“You’re a genius,” Thomasina said. James had come to fetch her from the kitchen, with the welcome news that Mr. Tilson was having serious second thoughts about marrying her, and had already left.

“No, I’m merely devious,” James said.

“It’s scarcely dusk,” she said happily. “Usually it’s fear of the ghost that makes him leave.”

“Tilson values propriety above all else. Under the spell of your beauty, he lost sight of that.”

Thomasina blushed. How strange that the same compliment from Mr. Tilson would have angered her. From James…it was dangerous, because his opinion mattered.

She pulled herself together and confronted the situation with practical eyes. “How clever of you to use my family’s reputation against me.” She should have thought of that herself. She’d spent so long pretending to be proper that she’d almost forgotten how not to be.

“Think of it as my apology for not ruining you four years ago,” he said with a rueful grin. “Not that this quite makes up for it.”

She blushed even more.

“If Tilson returns tomorrow—although I hope he proves coward enough to reject you from a distance—we must make it clear to him that you are a true Warren. You shall prove yourself to be easily led astray.” He tipped up her chin and kissed her lightly. “In this instance, by me.”

Was he suggesting what she had asked for so long ago—her ruin? Her heart began to thud.

“I shall flirt shamelessly with you, and you’ll pretend that you cannot resist.”

Alas, she wouldn’t have to pretend.

Her heart sighed. James might be a devious, clever sort of man, but he was proper, too—in a way she could respect and understand. He wouldn’t suggest a course that was not only dishonorable, but would probably kill her father.

Still, she would enjoy flirting with him. “Papa won’t like it.”

“I will ensure that the blame falls on me,” James said.

What? “That’s not fair! I realize that I can’t avoid upsetting Papa a little, but as long as he does not become enraged…”

“Nevertheless,” James said, “the blame will be mine and mine alone.”

Wisely, she didn’t argue. He was a man and therefore used to getting his own way—but in this instance, he wouldn’t succeed. Blame him, when he had already done so much to help her? Not a chance.

James wasn’t sure about the stubborn tilt of Thomasina’s chin—at least, not in this instance. He liked a woman to be decisive, but not in order to protect him.

The more he thought about it, the more he needed to protect her—from Tilson, from Samuel Furbelow, from her father…and from himself.

He wasn’t the same man as four years ago. He was ready for marriage, far more ready than he’d realized.

She wasn’t. She didn’t wish to marry, and he should respect and honor that.

But she was old enough to decide for herself whether to engage upon an affair of the heart.

A vision struck him of lying in bed with her, naked and satiated, laughing over erotic poetry and becoming aroused again…

He shook himself. “Will Max appear as soon as it gets dark?”

“Yes, most likely he will patrol the wall all night, unless he sees someone in the house as a threat—you or Sam or Brother Antoine. Let’s go outdoors and wait for him, so I can introduce you.”

They donned their outer garments once again and strolled in the garden, waiting for darkness to fall. They wandered between beds of herbs, past a well with a wooden cockerel on its roof, and a succession of cold frames. Strange how they had no need to speak, merely enjoying the wintry outdoors and one another’s company. The gathering clouds presaged another fall of snow.

The perfect weather for languishing in bed with a beautiful woman.

Damn it all, what was wrong with him? Even if he wanted to, it would be in the worst of bad taste to seduce Thomasina in her father’s house—unless he intended to marry her.

He pondered his own father’s response, if he announced that he wished to wed Thomasina. Not enough of an heiress, probably. Or, the daughter of that old fool! Not that his father’s opinion would make one iota of difference, once James had made up his mind.

She doesn’t wish to marry, he reminded himself. He was still engaged in an internal tussle when she said, “There’s Max!”

She clutched James’s arm and pulled him into the orchard, where they wouldn’t be in full view of the house. The ghost stormed down the wall, spear raised as before, and came to a halt above them. “Quo vadis?” he roared.

She pointed to James. “Amicus,” she said. “Or—or…amice!”

The ghost was an impressive figure in his armor, a warrior with a powerful, echoing voice. He lowered his spear, but assessed James with a fierce, relentless stare. In Latin, he said, “It’s you again.”

