hair in frustration. He was about to grab her and drag her out to the forest. Seeing her mounting fear, he quieted his voice to a

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whisper, “No. I do not send you to get hurt, merely to remember what you have forgotten." Imogen believed him. “All right,” she said at length. “I will go. But as soon as I tell you what happened to me, you have to leave Rothfield Park. Forever." "If you ask me to go from you, then I will go,” he acknowledged, shielding his expression under a hard mask. Imogen studied him for a moment. Her heart broke looking at him. She didn't want him to go. She thought that it would get easier for her as she grew used to the idea. It wasn't. It was harder. "And no protesting,” she quipped. Imogen pointed a finger of warning in his direction before turning to the door. Dougal smiled sheepishly. "I will do my best,” he allowed in reluctance with a mockingly polite bow, “but I could never promise that." Imogen eyed him warily before bowing her head slightly in return. She turned to leave. His hand on her arm stopped her. "Oh, and Imogen...” he began. "Wha—” Imogen gasped. Dougal swung her around on her heels to face him. Instantly, his lips sought her mouth in a tenderly passionate kiss. His hands found hold on her jaw, the fingers spilling roughly over her neck and ears. Imogen moaned, her hands crawling unbidden to his neck to explore. Dougal pulled her head brusquely away. She gasped in protest, her hands forced into the clothes on his chest. Her fingers centered over the beat of his heart. When he was with her he felt so real and Imogen could almost forget. She could see the passion in his eyes, the longing he did not try to hide from her. "Now, go,” he muttered hoarsely. Imogen couldn't even nod to acknowledge his husky words as he let her go. He backed away from her, turning stiffly to the window to look at Margaret. Imogen studied the line of his proud back, the tilt of his head. How could she have ever mistaken him for a tutor? Turning on shaking legs, she left him in the library. Dougal sighed as he heard the door close behind him. Margaret had moved on to skipping the garden paths. He didn't want her out of his sight for too long. He couldn't endure losing her again. But, just as he knew he would protect her, he knew she was a young woman who knew the garden paths and the night mist better than he. She did not need his protection, no matter how reverently he would give it to her. Dougal wearily dropped his head to the glass, leaning to look out over the distance. He could not see Imogen, but knew she finally went. He hoped he was doing the right thing in making her go. He knew it was something she needed to face. All of their futures depended on it. **** Margaret made her way happily over the garden paths. She smiled with dreamlike abandonment as she again looked up at the window. Giving her father a jaunty wave, she skipped around a shrub out of his view. Skidding to a stop, her smile faltered. A change came over her features, the innocence of play fading from her eyes to be replaced by wisdom.

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"Josiah,” she whispered tragically. Her bright eyes watched him in somber disquiet. “I am so glad you have come back." "Yea, child, I told you I would never leave you,” he whispered. A cheerless smile fanned over his features. His dark eyes were sad as he watched her. “How fares your father?" "He is well,” she acknowledged. Margaret saw a pain flicker over him. She had noticed the sadness in him over the years as he watched her play. But recently, his sorrow had become more intense and more frequent. Crossing over to him, she lifted her hand up to him. Josiah sank to his knees. Margaret's fingers went to his cheek. Her small hand barely covered the side of his jaw as she patted him lightly. Sighing, she whispered, “I am nearly fifty-nine years of age and I would that I looked a mere twenty." Josiah studied her childish face with features rounded in girlhood. But her eyes held more knowledge than the lines of her complexion should have allowed. She was right. She was an old woman trapped within the spirit of a child. Only sometimes did the child she had been emerge to take over her spirit, forcing her to laugh and run. It was the only time the girl found any peace. At other times, she would cry—wretched tears of frustration at being thusly ensnared. He had once caught her trying to tear out her gentle locks and mar her beautiful face to no avail. Josiah patted her hand in a loving caress. If he closed his eyes and listened to her wizened voice, he could imagine her older. However, he knew she was a child and the image he carried could never be. Opening his eyes, he managed a smile for her. But he did not kiss her, he never kissed her—not since the day he had found her spirit wandering the garden alone and scared. Then she had been a girl and he had kissed her forehead in comfort. Margaret breathed slowly before nodding in understanding. They never spoke of what they felt. For in a small part of them, they knew it wasn't right—that it wasn't meant to be. She dropped her hand, stepping away from him. Over the long and twisted years they had been companions. They knew each other, understood each other. They discussed books, read plays, and sang songs—old ballads he remembered from his youth. When they were together, alone and buried from the world, they were happy. But then the happiness would fade to be replaced by Margaret's frustrated tears and Josiah would let her go—bidding her to run and play in the garden, to forget her torment for awhile even if he could not. "Why hast thou not moved on?” he asked at last. "I couldn't,” she whispered. Tears filled her eyes. She turned away from him. Pressing her small childlike hands to her chest she seethed in anger. She hated her hands, hated her body. She hated being caged in a prison of innocence and undeveloped features. If she could rip her limbs from her body, she would have. “I couldn't leave you to face—" "Nay,” he commanded harshly with a slash of his hand. “Do not even think it!" "Josiah,” she pleaded softly. “Please—" "Nay, m'lady,” he began only to stop and clutch his chest. The gaping hole over his heart began to open and seep. Josiah fell to his knees. Margaret froze in terror. Her lips worked as if she would speak. No sound escaped her. Shaking, she went to him. She tried to run her fingers into his hair. He pushed her back. Through blue lips he ordered her hoarsely, “Run!"

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"I won't leave you,” she denied in agitation. "He is coming,” gasped Josiah. Falling onto his back, he writhed in agony. His body thrashed violently upon the dirt. His muscles strained with each striking blow his body dealt itself. In a wheezing groan, he uttered, “Margaret." Margaret still could not run. She watched in helpless tears as the man she loved folded in on himself. She could see the death coming to his pallid features. The fine mist invaded the daylight, curling like a smoking fire. Drawing near him, she grabbed his hand tightly. Through her tears, she whispered, “I will never leave you." "Go!” Josiah agonized over the bittersweet joy of her words. He drank in her comfort, but could not endure losing her to save himself. His dark eyes filled with pain, looking past her head. Feebly, he gasped, “Margaret ... ‘tis too late. He is here." **** Imogen paused, taking a deep breath as she faced the line of trees. Leaning over, she patted her mare's tan coat. She rode bareback. It was the way she preferred, and if she ever were to have an accident, it would be on one of her wild rides of anger. The mare became skittish. It pawed the ground as she slowly led it into the trees. The animal's head nodded in agitation, pulling against its reins. Imogen did not let the beast turn back. Nudging it in the side, she forced the horse slowly forward. As she crossed over the threshold leading to the stream a fine mist showered down from the sky like falling snow, coming over her like a blanket, making the pathway instantly fogged. Imogen swung her arm before her, trying to clear the air and see where the mare instinctively led her. Without warning the horse sped up. Imogen pulled frantically on the reins. The mare ran faster, its hooves pounding a hectic rhythm on the ground. Her heartbeat sped to thunder in her ears, the only sound in the deafening mist. She had wanted to take the journey steady and slow. The mare did not let her. Falling forward, she lost the thin straps of leather and was forced to grab the animal's mane to keep from tumbling off the horse's back. Suddenly, the horse's hooves skidded to a nervous stop. Before her eyes the mist grew. It expanded and thickened until she could not see the trees in front of her. The pathway disappeared, claiming her feet with it. Imogen felt as if she was possessed. Her body acted on instinct, pulled through frantic motions like a puppet. Her eyes rounded in terror. Her head snapped to one side and then another, slapped by a will outside her mind. The trees faded completely. The water grew louder until she could not tell from which direction it came. She was lost and she could not move on her own. The palfrey turned around as she led it with possessed hands. It was urged to move forward by an unseen force. At first the mare resisted, pawing the ground. However, the urge to run became strong and the mare took off. Imogen grabbed its mane tightly. Suddenly, her possession lifted and she could again control her arms. She lay down close to the horse's tan back, willing it to sprint home. She changed her mind. She didn't want to discover what she had come for. She could feel that she wasn't alone anymore.

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The fog thickened, growing heavily on her limbs. The horse's movements were slow and cautious as she hugged it. The animal's ears twitched to attention. Its head bobbed in nervous agitation. Imogen trembled. The flesh on her neck prickled. She hugged closer to the wary mare. She could feel its hot, sweaty flesh pressing into her gown. As they moved, she watched the white fog, willing her eyes to detect anything familiar. A tree limb passed close to her face. She started in surprise. And then she heard singing, the sweet song of a child's voice ringing as if in play. But the melody was haunted and hard, despite its joyful laughter. It echoed in the trees. At first it was behind her, running through the mist. But as the horse moved faster, it was beside her, keeping pace with the swift mare. "Play,” she heard the childlike whisper near her ear. "Margaret!” Imogen screamed fearfully. She could hear the tone of the child's voice. Tears poured over Imogen's cheeks. She bit her lip to keep from crying out. The singing came from her side, growing louder. The fog became so dense she couldn't see her hands on the mane. "Play,” the voice again, demanding and hard. "Margaret?” Imogen's limbs shook. She was too afraid to move from the comfort of the horse's expanding lungs. She could feel the mare shake and jolt with each ring of laugher, each start of an eerie ballad. “What are you doing here? Go home! Go to your father! Run! It isn't safe here!" Suddenly, the laughing turned to tears. The mist seemed to press into Imogen's skin. She breathed it into her lungs like the smoke from a fire. Her skin burned. Coughing, she wheezed for air. Almost instantly, perspiration dotted her shaking skin. The horse neighed in protest. Her fingers released the mane as they reached to pry at her throat. She was being choked by fear. Tearing at her neckline, she fought for breath. "I want to play with you,” called Margaret with a sulk in her voice. The sounds of her words were hollow, garbled by a roaring Imogen recognized as fire. She had heard it when Margaret died in her arms. Imogen coughed harder, desperate to get out of the fog. Sweetly, the voice called, “Are you my mother? Are you the girl from my bedchamber?" "No!” Imogen screamed. She kicked her horse in the ribs, urging it forward, not caring if she was still within the trees, not caring to discover what else was in the forest. She could feel a dark presence with her, taunting her, screaming for her. Desperately, she urged, “Margaret, Run! Find Josiah!" The horse began to gallop. Imogen saw a hand shoot out from the fog trying to stop her. The masculine fingers reached for the horse's reins. It was the hand of a man, pale and strained and strong. She saw the ruffling of a shirt. "Dougal!” Imogen screamed, reaching out to him. Her fingers darted out, but the mare was too fast. Dougal's hand disappeared behind her. The horse pulled violently. Imogen reached for the reins, sitting up in the seat as she felt for them. She glanced behind for Dougal. There was nothing but mist all around. With a frightened sigh, she righted herself. They had to be nearing the end of the trail. Her fingers found the mane, but as she looked forward, a branch materialized out of the fog. Imogen's eyes didn't have time to focus. The thick limb struck her across the forehead, knocking her back with a sharp crack. Blood filled her mouth, choking her. Her eyes filled with blackness. Her head hit the jolting movements of the galloping rump, her feet loosened their hold and she flipped off the back of the horse to the ground. As

