Emma opened her eyes, blinking in the murky darkness. Her dreams had been so vivid—the man with the knife, slashing at her, his familiar eyes vivid, but this time they were someone else’s eyes, someone’s uncovered face, and she sat up in sudden panic.

It took her a moment to catch her breath, and then she forced a shaky laugh. In her nightmare the marauding attacker had been no other but Mr. Amasa Fenrush, chief surgeon at Temple Hospital, his eyes mad with murderous fury.

Which was, of course, a total absurdity. Her attacker had been huge, Fenrush was a small, bird-like man. He had almost colorless blue eyes, her attacker’s eyes had been small and black, like currants. On top of that, the thought of such a fastidious man as Fenrush lowering himself to a brawl in a rain-soaked field was simply absurd.

It was no surprise that her sleeping mind had chosen Fenrush. If she had to name one person who truly hated her it would be her erstwhile superior, and a part of her was dreading what was awaiting her when she returned to London. He wouldn’t take his demotion with any good grace, particularly by a woman, and she rather dreaded facing him.

And then there was Brandon. His appearance in her dreams had been no surprise—he’d been haunting them since he’d strode back into her life. If she were truthful she’d admit he’d haunted her for almost four years, but she steadfastly refused to consider it.

She tried to summon up the healthy irritation that kept him at arm’s length, but she couldn’t remember why she was angry with him. He hadn’t done anything to hurt her. In fact, it seemed as if he’d actually been kind to her, in his own way. In her sleep-drugged state she couldn’t remember much, she just had a general sense of unease, but the memory of Brandon was different. He somehow felt . . . right.

She opened her eyes again, growing slowly more alert as her memory filtered back. Brandon Rohan was the farthest thing from “right.” He was engaged to marry a very sweet, very unhappy girl. And yet he’d kissed her—several times, very thoroughly, and she hadn’t fought him.

Hadn’t fought him? She’d gone willingly, damn her idiocy! Hadn’t she learned after all this time?

The house seemed almost unnaturally still, even for the dark of night, and then she realized what was different. The lashing rain had finally stopped.

It was well after midnight—she’d always had an instinctive sense of time, whether it was close to dawn or dusk, and it didn’t fail her now. It was the depth of the night, the time she usually woke when her sleep was troubled. A sound finally came to her—the muffled wail of a miserable baby, and she recognized her unhappy goddaughter.

The floor was cold beneath her feet when she rose, reaching for her heavy shawl. The crying was getting louder now, and she pushed open her door, making her way slowly down the hall, wishing she’d at least had stockings to warm her bare toes. When she finally returned to her self-contained rooms in London she’d appreciate the tight confines that enabled her to stay warm. One always assumed the wealthy had the best in life, but those who lived in these grand old houses were probably freezing to death. She’d take her rooms in the slums any day.

She slipped into the nursery, closing the door behind her silently, only to stop short, wishing she were anywhere but there. Nanny was nowhere in sight, neither were any of the nursery maids. Instead a man leaned over the cradle, speaking in a soft, soothing voice to his infant niece and goddaughter, and Emma wondered whether she could slip out of the room before he noticed.

Brandon didn’t lift his head, but his warm voice carried across the room. “Are you going to just hide there in the shadows, Emma, or are you going to help me with this squalling brat?”

While the words were harsh, the tone was at direct opposites, and there was no mistaking the tenderness in the man as he reached down toward the crying baby. She didn’t need to see this. She was already having a difficult time sorting out her feelings for this unpredictable man—there was nothing more guaranteed to melt her heart than the sight of a big, strong man caring for a baby.

He looked beautiful in the candlelight as he reached down and picked up the infant. His too-long hair was loose, he was wearing only breeches and a shirt, and he was everything she had ever dreamed of, cradling the infant against his chest before he turned to look at her, and the undamaged side of his face came into view.

It was only then that she realized she’d been mooning over his scarred face, seeing the man, not the damaged flesh, and it was one more reminder that she was in deep trouble.

“Where are the servants?” At least she could sound cool and controlled.

“Benedick sent them away. We’d managed to calm the wee scrap, and my brother wanted to check on Melisande. Apparently she’s been having difficulty sleeping and he didn’t want to disturb her.”

Wee scrap. The Highlands must be having a subtle effect on him. It was no wonder—he’d been up there for more than three years. The last thing she wanted to do was move closer to him, but the cries were growing louder, and she crossed the room in efficient strides before she could give in to the temptation to run away. He was hardly going to start kissing her again when a baby was crying, and a small part of her regretted that fact. “Why didn’t you send for someone?”

He glanced down at her. “She’s eaten and had her nappies changed—there’s nothing anyone can do that I haven’t. You don’t have to have tits to care for a baby.”

“They do help,” she said dryly. “Give her to me.” She reached out her arms, and Brandon raised an eyebrow.

“You think you can do better with her?” he said, rocking the baby gently as she nestled against his broad chest.

“Of course.” In truth, she wasn’t sure. There seemed no better place in the world than resting against his shoulder—but Alexandra didn’t seem to be enjoying it properly, the foolish wench.