James raised an arm in salute. “Ave et salve, centurio.”

The ghost snarled in Latin, “Why do you call me that? Do not ever call me that. I am no centurion and never shall be.”

Hmm. Since Max was mostly likely a common solider, James had thought addressing him as centurion would be seen as a compliment. Evidently not…

“Amice!” cried Thomasina again.

“It’s all right,” James told her. “Just a…cultural misunderstanding, I think.” He tried again. “After patrolling the Wall for so very long, you deserve to be a centurion.” A clever recovery, if I may say so myself. What a pity Thomasina didn’t understand Latin.

Good Lord, he actually wanted to impress her. What a fool he was—and how astonishingly serious about this particular folly.

The ghost jeered. “I shall never be a centurion, but they cannot execute me again, for I am already dead. They cannot disgrace me. They cannot humiliate me and put me in chains. They cannot stop me from guarding the Wall forever.”

He had been executed? Maybe he really was a murderer, or had been at one time. But he sounded more like a man pleading his innocence.

James bowed. “I am honored to meet you, Decimus Maximus.”

“Why?” the ghost scoffed.

“Because I have never met a Roman soldier before, and because you are the friend of this lady, who speaks highly of you.”

The ghost softened visibly. Suddenly, he smiled. “You have come for this maiden.”

James cast a swift glance at Thomasina. What luck that she didn’t understand, for there was only one possible response, even if it was a lie.

Except that it wasn’t a lie at all—at least not from his point of view. In the course of a few hours he had fallen wholly in love with her. He set that delightful thought aside for the moment and returned the ghost’s smile. “That is correct.”

“You must win her.”

“I shall do my best,” James said, meaning it.

“Your best?” The ghost struck his spear on the wall, making a faint echo of a thud. “You will win her. There is no choice.”

James bridled. Another obnoxious male trying to exert his authority over a female who was perfectly competent to decide for herself! “The choice is hers.”

“Fool!” cried the ghost, stomping on the wall and poising his spectral spear.

“Stop it, Max!” Thomasina pointed at James and said “Amicus!” again.

“Coward!” roared Max.

She grasped James’s arm. “He sounds dreadfully hostile. Why doesn’t he believe you’re my friend?”

“He does, but we’re having problems communicating. It’s hardly surprising, given the fourteen hundred years between us.” He shouldn’t expect rational views, with which many men even now disagreed, from a man born in a barbarous age—but nor could he agree. He gritted his teeth and switched to Latin. “Times have changed since you were alive, Decimus Maximus. As I said, the choice is hers.”

“Evil has not changed,” Max bellowed. “Danger lurks. Deadly peril abounds. Win her, craven barbarian, or—”

He broke off mid-sentence, his spectral eyes deepening to black pits, and leapt off the wall with a howl of rage. Instinctively, James put his arms around Thomasina and held her close—but Max thudded past them.

“The Evil One!” he cried.

They turned, still clasped together. At the edge of the orchard stood Samuel Furbelow and Brother Antoine. The ghost lunged toward them, aiming his spear. “Die, accursed one! Die!”

The monk cowered, crossing himself again and again, and fell backwards under an apple tree. Snow slid from its branches and landed on his bare pate.

Samuel Furbelow threw back his head and laughed. Max hurled his spear straight at Sam. It passed right through him, and then the ghost was gone.

James loosened his arms from about Thomasina, so she had perforce to step away. What a pity, for she felt safe in his embrace.

She shuddered. Sam’s laughter curdled her blood in a way no ghostly wail could ever do. He’d been unnerved by the ghost in the past—as most people who couldn’t see him were—but not anymore. He hadn’t even flinched, while as for the poor monk—

She got ahold of herself and hurried over to him. “Are you all right, Brother Antoine?”

“He’s a sniveling idiot,” Sam said with a last snort of laughter. “But if he had any doubt that the ghost is evil, he doesn’t anymore.”

“Shut your horrid mouth, Samuel Furbelow,” Thomasina said. The monk stood, brushed himself off, and crossed himself again with trembling hands.

