“I didn’t, Papa!” Cynthia Tate cried. She and her father had retreated to a separate chamber, but everyone who was gathered in the great hall could hear them. “Forgive me, I beg of you!”

Dr. Shaw entered the hall.

“Doctor, tell us at once how she fares,” Alice demanded.

“The ankle is broken. But it is a clean break and Elizabeth has set it expertly. Otherwise, Mrs. Tate has suffered a number of uncomfortable bruises. I have given her a draught, which should allow her to sleep.”

“We are so grateful, Doctor,” Jane said. “Your Grace, on behalf of my family, I apologize for this disturbance.”

“Accidents happen.” His eyes were hooded.

“But how did it happen?” Alice said.

“Mrs. Tate indicated that she tripped over the kitten,” Dr. Shaw said.

“Out the window? Who would believe that?”

“Not I,” Libby said, entering the room. “Given the distance of the window from the floor, the width of the wall, and Mrs. Tate’s height, it is impossible.”

“Are you suggesting, Elizabeth, that Cynthia pushed her mother out the window?” Alice said.

“Of course not,” Dr. Shaw said. “Come, Elizabeth. You will wish to change before dinner.”

They went from the hall.

“Bellarmine,” the duke said, taking up a carafe. “Will you take a dram?”

Thomas looked up from his study of the floor. “Don’t mind if I do.”

“I should like to drink whiskey, too,” Iris declared.

“When you’re older,” the duke said, and for the first time in hours he smiled. He carried a glass to Jane. “Drink it, lass. ’Twill help.”

Wide-eyed, Jane sipped, and coughed.

“Take it slowly,” he said. “Anybody else care for whiskey?” His gaze came to Amarantha, unsmiling now. “Or rum?”

“Aha, the exotic brew of the Indies,” Thomas said. “Although I suppose not so exotic to some members of our party.”

“If you are suggesting, sir,” Tabitha said, “that Mrs. Garland and I were wont to drink spirits in Jamaica, you are mistaken. We are good Christian women.”

“I—I—” A flush crept over his cheeks. “Not at all, Mrs.—ma’am. I beg your pardon for—that is—for—” He bowed. “I do beg your pardon.”

“Mr. Bellarmine,” Amarantha said. “Mrs. Aiken is teasing you.”

His brow pleated.

“My husband owned a sugar mill,” Tabitha said. “His customers paid him with molasses which he used to distill rum.”

“Raw rum is only suitable for hollowing out a man’s insides,” Alice stated.

“No’ if a man adds sugar to the glass,” the duke said. He was watching Amarantha, not with pleasure, she thought, and she was a tangle of contradictory emotions.

How on earth could honesty feel so utterly confusing?

“Well now.” Mr. Tate strode in. “Mrs. Tate is fast asleep an’ the girl’s gone to bed.”

Jane moved toward him. “Papa—”

“’Tis no’ a punishment, Janie. She wishes it.” He clapped his hands over his waistcoat. “Now, Duke, where’s that roast we’ve been smelling all day? Nothing like country air to give a man a hearty appetite.”

It was a merry feast. Without Mrs. Tate to insist on appropriate seating arrangements, everybody sat wherever they wished. Leading Tabitha to the place at the right of the head, the duke bent her ear throughout dinner. Occasionally he spoke to Iris at his left, who was mostly occupied with the kitten in her lap. He did not once look at Amarantha.

“His Grace asked many questions about Jonathan’s distillery,” Tabitha said after tea as they walked across the forecourt to the gatehouse. “He is well-informed. Has he a distillery of his own?”

“I don’t know.” She entered their quarters. “I know little about him. Once I thought I did. But he is a stranger now.” A stranger who still made her weak with longing. She turned to close the door and a young man was mounting the steps. Lean and pale-skinned, with a shock of short brown hair, he had the resting energy of a creature just on the cusp of manhood.

“Milady, His Grace wishes to see you at church at once.”

“Now? It must be nearly midnight.”

