The sky was brilliant blue, the earth silvery white. Not wanting to brave the frigid morning before the sun burned away the ice, Amarantha went to the place in the house she felt the happiest: the greenhouse.

Her body ached in the manner it did after a vigorous walk, except more specifically, and she had slept little. But she could not remain abed. If he woke while she was lying there staring at him, he would take her into his arms and make her believe in a fantasy again.

She was trimming spent leaves when Jane opened the door.

“Amarantha? I am so glad to find you here.” Her voice was unusually high.

“Good morning, Jane.” She set down the shears. “Is something amiss?”

“Cynthia is gone.”

“Gone? Gone, how?”

“She did not sleep in her bed last night. I thought she did. I saw her go to the bedchamber she shares with Iris. But when Iris woke this morning she found—”

“Pillows!” Iris exclaimed as she burst past her eldest sister. “She’s so surly when I wake her, when she didn’t rise and dress before breakfast I never realized she wasn’t being her usual miserable self.”

“We only discovered it when she did not come down to breakfast.”

“She disguised her absence with pillows?” Amarantha said. In her childhood she had done the same to escape onto the estate undiscovered.

“She has gone off with the stable hand,” Iris pronounced.

“With Miss Pike?” Amarantha untied her apron.

“The stable hand from Haiknayes,” Jane said, twisting her hands before her. “A young man!”

“I don’t understand. He did not come with you here, did he?”

“No. Only our old coachman. But Iris believes that our sister and Mick contrived for him to follow us here and wait until she could find opportunity to steal away. Amarantha, she is eloping with him!”

“Romantically?” Young Mick was hardly the portrait of a romantic hero. But she herself had made a similar mistake at Cynthia’s age.

“After Papa was so displeased with her for Mama’s fall from the window,” Jane said, “Cynthia spoke passionately about how she wished a dashing hero would come along and rescue her.”

“Then in the next breath,” Iris said, “as though we don’t have a jot of sense—like her—she started to go on and on and on about wonderful and handsome and clever Mick.” Iris rolled her eyes. “She’s positively silly for him.”

“And from this you concluded that he followed you here and has stolen her away?”

“We believe she went with him willingly,” Jane said. “Two of her gowns are missing, and some underclothes.”

“Have you told your father?”

“No. I fear he will be furious.”

“Perhaps.” Undoubtedly. “But our first concern must be for your sister’s safety. Iris, go now and find your father.”

Iris screwed up her nose. “Must we go after her? Couldn’t we simply let her run away? We’d all be much happier.”

“Iris,” Jane said. “Our sister could be in terrible danger.”

“If she went willingly,” Amarantha said, “I doubt her life is in danger. Iris, please go find your father.”

With a nod, the girl darted away.

“Jane, you must inform His Grace.”

The maiden’s lashes fanned. “Oh, Amarantha . . . must I?”

“Of course. At once. He will surely know where to search for them in this country.”

Jane’s fingers plucked agitatedly at the ribbons hanging from her bodice.

“Would you come with me to tell him?”

“No. I must go to the stable and ask Miss Pike to prepare—”

Jane grasped Amarantha’s arm. Her face was nearly as white as her gown.

“It is going forward,” she said in a hushed rush.

“What is?”

“My betrothal. To . . . His Grace. Papa showed me the betrothal contract. And it is signed.” Jane’s composure disintegrated. “It is signed, Amarantha! Papa says it is a legal document, which is binding on both sides. He says that even if I wished to break it off with the duke I could not. But I do wish to, Amarantha. I wish it with all my heart!” Tears made pretty streaks down her porcelain cheeks. “I know that my sister’s disappearance must be my first concern, and I feel wretchedly guilty for giving even a thought to this. I should be grateful that my father thinks so highly of me that he should wish such an honor for me. But—but—Oh, Amarantha, what shall I do? What can I do?”

She could not think. This was unexpected and frankly unbelievable.

“Are you so terrified of him, then?”

“No. Not—well, not as I was before. I think he must be—that is, Elizabeth and Dr. Shaw like him. And you like him. I must trust in the opinion of others, for mine is unimportant. But—but, Amarantha . . .”

