“Libby, who drew this?” Amarantha ran her fingertip along the edge of the portrait of Libby’s face and shoulders, drawn in pencil on a thick sheet of paper. “It is perfect. Is it Jane’s work?”

“That man in the library did it.” Libby tugged a gown over her head then smoothed it out. “See the other side?”

Amarantha flipped over the sheet. In firm, curling script it read To the Angel of Regular Features, and below that, The Dragon.

“It is an extraordinary likeness. Did you sit for him after all?”

“No. I haven’t seen him except that once with you. The picture just appeared here this morning.”

“What a talent he has, to render your face so well after only seeing you once—and so briefly.”

“Iris said he left this morning. Do button me up. I am eager to discover if the duke’s new guest is a man of science and intelligence.”

“New guest?”

“He arrived just after lunch.”

Iris popped into the room. “Amarantha! Tabitha said to tell you that she cannot tear herself away from writing and will not come to dinner. It must be a very exciting book.”

“I would not describe it as exciting.” Rather, harrowing. “But I believe it does her heart good to write it.”

Libby led the way down the winding stairwell to the great hall, where the long table was set for dinner. Everyone else save Mrs. Tate was already present, and Amarantha forced herself to meet the duke’s gaze.

“Mrs. Aiken begs you to forgive her absence from dinner this evening,” she said. “She is engaged in a writing project which needs her entire attention.”

“I say, cousin, what an odd duck you have become,” came a gentleman’s drawl. “You spent the afternoon filling my ears with tales of canals and spring crops, and entirely failed to mention that you have yet more beauties hiding under your roof.” Mr. Jonah Brock stood across the room, a glass of wine dangling from his fingers. “And here I had already thought I was a lucky fellow, with the Miss Tates to please my eyes,” he added with a handsome smile.

The duke moved away from the sideboard. “Allow me to—”

“Mrs. Garland and I are already acquainted,” his cousin interrupted. “Reverend Garland and I were particular friends before his unfortunate passing. Madam, it is a great pleasure to see you again.” He bowed deeply.

In appearance he was entirely unlike his cousin. With gold hair that curled in appealing ringlets over his brow, laughing blue eyes, and a flare for fashion that suited his slender frame, he presented a picture of manly grace and gentility.

“Sir.” She did not curtsy. “How unexpected to see you in Scotland.”

“I would say the same, except of course that we know my cousin likes to surround himself with beautiful women.”

Ignoring that comment, the duke introduced him to Libby and Iris.

“Are you a man of science, Mr. Brock?” Libby said.

“Not strictly speaking, Miss Shaw. I was steward for five years of an extensive property in the Indies. Such a position requires a man to understand the properties of nature to a certain extent—the chemistry of soil content, the vicissitudes of climate, and the like. I am afraid, however, that science is not of especial interest to me.”

“And yet you held the position for half a decade.”

“Of necessity,” he said with a winning smile. “Not all of us can be dukes, of course.”

“I should think to manage a plantation successfully for five years would be a great achievement,” Jane said softly.

Mr. Brock offered her a taking smile. “You are generous, Miss Tate.”

Throughout dinner, Mr. Brock was charming toward all. To Dr. Shaw, Mr. Tate, and Thomas he spoke with intelligence that showed him to be a man of sense and information. To Alice and the young women he offered light flattery mingled with solicitous attention to their interests. When he mentioned that he and his cousin had served together in the navy, he was easily convinced to share stories of their many adventures.

Only their host said nothing to him throughout dinner, and only Amarantha knew that a snake had entered their midst.

It did not distress her for her own sake; she had long since come to terms with the unfortunate influence of Mr. Brock’s friendship on her husband. But for Jane she grew concerned. The eldest Miss Tate was all pretty blushes for the newcomer.

At tea afterward, Libby announced that a meteor shower had happened the previous night and was likely to be happening again now.

“I am far too old to stand out in the yard with my neck craned, Elizabeth,” Alice said.

“I seem to recall that the best place for star-watching in this castle is the roof,” Mr. Brock said and, as they climbed the steps to the roof, continued to chat with the others as prettily as a town beau.

