Thomasina’s heart battered her chest. “That’s Max! Something has upset him. I wondered why he left in such a rush.”

The ghost shouted and railed, sending shivers down her spine—not that she would ever admit that to James.

“I’ll find out what’s going on,” James said. “As for you, Brother Antoine—”

The monk had fallen to his knees and was mumbling prayers under his breath.

“We’ll talk to him later,” Thomasina said. “I’m coming with you.” She watched James try to come up with an alternative, and fail. She couldn’t stay with the monk, nor did he intend to leave her alone in her bedchamber. “Don’t fuss. I’m safer with you than anywhere else.”

He nodded, opened the door, and peered into the dark corridor. He picked up the candle and took Thomasina by the hand, but she held back a second. “Pray for us too, Brother Antoine. The ghost would not cry out like that without good reason.”

The monk raised his head. “Oui, I shall pray. Heaven preserve us all.”

They left him there and paused in the silent corridor, listening to the blood-curdling rant. “He’s cursing the Evil One again,” James whispered. “I think it’s coming from above.”

“The tower? What would Sam be doing up there?”

A tremendous thud sounded, and the ghost’s cries grew even louder.

“He’s saying something about…his own innocence,” James said. “Saying that he didn’t do it. That he won’t take the blame again.”

“The blame for what?”

“For something he did when he was alive, I think. This afternoon, he told me that they can’t execute him again, because he’s already dead.”

“Execute him? For what?”

“He didn’t say.”

“Poor Max. We have to go see what’s wrong.” They hurried down to the ground floor, where they could access the tower stairs. As they reached the Great Hall, a string of curses broke the night…from outdoors? That was Sam’s nasal voice.

“You shouldn’t be obliged to hear that sort of language,” James said.

“I’ll consider it an education.” She followed him across the room.

The front door was half open, and a frigid wind assailed them.

“Stay back a little,” James said. “We’d best not appear to have come down together. Oh, damn—there’s Joey already.”

The footman hurried out from the servants’ quarters, sketchily clad in nightshirt and breeches and carrying a lantern. He took in their appearance without a blink, and said, “God save us, what language! Cover your ears, Miss Tommie!”

Thomasina managed not to roll her eyes. James peered out the front door, then opened it wide.

Sam stood in a whirl of falling snow, shaking his fist. “Bloody devil of a ghost! Try to kill me, will you? Up to your old tricks, but they won’t work on me.” He glanced at the three in the doorway, then pointed. “Look what he did.” A broken block of stone lay on the ground near his feet. It had annihilated a rhododendron bush.

Above, Max howled with rage.

Mrs. Day bustled into the Great Hall and came up behind them. “Whatever is going on?”

“A stone fell from the parapet, and Cousin Sam blames Max,” Thomasina said.

James huffed. “Max is a ghost. He can’t push a stone off the tower.” He called out something in Latin, and Max quieted immediately. “I told him we know he’s innocent,” he whispered to Thomasina.

Sam swore again. “He was up there, ranting and raving at me. I can’t see the bastard, but I can bloody well hear him. That stone came crashing down and missed me by inches.”

“What a pity,” James murmured, and beside him, Joey sputtered on a laugh.

“I’ll get rid of him if it’s the last thing I do,” Sam yelled. He brushed snow off his hair and out of his eyes, letting out another string of vulgarities.

“Miss Thomasina, come back in here,” said Mrs. Day. “Such shocking language is unfit for a lady’s ears! Whatever are you doing down here in your nightclothes?”

“The same as you, Mrs. Day—finding out what happened.”

“It’s most improper, miss. Come, I’ll take you up to your bedchamber.”

“No!” she blurted in horror, for the housekeeper would see the blankets on the sofa and ask awkward questions. “I refuse to be put to bed like a child.”

The housekeeper tutted, preparing to scold. James was smirking, drat the man. He probably thought she was worried about her own reputation, when it was his she cared about. She would not compromise him for the world.

Thank heavens, her father’s valet tottered to the head of the stairs. “Please go check on my father, Riggs, and Mrs. Day, I want you to accompany him in case he needs a warm drink or some such.”