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her head struck the earth the blackness faded and the white mist turned to an enveloping bright light. Imogen lay stunned on the ground. Her temple throbbed violently. She could not move her limbs. She was frozen. Only her lungs appeared to function as she clamored nosily for breath. She no longer felt choked as the mist dissipated and cleared. "Get up!" Imogen heard her name coming from the side. Blinking slowly to clear her eyes, she glanced around the blinding light. The light faded and dimmed until she saw she was lying on the forest floor, surrounded by the normal look of trees. It was as if the mist had not been there at all. "Hurry,” urged the voice again. Imogen saw Margaret lean over her. “Get up, before he comes for you. Go!" Imogen tried to speak. She couldn't. Her head throbbed with liquid fire. Her body burned and ached, and her neck felt as if it had been snapped. She couldn't move. Margaret looked down the path. Imogen realized her horse was gone. The animal had continued on without her. Margaret grew panicked. Agitating her hands, she began to fade. "Get up now!” the girl screamed in terror as she vanished. Imogen twitched, imagining how scared she must have been to see such a thing. She lay, looking up at the trees, wondering what was to happen next. She twitched her little finger, discovered the feeling slowly coming back to her hands. From behind her head, she heard the crunching of footsteps on the forest floor. Imogen sighed with relief, sure she was to be rescued. The footfalls grew louder. She heard a dark chuckling behind her head. Imogen choked on her terror. She couldn't see the man who laughed, but she had a feeling she knew who it might be. The creepiness of his tone washed over her, making her skin prickle with apprehension. Suddenly, a malevolent beast was above her—snarling viciously. Imogen willed herself into the ground as the dog neared her face. She recognized the animal from Margaret's room. It could only mean the master was with him. Does the demon come for me as he did Margaret?she wondered in horror. Imogen blinked, unable to turn her head away as the dog's foul breath wafted into her nose. The mist grew from his nostrils, smothering the air from her lungs. Her throat worked, strangling in protest when she couldn't scream. Her blood sped through her veins, racing her pulse like the rushing of floodwaters. The heated fog coming from the dog's bark hit her skin in blistering surges. Appallingly long fangs bit through the air, inches from her nose. Spit flew from its mouth, splattering her face until it was wet with the foul, syrupy liquid. And still, Imogen couldn't move, couldn't lift more than the tips of her fingers to fight the beast off. All she could do was lie still as the animal decided whether or not to devour her. Her lips trembled, but there was no voice in her would-be terrified screams. She couldn't yell.

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"Back,” she heard in a demonic growl. The dog did not listen. The dog's dark eyes began to radiate a fiery red and orange. Looking into the barren depths, Imogen could see a black eternity within the animal's deadly gaze. He wanted to devour her soul. She felt herself being pulled into the void. She felt the pain of eternal worlds colliding. She felt the death of millions living forever within the fiendish beast. It was not a dog that stood above her. It was a demon, a portal into hell. And within the demonic eyes she saw what death really was, what torment and anguish could be. The beast had no mercy, no feeling or heart. He exploited every fear of his victim, used it, magnified it, and fed off it until the soul was drained completely into nothingness. Imogen's heart pounded loudly in fear, ringing in her head as her eardrums began to bleed with the loudness of the barks. Blood trickled from her ears, her throat, her nose, her eyes, pouring over her, mixing with the animal's slobber. The beast wanted her. It had come to scoop up her soul and she knew that she would not be able to resist it. He wanted her to join in the agony. Imogen coughed in protest, the force pushing her shoulders from the ground in a shallow jerk. It was a faint sound, but it drew the beast back. Her body was trying to hold onto life. The pain was unbearable. "Back,” the dog's commander barked viciously. The animal crouched away. It's low snarl indicating its displeasure at being so dictated. She felt the coolness of air bathing her skin, drying the saliva from her flesh. Imogen saw the demon knight before her, his face hid from view by his helmet. His eyes were swallowed up by blackness, and though she could not see it, she felt as if he smiled at her. There was no joy in his pleasure as he leaned closer to her face. "Where is the child?” he asked. His tone rumbled as if impeded by gravel. A gauntlet clad hand reached to touch her cheek in a caress that belied tenderness. "No,” Imogen uttered, barely able to wheeze the words. “You ... to kill me first. The man chuckled, unamused by her show of bravery. "Do not fret little one,” he whispered. Lifting his fingers to his nose, he smelled her blood. The black, soulless gaze glossed over until it shone like polished metal. “I will come for you soon enough, when you are ready. But right now I want the girl. Where is she?" "I do ... not ... know,” gasped Imogen. She felt some of her strength returning. But, even in her strongest days, aided by the use of numerous weapons, she could not have thwarted the creature before her. "Then that is too bad for you,” growled the demon. His gauntlet hand slipped beneath her head to lift her broken body up to his face. He pressed himself next to her cheek. She felt the spiked plates of his helmet against her skin, scratching her as he spoke. Imogen moaned as she felt herself sucked into the bewitching spell of his heated body. Within his hold there was no escape.

Chapter Fourteen Dougal frowned. He looked out into the gold-tinted garden. The sun had journeyed over the blue sky,

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working its way toward a gentle evening. He could not see Margaret. He waited as he willed her to emerge from the spots in the pathways hidden from his view. Loath to leave the library in case Imogen came back, Dougal reminded himself that Margaret was changed from the child he knew. She looked the same, down to each dimple and fluttering eyelash, but inside she was grown. He had noticed it the moment he sat her down to talk. Sighing resolutely against the windowpane, Dougal turned and grabbed his jacket off the nearby chair. He couldn't abide waiting much longer. Imogen had been gone to the forest nearly an hour and his daughter a bit longer than that. His first impulse had been to run after Margaret and scold her, but he knew that she would not take kindly to his treating her like a child, as she had been kind enough to point out to him when he had tried. He had almost forbade her from leaving his side, until she laughed playfully and told him not to be foolish. "I have lived in this world longer than you,” Margaret had chuckled impishly. “And I know more of it than you. I will come back to you with the dusk." Reluctantly, Dougal had agreed, not being given a choice to do aught else as she had faded from sight. Knowing Margaret would be able to find him anywhere, Dougal determined to walk to the forest in search of Imogen. She had been gone far too long. Reaching for the library door, he pulled it open as he shrugged his jacket onto his shoulders. Looking up, he gasped. Imogen stood before him silently, staring at where the doorknob had been. He wondered how long she had been there. "Imogen,” Dougal began. Imogen blinked at the sound. Her eyes moved to his face, staring blindly at him. She knew he was there, she looked at him, her gaze traveled his familiar features, but she didn't really see him—couldn't comprehend what he was doing before her. "Imogen?” This time there was panic in Dougal's insistent tone. His fingers hesitated on their journey to her face. Oh no,he thought to himself.I have pushed her too far. Dougal's face slowly swam before Imogen's eyes. Her body ached bitterly from her fall. Her mind ached from the probing of the strange man's eyes. But, even as she thought of it, the distinct lines of the man's face blurred as Dougal's cleared. Flinching as Dougal moved to touch her, she leaned back. Dougal dropped his hand, moving away from her. "Imogen,” he whispered. “Can you hear me?" Lethargically, she stepped around him, coming into the library. She stared at the fireplace—unable to feel its heat from across the room. A chill worked over her body. Dougal did not reach for her again. Quietly, he shut the door before coming around to look at her ashen face. Imogen did not take her gaze away from the flame. In a nearly soundless murmur, she muttered, “I fell."

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"Imogen?” inquired Dougal, desperately wanting her attention. "I had an accident,” she said. She blinked, the fire reminding her of a dog. The image tried to fade from her mind. She let it go. “My horse threw me. I walked back from the forest." "Imogen, that was a year ago,” Dougal said. "No, it just happened. Could you fetch a physician? My head hurts.” Finally, she glanced at him. Dougal saw she was starting to come around. The depths of her eyes were beginning to clear. "No, it was a year ago.” Dougal turned from her, crossing over to the Viscount's chair. Grabbing the London paper off the small table, he brought it to her. “Here look at the paper. Read the date." "But...” Imogen started weakly. She took the paper with a trembling hand. Shaking her head in confusion, she read, “July the second, eighteen hundred and thirteen." "Imogen,” Dougal said to get her attention when she continued to stare absentmindedly at the print. Imogen's gaze darted to Dougal. She dropped the paper. It fluttered noisily to the floor and she backed away. “No. It cannot be. What is going on?" "You had an accident a year ago,” Dougal said patiently. "No, it just now happened,” she explained. Swallowing, she tasted blood on her lips. Reaching her fingers to her mouth, she drew them away. They were smeared with crimson. “What are you trying to do to me?" "Imogen.” He made a move to hold her. "No!” she shrieked, holding up her bloodied hand to keep him back. Her gaze drifted numbly from his handsome face and kind eyes to the blood marring her white skin. “Stay away from me. You are confused." "Think, Imogen.Reason. Why do you think you are never hungry?” he asked gently. “When is the last time you talked to anyone but us spirits?" "Charlotte,” she put forth vaguely. "Charlotte is a servant who worked here nearly a hundred years ago. She only appeared when you were in of need of her. All she remembers is how to serve as she did in life. She appeared to me soon after you,” Dougal explained. Imogen could see the truth in his eyes, but was unwilling to believe it. “She takes care of many here at the manor—many we cannot see." "Stillwell?” she mumbled. "Yes,” murmured Dougal. "No,” she said weakly in protest. "Imogen,” reasoned Dougal. “How is it everything you look for is right where you would have it? When

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is the last time you had to look for anything—a hair ribbon you wanted, a lost bonnet?" "That proves nothing." "Do you not justify things to yourself? When you first met me, you easily accepted me as your tutor without any real proof. You made me as you would have me be. And every time you would not deal with a problem, you fainted. Do you remember falling asleep too fast—only to awake not remembering how you got to bed? You were called to relive your death, as are we all for a time. Do you remember eating, or just looking at the food and then walking away? "I do remember eating,” she proclaimed. “I drank wine." "Did you? And how did it taste?” he insisted. “Did it taste like wine?" "No, it tasted like my blood. I can taste it now. What have you done to me? You had Charlotte serve me blood?” spat Imogen in disgust. "Of course not!” snapped Dougal. "I spoke to my parents,” she said suddenly. "I thought you said you parents weren't speaking to you. Did they speak to you, or through you?" "I saw Jane,” insisted Imogen. “I talked to my sister. And she talked to me. We had a full conversation." "You did?” he said in surprise. "Yes.” Imogen nodded emphatically. "Mayhap her belief in you made her able,” muttered Dougal, puzzled. His voice grew louder, “That I cannot explain. But you have to admit you only remembered things that you can handle happening. But it is time to face the truth. You need to face the truth. You're like me." "But, Jane,” protested Imogen. “I talked to Jane. She heard me, saw me. She would have said something." "Imogen,” Dougal said. “Look in the mirror. See for yourself. You are a ghost. You didn't survive your accident." "I am not dead,” she mumbled. Numbly Imogen walked out of the library, wanting to prove him wrong, wanting to make him stop talking. Dougal followed her. Coming to the main foyer, she stopped by a wide mirror. She gazed at the floor, too frightened to turn. "Look,” ordered Dougal. He grabbed her by her arms and forcibly turned her around. Dropping his hands when she would jerk from his touch, he said, “See for yourself." Imogen slowly raised her head. Tears already poured down her pale cheeks. The image that met her was as unfamiliar as a stranger. Her dark locks were tousled about her head, sticking up in spots, falling flat with matted blood in others. Trails of dried blood ran from her nose and ears and eyes, blending with the blood around her blue lips. Her skin was no longer the creamy pale of porcelain, but more of an ashen gray of death.