By the time they reached the top of the stairs, Amarantha was all over hot with anger and cold with memory. For all his winning manners, she wanted no part of Jonah Brock.

“I will turn in now,” she said as the others wandered out across the rooftop.

“Won’t you stay to catch a glimpse of a shooting star, Mrs. Garland?” he said. “I understand that a wish made upon one has an excellent chance of coming true.” He smiled, and then his gaze shifted to their host.

“I will see you to the gatehouse,” the duke said.

She moved away swiftly. “No, thank you. I am fine on my own.”

Gabriel crossed the hall, took up two glasses, and filled them. Setting one before his cousin, who lounged in a chair, he set the other atop the mantel.

“What brings you here, Jonah?”

“Why of course this warm welcome, cousin. I feel entirely at home again.”

Gabriel stared at the man who had been more of a brother to him than his actual brother.

“You have not written,” Jonah finally said. “It has been five and a half years.”

“Aye.”

“You have condemned me to exile.”

“You go where you like without my interference or approval. As you always have.”

“Come now, cousin.” His mumble was subdued. “Did not those stories of our past exploits warm your memories for our friendship?”

“They reminded me o’ the reckless fools we once were.”

“Ah. The duke speaks.” His fingers played with the edge of his glass. “I imagined you here—as this.” He waved his glass at the darkened hall. “Do you remember? I wished it for you, for my brother-from-another-mother to become lord of the manor, master of Haiknayes and Kallin, host to all the most interesting people in Scotland. And now here you are, welcoming to Haiknayes blustery merchants, stalwart physicians, risqué spinsters . . . even a lovely widow.” He allowed the word to linger. “What an excellent host you have turned out to be. And the improvements on the estate here are worthy of you as well. Thank you for the tour today, by the by. I was impressed.”

“Were you?” he said without parting his teeth.

“Yes.” He looked down into his whiskey. “I am not the villain you wish me to be, Gabe,” he said without a trace of raillery. “Oh, it’s true: once upon a time I tried to teach you to be heedless. Truly reckless. But it never took, did it? Even in the midst of our fun, you always wanted responsibility. You craved authority. It is in your blood, I suppose. You deserved the Theia, you know. I never resented you for winning that command instead of me.”

“I am glad to hear you approved o’ the admiralty’s choice. Now, enough with the soliloquy, Jonah. What do you want?”

“Isn’t it obvious? I want your friendship again.”

“You’ll no’ have it.”

His face went slack. “So swiftly you decide?”

“’Twas you who decided it that night in Montego Bay.” The night that had changed Gabriel’s life forever.

Jonah stood up abruptly and pivoted away.

“One mistake and you wipe our friendship, our past, entirely clean? Am I never to be forgiven, Gabe?”

“Murder is no’ a mistake, Jonah.”

“It was an accident. I was drunk. We were always drunk. You were drunk that night too.”

“Aye. But I recall having good reason to be. An’ I didna kill a man.”

Facing away, his cousin was silent a long moment.

“I would not have done it,” Jonah finally said, the quiet words nearly swallowed by the crackle of flames, “if you had not said what you did. Do you remember your words to me that night, Gabriel?”

He remembered everything about that night: the night he had got leave from his superiors to return to Jamaica for a single purpose, only to learn that the girl who had promised to wait for him had not.

“Dinna blame me, cur.”

“Ah, there’s the old Gabe, snarling like a feral dog.” Jonah looked at him over his shoulder. “Do you know . . . Charlotte came to care for me. Eventually.” His eyes were unnaturally dull. “Perhaps I am not such a thorough villain after all. Or perhaps it was merely her goodness. Imagine, a woman with a heart so pure that she could grow to love the man who killed her brother.”

“She didna love you.”

Jonah turned to him sharply. “You don’t know that.”

“Aye, I do. She was Gregory’s property. You were Gregory’s steward. She had no choice but to submit to you. There can be no love where there is no liberty.”

His cousin looked away. “It is the way of the world, Gabriel. You know that as well as I.”

“The world is what we make it, Jonah.”

“It is, if you happen to be a captain of a naval frigate. Or a duke.”

“Your Grace,” Dr. Shaw said from the doorway. “Oh, I beg your pardon, gentlemen.”

Gabriel went forward. “Doctor?”