“I’ll do that, miss, but first I’ll get you tucked up.”

“No, you will not, Mrs. Day.”

“Now, Miss Tommie, after such a shock—”

“I’m not the least bit shocked. I insist that you see to my father first. Then, if it will make you feel more comfortable, you may come check on me.” Hopefully, that would give her time to put the room to rights.

“Very well, miss,” said Mrs. Day, mollified. She hurried Thomasina toward the stairs. “Such goings on. Whatever is Mr. Furbelow up to outdoors at midnight, I ask you?”

“Nothing good,” Thomasina said.

“What the devil were you doing out here?” James asked, as Furbelow stomped indoors.

“Taking a walk.”

“In a snowstorm?”

“What business is it of yours?” Furbelow snapped. “I couldn’t sleep.”

Max materialized through the wall. “Liar! He pulled the stone to the ground.”

Furbelow started, then drew his greatcoat tighter. “Is that damned ghost back again?”

“Yes, he’s calling you a liar, and I’m inclined to believe him.”

Furbelow laughed. “My uncle won’t, and even if he did, he’s too soft-hearted to throw me out. He promised my mother to take care of me. Honor to the death, and all that rubbish.”

“I don’t know what you’re up to, Furbelow, but I suggest you leave while you’re still in one piece.”

Furbelow took the stairs two at a time. “And I suggest that you take your pleasure with darling Thomasina while you can.”

Max roared and hurled his spear. Once again, it passed harmlessly through Furbelow, and the ghost vanished. Furbelow went down the corridor to his bedchamber, laughing all the way.

“By God, he’s revolting,” James said.

“Don’t take no notice of him, sir,” Joey said gruffly. “You’re a godsend, sir, that’s what you are. You’ll take good care of Miss Tommie. We all know that.”

If only Thomasina could be convinced of the same.

Max appeared again, so transparent as to be almost invisible, and pointed up. “I do not lie,” he croaked. “Go see!”

“What’s the ghost saying, sir?” Joey asked.

“That I must go up to the tower.” James wanted to search for the rope, but the ghost was dithering with urgency. “Nip outdoors and see if there’s a rope in the shrubbery or lying about elsewhere close by. If you’re quick, there may be fresh footprints to guide you.”

“You think Mr. Furbelow pulled the stone down?” Joey’s eyes gleamed with excitement.

“I’m sure of it.” James lit a candle from the lantern. “The snow’s getting thicker. I don’t want you out in that storm for more than a couple of minutes. If you don’t find anything immediately, come inside, bar the door, and keep watch on the landing till I return.”

At the top of the tower stairs, James removed the key from its nail, and then found that the door was unlocked. He continued up the narrow staircase to the battlements.

Max the ghost drifted up through the floor, his spear dangling limply from his fist. Sure enough, footprints led to the edge of the parapet. In a very short time, they would have been obliterated by the falling snow. James glanced around the parapet but saw no gap from a missing stone. “Damn. What in Hades is Furbelow trying to prove?”

“I said there was danger, and you didn’t believe me,” Max moaned. “I do not have the strength to protect the maiden. I will never be worthy!”

“I believed you,” James said. “I will do my utmost to protect Miss Thomasina. In the meantime, go keep watch over her until I return.”

The ghost sank through the floor again, and soberly, James returned to the Great Hall just as Joey came in, stomping the snow off his shoes. “Sorry, sir. I didn’t find nowt. Footprints went partway round the house, but there weren’t no rope lying about.”

“It’s no matter,” James said. He had enough proof to go to Mr. Warren.

“But I thought of something unusual, sir, like you told me and Mick. Mr. Furbelow, he carried a bag upstairs by himself just before dinner. Heavy by the look of it, too. I offered to take it, but he wouldn’t let me. Called me a lazy bastard for not carrying it up in the first place. But it weren’t with his other bags, sir, when I took them up in the afternoon. I swear it.”