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The dried blood stretched down her throat in a red tattoo she knew might never come off. She was missing a kidskin glove. And her clothes had changed from the ones she donned that morning to a gown of fine muslin. The blue and cream dress was torn and tattered and caked with blood and dirt. The long ripped skirt fanned out from just beneath her breasts. The smooth charcoal and ash of her skin was overly exposed under the torn veil of lawn. The gaping material barely hid the top of her chest. And she could tell her feet were bare. Seeing a lump on the side of her neck projecting against her flesh from within, Imogen raised her bare fingers and touched her neck. She jolted in disgust as she felt the bony protrusion. "Your neck was broken,” whispered Dougal quietly, “when the horse threw you." "No.” She shook her head. The movement was stiff and awkward and unsupported. Imogen swallowed in disgust, her appearance grotesque. “This is a trick. I can feel that it is. You are making me see things. You lie to get me to stay with you." "No, I'm not." "The demon that held back the dog ... just moments before when I was on the forest floor ... he didn't take me because I wasn't ready. I wasn't dead yet. That I know is true. He was hunting Margaret. He looked into my eyes and I saw ... I saw death. The dog wanted to take my soul to join the others, but I wasn't ready. I wasn't dead. I just couldn't move. I was stunned. I am not dead. I walked back here." "No, Imogen,” whispered Dougal softly. He wanted to reach for her, but knew his touch would not be appreciated. “It is true you were alive when the knight came by, but you did die. That is why you could not move. You were dying. Only when you were dead could you rouse. "I found you in the forest, lying on the ground. You were so dazed. You couldn't speak. Can't you remember? I carried you home and put you in bed.” Dougal placed his hand hesitantly on her shoulder. “I sat by you all that night as you thrashed about. You didn't want me to leave you. And when you spoke, you said you saw a demon. You said you knew who he was. You said the beast wanted you. Imogen, you said you knew how to kill it!" "No,” she began. "Don't you see Imogen,” declared Dougal eagerly. “You faced him and survived. No one has ever been as you have and lived to tell. You told me you looked into the beast's eyes. You said he would come back. You said you knew his secrets!" "No,” she wept in denial. Her shoulders shook. She didn't have the strength to throw off his hand. She turned to the mirror, staring at the horrible image she projected. "The next morning when you awoke you disappeared. I looked for you and couldn't find you. Then, after about three months, you would appear to me. But you never saw me or if you did you never spoke.” Dougal pulled her around gently to face him. Her face was horrible in death, yet he could still see the traces of her beauty. Her pain tore at his heart, but he knew it had been time for her to realize the truth. “And then I came across you in the garden. I didn't think you could see me, since you had been blocking me out for so long." Imogen couldn't answer. Her gaze fell to his lips, handsome and solid. She could remember the feel of

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them against her. Entranced by his words, she listened through the fog-covered veil of her emotions. "I tried to ignore you like before. But you motioned as if you saw me. I never dreamt that you would speak to me again, but you did. Only you didn't remember me. You didn't remember what had happened. You just went about your life, convinced that what you believed was true.” Dougal sighed heavily. He waited for her reaction. It felt so good to finally speak to her of the truth. He had wanted to tell her so many times, but knew that if he pushed her she might again disappear and he might not get another chance to see her. When she didn't readily speak, he became fearful that he had pushed past the limits of her sanity. Suddenly, she jerked, pulling out of his grasp. “Why did you lie to me? If what you said is true, you could have told me. But, no, you just let me believe I was alive. You're sick! You're using me for your own gain!" "No, Imogen. It is not like that." "If I am dead, then it is you who killed me. I will tell you what I remember. I remember Margaret laughing and spooking my horse. I remember you trying to grab me and yank me to the ground. Well, maybe you succeeded after all. If what you say is true, then you killed me—you and Margaret. The demon only came afterwards to see what you had done." Dougal paled. He didn't know what to say. He had never thought she would blame him. "Don't think like that." "You said that you would leave if I asked it of you,” she stated bitterly. “I held up my end of the bargain. I went to the forest." "Don't send me away,” he protested. His eyes pleaded with her. Imogen was hardened to them. “Just give yourself time to calm down. When you are thinking clearly you will see that everything will work out. With what you know we can defeat the demon, and with the demon gone, we can be together. There is no living and dead issue between us. All we need is each other. We'll be a family. Everything I ever dreamt of will be right here—Margaret, you, me. We'll be together." "I don't know any secrets. I don't know how to kill the demon,” Imogen said truthfully. Drawing herself up, she hardened her features to him. Lifting her chin in the air, she declared, “And I want nothing to do with you. I had a full life. I had a family. You took that away from me." "No, please—" "I do not believe your audacity in suggesting you could ever replace them,” she seethed. The anger felt good. At least it was an emotion besides pain. “If your plan was to find a mother for Margaret and a wife to help ease the torment of your eternity, then you killed the wrong woman. If there is any shred of honor in you, you will get away from me and never, ever come back. I hate you. I curse you. I curse the day I saw you. Damn you, Dougal. Damn you to hell!" Instantly, Dougal flashed before her face beneath the blast of her outrage. There was no fading, no warning. Just instantaneously, he was gone. Imogen gulped angrily for air. She refused to turn to the mirror, appalled that the creature in it could even remotely be her. She didn't believe Dougal's nerve. She didn't know why he thought to try and trick her.

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What did he have to gain? She would know if she were dead. She would be able to feel it, and she didn't imagine death felt like the unyielding pain that now covered her body. Running through the house, Imogen found herself standing before Jane's bedroom door. She could hear her sister moving around inside. She would ask Jane what had happened. Jane would have all the answers. **** Margaret shivered violently as a cold breeze swept over her skin. Looking around the shallow cave, she couldn't tell where she was. The cave was not familiar to her. Her eyes pierced the darkness. She was alone. Along the stone wall, she saw what could only be described as ancient writing scribbled along the jutting rock. Past the scrawl was a thin veil of light. Slowly, she made her way forward to try and escape the cave. But, as she tried to pass the writing, she struck an invisible wall and was thrown back onto the ground. Stunned, she realized she couldn't move. She was trapped. **** Imogen pushed through Jane's bedroom door without knocking. Her sister jumped up in surprise from her writing desk. Imogen said nothing as she eyed her sister's face. Jane gulped. Her features drained pale with fright. "Imogen,” she stuttered. Jane pressed back from her older sister, seeing the anger in Imogen's distorted face. “I didn't expect you." Imogen watched Jane's reaction carefully. Her sweet little sister's expression unfurled nausea deep inside her gut. Taking a deep breath, Jane tried to smile. She pretended she didn't see the dazed and battered version of her sister before her. Speaking as she had when Imogen first appeared to her, she said conversationally, “I'm glad you came, sister. I must speak to you. Tell me, have you been taking out the horses? Mother is quite upset by it. She thought that they keep escaping on their own and ordered locks placed on the stable doors. But when they escaped again and the locks were still there, she began to near hysteria." Imogen cocked her head to the side. She panted, a horribly garbled sound, listening to the soothing tone of Jane's comforting voice. Jane always calmed her down. She felt the tension leaving her body. The pain began to lessen. Jane smiled prettily and sighed in visible relief. Imogen's head began to straighten by degrees. Her skin blossomed with color until the ghostly pallor was replaced by porcelain flesh, stained with a hint of delicate pink roses. "It is very wicked of you to scare mother like that,” admonished Jane gently, continuing with her conversation. She smiled at her sister to ease the reprimand. “I know you are angry with her, but really, do you think it fair to unnerve her so?" "Mother?” Imogen asked hoarsely. "Yes,” Jane answered, nodding. She ignored the harsh, grating sound of Imogen's voice.

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"She ... here?” asked Imogen in gruff pants through pale lips. "Yes, she has been here,” Jane said. She was pleased to find her sister's gown growing to be replaced by a fresh looking green one of simple print. “I thought mayhap you were letting out the horses to scare her." "No,” Imogen mumbled with a grim shake of her head. She crossed over to sit on Jane's bed. Her eyes were dazed as she studied her sister. Jane looked so fresh and beautiful, but she looked older than she remembered her being. Hearing her sweet sister's voice, it would be so easy to forget what Dougal had said to her. "Oh,” returned Jane, easily changing the subject when she saw her sister was not to speak. “I don't know if you have heard, but mother and father are moving back to London. They wish to keep an eye on Harriet and Edward. It seems there was almost a most disastrous scandal. Edward was seen coming out of another woman's home very early one morning. I am so glad you did not marry him, though I feel terribly sorry for Harriet. She, naturally, does not believe a word of it and is standing by him." Imogen only listened. She blinked as she stared at her sister's moving mouth. "The Colonel and I will be living here soon after the wedding,” continued Jane. “I insisted upon it and he, having admitted to always loving this estate, readily agreed to let me have my way. I do hope you will be staying here. I should love to have you around." "Jane,” Imogen finally broke in. Her gaze darted from her sister's mouth to her eyes. “Am I dead?" Jane gasped in surprise. Biting her lips she looked away and then back again. "Jane,” repeated Imogen, her tone growing by small degrees. “Did I die?" "There was the accident,” Jane said weakly. Tears came to her eyes at the memory. She was forced to turn away from Imogen's suffering. "And—?” Imogen prompted when Jane would not proceed. "The investigator examined you and said you struck you head on a branch when riding. You snapped your neck in the fall and struck your head on the ground.” Jane sniffed. “They said you felt no pain, that it was quite sudden. It was, wasn't it?" Imogen, seeing her sister's agony over this point, nodded. She felt no guilt over the lie. Jane did not need to know the truth. "I am so glad,” Jane said in relief. “We searched for you after your horse was discovered without you. I had nightmares of you lying ... dying ... for hours. I would swear you called out to me to help you. Mother got so distressed, she sent me away to Harriet." Imogen stood, moving instinctively to hug her sister. She leaned over and wrapped her arms about Jane's shoulders. Her limbs fell through her. Imogen frowned, standing. Jane gave her a sad smile. “So you will stay, won't you? Last time you left in such a hurry, I thought that you might never come back."