“Jane, are you in love with Mr. Brock?”

“I find him infinitely wonderful! So gentlemanly and solicitous and amusing. A woman could always feel safe with him. Yes, oh, yes, I do love him.”

“I am certain there must be a solution to this.” And to the confusion in her heart. “We will find it. But first your sister must be found. Come. I will go with you to tell the duke.” And see the man who had stolen her heart so thoroughly that—again—even in the face of incontrovertible evidence, she wanted to believe the best of him.

When she accepted him, he would hang a bell around her neck so that he could find her at any time. And he had no doubt that if any man tried such a thing, she would remove the bell and clock him over the head with it.

“Whistling, Your Grace?”

Maggie and Pike were coming toward him. Gabriel bowed very deeply.

“You see what I told you, Maggie?” Pike said. “There will be no living with him now.”

“There will be no living with me ever again, in fact, Miss Pike. I hope that prospect affords you great joy. Call a meeting, ladies.”

“But won’t your guests—”

“The devil take my guests, Miss Pike.” Except one of them. He would do all the taking in that case. “Eleven o’clock. In the chapel. An’ dinna fret. You will like the outcome, Miss Pike. You too, Miss Poultney.”

Amarantha was brilliant to advise him to turn the whole running of Kallin over to its residents—as wise as she was beautiful and as clever as she was bighearted. He would say that to her as soon as he found her. After he kissed her. Kisses came first.

“Lasses, be off with you now. A man’s got work to do. Canna stand about gabbing all day.”

“He has fallen off his rocker,” Pike mumbled.

“How was the chapel last night, Your Grace?” Maggie said with lifted brows.

“No’ quite what I hoped, Miss Poultney. But all is not lost.” He went out onto the drive. Molly was picking her way along the slushy path from the distillery building toward the house.

“Miss Cromwell,” he said. “Canna stay away from the place, can you?”

“No, Your Grace. There’s so much to be done.”

“An’ you love it. ’Tis no use denying it, lass. ’Twas the same for me with the sea. There’s no keeping a man, or woman, from that which calls most powerfully.”

“But you’ve a fondness for land now.”

“That I do.” It was true—trenches and sheep and farmers and attic floors. He was fond of it all. More than fond. As his mother had, he loved it, every last acre and roof tile and person in his care. “Now, have you by chance seen Mrs. Garland come by here, take out a horse, stroll to the river perhaps?” Or run up a hill and subsequently declare her enduring passion for him.

“She took breakfast early, but I haven’t seen her since.”

“All right, then. I’ve called a meeting in the chapel at eleven o’clock at which I intend to give Kallin over entirely into your an’ Miss Finn’s care. Now, dinna rush matters. There are details to be decided, an’ Du Lac to consult. In the meantime, carry on, lass.” He bowed.

Her eyes were round.

He laughed. “I said, carry on, Miss Cromwell. For another hour yet I’m master o’ the place. As such I expect to be obeyed.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” With a glance back at him, she continued toward the house.

He went to the stable. Before he turned Kallin over to its mistresses, Mary Tarry must be told. She was as much to credit for the success of this refuge as anyone. A quick ride to the village and back, and then he would see about removing his unwelcome guests from the place.

Perhaps he could claim the well had gone dry. Except that fifty yards away from the house flowed a river of fresh water straight off the mountains.

He grabbed Beelzebub’s bridle from a peg.

He could claim there was trouble with mice overrunning the place, due to the late snow. Except Maggie’s cats had cleared the house of mice months ago.

A ghost. That was it. He would invent a wicked ghost to frighten them all back to Edinburgh. Except that they hadn’t been afraid of a murderous abductor.

Or he could tell them all that he had simply had enough of their company and they must all swiftly be on their merry way so he could continue making love to a fiery-haired Englishwoman. Honesty was always best.

“Loch Irvine!” Tate’s voice echoed through the building.

“Good day, Tate,” Gabriel said

“Off on farm business? You men o’ property be always haring about the countryside,” he added with a chuckle.