“You’d best sit down first, and I’ll give her to you. You’re still looking a bit pale,” he said, surveying her critically.

“It’s too dark for you to see that,” she said crossly, moving to the large chair Nanny used when the children needed rocking.

He leaned down and put the infant in her arms, and he was suddenly too close, too warm, his mouth. . . “I’ve been paying attention,” he said. Then, thank God, he moved away.

Alexandra squirmed against her, mewling in unhappiness, rooting against her breasts with blind need. “She’s still hungry,” Emma announced. Trust two men to think they knew a thing about babies! “You’ll need to get the wet nurse back, quickly, before she works herself up into a full-blown tantrum.”

He glanced around him. “Where’s the bell-pull?”

She let out a long-suffering sigh. “That would take too long. A footman would answer, he’d have to go to Richmond, and then Richmond would need to find someone to rouse the wet nurse. Go yourself.”

Another man would have been affronted but Brandon simply grinned. “Yes, ma’am,” he said, and a moment later he was gone, leaving her alone with the snuffling babe. She leaned back, rocking, murmuring softly to the little one, and together their bodies warmed to each other, relaxing in the shadowy room. He’d come back. The baby would sleep. And they would be alone together, with the memory of those heated moments in the salon fresh in their minds. What if he touched her again? What if he didn’t?

Brandon had needed an excuse to leave her. Watching the infant root at her breast through the thin cotton shift had been far too arousing, and she was an inconveniently observant female. He had little doubt she’d notice his condition, and whether her reaction would be fear or disgust, he didn’t want to go there. And if she responded with interest. . .

He’d been unable to sleep. When the gentlemen had eventually joined the ladies in the salon he’d been informed that Mrs. Cadbury had retired for the night due to her early departure the next day.

The hell with that, he’d thought. She wasn’t going anywhere until they’d had an honest talk. He’d made a royal mess of it all, when he’d only been wanting to do the right thing and then get the hell out of there. Now, for the first time in his memory, he found he was thinking of someone other than himself, someone who felt like she belonged to him, someone he wanted, not just her body, but her heart and soul and brain.

He wanted to pound something, perhaps his own thick skull. Charles would have been even more worthy of a pummeling, but he’d already been banished. Brandon couldn’t even acquit his closer brother of wanting the best for him—Charles’s only interest was in securing the land next to his for his family. He knew perfectly well that Brandon had no interest in the English country estates he already owned, much less those of Harry Merton, the man who had almost killed him and so many others. He wanted nothing to do with it, and Charles would somehow manage to secure it, sly bastard that he was.

Brandon didn’t want to be thinking about Harry Merton or his sister. He wanted to think about Emma Cadbury, wearing the thin nightdress, a shawl trailing from her shoulders, her bare feet peeping deliciously from beneath the hem.

In fact, he’d been lying in bed, in the midst of a truly immoral fantasy about her, one hand wrapped around his cock, when he’d heard the baby crying and gone in aid of the situation. It had been organized chaos, with Benedick trying to hush everyone, Nanny and the nursemaids clearly in the midst of some power struggle, and the poor little infant wailing her head off. At any moment he’d expected his sister-in-law to charge in, but not even her baby could rouse her from her long-denied rest.

Things had settled down relatively swiftly, and everyone returned to their beds until an hour later the cries came again, cries he’d been doing his best to deal with when Emma had entered the room, looking only slightly the worse for wear, her thick, black hair tumbling down her back, her feet bare, her shift too thin for the chilly air and his peace of mind.

Christ, he had to get out of there, get back to Scotland, before he did something he regretted! He was half-tempted to simply scoop her up and take her with him, which wouldn’t go over too well with his fiancée, he thought sourly, moving through the halls as swiftly as his bad leg would let him as he followed orders and went for the wet nurse.

It wouldn’t take much to finish things up—Benedick was probably more than ready to see the last of him. Tomorrow he would ignore the temptations pulling at him and head back to Scotland until the time came for his marriage ceremony, assuming he couldn’t avoid it. Neither he nor Miss Bonham spent time in society—no one would expect them to make the rounds that an average engaged couple normally would. In fact, he might insist on holding the wedding in Scotland. He wanted the business handled with the least amount of disruption—anyone could marry them in Scotland, and then she could go back home a safely married matron and he wouldn’t have to think about her again. He had no intention of ever living with her. No intention of bedding her either, though he supposed he might have to, sooner or later. She was too meek, too pale, too. . .

Too not Emma. Jesus, he had to get out of there!

It was relatively quick work to arrange for the wet nurse, and he started back slowly, favoring his leg, but even so, he reached the hallway outside the nursery before anyone else did. To his astonishment there were no howls of fury, no baby screams of despair. Just a soft voice, almost inaudible, singing.

He pushed open the door, and he froze, unable to move. He’d faced down charging lancers, deranged Moghuls, murderous Afghan tribesmen, and the fathers of innocent girls. Nothing compared to this.

