The North Tower

If it was a moldering heap, she thought, peering from the carriage window as they approached it, it was certainly an impressive one. Uncle Cyrus had said it was moldering and was not at all the sort of place she would want to make her home. But it was hers. The only thing of any real value she had owned in her life. Her house, her home. Her castle. Roscoe Castle—all towers and battlements and massive, ivy-colored gray walls. Hers, though she had never set eyes on it before this moment—or on Baron Selbome, her maternal grandfather, who had recently died and left it to her.

It was magnificent, her new home. There was also something rather sinister about it. It seemed more a fortress than a home. Perched as it was on a rise of land and outlined against the darkening sky of late afternoon, it looked somewhat overpowering to a young lady of only twenty years and average height and slight build. Her grandfather had lived there alone for years and years, cut off from his only daughter, who had incurred his undying wrath by marrying unwisely, eloping when he had withheld his permission. The trees of the park had grown into something of a forest to the very foot of the rise about the castle, leaving very little space for lawns and gardens or for anything that would make it seem like a pleasant home. The sea was not far away. The land rose bleak and barren behind the castle until it fell away sheer to the sea and the rocks far below. Uncle Cyrus had described it to her. He had been there once with his brother, who had been intent on winning the hand of the baron’s daughter.

“Impressive, is it not?” one of the other occupants of the carriage said. “It is not often that a woman is sole heiress to such a property, Miss Borland.”

“And such a very young woman, too,” the other occupant said.

Daphne Borland turned her attention from the approaching castle and looked at the thin, stern figure of Mr. Cecil Tweedsmuir, executor of her grandfather’s will, and at the equally thin and stern figure of his sister, Miss Jemima Tweedsmuir, who had been appointed her chaperone for the journey and her companion for at least the first few weeks of her residence in her new home.

Until her marriage.

“But there is the condition,” she said quietly.

“An easy one with which to comply, surely,” Mr. Tweedsmuir said. “Most young ladies of limited means, about to take employment as a governess, would think it a dream come true to find themselves suddenly considerable heiresses with a castle for a home.”

“And an earl for a husband,” Miss Tweedsmuir said, completing her brother’s thought and pursing her lips. “A young man, too, my dear Miss Borland, and reputed to be as handsome as Adonis.”

“And wealthy enough to make you, even with your newfound inheritance, look like a pauper,” Mr. Tweedsmuir added.

Yes, it was a dream come true, Daphne thought as the carriage climbed the steep slope to the massive pointed stone archway that must lead through to a courtyard. There must once upon a time have been a moat at the foot of the slope, she supposed. It was a dream come true. She had lived most of her twenty years with her aunt and uncle, her father having died in debtors’ prison when she was an infant and her mother having passed away three years later. Her aunt and uncle had been kind to her, but they were not wealthy and they had a large brood of their own for whom to provide. After refusing two offers of marriage—both from tenant farmers, one of whom she found dull and the other repulsive—she had decided to take employment. She had already been hired as a governess and was within three days of leaving home when Mr. Tweedsmuir had arrived at her uncle’s door.

The only other known surviving relative of her grandfather’s—also female—was a very distant connection, Mr. Tweedsmuir had explained. And she was believed to be living in America to boot. The baron had chosen to leave everything to his granddaughter, since nothing was entailed. But there was a condition. She must agree, within two months of inheriting, to marry the Earl of Everett, owner of Everett Park, eight miles distant from Roscoe Castle. The marriage must be solemnized within three months.

“But what if the Earl of Everett does not wish to marry me?” Daphne had asked, aghast.

It seemed that the earl, and his father before him, had been wanting to buy Roscoe Castle and all its land for some time past. But a bitter and longstanding feud between the two families had made negotiations difficult. On his deathbed the baron had finally agreed that the property might pass into the earl’s possession if his lordship married the baron’s granddaughter within three months of his death.

If either refused to marry the other, Mr. Tweedsmuir had gone on to explain, then the one remaining relative in America was to be the inheritor. Neither, it seemed, was to be allowed to escape from the arrangement by deliberately appearing disagreeable to the other.

And so, Daphne thought now as she was helped down from the carriage and looked about the large courtyard with eager curiosity, this was all to be hers for only a very short while. If she refused to marry the Earl of Everett, or if he refused to marry her, then she must look for another governess’s post in three months’ time. If she married him—but how could she marry a complete stranger even if he were as rich as Croesus and as handsome as Adonis?—then it would all belong to him.

Her grandfather, she decided, taking Mr. Tweedsmuir’s offered arm, and stepping into the great hall, in addition to all his other faults, had been a tease.

Mrs. Bromley, the housekeeper, who greeted them in the great hall, did not seem quite to fit her surroundings, Daphne thought. She was plump and pleasant and smiling. It might have been more appropriate for her and Miss Tweedsmuir to change places. Miss Tweedsmuir, reed thin and with her severely styled dark hair and black dress—she and her brother wore mourning out of respect for the baron’s memory, though Daphne had declined to wear black for a man she had never known and one who had always refused to acknowledge her—would have been a suitably sinister housekeeper for such a starkly medieval castle. Especially it seemed so when Mrs. Bromley conducted them upstairs to their bedchambers and walked ahead of them with a candle held aloft. The candle would have been necessary even if it had not been five o’clock and fast getting dark outside, Daphne thought. The windows down one side of the long stone passageway were small and narrow. If Miss Tweedsmuir had been walking ahead, casting long shadows on the walls instead of the comfortably fat ones of Mrs. Bromley, one might almost have believed that ghosts lurked in dark recesses. And it was a good time of the year for them, too. It was almost the end of October. Daphne smiled, diverted by her flight of imagination.

Mrs. Bromley stopped finally and opened a heavy oak door into what she proclaimed to be Miss Borland’s bedchamber. But Daphne hesitated for a moment before following her inside the room. Miss Tweedsmuir, like a silent shadow, stopped at her shoulder. Daphne frowned, looking at the blank stone wall ahead in the passageway. One did not expect a blank wall at the end of a castle passage. All passages led somewhere. The rounded door into the tower should be there, she thought, before catching herself in the thought and smiling outright. A rounded door? To the tower? What fanciful thought was she indulging in now? She shook her head.

“I can see that a fire is burning in your bedchamber,” Miss Tweedsmuir said hopefully. “Shall we step inside, my dear Miss Borland?”

The passageway was indeed cold and drafty, Daphne thought, turning into her room only to find that the heat from the fire hardly carried across to the door. Castles, with their thick stone walls, were reputed always to be cold, even in summer. She was thankful that she still wore her heavy winter cloak.

“It is a delightful room,” she said, feeling some enthusiasm despite the chill as she looked about her. It did not have any of the pretty coziness of her room at Uncle Cyrus’s, but it had character, with its high ceiling and tapestry-lined walls and heavy canopied bed.

Mrs. Bromley looked dubious. “I am new here, madam,” she said, “the old housekeeper having retired on his lordship’s passing. I could wish that the place was warmer, but I have ordered fires kept constantly burning in all the rooms that will be in use. Perhaps a little light and warmth will dispel some of the rumors and make the maids less silly about moving from place to place unless there is a manservant with them.”