“Never a dull day.” Or night. Not any longer. Gabriel draped the saddlecloth over the stallion’s back.

“I’m gratified you’ve come to your senses about my Janie. She’ll be a stellar duchess.”

Gabriel looked over his shoulder. “Explain yourself, sir.”

“The betrothal contract that you signed with the other contracts we completed yesterday.” Tate’s voice was genial, but his eyes were hard. “The moment I saw it I told my Janie the news. She’s thrilled, o’ course.”

“I’ve no’ signed a marriage contract. I’ve no’ even seen one.”

“Now, now, lad. You canna be going back on signed legal documents.”

“Show me the contract.”

Inside the house, Tate laid the pages before him. It was as he said: detailed and dated and signed.

“’Tis a forgery,” Gabriel said.

The merchant gave him stare for stare.

Gabriel went to the hearth and tossed the contract in.

“You’ll wed my Janie,” Tate said, “or I’ll be informing the police an’ newspapers o’ your little seraglio here.”

“Seraglio?”

“Ha ha! Play innocent, but I know the truth now. I’d only to see the devil’s lair for myself afore I understood matters.” He leaned back and rocked on his heels. “For some time now I’ve heard rumors at the docks o’ your fondness for females o’ all stripes.” He nodded sagely. “Colorful little aviary you’ve collected here, duke. Now, dinna hear me wrong! I’ve no complaint with a man taking his pleasures how he chooses. No doubt in your travels you learned a thing or two o’ the pleasure to be had in enjoying a number o’ women at once. Had myself a bit o’ fun o’ that sort years back. Nothing to be ashamed o’.”

“Have you lost your mind, man?”

“I’ve no’ concern for my Janie,” he said, waving it away. “Keep her at Haiknayes or take a house in town, if you care to. She’ll no’ have any idea what be passin’ here. An’ no one else will either. ’Tis my promise to you, lad.” His eyes narrowed. “If you sign a contract today.”

“I have no intention o’ marrying your daughter.”

The merchant shook his head, his bushy brows coming together. “Be you certain, lad? It’d be a shame to have to tell the police an’ newspapers about it.”

Blackmail.

“You’ve plenty o’ gold, Tate, an’ she’s a pretty girl. Any other man—”

“Mrs. Tate’s set on nobles for all three girls.”

“So you have invented a story about my household?”

“No need to invent it when the public eye’s been on you for years already. I only need to fan the sparks.”

“You canna blackmail me, Tate, if I’ve done no wrong.”

“I can, Your Grace, if you care to keep this”—he offered a broad sweep of his arm—“secret.”

“Get out o’ my house. Now. Or I will set the dogs on you.”

Tate flinched. But he recovered swiftly.

“Ha ha! To be the man who brings the Devil’s Duke to his knees! I’ll be the hero o’ Edinburgh, revealing to the world the sins o’ the devil.”

“Now you’re accusing me o’ a crime?”

“Aye. The Lord Advocate’ll throw me a parade. Men from Glasgow to London will be clamoring to do business with me. Might even wrest an English title for my Janie out o’ it. Much better than a Scottish laird. Her mother’ll be pleased.”

“You’ve no proof to condemn me o’ any crime.”

“Dinna I?” Upon a hard smile, he bowed. “Looking forward to seeing your neck in a noose, Your Grace.”

His back to the drawing room doorway, the Duke of Loch Irvine stood with his face raised toward a painting of a grizzled Scotsman in tartan and wielding a sword. On the table below the painting was an open bottle and a glass. His shoulders were rigid, his stance wide and solid.

Whiskey before noon.

Amarantha cleared her throat.

He pivoted, and his eyes came immediately to her.

“Ladies.” He did not bow and he did not look at Jane. And he did not come forward.

Amarantha urged Jane into the room. The girl took half a step then halted.

“Your Grace.” She offered a low curtsy.

He watched her with sober eyes.

“Tell him, Jane,” Amarantha said.

“Your Grace,” Jane began again, her fingers twisting in her ribbons. “My sister, Cynthia, has . . . has . . .”

His gaze upon her seemed to grow keener.

Jane’s fingers twisted the ribbons tighter.