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"Yes,” Imogen whispered in a daze. Her eyes were hollow and far off as she watched Jane. It was true then. Her death had been an accident. She could see that now. She could remember. It was as Dougal said. Her horse had been spooked by her reactions to Margaret. And Margaret wasn't to blame. She was just a child searching through the mist for her father. No one was to blame but herself. Imogen's knees weakened. Dougal had tried to stop her horse. He had tried in vain to save her life. After she fell and had died, he had found her spirit and carried her to her bed. She could remember it now. His voice had been so caring, so kind. He had stayed with her, holding her as she screamed in fear. Part of her fell in love with him that night. "Fear,” mumbled Imogen. Jane cocked her head in confusion. "I was afraid." "Afraid?” squeaked Jane. "What?” asked Imogen, looking blankly at Jane. For a moment she forgot where she was. With an eerie calmness, she muttered, “No, Jane. Do not worry about me. I must go now. But I will try to come back to you. And if not me, I will send you a message." "A message?” inquired Jane, growing fearful at the ominous feel of her sister's words. There was too much of a finality to them. "There are others here sister,” Imogen said with a kind smile. “Do not be fearful of them. They are as lost as I was. Speak to them if you see them. If they do not answer, then ignore them as they do you. However, you might not see any of them. It is hard to say or explain. Just know that I love you and go now to make sure this house is safe for you and your husband." "Safe?” choked Jane, fearfully. "Have no fears, sweet sister,” muttered Imogen. She felt herself fading. It was a strange sensation, but natural and she did not fight it. "Imogen,” Jane gasped, rising from her chair. Imogen saw her hand reach out to her. “I love you." Imogen nodded, smiling brightly at her sister as she faded completely from view.

Chapter Fifteen Imogen's sprit drifted instinctively through the manor and gardens looking for Dougal. She could feel her body glide with the ease of air. She passed through walls and furniture, through bushes and trees. She could feel the life in everything around her. It was splendid and sweet. It was freedom. But with the freedom came a longing so great it nearly ripped her in two. For she would never again be a part of the beauty she passed. Slipping once more to the library with ease, she frowned. She could not find Dougal anywhere. And if he had really moved on, she would have to spend eternity alone. Imogen stopped in the library. She felt her body form by the mere suggestion of her will. Walking across to the window, she turned to call to him as

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she had before. "Dougal, come out. I need you,” said Imogen clearly. She watched the chair hopefully, never allowing herself for a moment to doubt that she would find him. He didn't appear. Louder, she yelled demandingly, “Dougal! Come here!" Striding across to the foyer, she stopped before the mirror. She hesitated slightly before turning to look in it. The creature was gone, replaced by the near transparent image of her face, as she knew herself to be. Standing in the approximate place she had stood when she banished Dougal from her, she ordered, “Dougal, come back to me. Appear to me now!" She waited, breathless. Still, he did not come. I hate you. I curse you. I curse the day I saw you. Damn you, Dougal. Damn you to hell!Imogen stiffened, hearing her own words clearly. Had she really said all that? She had been so confused and angry. Her body had ached so badly. "Oh, no,” she muttered to herself. “I cursed him to hell. What have I done?" Imogen fell to the floor, shaking her head. Frantically, she yelled, “Dougal! Dougal! Please, come back. I didn't mean it!" Imogen's breath caught. She waited, time suspended. When nothing changed, she tried to reason over the grief flowing throughout her heart. Tears swam in her eyes—wet and moist and real. Taking deep breaths, she looked helplessly around. She could see no one. "Margaret?” she gasped weakly. “Reverend Stillwell? Are you there? I need you. Come to me!" Imogen gasped as the vicar materialized in front of her. Leaning over, he reached his hand down to her cheek. She stared up in wonderment. "You,” she began weakly. "Yes, I am dead like you. We are ghosts. And I heard your call, Miss Imogen." "You did? How?” she asked. "When you have been dead as long as I, you hear such things,” he answered modestly. “I know when I am needed." "But—” she stammered. "I died nigh seventy years ago,” he confirmed. "The knight?” she wondered aloud. "No,” he chuckled. “Roasted mutton. I choked." "I think I sent Dougal's soul to hell,” she muttered darkly, without warning. Her eyes widened. The vicar lowered his gaze from her pain. His hand fell to his side. Imogen stood. “I cannot find him."

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"What happened?” asked the vicar, concerned. "I cursed him to hell, reverend. I told him to leave. He is gone. Margaret is gone. Tell me, do you know if they are damned?” Imogen took a sharp breath. “Do I have the power to do that?" "No,” the vicar smiled kindly. "Then, did the knight get them?” she questioned. "I cannot say. I have not seen them.” The vicar frowned. "Do you think Dougal finally listened to me and left here?” she asked. Hope seeped from her. “Do you think they moved on?" "If they did, they would be safe,” he answered. “Dougal is a fine man. He is not marked for hell, merely sought by it." "I must believe that they are safe,” she muttered. "And you child?” asked the vicar. “Why then do you stay?" "I don't know,” she mumbled. “I never had the chance to leave." "Then there is a reason for it,” he answered. “What are you holding on to? What do you regret? Your death was an accident. You should not be here." "I,” she began weakly. Tears came to her eyes as she studied the kindly man. With a sniff, she said, “I still feel as if I belong here. I am not ready to be dead. I want to live. I want my life. I want to be who I was the morning of the accident—never knowing about all of this. It was so simple." Imogen waved her hand through the air. Catching her likeness in the hall mirror, she sighed. She could see the opposite wall through the reflection of her face. "And your feelings for Dougal?” questioned the vicar. “Would you forget them?" "I...” she stammered to a stop and waved her hands. Helplessly, she continued, “I would that he was a real man from my time, so that I could meet him. That is the secret wish of my heart. If anything, that is what I cling to the most. And I would send the demon back into the hell from whence it came." "What you wish for is not possible, Miss Imogen.” Reverend Stillwell took her by the arm, leading her to the door. "Which part?” she asked feebly. "You and Dougal cannot be human again,” he returned. The vicar opened the door, walking her through. She was surprised by such an act. He smiled and explained simply, “We that remain try, for the most part, to live the semblance of a normal, living life. There is sanity is such real things as opening doors." Imogen nodded. Had she not clung readily to her past? Had not her own mind deceived her into believing she was amongst the living?

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"Then what about the demon? I must focus on that,” she replied. “I will have an eternity to dream about the other." "I will discover what I can,” offered the vicar, shimmering in the air. He drifted off, down the stairs and out over the countryside. Imogen sighed exhaustedly. She followed close behind him, turning toward the garden when he would go straight. **** The sun's warm globe set behind the earth, leaving the land to those who would dwell in the moonlight. Imogen could not find Dougal or his daughter. She called out to him with her heart. He did not answer. Choosing to walk, instead of shimmer, she crossed over the familiar garden paths. Her body ached for one last touch of Dougal's hand, one last kiss to sustain her. Dougal and Margaret had existed fifty years at Rothfield, the reverend seventy. How long would she have to roam here alone? Coming to the stone bench, she sat. A sad melancholy came over her senses as she stopped to look at the moon. What now?she wondered. “What am I supposed to do now?" "Fight." Imogen turned. Her gaze instantly found Josiah. His features were pulled tightly, his eyes haunted as if he were chased by hell-fire. Imogen felt a stirring in the pit of her stomach. "Josiah.” She rushed to him. He looked weak, sick. Touching his pale face, she ushered him to the bench. Wearily, he sat. Imogen joined him. Taking his hand in hers, she urged, “What happened?" "My brother,” he muttered. “He took Margaret from me." "Margaret?” Imogen repeated numbly. “No." "I couldn't stop him,” he said mournfully. “I tried to fight, but he is too strong." "Is she—?” Imogen couldn't finish the words. "Not yet,” Josiah said. “We have ‘til the full moon hits the edge of the earth." "Tonight?” Imogen demanded in horror. “But what can we do tonight?" "That you must discover, m'lady,” he whispered. “We lose time." "Does he have the Marquis?” she gasped. Imogen pressed her eyes shut. "I don't believe so,” answered Josiah. “Why? Is he missing?" "Yes,” Imogen whispered. “What do you need me to do?" "You know, don't you?” he asked with a pointed look over her. “You know you are dead?" "Yes, I know,” she whispered.

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"And you know how?” he persisted. "Yes, an accident.” Imogen swallowed, mildly embarrassed by the incident. Josiah was too heartsick to notice. "'Tis a good thing,” he muttered. “Methinks that you are the one to stop my brother." "What?” Imogen gasped. She shook her head frantically. “Why me? I am no one." "You faced him and lived. You resisted his pull. You fought him. ‘Tis more than anyone else has ever done. But you know that, don't you?" Imogen gulped and nodded. Uncertainly, she whispered, “But it almost consumed me. There was so much hate and despair in him. I could not face it again." "You might not have to,” Josiah admitted. "But why me?” she repeated. “You are much stronger than I. Surely—" "'Tis not with physical strength that you fight him. ‘Tis with your mind, your heart. I have never been strong enough to control him. He knows too well my weaknesses.” Josiah rubbed the back of his neck, sinking lower into the seat. “Methinks you can banish him. You are not one of his victims and because of it he does not know your deepest fears. He won't know, unless you tell him. You died of your own recklessness in the mist and not by evil's doing. You faced him and survived." "And if I don't?” she asked beneath her breath. "Then he will continue to kill whoever comes to live at Rothfield,” Josiah said. “And we will be able to do nothing." "Jane,” muttered Imogen in terror. The knight nodded. “Yea, m'lady, your sister. Methinks he might go after her next. She is a noblewoman and has a good, pure heart. With her marriage to a rich Colonel, she will do many great things. Hers is the type of spirit the demons like most to condemn. For if they pluck her in her youth they will prevent her kindness from being. ‘Tis the same reason they took Dougal. Ten years from the time of his death, in the year of our lord seventeen hundred and seventy three, he was to enter parliament in London. His influence over the crown would have saved many lives. The Revolutionary War of the Colonies would have seen fewer tragedies." "How do you know?” she whispered in awe, paling at the revelation. "'Tis my brother's gift to see the future. And ‘tis my curse that I should see the things he prevents. That is how I know where he will strike." "What is your brother?” Imogen asked, growing determined. She must fight. Too many of those she loved depended on her. The beast already had Margaret and possibly Dougal. Imogen swallowed. Her heart broke. And he might even take Jane. "Evil,” he answered.