“Rumors?” Daphne asked with interest.

Mrs. Bromley clucked her tongue. “Ghosts,” she said. “It takes only one silly servant to claim there are ghosts, and pretty soon she has everyone believing in them and jumping at their own shadows. I have no patience with such nonsense.”

Miss Tweedsmuir cleared her throat. “I hardly think such gossip suitable for the tender ears of a young lady,” she said, her voice as chilly as the corridor beyond the door.

Daphne laughed. “Oh, but I am fascinated,” she said. “I must hear the stories tomorrow when I have recovered from the journey. You need have no fear that I will awake screaming from nightmares in the middle of the night, Miss Tweedsmuir. I have not the smallest belief in ghosts.”

“You are a sensible young lady,” Miss Tweedsmuir said approvingly.

“Of course there are no ghosts,” Mrs. Bromley said. “But I am sorry to have mentioned them, madam. Would you like me to have tea sent to the drawing room, late as it is? I am sure you and your lady companion and the gentleman must be chilled after the journey. A wicked raw day it is today, for sure.”

“That would be lovely,” Daphne said. “What is at the other side of the wall at the end of the passageway outside the room?”

Mrs. Bromley looked blank.

“One does not expect passageways to come to an abrupt end,” Daphne said.

“Well, I suppose all of them must end somewhere, madam,” the housekeeper said.

But there must be something the other side of the wall, if only space, Daphne thought. Mrs. Bromley was new to her job, though, and seemed not to have got her bearings sufficiently yet to answer detailed questions. She would have to wait for tomorrow and daylight, Daphne decided, and go exploring both inside and outside. The excitement of being the owner of a castle, complete with extinct moat and resident ghosts, grabbed at her again as it had at frequent intervals since she had first learned of her inheritance the week before—though she had not been told of the ghosts then.

And it was all hers, even if only for three months.

There was a massive round tower beyond the blank wall in the passageway outside Daphne’s bedchamber. She discovered it the following morning when she donned her half boots and drew on her cloak over a wool dress and went striding off to explore the outdoors, despite Miss Tweedsmuir’s protests that it was a cold, windy day and likely to rain at any moment. It was clear that she had no wish to take to the outdoors merely in order to chaperone a young lady who was showing an alarming tendency to be curious and energetic. But there was no need for her to exert herself, Daphne assured her. She was merely going to explore the courtyard and the circumference of the outside walls. She hardly needed a chaperone to accompany her. Miss Tweedsmuir did not argue the point.

Her bedchamber was in the middle of the north wall of the castle. When she arose from bed and gazed out of her window, she found that she was looking down into the courtyard. The arched entryway lay to the left. What was perhaps a vast bed of flowers during the summer was now dull brown earth. The view from the window in the passageway outside her door confirmed her impression. She looked down the slope to the no longer existent moat and inland over the tops of trees into the distance. If she had been placed in a room on the other side of the courtyard, perhaps she would have been able to see the sea. Though perhaps not. A fortress would have been built to be invisible from the sea and invading ships.

Her explorations out of doors revealed a castle not quite square in shape, with massive towers at each corner, and one in the center of each of the northern and southern walls. It was the northern one that was next to her room. There was no entrance to it from the outside. But of course, for defensive purposes, the castle would have been built with only the one entrance. There was a rounded archway leading into the tower from the courtyard, but when Daphne peered eagerly inside, she found a stone wall where she had expected to see the beginning of a circular stone staircase. When she went inside to explore the lower passageway beneath hers, she discovered without surprise that it ended as hers did—with a stone wall.

There was a simple explanation, of course, as she discovered later from an elderly groom in the stables. The tower and the stairs had been deemed unsafe by a former baron—not his lordship who had just died— and had been walled up to put it beyond temptation’s way. It was a shame, though, Daphne thought, absently smoothing her hand over the back of the horse the groom was brushing. When a castle was one’s home, it should not be allowed to fall into ruin. She wondered if her fortune was large enough that she could restore the tower. She must ask Mr. Tweedsmuir. Of course, there were probably several other parts of the castle that needed restoring, too. Besides, whatever happened with the Earl of Everett, Roscoe Castle would be strictly hers for only three months. Less—a week had already passed.

“Of course,” the groom was saying, “there are those who say that the tower was shut off because of the foul deeds done there.”

Daphne brightened into instant alertness. “Oh?” she said. “What deeds, pray?”

“I don’t know the rights of it, miss,” he said. “But it’s all nonsense if you was to ask me, just like all them stories about ghosts. I been here more than forty years, miss, and I never yet seen no ghosts. Murder most foul it was supposed to be.”

Daphne was disappointed. No one she had yet spoken to at Roscoe Castle seemed to suffer in the least from curiosity. Most of the servants were as new as Mrs. Bromley. Even those who were not could only hint darkly at ghosts and murders. Did no one know any of the facts?

“Word has it,” the groom said, “that that is what set the family here and the family at Everett Park at each other’s throats all down the years. But I call it all nonsense, miss. Jealousy and greed is all that has ever been between them—both of ’em wanting the other’s land. It don’t do to have two men of influence living so close.”

“But how splendid,” Daphne said, “if the feud originated in ‘murder most foul,’ as you put it. I like that description. Would anyone know the details of the story?”

The groom scratched his unshaven chin. “Some of the old people in the village,” he said. “And perhaps the Countess of Everett, miss. She always was keen on gathering local history, I have heard. She even writes it all down, some say. Doesn’t have nothing else to do with her time, if you was to ask me.”

The Countess of Everett. She must be the mother of her prospective bridegroom. Daphne’s heart sank as she was reminded of what was coming within the next week or so. There was to be a temporary reprieve from the nasty business of meeting the earl and sizing him up while he did the same to her, both wondering whether they could bear the thought of spending the rest of their lives with each other. Mr. Tweedsmuir, who had sent early to Everett Park, had had a reply after breakfast informing him that his lordship was in London and would not return for a week, having assumed that it would take longer for Miss Borland to arrive.

Or because he wanted one more week of glorious freedom, Daphne thought. But in the process, of course, he was granting her one more week of glorious freedom, too, and she intended to enjoy it. But she wished there were someone readily accessible to give her a full history of the castle with all the gruesome details of the story the groom had only been able to whet her appetite with. It was so very prosaic to believe that that tower had been sealed up just because it was becoming weakened with age. It was very much more romantic to believe that it held some dark secret or some tormented ghost. All the other towers, she discovered on examination, were open to exploration even if not all of them were in excellent repair.

Mr. Tweedsmuir consented to take a short ride with Daphne in the afternoon and she discovered that Uncle Cyrus had not exaggerated either the height or the spectacular drop from the cliffs to the sea. But they did not ride far across the clifftop as the wind buffeted them quite mercilessly.

Miss Tweedsmuir sat and conversed with her after tea and played a few hands of cards with her after dinner.