James nodded. “Thank you, Joey. That’s just the sort of information I was looking for. Off to bed with you now. I don’t suppose Furbelow will try that particular trick again.”

But what next? And why?

Even if James hadn’t been so weary, that disgusting remark of Furbelow’s would have destroyed any urge to make love to Thomasina that night. Somehow, that cur had made healthy desire for a beautiful woman seem filthy and even vile.

Once Mrs. Day and the valet were out of the way, he crept into Thomasina’s bedchamber to find her huddled at one end of the sofa, fast asleep. Dismissing the watchful Max with a whispered word of thanks, he locked the door. He pulled Thomasina down beside him on the sofa and wrapped the coverlet over them both. She murmured something, but didn’t wake.

A sensation of perfect peace descended upon him. Nothing Furbelow could say or do would ruin what he felt for Thomasina. He closed his eyes and slept.

Thomasina woke just before dawn to find herself still on the sofa, wrapped in James’s arms…with one of his hands curled about her breast, and a rather hard part of him poking into her behind. She froze, wondering what to do, until she realized from his breathing that he still slept. She remained motionless, savoring the mounting thrills of desire…

Before long he woke and sat up, stretching. “Sorry about that, but my hands and cock aren’t under my control when I’m asleep.”

She huffed. “Then perhaps you should go back to sleep, for I was enjoying it very much.”

“You will enjoy it even more when I’m awake,” he smiled.

“Is that a promise?”

After a pause, he nodded. “I believe it is.”

For a moment she couldn’t think, so transfixed was she by delight.

He pulled her close, kissed her hair, and reached for his shoes. “That block of stone wasn’t from the battlements. Furbelow took it up there, and then tugged it down with a rope.” He stood and pulled on his coat.

“He carried a stone up in order to pull it down?” She yawned. “I suppose he means to get Papa even more stirred up about getting rid of Max. But why? He’s already determined to do so.”

“Perhaps he hopes to increase the reward,” James said.

“Maybe,” she said doubtfully. “But Papa doesn’t usually change his mind.”

James blew her a kiss, checked that the corridor was clear, and left.

Thomasina washed, dressed, and went downstairs to find her father in a foul mood. “I’ll get rid of that ghost if it’s the last thing I do.”

“Why?” asked Thomasina. “Ja—Mr. Blakely told me it was Cousin Sam who got Max riled last night.” Papa’s brows drew together. Had he noticed her stumble over James’s given name?

She hurried on with her explanation. “Sam carried a stone up to the battlements and then pulled it down with a rope.” Papa scowled even more. Did he wonder how she had managed to speak with James when he hadn’t yet come down to breakfast?

She reached for the coffeepot to pour for him. If he asked, she would say they had met in the passageway. He must be given no cause to suspect her growing intimacy with James.

“Pot’s empty. Joey’s gone to fetch more.” Papa cut a slice of ham into pieces. “I suppose Blakely got his so-called information from the ghost.”

“It’s not so-called, it’s true. Max was trying to warn us last night.”

“Yes—that he will kill whoever gets in his way. He’s afraid we’ll get rid of him, and rightly so.” He took a bite of ham.

“Papa, Max cannot push stones off the battlements.”

“So Blakely says, but our legends say otherwise. He’s a murderous bastard and has to go.” Before Thomasina could summon a response, he added condescendingly, “Come now, Tommie. You’re a woman and therefore a fool, but think about it. Can you imagine Sam carrying a stone and a rope all the way up to the tower?”

“Yes, I can, if he didn’t want anyone to know.” She tried a different approach. “Mr. Blakely says Sam relieves foolish young men of their money.”

For an instant, Papa frowned, but then his brow cleared. He waved his fork in the air. “So? Nothing wrong with gaming and winning.”

“Unless you’re cheating!”

“Did Blakely say that? He has a gall, barging his way in, demanding my hospitality, and now slandering my nephew.”

“No, he didn’t say it, but knowing Sam, I bet he does cheat.”

James strolled into the breakfast parlor, freshly shaven and looking so handsome and lovable that her heart wept. “Not that I know of,” he said mildly. “He’s skilled at cards, and whenever his pockets are to let, he chooses opponents who are young and callow.”