“At church?” Tabitha turned a meaningful look to Amarantha.

“I cannot. Tell him—”

“Begging your pardon, milady, but he said if you dinna come now, he’ll come an’ collect you. An’ he said to remind you that he be a duke.”

Amarantha laughed, then snapped her mouth shut.

“Mrs. Garland will come in a moment.” Tabitha closed the door on the youth. “You must go.”

“For what purpose? No. I should not—”

“Amarantha, he looks at you the way my Jonathan used to look at me.”

Her breaths stole from between her lips in hopeless little wisps.

“That cannot be.”

“You lecture me not to run away from my fears, yet here you are doing so yourself.” Tabitha fastened the cloak clasp beneath Amarantha’s chin. “If you have not returned here in thirty minutes, I will send Dr. Shaw after you.”

“Ten minutes.”

“Twenty-five.”

“Have you a clock?”

Tabitha pushed her toward the door.

Frigid wind swept across the forecourt. The young man held forth a coat.

“’Tis a frightful night, milady. His Grace bade me bring this.”

It was heavy, the black wool draping to the ground. His coat. Dragging courage into her lungs with the cold air, she said, “I am ready.”

The youth halted at the door of the church.

“You are not coming in?” she said.

“I was only to fetch you.” He bowed and disappeared into the darkness.

Lit with pillar candles the length of the nave, with more candles in the side chapel in which she had knelt the day before, the church glowed warmly despite the chilly air. The Duke of Loch Irvine stood at the far end, before the chancel. When the door creaked closed, he turned to face her.

“Have you summoned me for a diabolical midnight ritual?” Her question echoed in the high stone vaults.

“You came.”

“I obeyed under threat.”

“You came,” he said again.

“If you are planning to sacrifice me to a horrid demon, you should not have used such cheerful candles. Black would have suited the occasion better.”

He walked toward her and Amarantha could not make her feet or legs function. He was all angles and shadows and wide shoulders and sure stride and he did look like a devil.

Then he was no more than a yard away and it seemed that he would not halt. She backed up and banged into the door. He stopped barely a foot from her.

“You came,” he said in a quiet, deep voice—nothing like a devil—rather like a prayer.

“If the white candles are meant to symbolize purity,” she said, pushing off her hood, “I think it is probably important for you to know that you have chosen the wrong victim. I would not want the ritual spilling of a virgin’s blood to be in vain.”

“Dinna insult my candles.” His gaze moved over her hair. “They cost the worth of an honest man’s day’s wages an’ wanted a quarter hour to light.”

“The young man that led me here to my doom did not light them?”

The slightest crease teased one side of his mouth. “A devil’s got to see to his own candles if he’s to do the thing correctly.”

“I see. They are very nice candles. Thank you for the loan of your coat.” She tugged it off and gave it to him.

He tossed it on the ground.

“Now,” he said.

“Now you will produce some sort of ritual dagger, I assume?”

“If by dagger you mean my pointed charm, aye.” In the fire-lit darkness his eyes seemed peculiarly bright.

“What is this about?”

“By God, now that you’re here, I’m having trouble recalling it.”

“Church,” she prompted. “Candles. Diabolical ritual. Uncompromising order to obey.”

“Amarantha Vale—”

“Garland.”

“—allow me to be clear now.” He moved forward and the space between them became mere inches. His shadowed gaze raked her face. Lifting a hand, he placed his palm on the door beside her and bent his head. She tilted her chin upward. If he wanted her lips closer, she would satisfy him in that. She wanted it too. She wanted him and she was frightened. Dressed up in candlelight and gentle humor, there was danger here.

“Clear,” she barely managed to mouth, “about what?”

“If I were a dishonorable man”—his words came as soft heat across her lips—“I would have kissed you that morning.”

“Oh?” It sounded like a sigh.

“An’ I would kiss you now.”

“But you won’t?”

“God knows, I want to.”

“You—”

“I willna.”