Altogether, Daphne thought as she retired to bed, watching the strange dancing shadows her candle cast over the walls of the passageway as she approached her bedchamber, she was enjoying being the owner of her own home. In two or three months’ time, she would probably be someone’s governess, the pattern of her life interrupted only briefly. But in the meanwhile she was going to enjoy to the full her new and unexpected status and the adventure that was coming with it. Why spoil these months by reminding herself that they would soon be at an end?

She wondered if the Earl of Everett really did look like Adonis and if he had the character to match. Perhaps she should hope that he was far more ordinary in every way. What would an Adonis think of her as a bride? She set her candle down on the dressing table in her room and peered at her image in the looking glass. She looked very ordinary with her short brown curls and brown eyes and rosy cheeks. And her figure, though slender, was not exactly the type to make a man’s mouth water. At least, she had never noticed any of the men of her acquaintance salivating at the mere sight of her. The two men who had proposed to her had needed housekeepers and breeders.

Daphne sighed and turned toward the warmth of the fire while she undressed. She was unused to having a maid and had told the one assigned to her that she would not be needed until morning. It would be wonderful to see the light of admiration in a man’s eyes at least once in her lifetime. She was twenty years old and had never been in love or the object of anyone’s love. She had never even been kissed. She really had led a very dull life so far.

Well, she reminded herself, shivering despite the heat of the fire, she might experience far more than just kisses within the next three months if her grandfather’s plan came to fruition.

Did he look like Adonis?

She did not know what woke her. At first she thought it was a sound, but if it was, it had stopped altogether by the time she was awake and listening intently for it to be repeated. There was no sound beyond the ticking of the clock on the mantel. Certainly there was no other sound inside her room or in the passageway, either. But then she had not woken with a wildly beating heart, as she would surely have done if there had been a noise to threaten her, like stealthy footsteps. She could hear no outdoor noise, either.

Perhaps it was just that she was cold or uncomfortable. But she was neither, she realized. She was as warm as toast even though the fire had died down in the grate. It must be very late into the night. Anyway, she had woken suddenly, not with the gradual irritation of some physical discomfort.

Perhaps it was just a dream she had needed to escape from, she thought, yawning and stretching with lazy comfort. There was something rather delicious about waking in the middle of the night and knowing that one could fall back to sleep for hours before there was the necessity of getting up. She wriggled her shoulders more snugly beneath the pillows and settled her mind for sleep.

Except that it would not come. Or the delight of being snuggled into a warm and comfortable bed with chilliness beyond it and hours to go before she must feel obliged to throw off sloth and get out of bed. She had to get up now. She could not resist the urge. She had to get out of bed and huddle quickly inside her slippers and winter dressing gown and light the candle and go—where?

It was absurd, she thought as she lifted the candle aloft, gave her warm and tumbled bed one last regretful glance, and turned the handle of the door. There was nothing to investigate, and even if there were, it was the depth of madness to do so alone with a candlestick her only weapon. And yet it was not a sense of danger that drew her onward. She turned instinctively left outside the door—in the direction of the blank wall.

Except that it was not a blank wall. She stared at the rounded doorway and the stout wooden door with a frown. She could not possibly have overlooked it during the day. It was not even as if she had glanced at the wall absentmindedly. She had looked for a door and had questioned its absence. And yet there was the door, as plain as the nose on her face. Unless it was one of the tantalizing shadows that the candle tended to throw on the castle walls. She lifted the candle higher.

Well, she thought, stepping forward, she had missed it somehow, that was all. The handle was a heavy hollow ring of black metal. She reached out gingerly with her free hand and took hold of it. It was no figment of the imagination. It was solid and cold and felt familiar in her hand. After the merest hesitation— during which time her heart began at last to beat faster than usual—she turned it. She knew to turn it inward to the door rather than outward toward the frame as one would normally do. She knew that the handle was stiff when turned that way.

Daphne caught herself in the thought and hesitated again before pulling the door slowly outward. How could she know that about the handle? She was being fanciful again. It must come of having led a rather dull life and of having read too much, though she had never before noted the tendency in herself to allow her imagination to run riot. Perhaps she was sleeping. Probably she was sleeping. But if so, she was walking into what was very likely to turn into a nightmare.

It was pitch black inside the tower, and the candle did rather frighteningly weird things to the twisting stone staircase that went both up and down from where she stood, to the stone wall on the outside and the huge central column about which the stairs wound. Should she go up or down? Or back to bed? Unfortunately, she realized as the beating of her heart started to become almost painful, the latter course seemed not to be an option. Neither did going down, though that was where she decided to go when she stepped through the doorway. Her body turned itself the opposite way and her feet began to climb. Just as if she were a useless traveler inside her own body and had no control over its movements.

There was somebody up there. She stopped more than once, standing quite, quite still and listening, but there was not the slightest sound. But she could feel that there was someone there. And that someone— whoever he or she was—had the advantage over her. It was true that she had the light and he or she did not, but by the same token the other person knew for sure that she was there and knew where she was and that she was a mere slip of a girl feeling none too courageous though she continued to climb.

There was a round room at the top, from which a narrow flight of steps led up onto the parapet. The room had doubtless been used by guards years and years ago, when the castle was a fortress. They would have slept in the room while one of their number kept watch above. At least, Daphne thought, that was what she assumed—all of it. She did not know about the round room. How could she? She just felt that it must be there. Common sense told her that it must. Only common sense. She did not know. She had never been to the castle before and there had been no such room in the south tower when she had explored it during the day.

But there it was—the heavy wooden door at the top of the steps, a door that matched the one leading from her passageway. Daphne paused again. It was still not too late to retreat to the safety of her room. What, after all, was she looking for? Why was she here? Whoever was in that room—she could feel that someone was there—might have heard her approach, though she was wearing soft slippers and was not aware of any sound she had made. Anyway he would by now be able to see the light of her candle beneath the door. But if she turned, she could hurry back to her room before he came out. And perhaps he would not come out. Perhaps he did not want her to find him.

So it was he now, was it, she asked herself mockingly. She knew that whoever was there was a man? Yes, she knew it was a man. She even knew who he was. Daphne shook her head and decided to go back. Towers were far more comfortably explored in the daytime. She would come back in the morning.

But her hand reached out to the metal handle of the door and turned it slowly—the normal way this time, toward the outside of the door. Her heart was beating so wildly that her whole head pulsed. She pushed the door inward quickly, staying where she was. It swung open on squeaking hinges.

Her candle, raised over her head again, revealed emptiness. Nothing. No one. So much for fanciful imaginings and nightmares, she thought, drawing a deep breath of relief. So much for dull living and too much reading. She had climbed a castle tower, doubtless looking like an eerie specter herself, only to find an empty room at the top of it. Perhaps she should proceed all the way up to the parapet and peer outward to see if armies of ghosts were creeping up toward the castle on specter steeds.

She stepped firmly into the room and took two steps forward—and froze with horror as she heard the door squeak behind her and shut with a soft click.