“Humph,” Papa said. “Not in the best of taste, admittedly, but he’s not the sort to toss stones off roofs. The ghost did it, and that’s that.”

“The ghost did nothing but warn us,” James said. “Furbelow must have brought the stone with him, for nothing is missing from the parapet. Joey told me Furbelow carried one of his bags by himself—refused to let Joey handle it, and it looked heavy, Joey says.”

Papa wheezed. “How dare you question my servants?”

Thomasina intervened. “I asked him to, Papa.”

“Fool girl! You’ll stop at nothing to exonerate that ghost.”

“And you’ll stop at nothing to make him seem guilty,” she shot back. “Tell my father what really happened, Mr. Blakely.”

Patiently, James resumed his story. “Furbelow bought a rope in the village—Mick will testify to this—carried a large stone up to the battlements, tied the rope around it, balanced it on the edge, and then went outdoors and pulled it down. He’s lucky he didn’t drop it onto his own head—but I assume he feared if he dropped it from above and ran down, someone might see him before he got outdoors, in which case his story wouldn’t hold water.”

“Where is this apocryphal rope?” her father demanded.

“Joey looked last night, but didn’t find it,” James said.

“Because it doesn’t exist!”

“I’m sure it does, sir, but if you need more proof, the tower door was unlocked last night, and I saw Furbelow’s footprints up there in the snow.”

“Tommie must have left it unlocked,” Papa growled, “and the footprints could have been anyone’s. You had no right to go up there, young man. You’re a damned meddler.”

“He is not!” cried Thomasina. “He is trying to help, and we should be grateful. He can talk to Max, which no one else could.”

“The ghost has warned me of danger twice now—both yesterday afternoon and last night,” James said.

“You’re supposed to order him to leave, not listen to his nonsense.”

James swore under his breath. “On both occasions, Max showed particular antipathy toward Furbelow.”

“Nobody likes Sam much,” Mr. Warren said dismissively, “and I repeat, it’s none of your affair.”

Unfortunately, it was entirely James’s affair. He gave up on the stubborn old man and went outdoors to look for the missing rope. He didn’t find it.

“The rope, wherever it is, must be buried under the snow,” he told Thomasina upon his return. “We won’t find it until there’s a thaw.”

“It doesn’t matter. Even if you found it, Papa would dismiss it as meaningless,” she said. “Once he has made up his mind, he refuses to change. Sam is just the sort of person to play a stupid prank, as Papa knows very well from his childhood escapades.” She paused. “I must say, though, this doesn’t feel much like a prank. Why did he do it?”

“To make it seem as if Max really is a murderer.”

“So that Papa will be even more eager to get rid of him? He’s already bound and determined.”

“Sam must have another reason,” James said.

“Whatever it is, I hope he gives up and goes away, but I’m determined he shan’t ruin Christmas.” On this note, Thomasina went to help with festive preparations in the kitchen.

Left to himself, James was prey to dark unpleasant thoughts. Furbelow needed money, and needed it quickly. Maybe he’d ruined one too many fools, and gossip had turned people against him. Maybe he had tried to borrow upon his expectations and failed. He couldn’t count on Walt Warren’s death by natural causes anytime soon; the old man might live several more years.

If he could show that Max was indeed murderous, and somehow engineer an ‘accident’ that would be blamed on the ghost…

James blew out a breath. Thomasina saw the next few days as a purgatory that would soon end. On the contrary—those days were Furbelow’s opportunity to commit murder.

Thomasina put up more greenery, rolled out pastry for several more Christmas pies, and helped Martha cut up dozens of apples for the lamb’s wool with which they would regale the villagers that evening. Anxiety pricked at her, making these activities far less pleasurable than usual.

Shortly before dusk, her father’s angry bellow summoned her to the drawing room, where he was drinking brandy with Cousin Sam and the monk.

“What is the meaning of this?” He brandished a sheet of writing paper. “It’s from Tilson. He says you and he have agreed that you will not suit.”