“Mrs. Tate has had a difficult day and I anticipate more discomfort to come. I have advised her not to travel.”

“She’s welcome to remain as long as necessary, Doctor.”

“Will you share a nightcap with me, Dr. Shaw?” Jonah said. “My cousin will not drink to my health. But a medical man cannot refuse that toast, can he?”

Gabriel left them to the whiskey. Tonight he did not crave spirits or authority or anything other than a woman with eyes that spoke her thoughts even beneath the light of falling stars.

She had not left Haiknayes. She had remained, despite him. She had questions she wanted answered, so he supposed she had good reason to remain.

He took the steps to the gatehouse three at a time and nearly collided with her as she came through the door.

“Oh!” she said. “What are you doing here?”

“Where are you going?”

“Tabitha went to the kitchen for a snack. I was going to keep her company. Perhaps as busy as you were with all that glowering at your cousin you forgot that my friend did not dine with the rest of—”

“There’s no one inside?”

“No.”

He grasped her hand and drew her within, then shut the door behind them. She tugged away.

“What are you doing?” Her words sounded thin. She held her hand close to her stomach.

“You didna leave.”

“Obviously not. I did go riding, though. What beautiful countryside this is, so different from Kallin, less dramatic yet equally stunning. Are you here to throw me out now? In the middle of the night?”

“No. Never leave. Never.”

Her eyes widened. “What has happened?”

“Nothing except that I retract my order. You canna leave.”

“Now you are demanding that I stay?”

“Aye.” He smiled.

Amarantha’s knotted stomach became a flight of swallows.

“You know,” she said, “today on my ride I gave this—this back-and-forth between us—some thought. And I am convinced that it would be best to—”

“When will you let me touch you again?” His gaze was on her mouth.

“That is what I was about to speak to.” He was so close, entirely filling the space and her sight and every sense, a big shadowy wall of perfect lips and intoxicating scent and sculpted jaw and hair that she could sink her fingers into. “This vow to honor the supposed gauntlet I threw down . . . Are you playing a game? Give, take, give. That sort of game?”

“When you look at me,” he said, each word slow and clear, “’tis as though I am seeing that girl, the way you looked at me then.”

A ripple of fear and pleasure went through her. “Nothing remains of that girl.”

“It does. You rode for four hours today, alone.”

“How do you know that?”

“My house. My horse. I pay the stable hand.”

“If I had known that I would be so closely monitored—”

“You would still have ridden for four hours alone. I’ve never known a woman so eager to run free o’ the bridle.”

“Bridle? Have you just compared me to a—”

“You’re a wild one, Amarantha Vale.” The rough wave of syllables over his tongue was a caress.

“You have interrupted me four times now. You have never interrupted me before in our acquaintance. I think Mr. Brock’s visit has distressed you.”

“Acquaintance? Our acquaintance?”

Her heartbeats were so loud she could hear them in her ears. “I rode because I needed to . . . go.”

“Yet you are here now. With me.”

Her palms were pressed to the wall behind her.

“I am,” she said.

“I am now going to kiss you. Finally. How are you with that?”

Nerves raced straight up her throat. “What about all your talk of trust?”

“To hell with trust. I’d rather return to lust. Much more satisfying in the short run. The long run can take care o’ itself.”

“It would be a mistake. A greater mistake than I have already made.”

“Then or now?”

“Then and now. Twice. Since. Always,” she whispered.

“My God.” His voice was ragged. “Amarantha—”

She slipped out from between him and the wall.

“I should go,” she said, pulling the door open.

“To where? ’Tis fixing to freeze.”

“I won’t feel it.”

“Stay here in the warmth,” he said. “I’ll leave. It’ll be hell, but I’ll leave.”

“I would like to walk.”

“You rode for four hours today.”

“A brief walk. I am somewhat overheated.”

She went. The gate was locked. There was no way out. Pivoting and running along the wall that bordered the courtyard, she reached the garden gate. It was locked too. No escape.

Bridle.

His words—the locked gate—the castle itself seemed to be mocking her.

Recrossing the courtyard in the flickering light of the torch that was dimmed by the brilliance of the stars, she hurried up the gatehouse steps.