“I startled you,” a man’s voice said. He chuckled. “You look as if you had seen a ghost. I had to hide behind the door. It might have been someone else.”

Daphne had spun around to face him. He was disconcertingly tall and muscular, and was standing between her and the door. He was dressed only in tight pantaloons and a loose shirt, open at the neck, but it seemed he had probably just risen from the mattress she had not been able to see from outside the door. Two or three blankets were heaped untidily on it.

He was also, she noticed after the understandable first impression of size and strength, extraordinarily handsome. An Adonis, no less. His hair, so blond as to be almost silver, was worn long and tied with a black ribbon at the nape of his neck in a style so old-fashioned that Daphne had seen it only in pictures. His features were regular, his eyes a startling blue, his teeth white.

He stepped forward and took the candle from her one hand and the bundle from her other. The bundle? She looked down at it blankly.

“Thank you,” he said, depositing them both on a bench and turning back to her immediately. “Have you brought me lots of good things to eat? I am ravenous.”

Who are you? The words formed themselves loud and clear in Daphne’s mind. Curiously her fear had disappeared. There was nothing sinister about this man. Indeed—

“But more for you than for food,” he said, and his eyes softened and kindled all at the same time. He opened his arms to her.

He was mad. Who are you?

“Justin,” she whispered, stepping forward and lifting her arms about his neck as his came about her waist. She had never been held by a man before. She had never even performed the scandalous waltz, since her aunt considered it quite improper. She was being held now—she could feel him, warm and muscled and unmistakably masculine, from her shoulders to her knees. Justin?

“Margaret.” The name was a caress, spoken against her hair. “It seems a se’nnight instead of a day since I saw you last. And held you last.”

“I am afraid for you,” she said, drawing back her head to look up into his blue, blue eyes—oh, so familiar, so beloved. “The hue and cry is growing. Soon they are bound to—”

He kissed her. Lightly. Only enough to stem the flow of breathless words. But she was so afraid for him. Sick with fear. He was under their very noses— the very safest place to be, he had said a week before, when he had first come to hide in the tower. But she could not believe it. Besides, matters had not been nearly as serious a week ago. Every moment of every day she had expected them to search the tower.

“Hush, love,” he whispered against her mouth. “Hush. All will be well. As soon as they give up looking, I’ll go home and make my confession and my peace and then do some searching of my own. And some questioning. I’ll find those jewels if it’s the last thing I do. I do not like being accused of theft and seeming to be the cause of the hostility between your family and mine growing into enmity. Especially not now.”

“But it is not just theft now,” she said. “It is murder, Justin.”

“Murder?” His eyes bored into hers.

“Cleeves, Father’s man, was found dead yesterday morning with a knife in his back,” she said. “He must have known something. Sebastian says Cleeves told him he had seen you take the jewels, but Sebastian would not believe that of you. Now everyone thinks you came last night to kill him.”

“Your brother said those things?” he said with a frown.

“So they still believe you are close by, you see,” she said. “You must leave, Justin. You must get away to France.”

“And leave you?” He lowered his head toward hers again. “Never, Margaret. I’m never leaving you.”

She clung to him, waiting for him to kiss her again. Daphne knew for certain now that she was dreaming. She was in the typical world of dreams, where everything was bizarre and totally unreal, where she was someone she did not know, where she knew things she did not know, where no one recognized her as Daphne. In this strange world she was Margaret and about to be kissed by a man Margaret knew but Daphne did not.

She hoped she would not wake up just yet. This was just the type of moment when one usually awoke.

Just before his lips touched hers he parted them so that he kissed her with his mouth rather than with his lips. There was the shock of warmth and softness and moistness. Daphne would have broken free in some alarm. But there was the dream. Margaret tightened her arms about his neck and opened her own mouth so that the kiss became a deeply physical and intimate embrace. His tongue slid deep into her mouth, and she stroked it with her own and sucked gently on it.

How could it be a dream? How could one do in dreams what one’s waking self knew nothing about? Was this a type of kiss that existed only in dreams? Would such a thing be merely disgusting in reality?

“I’ll blow out the candle,” he said against her mouth. “It is not wise to risk even that much light being seen through the window or beneath the door. And then we’ll lie down for a while.”

Lie down?

“I should go, Justin,” she said. “What if it is discovered that I am missing from my bed?”

“In the middle of the night?” he said. “Who would be prowling?”

“Anyone,” she said. “No one, I suppose.”

“Stay for an hour,” he said. “I must have you for an hour, Margaret. We have been married for a week and not once have we been able to lie together all night.”

Married? They were married?

“Justin.” She took a death grip about his neck and hid her face against his shoulder. “I want to be with you all night and all day. I want us to be free. I want to be able to tell everyone. Will the day ever come? Or are we doomed?”

“The day will come, love,” he said, loosening her grip and leading her to the bench, where he stooped to blow out the candle. In the total darkness that followed he led her to the mattress and lowered her onto it. “No more talk of doom. One day we will be together and free and will live happily ever after.”

“Oh,” she said with a sigh. “In this century or the next, Justin?”

He chuckled. “One day,” he said. “I promise.”

They were lying together on the mattress, their arms about each other. Somehow, Daphne realized, her dressing gown had been shed. Her warm flannel nightgown felt suddenly very thin, though she was not by any means cold. Dream or no dream, she thought, this had gone far enough. In the candlelight she obviously resembled Margaret, his wife. But she was Daphne. She had no business sharing a mattress with him under such false pretenses. She was going to have to tell him who she was and make a hasty retreat.

He kissed her again. And she understood suddenly what all the vague dissatisfactions and longings of the past two or three years had been all about. It was not just, as she had told herself, that she needed an amiable gentleman to marry and a home of her own to set up and some children to fuss over. It was not just that. It was this. Her woman’s body had been craving a man’s body to love it.

It was a shockingly improper idea. But then in dreams one could not control one’s ideas.

His mouth kissed hers as before. And his hands explored, touching her in places she was almost too embarrassed to touch herself. They lingered at her breasts, stroking them, kneading them gently. Her own hands, she realized suddenly, were roaming over his back and shoulders—beneath his shirt. He must, of course, be a dream man. No real man could be so perfectly formed. The excuse for her wanton behavior and her silence was her conviction that he was a dream man.

“Love,” he murmured, first against her mouth and then against her ear, causing her toes to curl involuntarily—toes that were no longer inside slippers. “Let’s get rid of the encumbrances, shall we?”

She was not sure of his meaning until he sat up and she could hear him pulling his shirt off over his head and then proceeding to dispense with his pantaloons just as fast. And then his hands were at the hem of her nightgown and stripping it up over her body and over her head so that she lay naked on the bed beside him. She had never lain naked on a bed, even on the hottest of summer nights and even when very firmly alone behind locked doors.

“Justin,” she whispered, lifting her arms to pull him back down beside her, “make love to me. Make love to me as you did last night.”