She did her best not to grin with relief. “I wasn’t aware we had agreed on anything, Papa, but I told him numerous times that I would not wed him.”

“And I told him you would,” Papa said. “Deuce take it, girl, what did you do to make him change his mind?”

Sam slouched in his chair, grinning. “Don’t scold poor, innocent Tommie,” he drawled. “The blame, I am sure, lies with that fellow Blakely.”

“Blakely? I should have known. He’s as bad as his father.” He opened his mouth to embark on a rant—but suddenly his eyes lit up, and his rage evaporated. “Aha! So that’s why you defended Blakely this morning. I should have known. He’s courting you, isn’t he?”

Oh, no!

“He cut Tilson out neatly, I must say. Well! I don’t like him, but he’s of excellent birth, if only a younger son.”

“He is not courting me, Papa.” She wrung her hands. “As I have told you time and time again, I don’t wish to marry.”

“You must marry. There is no question about that.”

“If you don’t want Blakely, there’s always me.” Sam put up a hand at her furious glare. “Only jesting.”

“Aye, and I’ve had enough of your leering at my Tommie,” Papa said. “For my poor sister’s sake, I’ll let you stay until the night after Christmas, but if you and that monk haven’t driven off the ghost by then, you’re out on your ear.”

Sam smirked. “Believe me, the ghost is the only reason I came to this backwater.” He took the decanter and slopped himself some more brandy.

“Enough.” Papa moved the decanter out of Sam’s reach. “That’s good French brandy. The smugglers are charging an arm and a leg.” He glowered at Thomasina. “I’ll have a word with Blakely.”

She turned away, intending to find James and warn him, but she was too late. He strolled into the drawing room and smiled at her—but he wouldn’t once Papa had his say.

“There you are, Blakely.” Her father waved Mr. Tilson’s letter at James. “I have something to say to you, young man.”

“Papa, don’t you dare!” She sent James a pleading glance. “Don’t let him—”

Her father rose. “Keep your eyes downcast and your mouth shut, girl. Go help Cook and Mrs. Day with the lamb’s wool.” He wheezed, but beckoned to James. “In my study. Now!”

“With pleasure, sir.” On the way out, he winked at Thomasina, but it didn’t reassure her. He would hate her for what her father was about to do.

She took a deep breath and poured more brandy for Brother Antoine. He thanked her, something very like sympathy in his eyes.

This was all Sam’s fault. With difficulty, she refrained from throwing the decanter at him.

There was plenty to do in the kitchen, but now James’s freedom was at stake. She had to know what was going on in the study. If James knuckled under, she would march right in and refuse to marry him.

“Pray excuse me.” To the sound of Sam’s snickers, she stalked out, taking the brandy with her.

Walt Warren stumped into his study and dropped heavily into the chair behind his desk. He didn’t gesture to James to sit.

“As it chances, sir, I was hoping to speak to you.” James doubted it would help, but he couldn’t see much choice.

“Ah! About my daughter. Well, young man—”

“About Furbelow,” James said. “I don’t think what he did this morning was a prank. I believe he wants to make it appear that the ghost can really kill people.”

“Why should he do any such thing? We already know the ghost is a murderer.”

Incredible. “Then he wants to reinforce that belief, and to make it seem that the ghost is in a murderous mood. As I said before, Max warned me of danger—of deadly peril. I am loath to worry you, sir, but I think the person in peril is you.”

“What the devil?”

“Furbelow is deep in debt. He would benefit directly by your death. Perhaps he means to push you down the stairs, a method the ghost is supposed to have used in the past, or perhaps get rid of you by some other method.”

Walt Warren half stood, propping himself with a trembling hand, and shook his other fist. “First you accuse him of cheating, and now you say he’s a murderer?”

“I did not accuse him of cheating,” James said. “Think about it, sir. He would benefit even more if, with you out of the way, he could force Thomasina to marry him.”

The old man jabbed a finger at James. “Aye, and if that happened, it would be your damned fault!”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Tilson wrote to me.” He indicated the missive he’d been brandishing in the drawing room. “You are responsible for sundering the engagement between him and Thomasina.”