The chamber was empty. She had told him to go, and he had done as she wished. Smoothing her hands over her disordered hair and gown, she felt acutely the sensations of her own palms and fingers upon her body. Desire spun in her. Five and a half years of denying it had not destroyed it.

She went down the steps, into the courtyard, and to the keep.

No one stirred within, every room empty and dark. She climbed to the roof. As she walked onto the parapets the cold wrapped around her. The stars were brilliant, each tumbling onto another like little sheep running over a nighttime hill. Staring into them, she waited for a star to fall until her eyes blurred.

A footfall sounded on the roof.

She swung around.

He stood at the open door to the stairwell, moonlight illumining the living vision of her fantasy man.

“All the gates are locked,” she said.

“If you wish it, Amarantha Vale, I will give to you every key in the place.”

“So that I can escape?”

“So that you willna need to.”

“I don’t want to escape. Not at this moment.”

Across the roof he walked toward her. Her heel hit the crenellation, and then he was upon her, so close she could see the fever shining in his eyes.

“Now,” he said, his voice very low.

“Yes. Yes. Y—”

He brought their mouths together.

Hands surrounding her face, fingers sinking into her hair, he offered her the most beautiful gift: his lips on hers for a long, long perfect moment. His mouth. Real and perfect. Gentle, controlled strength.

Drawing away only far enough to look into her eyes, he said, “Worth the wait.”

“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes.”

With his hands he tilted her face upward a bit, and then bent his head again. This time he gave her more than beautiful stillness. He kissed her softly, cupping her face and taking one taste at a time. Tingles in her lips became falling stars inside her, sizzling downward.

“Mm,” he murmured. “Better than both whiskey an’ rum.”

“Much better,” she whispered, lifted her hands, and laid them on his chest. He was so hard, an alien male landscape for her hunger. Fanning her hands out, she pressed her fingertips into him, needing to put her hands all over him and feel him everywhere. He was breathing roughly, his mouth a tantalizing inch away, his eyes closed.

“What are you doing?” His utterance was tight.

“I want you.” She whispered the forbidden words. “I have always wanted you.”

With a groan, he captured her mouth beneath his. Her lips were open yet he did not recoil.

“This mouth,” he whispered, and that was all before he kissed her again, his caresses urging her lips to part wider. She wanted to kiss him back, to move her lips against his and to feel all the heat of his mouth.

So she did.

A rumble of pleasure came against her palms. He kissed her deeper now, his hand sinking into her hair and holding her mouth to his, closer, a decadent, hot, wet meeting of lips. It was wholly new and free. His lips were soft and demanding, his tongue skimming hers, caressing, making her want more so swiftly.

She broke away from his mouth, but both of his hands held her close.

“You make this feel so good,” she said upon a little pant.

“’Tis the fun o’ kissing, wild one. An’ touching.”

“Touching?” She was not at all certain of his meaning.

“Aye,” he murmured. “Touching.” From the curve of her throat his fingertips traced the sinew in her neck as though it were precious and desirable. Such a spring of happiness bubbled up in her.

“Yes.”

“’Tis an unspecific word. Yes, you are enjoying this?” So softly, he stroked along her shoulder. “Or, yes, you would like more.”

“Yes.” She laughed.

He set his lips upon her throat.

Heaven—tickling, hot, delectable heaven curled into her breasts and made her nipples ache.

Slowly, delectably, he allowed his knuckles to slip around the side of her breast, and then his hand. He brought their mouths together again and the caress of his tongue made her need to feel him. Awake with need, she was shaking.

Then his hands were moving, scooping around her shoulders, down her back, drawing her closer, drawing her to him. Her thighs came against his, her hips, her breasts against his chest. His arousal was obvious, and hard, but he did not put her away, as though he wanted her to feel how he desired her. She was flushed and hot and did not know what to do with her hands. She yearned to touch him. He held her with only one hand spread across the small of her back, and as he bent to kiss her throat his hand surrounded her breast.

Soft whimpers from her throat scored the midnight silence. It was like nothing she had felt, nothing in the world—his hand holding her entirely, intentionally. His fingers stroked, touching her nipple through the gown.

“Beautiful woman,” he murmured against her throat, his voice unsteady.