Somehow, Daphne thought, she had got trapped inside the body of Margaret and could not make her presence known. But then she was not sure she wished to. His hand on her naked breast had her gasping for air. Besides, it was a dream. A shockingly erotic dream for a maiden to be having, but only a dream nonetheless. His thumb was rubbing over her nipple and she could feel it harden almost painfully. And yet it was not exactly pain she felt. A sharp spiral of sensation whirled up into her throat and downward, to set up a throbbing between her legs. When he did the same thing to the other breast, she found the feeling almost too sweet and too painful to bear.

“Ahh,” she heard herself say before his mouth cut off the sound.

What followed took her completely beyond the realm of thought into that of pure sensation. His hands and his mouth touched every part of her body, even the most intimate place of all, intensifying that sweet stabbing pain until, at the point when it became finally unbearable, she shuddered into unexpected sweetness. And then building it all over again until once more she went shuddering over the edge into glory. She was only half aware of the fact that her own hands and legs and mouth were not idle, but were drawing gasps and moans from him as he worked on her.

It was only when finally, after what must have been fully half an hour of fondling and kissing and exploring, the full weight of his body came down on her and between her spread legs that thought returned. And awareness. And the realization that her body was about to be penetrated. Daphne’s? Or Margaret’s? Was she really sleeping? Could this possibly be a dream? But could it possibly be reality? There was no door into the tower. No man, even in candlelight, could really mistake her for his own wife. Even in darkness he could not mistake her unawakened virgin body for the more experienced one of his wife. In reality she could not have called a stranger by name or told him all the things she had told him before they started to make love.

No, it could not be reality. Yet it did not feel like any other dream she had ever had.

“Together,” he said, finding her mouth with his again. “Now and always, Margaret. To the end of time.”

She was sore and aching. The hard length of him coming into her was painful. But painful only in the way that all his touches had been that night. Painful with a sweet ache that begged to be taken to the brink of madness and over into beauty and peace. There was not the sharp pain of a sealed passage being opened. She was not a virgin. She must be Margaret.

“I love you,”, she said. “Make us one, Justin. All the way one. Give me your seed.” She twined her legs about his powerful thighs, tilted herself, and tightened inner muscles to pull him deeper.

But he would not stay deeply imbedded in her. He drew out of her—almost out—and slid back in again, and when she sighed, did it again and again and again. There was a rhythm that her own motionless body felt and responded to until she was moving with him, at first slowly, then faster, then with frenzied need. She could hear both of them panting—an erotic accompaniment to the energetic dance of bodies joined at the core.

She was approaching the precipice again. But this time they were approaching it together. Her body could feel that as she tightened the hold of arms and legs about him. They were going to fall together, their bodies locked in the deepest intimacy. They were going together.

He thrust into her and held deep and firm instead of withdrawing once more. She pushed down onto him. There was a moment when she feared being stranded on the edge of pain, when she was afraid he would fall and leave her alone and lonely. But then they were over the precipice, together, falling free, only the freedom and the fall of any importance in this life. She clung to his damp, panting body, too exhausted even to wish that they would never land.

“Like last night?” he said ages and ages later—but how could she have fallen asleep if she already was asleep? “It was many times better than last night, love, just as last night was better than the night before.”

“I am still so very inexperienced,” she said. “I have had only a week of lessons.”

He chuckled. “You learn quickly and well,” he said. “An apter pupil I could not ask for. And you have a strong instinct, love. You are teaching me as surely as I am teaching you.”

“How long did we sleep?” she asked.

His arms tightened about her and the laughter went from his voice. “We loved for a long time, Margaret,” he said, “and slept as long, I am afraid. You had better go. I don’t want you in trouble. Each day I vow that when you bring me food at night, I will insist that you return to your room immediately. And each night I do this to you.”

“With me,” she said, kissing him warmly. “With me, Justin.”

“You must go,” he said. “There is enough food and water to last me for two days, love. Have one safe night at least and stay in your room tomorrow. I did not anticipate having to stay so long when I first came here. Then it was only reluctance to go home and face Paul that kept me here. Now there is all this business of a theft and a murder.”

“I’ll be back tomorrow night,” she said fiercely.

He got up from the bed, and she could hear him striking a flint to light the candle. She sat up and pulled her nightgown on over her head. When the light flared, she located her dressing gown on the floor and drew it on, belting it firmly at the waist. She got to her feet and slid them into her slippers.

“Go then,” he said, turning to her and handing her the candle. “Go quickly, my love.”

So very handsome he was, this stranger who was so familiar and so dear. This stranger with whom she had been actively and vigorously intimate for more than half an hour on that mattress with its tumbled blankets.

“Justin.” Her voice was high-pitched, on the verge of tears.

“All will be well.” He framed her face with his hands and kissed her lips softly. “All will be well, Margaret. I promise.”

She smiled at him, deliberately swallowing her fear. She wanted him to remember her smile during the coming day until she could come back to him tomorrow night. She turned to the door. There was a box behind the door with a cracked bowl and a jug of water and his shaving things standing on it. And a small looking glass. Daphne moved to one side of the door to glance into the glass.

Her own face looked back at her. It was surrounded by long ringlets of her own hair color, considerably disheveled. There was a frill at the neck of her nightgown, and the gown itself was of a fine material. She wore no dressing gown. She was dressed as a bride might dress when going to her husband to be loved.

He was easing the door open quietly and peering out and downward. Though if anyone had been there, the candle would have betrayed them. No one would be there. No one ever came to the north tower. That was why she had suggested it as a hiding place—just for the one night, before they brought the wrath of both their families down on their heads by announcing their secret marriage. And of course her bedchamber was next to the door into the tower.

“Good night, my love,” she said, raising her face for one more kiss.

“Good night, Margaret,” he said. “Thank you for the feast.” He grinned, making her stomach leap inside her. “And for the food bundle. I am going to raid it now.”

She laughed. She was the feast? But then so was he.

And then she was making her way down the stairs, holding up the hem of her dressing gown as she descended. Going down the steep stone stairs of a castle tower was always more frightening than going up. She was relieved to see the door into the upper passageway and to be out in it again and then inside her bedchamber. No one had seen her. She closed the door and leaned back against it.

He would be safe. No one would find him there. Who else’s room was situated in this passageway? But Daphne could no longer think with Margaret’s mind. She tried to. She wanted to let Margaret tell her through her thoughts exactly who Justin was and why they had married secretly a week ago. She wanted to know more about the jewelry theft and the murder and more about the brother—Sebastian?—and the hostility between their two families.

But Margaret had gone as surely as Justin had been left behind in the tower.

Daphne was cold again. She shivered. She reluctantly abandoned her dressing gown and slippers and dived beneath the bedcovers, now cold. That was it, she thought. She was cold. That was what had woken her. In reality she had just woken up—because she was cold and because she had had a bizarre dream.

Oh, but what a dream, she thought, turning over onto her side and sliding one hand beneath the pillow. She closed her eyes tightly and tried to identify the leftover ache that his hands and his body had created on and in her. But there was nothing. Only the memories. The vivid memories that set her to yearning and sighing and even shedding a few tears.

Justin!