The air was entirely still around them, all silent save for the wind singing against the church walls without. They were entirely alone and she was cold and hot, and trembling fiercely.

“What if I want you to kiss me now?” She nearly choked over her courage.

“I’ve no’ asked you here to make love to you.”

“You did not ask.” She could not stop staring at his lips. They were beautiful: lush and dusky and carved by a divine sculptor like his cheekbones and heavy brows and fine flaring nose. The longing to feel him pressed out from beneath her skin. She wanted her fingertips on his face, to touch every feature. “You demanded.”

“I have a piece to say.”

“Why didn’t you say it in the dungeon?”

“You’re a churchy woman.”

At present she felt far from churchy. Her entire body was alive as it had not been in years, her breasts prickling and belly tight. She needed more than her fingertips on his face. She needed her lips on his. Finally.

Damn her fear. Damn her certain knowledge that this would end—must end—poorly. She wanted him.

“If you only intend to speak to me, you needn’t stand quite so close,” she said. “Or close at all, really. You are trying to tease me.”

“No.”

“Then what are you doing?”

“I’m making a show o’ heroic self-restraint.” He seemed to draw a deep breath. “Now listen, woman—”

“Woman? I think I prefer that to lass.”

“Aye?”

“It sounds thrillingly savage. Highlanders, you know.”

“I was born an’ raised here in Midlothian.”

“You have an estate in the Highlands. That must count for something.”

“I’m no’ a beast.”

“This really is not the best circumstance in which to try to convince me of that.”

“You already know I am no beast. Amarantha . . .”

“Gabriel,” she whispered, tasting his name on her tongue for the first time. It was sweet and rich and sacred all at once.

She saw the hard constriction of his throat.

“In a church now,” he said, “I have a promise to make to you.”

“A promise?”

“I will never lie to you. An’ I ask you to trust me.”

“Why should I?”

“I’m a wee bit desperate, you see.”

“Desperate, how?”

“Desperate to have you.”

“How is that intended to make me trust you?”

“If you willna trust me,” he said, “I’ll have to resort to a ritual.”

She could reach up, grab his taut jaw between her hands, and draw his mouth to hers. “What sort of ritual?”

“Mysterious gestures. Muttered incantations. The usual sort.”

“And the ritual sacrifice would be . . . ?”

“Me, o’ course.” He seemed to inhale close to her temple. “I’ll even give you the knife to perform it.”

“The knife?”

“You’ve always held it anyway.” His hand fell away from the door. “Now,” he said. “Go.”

“Go?”

“Go.”

“Go?”

“Aye. I’m taking up the gauntlet you’ve thrown down.”

“What gauntlet?”

“I’ll no’ touch you.”

“You won’t?” she said upon what sounded a bit like a groan.

“No’ until you trust me again. Now, go.”

She could not move; her limbs were frozen. She blinked.

“Blast it, woman. Go.”

“You know, I don’t care for being ordered about by a man.”

“O’ course you dinna. Go.”

Dragging open the door, she slipped out. The wind battered her the length of the drive. Torches had been set at intervals all the way to the keep. For her. She knew it was all for her. He had said the entire house party was for her.

But how could she believe it? In four and a half years of marriage her own husband had done nothing for her.

She mounted the steps to the gatehouse on peculiarly light feet.

“You have just missed Jane Tate,” Tabitha said as Amarantha removed her cloak.

“She came here? This late?”

“Yes. What happened at the church?” Tabitha’s eyes were worried.

“That can wait.” She wanted to hold it to herself, to savor it privately for a time. “Has Mrs. Tate’s condition worsened? Or is it Cynthia?”

“No. Jane is distressed about another matter, Amarantha. Her parents have betrothed her to a man without her consent.”

“Oh, good heavens. That is unfortunate indeed.”

“She is afraid of him and came to seek counsel of you, who have been married.”

“But I consented to my marriage.” She hung her cloak on the peg. “Who is this bridegroom she fears?”

She turned to meet Tabitha’s silence.

“He is the Duke of Loch Irvine.”