Touching her was affecting him.

“Speak again,” she whispered.

He brought his lips to hers and his thumb passed across her nipple again, then circled it, playing, taunting. It seemed he knew precisely where to touch her to make her need more.

“What would you have me say?” he said, his lips brushing the corner of hers, then her throat.

“Anything. I want—” She caught her confession between her teeth.

“What do you want, wild one? Give me your order. You have but to utter it an’ thy will be done.”

“I want to hear in your voice how touching me moves you.”

“Moves me?” He drew a shuddering breath. “Undoes me.” Upon the words, his hand slipped around her buttocks, cupping it completely, and he fit her to him. “Do you feel what you do to me, wild one?”

“More,” she heard herself say.

He gave her more, urging her to him with the power of his hand until she was seeking him without any urging. Allowing him to press her knees apart, she welcomed the hardness of his body against hers. Sweet, tight heat was rising in her, tangling her inside and making her need even more. With nothing but clothing between them he was making her make love to him, and she wanted it.

Fingers sunk in her hair and mouth commanding hers, he let her bear up against him. She was wild for it—for the friction of their bodies pressed so intimately together, scandalously, beautifully. Hunger licked like flames between her legs, hot and raw and needing him there.

Pleasure fell open within her, her cry of surprise becoming a moan of ecstasy as the convulsions swept up her body. She gulped air and more tumbling whimpers sought to escape against his lips. She swallowed them back. From cheeks to toes her skin felt afire with shock and shame—and triumph. Hands gripping his hard arms, she felt his kiss on her tender lips with her whole body, as though he kissed her everywhere now.

“Gabriel.” The word was barely audible, and shaking.

“Judas, woman.” His hands were tight about her waist. “You are—your lips, your voice—”

Sliding her palm up his chest, she did what she had always wanted to do: she touched him as he had touched her that morning in the empty shop, with her fingertips, meeting the firm flesh and bone of his jaw and stroking, discovering the day’s growth of whiskers that made the hot contractions echo deep within her again, and then allowing her fingertips to stray across his lips.

“I dreamed of touching you like this.” She struggled to draw full breaths, caressing the man she had craved since before she even understood what feminine craving was. Naïve and innocent, too ignorant to imagine anything more and too in love to imagine anything better, she had fantasized this.

He remained still, his eyes dark shadows watching her, his breathing reckless.

Drawing out of his grasp, she stepped back and sliced her palm across his cheek.

He blinked hard and shifted his jaw.

“That,” he said, “was no’ quite what I expected to happen next.”

“That was for making me have wrongful thoughts about a man who was not my betrothed when you knew that I was too naïve to understand how you were affecting me.”

For a moment he said nothing. “You said you’d put it behind you.”

“I did. I thought I had.” She took a big breath. “Obviously I haven’t.”

“All right.”

“All right? Is that the sum total of your reaction? I have never struck another person in my life, yet you stand there as though being struck by a woman is a daily occurrence for you. Perhaps it is. Of course it is. Oh, dear God, have I learned nothing? Nothing?” she said, jerking her face upward.

“Being struck by a woman—by anyone—is no’ a daily occurrence for me, fortunately,” he said with beautiful control in his voice. “For, unsurprisingly, it smarts.”

She stared at her stinging hand, then at him.

“Good Lord, what have I done? You make me forget myself entirely. Forgive me.”

“Have you been wanting to slap me for five an’ a half years?”

“No. You have just inspired my memory.”

“I’d like to inspire it more. But only the part before the slap, if we can arrange that.”

Biting both lips between her teeth, she walked swiftly toward the battlements.

“Please go. I don’t want”—this weakness, this desperate desire to be near him and to have more of him and to laugh with him—“I don’t want you.”

“You do. You know you do.”

“Yes, I do. But please go now anyway.”

“What wrongful thoughts?”

“Have so few women admired you lately that you must reach back into ancient history to find comfort in the virginal fantasies of a girl?”

“Every word that falls from those lips drives me a wee bit madder. Have pity, lass.”

“I really believe that your madness needs no assistance from me.”

“If I have ever been mad, woman, ’tis entirely because o’ you.”