She was lost. Hopelessly lost. Deeply, deeply in love with him. With a dream man. What a dreadful and ridiculous fate, she thought with a thread of humor, to be in love with a dream man. To have the rest of her life blighted by it. For it would be blighted. How could she ever love or even mildly desire another man after knowing Justin?

How would she be able to listen to the addresses of the unknown Earl of Everett sometime within the next two months?

Perhaps by morning, she thought, addressing herself firmly to sleep, she would be able to see the dream in better perspective. Perhaps by morning she would not be so achingly and foolishly in love with a dream.

The next day was far milder than the last. At least the wind was not blowing with such force. She would go for a ride, Daphne decided after an early luncheon. She would ride along the top of the cliff and breathe in some fresh air. Perhaps she could get rid of the terrible burden of last night’s dream. She would take a groom with her—perhaps the elderly one she had spoken with the day before. Miss Tweedsmuir, she was fast discovering, was not an outdoor person. Even the stroll they had taken about the courtyard during the morning had brought a martyred expression to her face. And Mr. Tweedsmuir had ridden out on some business.

The door into the tower had not been there this morning, of course. The first thing Daphne had done when she woke from a surprisingly sound sleep to find full daylight streaming through her window, was to jump out of bed, race to the door, and peer out and to her left. There was only a blank wall at the end of the passageway. Indisputably blank. There was no possible chance that any shadows hid the existence of a heavy oak door.

And so it really had all been a dream. She had known it, of course. After she had closed her door again, she had lifted her hands self-consciously to her breasts. There was no lingering soreness to suggest that a man had held and fondled and kissed and suckled them just a few hours before. She did not touch between her legs, but she stood very still, pulling in with inner muscles, trying to feel the awareness that a man had been there not so very long before, moving there in the vigorous act of love she could remember so clearly. But her body felt unused. Virgin.

It had all been a dream. Of course it had. How could she even for a moment have hoped—though she had told herself that she was doing no such thing—that it had been real? How could she even have thought it desirable that it be so? To have been mistaken for a man’s wife. To have been bedded so very, very thoroughly because of the mistake. To have lost her virtue to another woman’s husband. To have risked bearing his child. She could clearly remember begging him— or had it been Margaret begging?—to put his seed in her. Daphne would never even have thought those words, let alone spoken them aloud. Dreams were strange things.

As she rode out, hatless despite Miss Tweedsmuir’s reproachful glance and hint that dear Miss Borland had perhaps forgotten to put on her riding hat, she tried to forget those words and the passion with which she—or Margaret—had spoken them. She tried to forget everything that had happened. Erotic dreams must be sinful, she was sure. They were certainly not seemly. How would she ever be able to bear the ordinariness of a real marriage if in her dreams she built such expectations?

She had known for a long time what happened between a husband and wife in the marriage bed. On two separate occasions—and feeling a fascinated guilt both times—she had watched two of her uncle’s dogs coupling and had realized that much the same process must be involved when a man and a woman were in bed. But those couplings had been over in a matter of seconds or at the most in one or two brief minutes. She had never dreamed—and perhaps dreamed, was an appropriate word—that so much could precede the actual coupling. So much that had been delightful beyond words and that had made the final joining of bodies so unbearably sweet.

Perhaps in real life lovers did not play like that. How would she be able to bear real life? And perhaps real life would not even have a husband to offer her. If she could not bring herself to marry the Earl of Everett, or if he would not marry her, then she would become a governess. Governesses rarely married.

How could she go through life without experiencing that again?

Someone was galloping up beside her horse. The groom. And he was clearing his throat apologetically and suggesting that perhaps it was a little reckless for Miss to be galloping on such uneven ground and so close to the edge of the cliff. Daphne smiled her apology and reduced her horse’s speed to a safe canter. She had not even realized that he was galloping. The groom faded to a respectable distance behind her again.

But it would not even be enough, she realized suddenly, to experience that again. Not with just any man. It was with Justin she wanted to make love. It was Justin she loved. Her heart ached for him. It had been like a lead weight in her bosom since she had risen that morning and seen that blank wall and known that there was no way back to him. She was still as hopelessly in love with him as she had been before she fell back asleep last night.

She was in love with a dream man. Deeply. Irrevocably. She had made love with him. She had given herself to him, opened her body to him, received him and his seed inside herself. More than all that—she had given all of herself, not just her body, and had felt him give all of himself. She could not do any of that with anyone else. She felt as closely bound to him as if he really were her husband. She longed for him, felt that she could not live without him.

The fresh air unfortunately had not done much good, she thought ruefully as she turned finally for home. She would have to try the power of common sense over the coming days. Common sense did not usually fail her. She had had a heap of it ever since she had been old enough to realize that she could not expect a great deal of life because she was poor. It had been as simple as that. Life had been very simple until Mr. Tweedsmuir had turned up on Uncle Cyrus’s doorstep.

There was a strange carriage standing outside the carriage house next to the stables. She looked inquiringly at the groom as he helped her down from the back of her horse.

“The Countess of Everett, miss,” he said.

“Oh.” Daphne’s heart sank. Her future mother-in-law come to look her over? And she was rosy-cheeked and doubtless rosy-nosed, too, from her ride. Her hair was probably a riot of tangled curls. She hurried in the direction of the great hall, hoping that she could slip up to her room and somehow restore herself to a semblance of respectability before entering the dread presence of his mother.

She hated the poor man even though she had not yet set eyes on him. And his mother.

The Countess of Everett was beautiful. And young. If she was the earl’s mother, Daphne thought while making her curtsy in the drawing room where Miss Tweedsmuir had been entertaining the visitor, then the earl himself must be an infant. Heavens, her grandfather was trying to marry her off to a boy.

“Ah, lovely,” the countess said, getting to her feet in order to cross the room, and extending an elegant hand to Daphne. She was smiling. “And what an awful thing to say aloud. It quite gives me away, does it not? I have been hoping that my son’s selected bride would be young and lovely, almost as if those two qualities are the only ones that matter. And what have you been hoping with regard to me, my dear?”

“That you would not be a dragon,” Daphne said, noticing the grimace of embarrassment on Miss Tweedsmuir’s face.

The countess laughed. “I don’t believe I am,” she said. “But that will be for you to decide. Come and talk to me, Miss Borland. Daphne, is it not?”

Daphne followed her across the room and seated herself before accepting a cup of tea from Miss Tweedsmuir. She felt almost as if she were the guest and the countess the hostess.

“It seems very ill-mannered of my son to be from home,” the countess said, picking up her own abandoned cup and sipping from it. “He needed to spend a week or so in London, and we really did not expect your arrival quite so soon. I hope you are disposed toward marriage, Daphne, and have no attachment elsewhere?” She raised her eyebrows, but did not wait for a reply. “It is high time my son was married—he is twenty-six years old.”

The countess must be at least forty-three or forty-four, then, Daphne thought irrelevantly. With her golden blond hair and flawless complexion and slim figure she did not look nearly so old.