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"Does he come only with the mist and the dog? Is there any warning as to where he goes when he leaves?” she asked. "I cannot say. I only feel it. Evil can take many shapes—animals, human, even statues in the garden. Who knows where he goes when he hides?" "Paintings?” asked Imogen with an intense sense of foreboding. "Assuredly, m'lady,” he answered with a curt nod. He seemed reluctant to expand. Imogen wondered if he still felt loyalty to his brother. Josiah had failed to stop him before. Would he be inclined to protect him now? Imogen sighed. She knew where the demon was hiding. She thought of all the times that she roamed the hall. There was one place she was drawn to go, to look—the portrait of a man and his dog. Once, she had even thought to have seen those within the portrait move. It was worth a closer look. Jumping to her feet, Imogen said, “I think I know. I've got to go." "Wait,” Josiah exclaimed. His tortured gaze pleaded with her. Imogen pulled back from him when he would have touched her. She shivered in foreboding. “You must promise me something. Whatever happens—whatever it is you see—you must save Margaret. And you must kill my brother. Send him to hell." Imogen wondered at his hard words. She knew there was more he wasn't telling her, but she didn't think it necessary to pry. She nodded solemnly at his tormented expression. It was as if his heart was being ripped from his chest. "Yes,” she promised. "I will help you in whatever way I can, though it will not be much,” he vowed. Imogen nodded, turning to go to the house. His words stopped her. “And, when I am gone, tell Margaret I love her." Imogen spun. Her gaze scanned the pathways, but Josiah had disappeared. **** Imogen crept through the halls, careful not to make a sound. Her eyes scanned the numerous portraits, the many cold faces staring out from the canvases, their clothing ranging over many decades of generations past. Suddenly, she stopped. Seeing a familiar frame in the distance, she raced forward. Standing before the medium-sized painting, she studied it. At a glance, it was nothing special, not a work that would stick in one's mind. The brush strokes were merely adequate, the frame of no spectacular quality. However, when she studied the figures, she saw that they looked different than she remembered. The dog had moved from one side of the man to the other and the man's weight had shifted. The beast, she recognized immediately. Carefully studying the man's small features, Imogen noticed his dark eyes. However, the hallway was too dim to make out much else. Coming close to the frame, she kept her gaze fixed upon his face. The eyes did not move. Slowly, she reached out with trembling hands to grab the portrait from the wall. With a stiff yank, she pulled it down. She slowly stalked through the hallway, trying not to jiggle the painting lest she awaken the figures within

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it. She watched them carefully, making it to the front hall without incident. Gingerly, she brought the painting to the light. Imogen gasped. The frame plummeted to the ground, landing with a hard smack against the marble floor. Shaking, she shook her head. She knew the man's face—the dark hair, black eyes, and strong cheekbones. It was Josiah. It had to be. The face was too much his—the wrinkles about the eyes, the crease beside the firm set of his mouth. This was no brother. Unexpectedly, a rush of cold air came over her. Imogen froze. The foyer faded until she was standing before a memory, listening to Josiah as he spoke to her. She saw herself in the garden. She watched herself answering him in kind. The words were fuzzy, growing louder as the memory became more real. The fog was around them, fading the distance to all but the cloud of her remembrance. "He hunts,” said Josiah cryptically. “You should begone." "Who?” she heard herself respond. Imogen ignored her own words, listening to the knight. Walking around the two figures, she studied him. At first what he said was harmless, just as she remembered. There was tenderness and concern in his words. And, as she watched his eyes, she knew she saw kindness in them. He couldn't be the man who had tried to trap her soul with a deadly gaze. "You're a murderer,” she had hissed. Imogen watched the pain cross the knight's face at the accusation. "Not me. My brother." "What did you do with Margaret? I'm taking her with me,” voiced the past Imogen. “Hand her over." "She is my ward, not yours." Imogen came close to his face. He did care for the girl—as a daughter, perhaps? His love as he said her name was there in his face. Imogen reached out to touch him. Her hand fell through his chest. Josiah glanced down briefly but did not see her. "Why did he kill Margaret?” she had asked him. Imogen froze, the chill over her body becoming more intense. "'Twas a mistake. He was after the Marquis, Margaret's sire,” Josiah had answered. “Lady Margaret got in the way of things. She has the same blood as the Marquis and ‘tis why my brother found her first. He never would have picked her intentionally. The innocent souls of children are harder for him to capture. They are too nimble and flighty and hard to hold." And, as Josiah spoke, his true meaning became clear, a voice tumbling over his past words in her head. 'Twas a mistake. I was sent after the Marquis. My master tricked me into killing the child. I would never have harmed her. My brother is a part of myself. Imogen stiffened. She turned around to her figure hazed in memory. The past Imogen smiled at her, ignoring her part of the conversation as she put thoughts into her future self's own head. The past figure's lips didn't move, but Imogen heard the words clearly. The past Imogen nodded, motioning back to the

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conversation. "Dougal,” whispered Imogen only to be mimicked by her shadow self. "Why are you keeping them apart?” she had said. The past Imogen rejoined the conversation. Imogen watched in a daze. "'Tis not I who keeps them apart. I found Margaret wandering the grounds searching for her sire soon after she died. I could not find the Marquis in time. His spirit is lost to me." I had to keep them apart. I knew the Marquis searched for his daughter. If he found her and my brother found him, they would both die. I had to keep Margaret safe. I love her. "Then mayhap you are the solution betwixt them. You can see Margaret and her sire. ‘Tis you that must join them." I knew father and daughter couldn't see each other. The demon that takes over me will no longer be satisfied with only Dougal. He wants Margaret too. He knows I have her. I must reunite father and daughter. But I need to get them to the same place at the same time. That is where you must help me. If you get them together, I will lift the cloak of blindness I put on them. "It cannot be uttered. To say his name is to summon him." I cannot tell you ‘tis I that you seek. To say it is to call the demon forth to hunt. Imogen watched the conversation. The knight's voice became a quiet murmur, drowned out by the translation of his words in her head. "Can't you stop him?” her past self had asked. No longer did the past Imogen glance at her knowingly. Her attention was back fully on the knight. "Nay,” Josiah answered with a mournful toss of his head. “Wouldst that I could. But I did not stop him in life as was my duty. In death he is too strong for me to try. Long ago, this was my family's holding. My brother made his pact with unholy dark wizards. They gave him power and riches beyond imagination. But as he took his seat of power, the dark ones struck him dead. As payment for that which they bestowed he has pledged his death to bringing them other souls. So long as he feeds their fire with others, they will not take him." I could not control the impulse in life. The dark worshippers tricked me. They promised me riches with no lethal consequences to me, or my family, at their hands. But, in the end, it was their voices that killed me and all those I love. I was stupid and vain to believe such was to be gained without a terrible price. Now, they demand I bring them souls. But, ‘tis not me. ‘Tis a demon who uses me to kill. I cannot stop him. I have prayed for redemption. I have prayed for the death of my own soul in the place of others. Suddenly, Josiah turned to her. Imogen froze. The image of her past self faded until only she and the knight were left. Seeing the flash of his eyes, she tried to back away. She was stiff within the memory. There was no where to escape. "You fought me and won,” he said. There was a grim satisfaction and respect in the statement. “You can do it again. Destroy me to save Margaret. Kill me in my demon form and vanquish the demon within me.

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I give you this gift of knowledge. ‘Tis the only way I can help you. If it is discovered I have revealed this to you, all will be lost—including the souls of those you love." With a flash, the image disappeared. Imogen fell to the floor, panting for breath. Her body felt weak. Looking over at the painting, she saw Josiah watching her. His eyes held infinite sadness and pain. The portrait moved. Josiah bowed his head in shame and turned his back to her. The beast did not move. Without warning, the painting rose into the air. Imogen gasped, pulling back in fright. With a start, she blinked quickly only to see her mother carrying the painting back to the hallway. "If Lord Sutherfeld thinks he is bringing this hideous thing to London, he is sorely mistaken,” fumed the Viscountess. Imogen hastened to her feet. Chasing after her mother, she called, “Stop. Wait. Put the painting down." The Viscountess didn't hear her. Imogen began to reach for the painting, hesitating for a moment before reaching to yank it out of her mother's arms. The Viscountess screamed in terror. Her fingers flew to fan her cheeks as she stared at the floating portrait. "My apologies, mother,” mumbled Imogen. She reached over to comfort the Viscountess, but then stopped, knowing the woman couldn't see her. Helplessly, Imogen ran from the hysterical woman, carting the painting under her arm. "Mother,” Jane screamed, coming around the corner. She knelt beside the woman, helping her to stand. Looking around, she saw no one. “What is it?" "The horrible painting,” mumbled the Viscountess incoherently. “I think it wishes to come with us to London."

Chapter Sixteen Imogen hefted the painting with her knee, trying to support the weight as she readjusted it in her arms. She refused to look at Josiah's likeness, turning the faces away from her, and she was careful to keep her fingers off the paint, fearful of what might happen if she touched it She ran through the garden. The mist grew thick as she made her way to the forest. The fog always appeared to grow out from the trees, and she decided the woods were as good a place as any to begin her search. Coming to the tree line, she hesitated. The dim path was lightened by the sprinkling of moonlight forcing its way through the tops of tree limbs. The speckled slivers of light danced over the ground, illuminating the misty pathway before her. It was not easy to face the sight of her death. So much of her wanted to take back the lost time. She cursed herself for her carelessness, her one mistake of charging from the house like a spoiled child bent on having everything her own way. How foolish she had been to act with such untamed impudence. Her feet sped with purpose. The mist grew dense as she fought her way into it. She could hear the water from the stream. The noise poured over her like the pounding of a rainstorm. Imogen shook. The painting dropped from her fingers, disappearing beneath her. Stumbling to the ground, she felt around in the dirt.