“No.” She faced him across the nighttime glittering with frost and starlight. “I think you truly are mad. You must be to continue this mysterious concealment.”

His brow knit.

“More silence,” she said. “You continue to refuse to share your grand secret with me. Then perhaps you will answer specific questions. Why do the women of Glen Village hold you in such awe that they conceal your secret too? Why do the Edinburgh police allow the symbol of the so-called Devil’s Duke to decorate gateposts and alleyways all over the city? Why does no one remove those marks—marks I think have nothing to do with the Freemasons but are there to guide young women eager to find the Devil’s Duke? And why do Bess and Angus Allen still admire you—trust you despite your blackened reputation and the mysterious fire that nearly destroyed their livelihoods? Deny me answers to those questions, if you will.”

His breaths made stark plumes of starlit cold.

“How do you know Bess and Angus?”

“I went there. Months ago I went to the place that everyone said the missing girls had last been seen. I looked for you there and when I did not find you I sought information about you.”

“Months ago?” he said almost too quietly.

“I could find little trace of Penny, but I had reason to believe she was searching for you. You could not be found in Edinburgh. No one seemed to know where you were.”

“I was in London, at Westminster. The prime minister an’ the king knew where I was.”

“I did not actually wish an audience with you, specifically. I believed that if I found Cassandra Finn and Maggie Poultney I might find my friend. I went to your house that day of the fire. Inside it.”

His eyes widened. “You were in my house? My house?”

“I was ill at the time, in a terrible fever. I don’t actually recall any of it, but in the hospital I had vivid dreams of the inside of a house I had never seen before.”

“Hospital?”

“It was weeks before I was able to think clearly again, and many more weeks before I was well enough to leave hospital and return there. It was then that I spoke with Bess and Angus.”

“Weeks? My God, Amarantha.” He shifted partially away and ran a hand over his face. The gesture was so familiar—so him—she ached despite her shaking. “I dinna know which is strongest now: anger that you didna share this with me when you first told me o’ your search for your friend, or terror for what you might have suffered if you actually were in the house when the fire—” He broke off and took a hard breath. “But the strongest feeling I’m having now, I’ll admit, is pleasure an’ pride for the brave, enterprising woman you are. Why didna you contact me, write to me, find me so that I could help you find her?”

“I tried! I went all the way to Kallin.”

“You used a false name. You didna trust that I would help you.”

“Why should I have trusted you?” she cried. “You, of all men?”

“I never gave you reason to think me a dishonorable man, Amarantha. Ever. Despite what I wanted o’ you. Despite what I could have taken from you, had I chosen to.”

He had only taken her heart.

“I have never known what to think of you,” she said. “But in truth it is my own feelings that I do not trust, my feelings for you that are tangled up with the past.”

“So ’tis easier to believe me a villain?”

“I did not want you to be the devil! Every piece of evidence was pointing toward you, and I wanted to hate you because of my own guilt for what I had done then. I had allowed it to happen between us, despite the promises I had made to others. I wanted the fault to be yours. I had to know for myself if you were truly what they were saying of you.”

Gabriel’s gut was churning with the most painful sensations. Anger and incredulity. Despair.

“You actually believed that I could be abducting an’ murdering young women.”

“No. No. How can you not understand? I was betrothed to another man yet I could not stop thinking about you, longing to be with you, even months after—I needn’t tell you this. You knew how I felt.”

Months?

“I thought I did,” he said, less certain now.

“I made such a horrible mistake marrying as I did, misunderstanding a man’s character so thoroughly, trusting him so blindly that despite what I knew, I believed his lies. When I came to Scotland and heard the rumors about you, I had to know the truth. I could not bear that the man who had made me laugh and fall in love with each moment of every day—that he could truly be a monster. A seducer of innocence, yes. I had long since known you to be that. But not what they said you were. It was simply not possible. I had to prove to myself that at least once my heart had not been entirely blind.”

Her heart.

Her eyes were glittering.

“If you have nothing to hide,” she said, “tell me the truth about Cassandra Finn and Maggie Poultney now. Where are they?”

“Kallin.”

The cold wind twisted about the battlements.

She brushed past him and through the door, and her footsteps receded swiftly down the stairs.