“Lass, dinna fear,” he said with calm that belied the intensity of his eyes. “Speak your piece.”

“My sister has eloped with your stable hand from Haiknayes,” Jane said in a whispered rush. “They departed last night while we were all abed. Cynthia left no note, but she had been speaking for days of how much she wanted to be free of—of—of Papa’s displeasure, and how fond she was of Mick, how she believed he admired her and—”

He started toward them and Jane made a tiny leap backward.

“Does Tate know?” he said to Amarantha.

“I sent Iris to find him.”

Moving swiftly past Jane, he touched Amarantha’s arm as he went around her and through the door.

“Mr. Hay!” he called into the foyer. “To the stable, swiftly. Bid Miss Pike come here at once.” He returned. “Where might your sister have asked him to convey her?” he said to Jane.

“I—I don’t know. Cynthia has never before done such a thing! Do you believe he intends ill to her?”

“We must hope not. Tell me every word she said to you.”

Haltingly, Jane repeated Cynthia’s rhapsodizing about the boy.

“Where could they have gone?” Her voice had become a squeak.

Miss Pike appeared in the doorway. “I’m here, Your Grace.”

“Has Tate already called for his chaise?”

“No. But not a quarter hour ago he saddled Mr. Bellarmine’s horse and rode off as though he’d someplace to be. I assumed he was going to the village.”

“Bellarmine’s horse? Blast it. Return to the stable an’ make Beelzebub ready.”

“Yessir.”

“Your Grace?” Nathaniel said. “May I help?”

He glanced at the veteran’s stump of a shoulder. “Can you ride swiftly?”

“As quick as you need.”

“Good man. Ready a horse an’ provisions for the road.”

“Amarantha!” Iris hopped into the room. “I cannot find Papa anywhere! Miss Alice says that she saw him stuffing shirts and whatnot into a traveling bag.”

“Perhaps he knows of Cynthia and Mick’s flight,” Amarantha said. “Perhaps he has already gone in pursuit of them.”

“Possibly.” His eyes were oddly distant. Evasive. “Miss Tate, ’twould be best for you, Miss Iris, an’ Mr. Bellarmine to return to Haiknayes. ’Tis likely Mick has gone in that direction, an’ your mother will need to know.”

“Yes. Of course. Thank you, Your Grace. Come, Iris.” With a worried face, she grasped Iris’s hand and led her away.

“Perhaps Alice should accompany them,” Amarantha said as he turned to her.

He captured both of her hands and lifted them to his lips.

“My lady, good day.” His voice caressed the formal words. Then, turning her hands over and placing kisses upon each palm he added less smoothly, “Judas, you’re beautiful.”

“Why did you ask Nathaniel to accompany you, not your cousin?” she said, drawing her hands away.

“Jonah knows Scots. I’ll send him to Inveraray. ’Tis the closest port, an’ Mick’s got a hankering to sail.”

“While you search in the direction of Haiknayes. Yes, that is wise.” She moved toward the door. “We should—”

His arm came around her waist and he pulled her against his chest.

“First things first.” He bent to her and kissed her. It was no quick caress but tender, and then lasting, as though he had all the leisure in the world to stand in his drawing room in the midst of a crisis and make love to her.

When he separated their mouths, his gaze went from one feature of her face to the next, slowly.

She said, “I am not a thing.” And smiled.

“No. You’re no’ a thing. You are the only thing,” he said soberly. “An’ for robbing me o’ five and a half years o’ you, I plan to give my cousin the bruising o’ his life.” He kissed her again, pressing his lips to hers, his arms tightening momentarily. Then he released her and went to the door.

There he paused and turned only partially toward her. He bent his head. “You will be here when I return?”

There was a quality to his voice, a raw vulnerability that burrowed into her memory.

“Gabriel?” she whispered.

Dropping his hand from the door frame, he came to her in swift strides, took her face between his palms, and brought their mouths together. He kissed her deeply, fiercely. Like a goodbye.

As he pulled away, her fingertips slipped over his coat, needing to stretch the contact, to hold him. Then he was gone, and she was alone again.