“Come now, Tommie-love. You were as scared as he was, clinging to Blakely as if your life depended on it.” Sam chuckled. “Fun for Blakely, no doubt.”

“I wasn’t afraid. I was surprised. Max would never harm me.”

Sam giggled, a dreadful, lunatic sound. “You don’t have any Latin, do you? I didn’t pay much attention in school, but I recognize curses when I hear them. Frightfully entertaining but completely useless. He can threaten Brother Antoine all he likes, but when it comes down to it, he’s nothing but a ghost.” He giggled again, and a shiver ran down her spine. “Was he shaking his fist and grimacing? A pity I can’t see him. I’d like to laugh in his face.”

Brother Antoine looked at Sam as if he were mad. “You must not, monsieur. This ghost is dangerous. He is capable of any infamy.”

Sam swung round to the unhappy monk. “He’s nothing but bluster. Start praying your heart out. Tomorrow night you’ll do the exorcism.”

“No, he will not,” Thomasina said. “Tomorrow is Christmas Eve. And he mayn’t do it on Christmas Day, either.”

The monk nodded. “Oui, mademoiselle. It would not be right.”

Sam rolled his eyes, but conceded. “Oh, very well. You’ll just have to put up with me for longer, won’t you?” He leered. “I don’t mind being stuck in a house with a tantalizingly lovely female.”

She reddened. “You’re disgusting, Sam.”

“It’s my life’s work.” He sneered at poor Brother Antoine. “Maybe if you pray all through Christmas, you’ll have the stomach to deal with the ghost.”

The monk rubbed a hand over his face, then tramped away toward the house.

“Well, well,” said Sam, “look what’s up above you, love.”

Startled, she looked up, and an arm came around her—James’s arm. He swung her out of Sam’s reach and kissed her hard and fast. He didn’t let her go.

Sam narrowed his eyes. “Spoilsport.”

James grinned. “Kind of you to point out the mistletoe, Furbelow.”

“Enjoy her while you can,” Sam said sourly, and slouched off after Brother Antoine.

“Thank you,” Thomasina breathed.

James smiled at her. “My pleasure.” Judging by the look in his eyes, he might like to kiss her again.

“We’re still standing under the mistletoe,” she said. “In case you hadn’t noticed.”

Obediently, he put his arms around her and kissed her—lingeringly this time. And when the tip of his tongue probed at her lips, she couldn’t help but respond. Their tongues touched, danced together.

“Oh,” she said, but it sounded rather like a moan. How embarrassing.

“Oh, indeed.” He laid his forehead to hers. “Lovely Thomasina.”

The sound of ghostly clapping brought their heads around. Max danced a jig before them in the snow. He pursed his lips and mimed more kissing, and then did a strange little wiggle with only his hips.

“Io, Saturnalia!” he cried.

Warily, James eyed the ghost’s bizarre pantomime.

“Oh, he’s back! I feared he would not return for a while,” Thomasina said. “When he becomes too enraged, he vanishes, and sometimes he’s gone for ages.”

“Perhaps he temporarily loses the power to make himself seen and heard.” James wished Max weren’t quite so easy to see at the moment.

“You were right, he does celebrate Saturnalia,” Thomasina said. “I never really listened before, seeing as I didn’t understand Latin, but he says that—what he just said—a great deal at this time of year, and he dances, too.”

Hopefully not as obscenely as he’s doing right now, James thought grimly. He tucked her hand in his arm and turned her toward the house. “Let’s go.”

The ghost appeared in front of them, humping the air and making crude gestures with his hands.

“Stop it, Max,” James said in Latin. “I understand what you’re asking me to do, but I cannot.”

The ghost’s mouth dropped open. He groaned. “You are impotent?”

At first James didn’t understand the word the ghost used, but another gesture from Max made it clear. “No, of course not.” He moved to leave, hoping the ghost would let be, but Thomasina held back.

“He’s trying to tell you something,” she said. “We shouldn’t be rude.”

The ghost was the rude one, but James didn’t intend to enlighten her. “He wants us to join in—in Saturnalia celebrations with him.”