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She could see nothing beyond the tip of her nose. The painting was gone. Imogen crouched on the ground, the mist coming in from all sides to choke her. She fell onto her back, lying with her face to the sky. The world seemed to spin. Her body ached, her neck jolted in sharp cracks of the bone. She could feel her death creeping around her. She could feel the intensity of her fear. She could feel the power of evil as if the demon knight was again before her, trying to claim her soul. Terrified, she began to whimper. Her purpose in stopping the demon slipped from her mind until she couldn't think beyond the pounding of her fearful heart. She trembled as the mist grew thicker, taking over the air until it breathed like smoke into her lungs. She gasped for breath, pulling frantically at her neck as it constricted. "Get up,” came a whisper like a voice from the heavens. Imogen froze. The wide blue of her eyes darted all around. She could see nothing but the dense white. Weakly, she climbed to her hands and knees. Her limbs were heavy and fought her progress. Her voice trembling, she gulped, “What did you say?" There was no answer. "Dougal?” insisted Imogen, growing bolder at the sound of her own voice. As she stood, the sound of the stream lessened. She swiped her hands bravely through the mist. Defiantly, she yelled at the fog, “You cannot stop me! I'm not afraid! I have faced what you bring and I have beaten it." And as she said the words, she believed them. Panting, she searched around her feet, resistant to the pulling of fear that waited for her composure to waver. The painting lay on the ground. She picked it up and tucked it beneath her arm. With solemn resolution, she continued forward. Her journey became easier as the mist parted to let her by. Imogen glared defiantly all around her. She could feel movement beyond her reach. All of a sudden, a cold chill ran up the back of her spine. The hairs on the nape of her neck stretched out in warning. Imogen stopped. Quietly, she whispered, “Margaret?" Her answer was silence. Taking a deep breath, she quietly hummed Margaret's song. She stopped midway to listen. A terrified whimper finished the notes with shaking uncertainty. Peering toward the sound, Imogen willed the mist to part before her. A trail opened as she navigated her way toward the child. Imogen passed under a cleared tunnel in the mist, moving over the cluttered floor of the woods. She stepped over fallen logs and rustling leaves. They crunched beneath her feet. The mist curved about her, to her sides, above her head like an arched passageway. Imogen stepped though the fog, feeling the mist close in behind her. Abruptly, she stopped. At the end of the tunnel she saw trees reflecting the eerie orange glow of firelight. The glow bounced down her misty passage, reaching for her with its warm light. "Help,” she heard Margaret moan. Imogen rushed forward. A fire burned bright and high, its flames licking toward the sky as it spouted sparks over the earth. It

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burned within a small clearing in the shape of a circular chamber. Long, old tree-trunks formed the rough mossy walls, their leaves the ceiling. And in the middle of the roof was a small stretch of heaven peeking in with starry eyes. Though the dancing flames, Imogen discovered Margaret. The child cowered on the ground. There was no one else. Hurrying around the fire pit, Imogen went to her. Margaret's hands were bound to a large stone with chains. Her bright green eyes found Imogen as the older woman motioned for silence. Margaret nodded obediently. Imogen dropped the painting on the ground. The chains grew out of the smooth stone. Imogen grabbed the shackles binding the girl's wrists and pulled until her hands scraped raw along the old metal. The chain would not loosen. Imogen winced. She dropped the rough iron as it stung into her flesh. "Imogen?” wailed Margaret softly. "Shhh,” Imogen hushed, wiping her hands to her gown. The scrapes were minor so she ignored their sting. “I won't leave you. Where is the key?" "He has it,” whispered the girl. "Who, Josiah?” asked Imogen. "It is not him” Margaret persisted. “He tries to fight it, but the evil is too strong. It is not him." Imogen nodded, seeing the girl getting worked up on the point. Josiah or not, it was he she must stop. Even the knight understood that much. Margaret's already pale face became wan with fright. Hoarsely, Imogen uttered in mounting dread, “Where did he go?" "Ah, m'lady, how good of you to join us.” Josiah's voice was punctuated by the bark of his snarling dog. “The fire will be most pleased to receive you." Imogen felt the terror once again rack her body. The dog growled a dark warning. Spinning on her heels, Imogen stood. She stepped to the side, blocking Margaret from the creature's view. Josiah awaited her in armor. The silver plates gleamed in the firelight. His helmet hid all but the deathlike stare of his eyes. The black orbs were mercilessly cold. The old knight's body stood transformed into a being of hate. It was no longer the Josiah she knew. The man was gone, replaced by a monster. The beast at his side growled, barely restrained by an unseen force. The animal's eyes glittered a fiery red. Blood dripped from his long, yellowed fangs. "I told you I wouldst be back for you, m'lady,” said Josiah. If she could see his face, Imogen was sure he would give her a cold smile. The knight drew out his sword with slow precision. Angling the tip at her, he tilted his head to the side, daring her to try and run. "Josiah,” Imogen beseeched, hopeful that the man inside the creature could hear her. Her flesh would be no match against the steel of his blade or the bite of his dog. And her agility might not ward off the tempered swings of a knight trained for centuries to kill. Frantically, Imogen looked at the ground, scanning for a weapon to fight him off with. There was nothing

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overly useful. Grabbing a fallen branch, she turned back to him. She held it before her like a sword, widening her stance to match his. Taking a deep breath, she waited for him to attack. Josiah's laughter was mockingly cold, but his sword arm never wavered, his eyes never turned away. Imogen swallowed nervously. Her heart thudded, bouncing crazily throughout her chest. Her stomach twittered and clenched, spinning nauseously into knots. She could not stop the panting of her uneven breath, but she could control her chin as she lifted it into the air. "Let Margaret go,” she ordered, tightening her lips. His dog barked violently. Imogen recoiled. The knight's eyes hardened into blackened pits. His laughter died. "You cannot fight me,” said the knight. Josiah stepped forward. The firelight moved over the polished steel plates of his armor, the orange contrasting with the blue tinted gleam of metal. The dog took a menacing lunge forward, his mighty jaws snapped. The knight ordered him back with a wave of his hand. "Let the child go,” Imogen spat. Margaret whimpered, cowering against the rock. "I cannot,” he growled. “Her father is lost to me. I heard you say he was gone. I cannot spare her." "She is just a child. Let her go and face only me,” pleaded Imogen, sensing that the man inside might be wavering. "Why spare one when I can take two?” laughed the demon. Her arm grew fatigued under the weight of wood. She dropped the branch, knowing it would do her no good. She stepped away from the child, drawing his attention with her. “Josiah, I know you are in there." "Argh,” shrieked the knight. His mouth opened at the sound, displacing his helmet as his jaw stretched beneath the edge. His head tiled back to the sky as he warred within himself. The demon was too strong. The helmet fell from Josiah's head to the ground. The demon within rushed him forward. Lifting his giant sword above his head, he swung it through the air. Imogen ducked, scurrying away from the blade. Her feet tangled in her skirts as she tried to jump over her discarded branch. She landed on the hard earth. Her shoulder jerked in shooting pain. Her raw hands ground into the dirt. Scrambling to her feet, she cradled her arm. She barely looked up when another blow swung past her head, singing past her ear. Josiah charged forward, chasing her around the fire. His companion barked in encouragement, coming up at Josiah's heels. The knight swung again and again. His blade hit the fire, sending it sparking over his prey. Imogen screamed. Brunt embers showered her arm and head. They chafed the side of her face. "Josiah,” she tried to reason. “This is not you. You don't have to do this." "Yea,” he growled, taking another swing toward her head. “I do." Imogen could see that it was useless trying to talk the knight from his dark purpose. It was not the man she knew staring at her. It was someone else taken over his form. She was fighting a demon.

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"Demons come from fire,” she whispered, dodging another blow. She recognized the sound of the roaring flames from her memories of the demon knight. Every time she watched him appear, he was followed by the horrible sound. "What?” the knight howled. Coming full circle around the fire, she glanced at Margaret. The child pulled at her bonds, her feet planted against the rock. One of the girl's hands slid free from the shackles. Next to the child, on the ground, Imogen saw the portrait. "That is his haven,” she muttered in sudden clarity. “I must send him home." Imogen lunged for Margaret. Grabbing the painting, she turned just in time to see Josiah and his dog march around the flames. Imogen tugged at the painting, dragging it weakly to the fire pit with little help from her injured arm. "No,” shouted Josiah, his command chillingly loud. Imogen saw the glitter of his blade as it swung. She lifted the portrait to block his attack. Josiah struck the portrait. Imogen froze waiting for the thrust of blade that never came. The painting jerked from her hands. The blade glanced off of the canvas as if it were stone and flew from the knight's hands to land several yards into the forest. "Give it to me,” ordered the knight, ignoring his fallen blade. Imogen pulled the painting from the ground. She held it before her like shield. "No,” she spat. Josiah charged forward. His hand lifted to wrestle the frame from her. Imogen knew if he got ahold, she would not win. Her strength would be no match. "Josiah!” screeched Margaret. The knight stiffened at the terrified sound. Imogen saw the hard black pit of his gaze soften somewhat at the call. Both their heads snapped toward the child. The dog had her trapped beneath him, his paws on her shoulders as he growled into her face. "Nay,” yelled Josiah. The animal didn't listen. And with a lunge, the knight forgot his portrait, forgot Imogen, forgot himself. He flew through the air, his arm sliding over Margaret's throat to block the dog's bite. The beast's lips found flesh, tearing and ripping with abandonment. Josiah screamed in torment. Margaret's bonds were lifted into the mist. The child screeched in horror, crawling away from the attacking beast. Imogen didn't hesitate. She tossed the portrait into the fire. The flames sparked, growing so hot as to blister all those who stood within its light. Margaret fell into a ball. Imogen turned to block the light. The dog let his victim go—howling painfully as his image was scorched. The flame shot out from the pit, pulling with a supernatural force at the beast. The dog tried to resist, striking his large paws defiantly into the dirt. The beast howled. The flames lassoed him, dragging him to his death.