“There was no engagement, Mr. Warren. Thomasina never wanted to marry him. She said so several times in my hearing and doubtless many more in yours.”

“Aye, and I told her not to be a fool. You turned her head. Lured her away, and by God, you’ll pay for it.”

“I didn’t lure her,” James retorted. “I helped her avoid a life of misery with that pompous dolt. Do you know what he intended? He meant to cut her off from all her relations for fear of the Warren taint. He would have forbidden her to see Colin and Bridget, Lord Garrison and his family, and Sir Julian and Daisy, and I don’t know who else besides. Is that what you wanted for her?”

Mr. Warren reddened. “Taint? There’s no damned taint! How dare you suggest such a thing? By God, I’ll—”

“I didn’t suggest it. Tilson brought it up and expressed concern.”

“Because she was flirting with you, no doubt.”

“Yes, I expect that was what started it. I kissed her a couple of times under the mistletoe and prevented Tilson from doing so.”

“Why, damn you? She was his betrothed!”

“Because she didn’t want him to kiss her.” James paused, trying to muster his patience. “And she was not his betrothed, as I have explained already.”

“She didn’t object to you,” Walt Warren wheezed.

“Because she didn’t see me as a threat. A few harmless kisses, and Tilson drew some rather startling conclusions. You’re well rid of him. He would have made her very unhappy.”

Warren slumped back into his chair. “It would have been wrong to keep her from seeing her family. They’re good people, apart from sowing their wild oats in public.” He rubbed his face. “But he would have taken care of her, damn you.”

“I beg your pardon, sir, but Miss Warren is well able to take care of herself. She’s intelligent and reasonable and decisive.” He tried a smile. “She would have refused in the end anyway, you know. She loves you dearly and wants to please you, but not to the extent of destroying her own chance of happiness.”

“Happiness?” her father cried. “As a spinster, with no man to guide her, the prey of every fortune hunter for miles around!”

“She’s not a fool, and she has many male relatives to advise her if the necessity arises,” James said.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” Mr. Warren roared, his complexion purple. “You won’t get out of this so easily. You ruptured her engagement, and in all honor you are now obliged to marry her yourself.”

Damn. Was Thomasina lurking outside the door? That wouldn’t surprise James in the least. If she heard this ridiculous ultimatum, she would never believe he actually wanted to marry her.

“No, sir, I am not.” He placed his hands on the desk and glared down at the old man. “Substitute one forced marriage for another? Honor forbids me to do so.”

“Why, you weasel, I never did like your father. I should have known the son would be no better.” He wheezed and gasped, and spoke in querulous bursts. “What am I to do with her?” Pause. “I’m not long for this world.” Wheeze. “When I die, she’ll be adrift without a man to take care of her, and it’s all your fault.”

James waited until the old fellow recovered his breath. Gently, he said, “I will take care of her, sir.”

Mr. Warren raised his head. “What the devil is that supposed to mean? You just said you won’t marry her.”

“I will take responsibility for her well-being. I will remain close by, I will protect her from Furbelow, and I will drive off the fortune hunters. I will advise her if she so desires, and I will protect her from any and every danger.”

The old man sniffed. “Fine words, but for how long will you play this noble role? You’re a young man. You won’t kick your heels here forever.”

“Yes, I will, Mr. Warren,” James said. “If Thomasina chooses never to marry, I’ll take care of her for the rest of my life. I swear it.”

“But you won’t ask her to marry you.”

“No, for she has told me she doesn’t wish to marry. How unkind to put her in exactly the same position as before—courted by an unwelcome suitor whom you’ll try to force her to wed. How insulting to assume that I know what she wants better than she does.”

“What a farrago of nonsense,” Mr. Warren said disgustedly. “Nothing but excuses.”

“Make no mistake, sir—I care for your daughter, but caring doesn’t mean forcing her into marriage. It means giving her what she truly wants.”

“Which is what?”

“The right to remain single.”