“Oh, how sweet. Hurray for Saturnalia!” She smiled at Max and blew him a kiss, which he caught in his ghostly hand. Then he mimed to her, indicating she should kiss James again.

She laughed, blushed, and obeyed. Growling a little with frustration—for he longed to do precisely what Max suggested—James kissed her back.

“She wants you,” Max hissed in James’s ear. “What in the name of Jupiter and all the gods is stopping you?”

James broke the kiss and glared at the ghost. “Proper behavior. She is not my wife.”

“Take her to bed, and she will be.” He mimed sweeping Thomasina off her feet and laying her in the snow, and then proceeded to demonstrate exactly what she and James should do.

Thomasina put her gloved hands to her stinging cheeks. “Oh, heavens. Is he…?”

“Yes, that’s precisely what he,” James said, and this time she let him escort her away—after a brief, fascinated glance at the ghost.

“He wants you to go to bed with me?” Must she sound so pleased about it?

“Yes,” he grumped.

“Is that what Saturnalia was about?”

“It was like any other celebration that gets out of hand,” James said austerely. “Dancing, drunkenness, et cetera.”

She giggled. “You needn’t sound so starchy. He just wants us to join in the fun.”

The ghost was right behind them, muttering Coward! in James’s ear. “That may be part of it, but…”

“But what?”

He resigned himself to the truth—or at least a portion of it. “He says you are in danger. He insists that I must protect you.”

She made a face. “Poor Max. He rescued me from Sam once before, but maybe he fears being unable to do so again. I think he’s right. Sam has changed. He’s not himself—baiting my father, giggling in that horrid way, and completely unafraid of the ghost. It’s as if—as if he’s gone a little bit mad.”

James wasn’t sure he would go to those lengths, but Furbelow had an unaccustomed air of desperation about him. Might he try to force Thomasina once again, knowing the ghost couldn’t stop him?

“We’re stuck with him for at least three more days,” Thomasina said glumly.

“Yes, but I don’t have to tup you to protect you,” James said. “Pardon my language, but it’s the outside of enough to expect me to do so.”

“He knows you would like to,” she teased.

He didn’t answer—for what could he say to that but the absolute truth? That he longed to possess her, from her sweet mouth to her lush breasts to her hot, wet core. Which was putting it almost as crudely as Max’s demonstration.

Thomasina chuckled, enjoying his discomfiture. “I don’t suppose he has the same standards of behavior as you. Weren’t the Romans flagrantly scandalous? I expect the Warrens would have been right at home in Ancient Rome. I’m beginning to think I would.”

He compressed his lips on a retort, and immediately she relented. “I’m sorry, James—don’t be annoyed with me.”

“I’m not annoyed, I’m tempted. You’re utterly delightful, and I wish I could do as I please rather than what honor requires.”

She licked her lower lip, and a shiver of desire headed straight for his cock.

Fortunately, his brain was competing for attention. He rubbed his temples. “I don’t see how assaulting you could possibly help Furbelow. Your father would disinherit him on the spot.”

“Sam thinks I would agree to marry him rather than bear the shame of ruin—which is absurd, as I would merely go live with my scandalous relatives. What I fear is that shock and anger might kill Papa.”

“Your father is stronger than you think. His whole purpose in life is to take care of you. He’d be more likely to run Furbelow through—if he got to him before I did.”

She smiled. “My knight in shining armor. Don’t worry about me. Forewarned is forearmed. I’ll lock my bedchamber door at night and be perfectly fine.”

He wished he could be sure of that. Danger and deadly peril, the ghost had said. Danger of rape, certainly, but although vile, it wasn’t usually deadly. Many women considered ruin a fate worse than death, but Thomasina wasn’t one of them. Most likely Max didn’t understand that, stuck as he was in an antiquated way of thinking—whatever that might be.

“Is there more than one key to your door?” he asked.

“Mrs. Day has keys to all the rooms, but—”

“Then that won’t do. Keys can be stolen.” Damnation, there was only one way to protect her. Three nights, maybe four or even more. How would he survive with his honor intact?

Still, he had no choice. “I’ll have to stay in your bedchamber at night.”