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Imogen ran to Margaret, gathering the child into her arms. Margaret fought Imogen's hold, craning to see Josiah. Imogen let her go, and as the last of the dog's howls echoed in death, the fire reached out again. "No!” screamed Margaret, leaping forward. Imogen reached for her. She missed the flighty girl. Margaret jumped before the string of fire, blocking her face as the flames came near her. But the fire did not want her. It wanted its own child. The flames curled around her, dipping behind her back to reach for the fallen soldier. A black force, as dark and formless as a shadow, was pulled from Josiah's bleeding body. The demon screeched—a terrible sound that sent chills over their flesh. The fire consumed the shadow, trapping him with his dog in the bubbling and melting canvas of their portrait. Margaret fell to her knees next to Josiah. Blood streamed from gaping wounds in his neck, his arm, his chest. There was a hole where is heart should be. They watched as the hole filled in, his heart forming within the wound to beat. Shaking, Margaret shouted, “Imogen!" Imogen came forward, looking down at the trembling man. He had risked himself to save Margaret. Somehow, he was given back his heart, but the wound above the heart didn't lessen. Josiah was dying. Of that Imogen was certain. "Imogen,” pleaded Margaret. Tears streamed down her face. She cradled Josiah's head in her hands. “Help him." Imogen shook her head helplessly. Tears poured over her cheeks, matching the child's. She dropped to her knees next to them. Seeing a wound at his side, she tore her gown and pressed her hands to it. Josiah grunted. His eyes briefly sought Imogen. He nodded in approval. She had done what he asked. She had saved Margaret and sacrificed him. His approval did not lessen their sorrow. "Why is he bleeding?” cried Margaret in a panic. Her small child hands pushed over his chest to stay the blood over his heart. She felt it beating beneath her palms, but there was too much blood, the wounds were too deep. “Imogen, he shouldn't be bleeding like this. He is not a man. We are dead. We do not bleed like this! What is happening?" "He's dying,” whispered Imogen. “He never got the chance before." Josiah's eyes opened. Imogen stiffened. His eyes were the color of a storm-riddled sky. Their bluish-gray depths shone as he gazed up at Margaret. The black had left the orbs just at the evil had left his body. He lifted his hand to cup Margaret's cheek, but the effort was too great and his fingers fell again to his side. "Lady Margaret,” he whispered. A slight smile formed on his lips. His lids drifted closed. "No,” she cried, shaking her head in denial. “Josiah, no! Stay with me." Imogen froze at the intense heartache that passed between the two. She could not doubt the look. She herself felt the effects of harboring a hopeless love. She thought of Dougal. He was gone. She had lost him. Margaret leaned down. She pressed her mouth to Josiah. The knight's eyes shot open in surprise at the unexpected contact. Margaret's tears poured over him. The sorrow of her pain coursed through him. As she pulled her trembling mouth away, he smiled up at her—a kind, reassuring smile. Then, within the

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blinking of an eye, he disappeared, dissolving into the earth. Margaret fell to the ground, atop the leaves that had once cradled his body. Her small hands dug into the ground, grasping fistfuls of forest litter in her torment. Imogen stiffly pulled Margaret up. The girl wailed as Imogen lifted her from the ground. Taking her by the shoulders, Imogen tried to lead the girl out of the forest. "Where is my father?” cried Margaret. “Where did Josiah go?" "I don't know,” Imogen whispered. Her hands weakened with her knees. Margaret tore out of her arms, running away into the mist. Imogen tried to follow, but her body was too frail, her mind too tired. Instead of running, her body dissolved into the night air and she was carried away with its will. **** The bright rays of summer warmed the gardens. The fragrant scents of flowers, trees and grasses rode on the gentle winds. The white cotton of the clouds spotted against the delicate blue of the heavens. Rothfield Park was peaceful. The land was quiet with the approach of a new morning. Imogen did not find Margaret, though she looked. She did not find anyone. She was alone. Tearfully, she clawed her way though the forest. She tore furiously at tree limbs as she darted past. With blind precision, she found herself in the garden settled on the stone bench overlooking the yard. And there she sat, having no will to go on. With Dougal gone, she had nothing. Mist still came with the dusk but its thickness was tempered and it clung mostly to the trees. Imogen was not frightened of it. She knew it could be controlled. The mist was not good or evil, just a thing to be used and commanded by either. Sitting alone on the stone bench of the garden, she waited. She watched the passing of time, the stirrings of mornings, and the restlessness of nights. Time had no meaning for her. Days could have passed by and she would not have differentiated them from years. She kept vigil, only fading when her spirit grew too weary to continue. And after a rest, she would again appear to her spot, waiting for someone to come to her. Not once did she leave her post. One day the silently beckoning call of Jane made her turn her head. Jane was married to the Colonel in the garden in front of family and friends. Imogen watched, happy for her sister. She wished she were alive so she could go to her and join in the celebration. The family's guests did not notice the onlooker, did not sense her presence. Only once did Jane turn, catching Imogen's gaze briefly in the sunlight. The bride smiled, proud and happy, but her ghostly sister had dissolved as a cloud passed over the sun. Imogen saw her parents, looking a bit older but none the worse for wear. She saw Edward and Harriet, neither speaking to the other. Edward even sat beside her on the bench, never knowing she was there. Imogen watched his face in silence and before she knew it, he was gone. The day faded like all the others. Snow came, sending only the slightest of chills through her. Imogen still did not move. Then, on a particularly chilly day, she saw the Colonel pushing through the heavy banks of snow. Tugging his coat over his shoulders, he came to the bench. His eyes squinted as he stared at the empty space. Quietly, he said, “Your sister wishes for you to come in out of the cold. It is Christmas and you should be with your family."

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Imogen blinked in surprise, watching the white puffs of air coming from his cold lips. The Colonel stroked his mustache lightly. "I assume you are here, sister,” he murmured. “I can't see you now, but I have seen you in the moonlight at this post. I don't know why you wait, but you are welcome as long as you like. The bench is yours. No one will bother you here." With that, the Colonel turned, stomping his way back into the house. "I wait,” whispered Imogen, “because there is naught else I can do. I do not wish to live without my sweet Dougal. And if he is around, he will come for me here. For this is the place we first met." Hearing the call of a bird, her eyes averted to the sky. Wistfully, she sighed. It was again spring. Imogen adjusted on the bench, stretching her hands above her head. A rabbit hopped nearby, sniffing at a peeking flower. Her legs felt like lead. Standing for the first time since her vigil began, she yawned. Then, hearing the soft crunch of footfall on the path, she turned around. Her heart sped as her eyes hungrily sought the distance. She waited in breathless suspension, but as the intruder came into view, her smile wavered. It was Reverend Stillwell. "Miss Imogen!" "Reverend,” she whispered. Her legs trembling, she fell to the ground and began to weep. "There now,” cried the vicar, gathering her up into his arms. Slowly he lifted her back onto the bench. “What is this?" "I thought you were Dougal,” she said, wiping at her eyes. “I was waiting for him." "Oh, child,” said the vicar. He patted her shoulder lightly before drawing away. Imogen studied his kindly face, his pleasant eyes. “I should not have stayed away from you so long." "How long has it been?” she asked wearily. The vicar's eyes widened in surprise. “You don't know? What have you been doing?" "I have been right here,” she stated. Suddenly, she heard the singing of a child. Margaret skipped up the path. Imogen's heart again sped. In a hush, she murmured, “Margaret?" "Yes, Margaret is staying with me,” answered the vicar. "With you?” shot Imogen. “Then—?" Margaret stopped to pick a flower near the rabbit. The creature hopped over to smell her outreached hand. The vicar waited patiently. "Then you haven't seen him?” Imogen whispered. "No. No one has seen him. I believe he has made his peace. His spirit has moved on.” Reverend Stillwell saw the frown marring her brow. Quietly, he added. “Be happy for him, Miss Imogen. It is a good place he has gone to."

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Imogen swallowed with difficulty. "Have you been here all year?” asked the vicar. Imogen nodded. “I prayed he would come. But now there is no hope for it. It is useless. I cannot live. I cannot move on. I cannot have the man I love." "You still wish to live?” asked the vicar quietly. "Yes,” she answered. “If I am not thinking of Dougal, I am thinking of how much I miss being alive." Imogen sighed. Looking over at the vicar, she asked, “How is Margaret?" "She cries a lot. She misses her father and Sir Josiah. It is not my place to say, but I believe that sometimes the child's affections for the knight are beyond the affections of a child for a guardian. I have been told what happened, what you did.” The vicar rubbed the back of his neck thoughtfully. “I would have come to you sooner about it, but I have been busy helping the lost souls you freed find their way." "Lost souls?” Imogen gasped in surprise. "You don't know?” he asked in amazement. "No,” she answered. “I came straight here that morning and have not left." "What you did that night,” he began, shaking his head in awe. “Your gallantry and Sir Josiah's sacrifice released all of the demon's captured souls. Their spirits marched through the countryside in a long procession. You should have seen it. There were a lot in need of my council." "I had no idea,” she whispered. "It is why,” the vicar said quietly. Imogen turned to him. His eyes lowered as he began again, “It is why I have been sent to make you a great offer." "Offer?” she squeaked. Her heart thought of Dougal. Unable to hide her hope, she said, “Dougal?" "No,” said the vicar. “I cannot bring him back." "Then, what?” she said in disappointment. "I have been charged to offer you the gift of life,” the vicar said. "Life?” questioned Imogen. "Yes, if you want it,” he answered. “It is what you want, is it not? To live?" She watched Margaret in the distance. The girl's face was wistful and sad, not the happy countenance of a true child. Imogen thought of everything that the child had never had a chance to experience—of

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everything she, herself, missed. And here was her opportunity to get it all back for herself. "Yes,” she agreed weakly after much thought. Her limbs shook. She thought mournfully of Dougal. “I do want to live. I want it more than almost anything." "So you have made your decision then? You will take this gift of life?” asked the vicar. Imogen swallowed with an effort. Either way, Dougal was lost to her. She watched Margaret pick another flower. Her heart pounded. This was her chance. "Yes,” she whispered. “I will take the gift."

Chapter Seventeen "I am so glad you are returned to us!” Jane gushed happily. She looked over at her sister lying on her bed to make sure she was real. “I nearly fainted yesterday, seeing you in the foyer. I missed you so much." "I missed you too,” whispered Imogen. She crawled off the bed, moving slowly over to the window. Pressing her forehead to the glass, she looked out over the estate. An acute sadness surrounded Imogen, one that she could not hide. "I daresay, since first seeing your spirit I see them all the time. I saw a maidservant this morning in the dining room. Though I don't think she saw me. She was cleaning something that wasn't there.” Jane paused to examine her needlepoint before selecting a pink thread. “I swear people will think I am crazy, always trying to talk to walls and such." "That would be Charlotte,” answered Imogen. “She is harmless. She likes to keep busy." "Oh.” Jane giggled. “It is a good thing mother is gone. I assume she will never visit. At my wedding, she refused to come into the house. And she is convinced some painting jumped out of her hands and ran away." Imogen giggled. Jane raised a suspicious eyebrow. Before her sister could ask, Imogen said, “I cannot believe I am to be an aunt. I daresay the Colonel is almost choking with pride." "As well he should,” answered Jane, patting her still-flat stomach. Lifting her needlepoint, she examined the rose pattern carefully. “I am so glad you will be here to help me with it." "You know, he came to talk to me,” said Imogen. "Who?” asked Jane, lowering her sewing to her lap. "The Colonel,” replied Imogen, “last winter when I was on the bench. I think it was right before Christmas. He came out and asked me to come inside. He said I would always be welcomed here." "He did?” gasped Jane. “He never told me." "He couldn't see me,” continued Imogen. “I think part of him even doubted I was there." "He knew,” stated Jane. “We both knew you were there."