Emma was sitting in a chair, the baby in her arms, rocking gently. She was smiling down at the dozing infant, and she looked like a Madonna as she sang an old Welsh lullaby, one he knew as well as he knew his own name, even as everything else in his life seemed suddenly upended.

Sleep, my child, and peace attend thee, all through the night,

Guardian angels God will lend thee, all through the night.

Soft the drowsy hours are creeping

Hill and dale and slumber sleeping

I, my loving vigil keeping

All through the night.

Her voice was beautiful, clear and sweet and low, and it danced through his brain, through his body like a wicked taunt. He knew that voice, that sound, that lullaby, and the knowledge went through his body like a bolt of lightning.

He’d heard it before, from a woman who had sat by his bed, night after night, holding his hand while he fought against a death that had seemed so enticing. A woman who had talked to him, made him laugh, kissed him, made him want to live again. A woman who had disappeared when he’d needed her most. His Harpy.

She sat there, all innocence, as if she hadn’t been lying to him for days now, as if she hadn’t been acting a part, pretending there was no past, nothing between them. She hadn’t forgotten—he knew that full well. So why had she lied?

No wonder he’d been like a moonling over her. His mind may not have remembered that dark, confused time, but something more elemental had. She had come to mean so much to him back then it had almost frightened him. She was his nebulous dream for the future, his reason for enduring the vicious pain and shattered bones. She was his hope, and then she’d taken it away, gone between one moment and the next. He’d ended up ensconced with his family, the last few weeks of his life vanishing, concentrating instead on the opium pipe and draining his brother’s cellars, concentrating on decadence and indolence and the darkest of desires.

He tried to die, then, by any means necessary, but it was already too late. She’d been with him long enough to nurse him past the danger point, then abandoned him with nothing to live for, and he’d survived in broken fury.

He’d even gone to look for her one day, when he’d made himself sick on the foul stuff he was taking, when he’d seen things at the gathering of the Heavenly Host that he could never scour from his memory. His orders from their anonymous ruler had been disturbing enough that even he had balked, and he’d gone out, lame, staggering, in the early morning rain in search of her at St. Martin’s Military Hospital.

How could he have forgotten all this? The insidious power of the opium had even more wide-ranging consequences than he’d realized—she had vanished, along with his time in that miserable hospital, in a puff of sweet-scented smoke.

He never should have been sent there in the first place, of course. If he’d been properly identified when they shipped him back to England he would have been taken up by his family and given the kind of care the brother and son of peers should receive. By the time he awoke in that crowded, stinking ward, awash with the screams of pain and the misery all around him he’d said nothing, pretending to have no memory, simply awaiting death.

Until his Harpy had come along and ripped it away from him.

But when he returned to the hospital it had been almost a year since his family had found him and carted him out of there, and no one remembered the woman. The kind of women who worked in hospitals tended to be anonymous, from the dregs of society and quickly forgotten. Even the celestially beautiful woman who spent nights by his bed, holding his thin hand, teasing him, chiding him, exhorting him to live.

Celestially beautiful? He’d thought her some kind of angel. Now he could see her for what she was, his eyes no longer blinkered by sickness and vulnerability. She was a woman, nothing more, one who derived pleasure from taking a helpless man and making him rely on her, then abandoning him. In truth, a part of him couldn’t blame her. It was the only revenge against the abuse she’d suffered at the hands of men, and if he hadn’t known her he might even have applauded it.

But he did know her, finally, even with her deceitful games throwing him off-track. Never once had she tried to find him, never once had she reached out, even though his own brother married her closest friend. She’d kept herself aloof, indifferent, as he’d been drowning in a morass of decadence and addiction. After she’d saved him she’d been willing to stand back and let him die by his own hand.

No wonder she’d been as desperate to leave this place as he was. She’d probably been terrified he might remember her.

The wet nurse arrived through the door off the servants’ stairs, and Brandon drew back into the shadows abruptly. He should be well satisfied, he thought as he returned to his room, not even bothering to hide his limp. The nagging question about her had been answered—it explained his fascination with her, his obsession. It answered the question that had haunted him until he’d smoked enough and drank enough to drown it out—what had happened to the beautiful woman who sat in the shadows and had somehow become everything to him.

Whores’ tricks had served her well. She was well versed in the art of bringing a man to his knees, and she’d played him very well. He could salute her—she was a worthy adversary, and she’d managed to win their first encounter.

She’d won the second as well, playing her games again, the only pleasure she allowed herself to accept from the opposite sex. He mentally bowed down to her—he’d been in the presence of a master of manipulation and deceit.

But in the end he’d won, because he’d remembered, and he could now see her in all her duplicitous glory. He would leave first thing in the morning and never have to see that lovely, lying face again.

She would believe he’d forgotten her completely. It was a paltry revenge, but it was the least he could do. He’d return to the Highlands and do everything he could to make it the truth. He had no idea why he felt so angered by her lies, but he welcomed it. Anger was something he was used to—it fit him well enough.

Regret was far too troubling.