“Of course,” the countess said, “he is very eager to acquire Roscoe Castle. Even more so than his father was. Sometimes I think he is almost obsessed with the idea.”

So he would wish to marry her even if she looked like a gargoyle, Daphne thought.

The countess laughed. “I have stunned you into silence,” she said. “I am sure he will be equally eager to acquire you, Daphne—as a bride. Come, tell me something about yourself.”

Daphne did, and the conversation continued for almost half an hour. At least, she thought after a while, if it was of any importance whatsoever, she was going to have a mother-in-law she would like.

The countess got to her feet eventually and took her leave of Miss Tweedsmuir. She smiled at Daphne. “Don’t have my carriage brought to the door,” she said. “Stroll to the carriage house with me, Daphne.”

“How do you like Roscoe Castle?” she asked when they were outside.

“I love it,” Daphne said without hesitation. And she meant it, too, though she had not yet been forty-eight hours in her new home.

“It is very ancient and very uncozy,” the countess said, “but it does seem to have that effect on people. My son is determined to have it, you know. It is the one fixed goal of his life.”

“What do you know of its history?” Daphne asked.

The countess smiled. “You mean the ghosts?” she said. “Has someone been terrifying you with them already? Or have they not been mentioned and I am frightening you?”

“Tell me about them,” Daphne said.

“They seem to be confined to the north tower,” the countess said. “It is sealed, as perhaps you know. Maybe it is for that very reason that various people have claimed to see a faint light from the top window at night and to have heard the sounds of clashing swords and a scream.”

Daphne shivered. “You think it all nonsense?” she asked.

“I think it unutterably exciting,” the countess said, “given the history of that tower. No.” She laughed and held up a staying hand. “You do not need to ask the question. Folklore has it that a hundred years or so ago relations between Baron Selbome and Viscount Everett—the earldom came later—were strained because the viscount was poor yet seeking a marriage with the baron’s only daughter. They deteriorated ever further when the daughter and the viscount’s younger and even less wealthy brother became enamored of each other—the viscount was none too pleased either, from all accounts. The baron’s younger son, who had been a boyhood friend of Everett’s brother, was somehow caught in the middle. And then, under guise of calling secretly upon the sister, Everett’s young brother stole a box of valuable jewels from the castle and then murdered the baron’s valet, who had seen him do it—but who first had reported to the baron’s son. Or so the story goes, Daphne. There must have been a great deal more to it. The jewels were never found and the accused thief was soon dead and unable to speak up for himself.”

Something lurched painfully inside Daphne.

“It seems that the young man was daring enough to hide right in the castle—in the north tower, of course—while the countryside was being scoured for him,” the countess said. “His young lady was taking provisions to him there. But her brother followed her one night and there was a terrible fight.”

“And the man who was hiding died?” Daphne said, hardly able to get the words past her lips.

“There were no survivors,” the countess said. “It all left a terrible bitterness between our families that has never been properly healed, though very few people still know the origin of the feud. I uncovered the story only because I am insatiably curious. There must be some truth to it, I suppose, else why would the tower have been sealed off? It looks stout enough, does it not?”

Daphne looked toward the tower and swallowed painfully. “What were their names?” she asked.

Her ladyship’s footman was waiting to hand her into her carriage. But she paused, one foot on the lower step. “That I do not know,” she said. “It would be satisfying to be able to give them names, would it not? It has been lovely meeting you, my dear. I do hope you will look kindly on my son’s suit when he returns from London and comes to wait on you.”

Daphne smiled and raised a hand in farewell. Their names were Justin, Margaret, and Sebastian, she thought. And she had not been dreaming. Somehow last night she had been caught up in events that had happened one hundred years ago. She had not been dreaming.

She was in love with a man who had lived one hundred years ago. And died there in the tower soon after the encounter she had relived last night. She felt a pain and grief as powerful as if she had lost a real lover.

She had not been dreaming.

Daphne explored every inch of the castle during the next three days. Miss Tweedsmuir showed no eagerness to traipse after her since the rooms that were not in frequent use were chilly—no, downright cold would be a better description; the rooms with fires in them were chilly. The long passageways were drafty. Daphne explored alone, and the feeling she had had since her arrival that this was home, that this was where she belonged, grew on her with every passing moment.

She would have to marry the Earl of Everett, she decided, if he would have her. She had been at Roscoe Castle less than a week, but already she knew that if she was forced to leave she would be haunted by it for the rest of her life. And yet it was neither a beautiful nor a comfortable home. She did not know quite what its aching attraction was. Or perhaps she did.

The castle held all that remained of Justin. His spirit. His ghost, perhaps. Or perhaps neither, but only her memories of him—of that night when she had somehow been projected back into history as Margaret and had gone to him in the tower. It had happened only that once. She had awoken each night since and lain in her bed trying to feel the overpowering urge she had felt on that occasion to get up and go from the room. But there had been no compulsion, only painful hope and a longing to relive that night. On each occasion she had got up anyway and lit a candle and opened the door of her room to peer out. But each night the candlelight had revealed only a blank stone wall at the end of the passage.

It seemed it was never to happen again. And yet her yearning grew and her aching, hopeless love for a man who had lived a century before and had loved another woman. And yet Margaret had not been another woman on that particular night. Margaret and Daphne had been one. He had loved Daphne as much as Margaret.

She was never to see him again. But she knew that she would always want to live at the castle so that she could be close to him. Close to his lingering spirit. Of course, if she married the Earl of Everett, she would move to his home. She would live at Everett Park. But still she would be close to Roscoe. She would be able to ride there occasionally to hug close the memories—the memory. Alas, there was only the one. But it was a memory that she would wrap about herself like a cloak for the rest of her life, she knew.

Miss Tweedsmuir accompanied her on a return visit to Everett Park three days after the countess had called on her. The house was a magnificent manor, she discovered, and the park splendidly laid out and well kept. Even at the end of October it looked neat, its lawns almost free of dead leaves although the trees were already shedding their multicolored load. The house was light and warm, cozy and elegant inside. The countess was gracious. The earl had sent word that he would be home the next day.

“My dear Miss Borland, you are indeed a fortunate young lady,” Miss Tweedsmuir said as they rode home in the carriage. “Soon to be married to an earl and surely a personable young man if he is anything like his dear mama.”

Daphne hoped somehow that he would not be too personable. If he were, and if they married, she would feel guilt. For she would never be able to concentrate all her affections on him. She would always dream of Justin. Her heart would always ache for him.

“And soon to move to that luxurious home,” Miss Tweedsmuir added, “and be able to get away from that dreadful castle if you will excuse me for calling it that. It is a wonderful piece of history and worthy of being visited by travelers. But it is scarcely a comfortable home, I am sure you would agree. I worry that you will catch a chill there.”

“It is cold there at this time of year,” Daphne agreed. But she loved it. It haunted her. It was in her blood although a week ago she had never even seen it. She could not bear to leave it. She felt as if she had lived there for a hundred years and now someone was trying to wrench it away from her.