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Imogen turned, forcing a sad smile before glancing back out over the distance. "Imogen?” Standing, Jane crossed to the window. She placed a hand on her sister's shoulder. “Why were you on the bench so long? Why didn't you come inside?" "I was waiting,” she whispered. Imogen closed her eyes to the pain. She could recall every detail of him as if no time had passed. She thought of Dougal—of his green-gray eyes that haunted her, his dark hair, the small mole beneath one eye. She ached to smell his scent, to taste his mouth, to feel his skin. Her heart burned with love, a love she could not feel returned in the gaze of his eyes. Jane didn't understand. With a sigh, she muttered, “It must be a spirit thing. I suppose time passes differently for you now." "How so?” mumbled Imogen absently. "Well, there is this man in the library who seems to be waiting for something too.” Jane looked up, startled by Imogen's gasp. Imogen's face was pale. Her hands shook violently as she turned to look at her sister's door. "I...” Imogen began, unable to finish her sentence. Her heart flung wildly in her chest. She didn't dare to hope. Without a backward glance, she ran from her sister's room. Jane watched her in surprise. Imogen raced through the hallways, tearing around the front hall, her feet sliding on the slick floor. Then, pausing by the library, she gasped for breath. Her fingers shook as she reached out to touch the door. Turning the knob, she pushed it open. The door creaked. She watched the opened doorway. Closing her eyes, she stepped inside. She was unable to look. Weakly, she said, “Dougal?" "Imogen?" A smile spread over her features. Her heart fluttered. With a cry, she turned her moist eyes to the sound. It was Dougal. He stood by her father's old desk. Her entire form shaking, she stared at him, too afraid to move. "Dougal,” she said breathlessly. “Can it be true?" Dougal crossed the floor in great strides. He grabbed her into his embrace, pressing his lips to hers. Imogen moaned against his mouth. Pulling away, she looked up to make sure he was real. Her hands ran over his face, his neck. "I love you,” she whispered in a rush, knowing it the most important thing she ever needed to say. "Oh, Imogen,” he murmured, pulling her close to his beating heart. “I love you, too." Imogen smiled, clutching him to her. Demandingly, she ordered, “Never leave me again. I could not bear it." "What happened?” he asked.

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"I thought you had moved on,” she whispered. Tears of happiness entered her eyes. "Moved on?” he chuckled as if the idea were the most absurd thing he had ever heard. Then, seeing her emotional expression, he questioned, “Why are you shaking so?" Imogen looked up into his eyes. Weakly she mumbled, “You don't remember?" "Remember? You banished me away from you but seconds ago,” he answered. “I came here to wait for you to call me back. I knew you would come back to me. And so you have. Now we can face dangers in the mist together." "I am not afraid of the mist. The mist is not evil. It is only what you allow it to be. We control the mist,” Imogen said. “The demon Josiah used it to feed into our fears." "Josiah?” questioned Dougal in mounting alarm. “He is the demon?" "Was,” Imogen said. “Dougal, a year has passed. The demon is gone. We are safe." "But—" "I promise to tell you the entire story another time,” she answered. “Right now, I just want to hold you." "Margaret?” he questioned in fear. Imogen froze. "What is it?” he shot. “Has something happened to her?" "Yes,” Imogen said carefully. "What? You must tell me." "She's alive,” Imogen whispered. "Then let us go find her." "We cannot just yet,” mumbled Imogen. “I don't know where she is." "Why? We just need to call out to her. Our spirits will find each other,” explained Dougal. "When I said she was alive, I meant alive-alive,” stated Imogen. Her eyes shone lovingly as she refused to move from Dougal's embrace. He was content to let her stay there. “As in ‘of the living'." "But, how?” he said in disbelief. "It is a long story.” Imogen said, knowing he would not be content until he knew everything. Quickly, she told him of what had happened to her since their last parting. Finally, finishing with the choice Reverend Stillwell had given her, she said, “I was given the gift of life, so I took it. And I gave it to Margaret. She is alive, Dougal, and so beautiful. You would not recognize her." "Father?"

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Imogen and Dougal turned to the door. The young woman who returned their eager stares smiled prettily. Her blonde hair was swept up into a coiffure on the top of her head, the plaits bound together with green ribbons and flowers. Her matching green eyes glittered brilliantly from a slender face full of feminine beauty. "Margaret?” Dougal gasped in awe, looking at a very grown-up version of his little girl. "I knew that you were finally here,” Margaret said as she came forward. Imogen stepped aside to let the father hug his daughter. “I could feel you talking about me." "But, how?” he murmured, touching Margaret's face. The slender features suited the old wisdom in her eyes better than the body of a child. "It seems I had a few stipulations to add into the gift,” said Imogen. “I told the reverend that Margaret was to be the youthful age of her wisdom and that she was to have the happiness her heart deserved." Margaret blushed. Then, nodding eagerly at her father, she said, “Imogen gave up her own life for mine. And Lady Jane has agreed to let me live as her ward. She and the Colonel have been very kind to me. They said that they will throw me a ball to bring me out into society properly." Dougal looked over his daughter's head. Then, turning his gaze to Imogen, he mouthed, “thank you." "I wanted to live,” she admitted, “but it would have been no life without you. You are my life. Without you there is nothing. Part of me still hoped that one day I would find you. And I have." "And you will never lose me,” he promised, “nor me, you." "Ugh,” teased Margaret, wrinkling her nose. Imogen giggled. Smiling slyly, Margaret blushed in remembrance of her girlish question as she inquired, quite smartly, “Soare you going to be my mother?" "Yes,” Dougal answered for her. Then loudly, he said, “Reverend Stillwell, you are needed." Almost instantly, the vicar was there. Scratching his head, he glanced around at the three. Weakly, he stuttered, “How?" "Time has a funny way of moving for us spirits,” Imogen said. "That it does,” murmured Dougal. He leaned down to kiss Imogen. Imogen moaned, forgetting they were watched. "You need to marry them,” whispered Margaret to the vicar. Then, giving a meaningful glance at the couple, she added wryly, “Quickly." Reverend Stillwell beamed. Clearing his throat, he said, “Hold on there. Do you both choose each other?" "Yes,” assured Dougal, breaking only slightly from the kiss. It had been too long since he had held her. He never wanted to let her go. "Yes,” echoed Imogen in-between breaths.

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"Then you are married,” stated the vicar. "What?” Imogen laughed, looking doubtfully at the man. “That cannot be right." "Ah, we're dead,” proclaimed the vicar with a shrug. “What else do we need? Not like anyone is going to come to the ceremony." Margaret rushed forward, giving them both quick hugs and her congratulations. Then, pulling back, she asked, “So will you come to my ball?" "I don't see why not,” Dougal said, laughing contentedly. “What delightful pranks we can play on your guests!" "Oh, Father! You won't ruin it for Jane, will you?” Margaret said beseechingly. Her eyes belied the fact that it was not Jane she was worried about. "No, dear, he won't ruin it for Jane,” Imogen said, shooting a mock glare of warning at her husband. Dougal laughed. "Now, if you excuse us, we have a honeymoon to attend to,” growled Dougal, grabbing his wife and fading with her into the air. The vicar blushed. Margaret gave the man's transparent form a mock hug, lifting her arms wide and round before smacking a pretend kiss to his vanishing cheek. Imogen's lips met Dougal's. And under the power of his will, he brought them to his bedchamber. The dust disappeared from his bed as he stopped next to it. Imogen glanced around. Raising an eyebrow at the unfamiliar room, she smiled in question. With a growl, he said, “I'll explain later. But for now, kiss me." And there were no more words between them. Nothing else mattered—not the past or future, for together, they would have eternity.

Epilogue Dougal lifted his hand to Imogen, escorting her though the entryway into the front hall of Rothfield. Bowing politely at the Colonel and his wife, he smiled as the man uncomfortably tried to acknowledge him and not seem out of sorts to his living guests. Imogen, seeing her husband's ploy, hit him merrily in the arm. "Behave,” she scolded. “You promised Margaret." "No one saw me,” he answered innocently. "That is exactly my point,” she hissed lovingly. “You'll send the poor Colonel to an early grave and then I won't be able to protect you from him." Dougal chuckled. He glanced around the front hall decorated with vases teeming with wildflowers, sweeping ribbons and giant bows. He hugged his wife closer to his side.

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"You realize,” he began mischievously, “that no one can see us. We could dance naked if we wanted to." Dougal smirked as he longingly glanced over her body. "Oh,” warned Imogen, feigning ire. Then, unable to resist his handsome face, she grinned. “Jane, Margaret and the Colonel can see us." "I keep forgetting,” he whispered in penitence. Imogen didn't believe it for a second. "Do hush,” ordered Imogen. “Where is our daughter? I can't wait to see her in her new dress." "Patience,” returned Dougal. He looked over the crowd of heads, past the good country folk of Haventon. His own anxiousness showed as he looked for Margaret in the crowd. Imogen smiled secretively up at him. The afterlife was good to them. She had never been happier, or more in love. The first strains of a waltz began. The sweet melody fell over the hall as partners joined together. Imogen, catching her daughter's flushed face amongst the crowd, stiffened. "Is that,” she began, narrowing her eyes in suspicion. Dougal followed her gaze. Margaret stood out from the crowd in a gown of shimmering white. Gemstones sparkled at her throat in gleaming perfection. But the stones paled next to her beauty as she gazed into the eyes of her dance partner. "Josiah?” finished Imogen. “But how?" Dougal, seeing the happiness on his daughter's face only smiled. He had spoken with the man earlier in the day about his intentions towards his daughter. Josiah had been most polite. Dougal had completely forgotten to tell his wife about it, having seen her lying naked before his fireplace. Nodding, he said to his wife, “I think it has something to do with dark worshiper's betrayal. They broke the demonic pact he made by killing him and his family. And do not discount his sacrifice that night in the forest. Not to mention your stipulation of Margaret's deserved happiness." "How would you know that?" "Do not question it,” said Dougal with a loving pull of her arm. “You will never understand my ways." "Quite so, husband,” Imogen whispered, tears of blissfulness sparkling in her eyes as she watched the girl. Her heart bubbled over with joy. Dougal swept his arm before his waist, bowing low to his wife. Then, straightening, he offered her his arms to dance. "My lady,” he murmured, “I believe the honor is mine." "Eternally,” Imogen whispered. She curtsied, taking his arm. As they waltzed, they spun through the room, unmindful of the other guests, unseen or felt by any but each other. Dougal swept her through and out of the crowd, past the front door, down the steps into the dimming evening. They danced all night until the gathering mists of early morning bid them to bed.

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Dougal and Imogen lingered at the estate through the passing years. And, every so often, someone would swear they had seen their spirits beneath the stars of an endless night. They were said to be dancing in a tuneless breeze, through a mysterious fog that gathered and swept around the trees and flowers of Rothfield Park. THE END

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