“You must select your very prettiest dress and have your hair freshly washed the day after tomorrow,” Miss Tweedsmuir said. “His lordship is sure to wait upon you. Perhaps he will even make his offer. How like the Cinderella story this is, my dear Miss Borland.” She beamed, the first time Daphne had seen her smile. “Just a short while ago you were preparing to become a governess, and now you are to be a countess.”

She did not want to be a countess. She did not want to think of marriage just yet, though she supposed she would eventually. She could not grieve for a hundred years’ dead lover for the rest of her life. But she would have liked some time to let the rawness of the pain become dull. She did not have that luxury. She had to agree to marry the earl within a month and a half. She had to be married to him a month after that.

“It is rather like a dream come true, is it not?” she said, smiling. Despite herself she was becoming rather fond of Miss Tweedsmuir. “But perhaps he will not have me.”

“Not have you?” Miss Tweedsmuir’s tone was indignant. “If he will not, he must be the most foolish young man in the kingdom. Not only would he be losing Roscoe Castle and all its wealth and properties, but he would be losing one of the prettiest and pleasantest-natured young ladies of my acquaintance.”

Daphne laughed and startled her companion to no small degree by leaning across to the opposite seat of the carriage and hugging her.

She knew as soon as she awoke that it was different from the last three nights. And yet she dared not hope too much. Perhaps she felt that urge to get up and go and that deep, deep yearning only because she wanted to feel them, only because she knew that the Earl of Everett was returning home tomorrow and would probably come the day after to force her to a decision.

She was shivering more from nervous excitement than from cold as she swung her legs over the edge of the bed and wriggled her feet into her slippers. She drew on her dressing gown, tightened the sash, and lit the candle with deliberate thoroughness. It had happened once. It could not happen again. She opened the door of her chamber and stepped out into the passageway, looking to the right rather than to the left. She was afraid to look left. She was delaying the moment. There would be only a blank wall there, of course.

But the door was there, looking so massive and solid that she was amazed she could not see it beyond the shadows in the daytime. And yet, real as it was and much as she had longed for three days to see it again, she reached out hesitantly to take the metal handle. She should just turn around and go back to bed, she thought. She should not deliberately step back into history and get herself involved in its passions. Perhaps she would get caught there. Perhaps she would not be able to come back.

She turned the handle. But that would mean that she could stay with Justin. That was what she had yearned for for three days and nights. He had died, though. He had died without ever getting out of the tower. She felt sick with grief again. And with fear.

But for now he was alive. And for now she had found the way back to him. And life, she realized, could be lived only one moment at a time. She would enjoy each moment, then, until she must be separated from him forever by the barriers of death and a hundred years. Lady Everett’s words, “There were no survivors,” echoed in her mind for a moment, but she ignored them and stepped through the doorway.

He was there. She could feel that he was there above her, awaiting her in silence and in darkness. But she would not have heard him even if he had made some inadvertent sound. The wind was howling beyond the walls and the slit arrow windows. It sounded like a hurricane. She had not noticed the wind when she had been in her bedchamber. There was no light beyond the windows. No moonlight, no starlight. Only total blackness. The light of her candle, guttering in the draft of the stairwell, seemed very fragile.

She pushed open the squeaky door at the top of the stairs and peered inward. The room looked as deserted as it had before. But she could feel his presence.

“Are you hiding behind the door again?” she asked.

He chuckled and stepped around it in order to draw her inside and shut it. He took her candle and bundle of food from her and set them down before taking her into his arms and drawing her close against him.

His warmth, his smell, the firmly muscled contours of his body were so achingly familiar that she merely closed her eyes and sagged against him at first. Justin. Justin.

“I have missed you so very much.” She drew her head back and looked into his familiar and dear blue eyes. He was not wearing the black ribbon tonight. His hair was loose and in silver blond waves about his shoulders. “I was afraid that I would never see you again.”

His smile softened and he lowered his head and kissed her. Warmly, with opened mouth. She felt suddenly safe and happy again.

“I have got us into the devil of a mess, haven’t I?” he said. “At first putting off going home because I did not know how to break the news to Paul that I had married his chosen bride, and then deciding to hide here until everyone had had time to cool down after the disappearance of your father’s jewels so that I could find out what had really happened and why Sebastian had accused me. Cleeves did not see me, after all. But now there has been his murder and our two families almost at war with each other. I have done the wrong thing from the start, Margaret. I should not have delayed or hidden for a single moment. I should have announced our marriage as soon as it was solemnized. I wish I could go back and do everything differently.”

“But you must not leave here yet,” she said, holding him more tightly, panic in her voice. “They are talking about hanging you, Justin. Everyone, except perhaps Viscount Everett, believes that you committed both the theft and the murder. Sebastian swears that Cleeves told him he had seen you, and Sebastian has been telling everyone that I was your motive, that you needed the jewels in order to be able to marry me and get away from both Father and the viscount. If they find out that we actually are married . . .”

“What nonsense!” he said. “My poverty and Paul’s have been much exaggerated, you know. And does everyone know me so little that they believe I would steal from my own wife’s father? Or from anyone for that matter?”

“They will hang you if they catch you,” she said. Her voice was shaking almost beyond her control. “Let me arrange for you to be taken to France, Justin. I know some people who would do it for me—and for you. I will come with you. We will live there until it is safe to come home again. Or for the rest of our lives if necessary. It will not matter. We will have each other.” 

“I do not want that blot on my name, love,” he said. “And I don’t want it to be said that you married a thief and a murderer and that you fled with him because he was too cowardly to face his accusers.”

“I would rather that than be a widow,” she said. 

“Margaret.” He hugged her tightly and rocked her in his arms.

“I could not live without you,” she said. “Life would have no meaning. It would be too empty. Too painful. I want you alive and in my arms. Oh, please, Justin, stay here and let me make some arrangements.”

She wanted to tell him that he would be killed if he tried to leave his hiding place too soon. And she, too. She wanted to change history. Was it possible to change the past? But it seemed that Daphne could say nothing that Margaret would not have known.

“We will talk later,” he said, his lips touching hers. “I should send you back to safety without delay. The worst part of my hiding here is that I put you in constant danger. But I must have time with you. An hour, love. We must have our hour together.”

“Yes,” she said fiercely. “Let’s forget all else for an hour, Justin. Let’s remember only that we love each other and have been married for just a little over a week. Make me forget everything else. I’ll make you forget.” Her fingers twined in his long hair.

It was for the last time. She knew that with a dull certainty and was not sure whether it was Margaret or Daphne who knew. Or both. Perhaps they were not after all two different persons. Perhaps they were one. Perhaps she really was Margaret. She tried to push from her mind the knowledge that it was the last time.

But he felt it, too. She could tell he did, though neither of them said anything. There was something a little desperate about the passion with which they clung together and kissed. She could hear the wind howling dismally outside. Nothing mattered but that small room at the top of the tower, sheltered from the fury of the storm, and the two people inside it, pressing into the shelter of each other’s arms while the storm of events and passions beyond their immediate control raged outside the room.

“The candle?” she said as he stripped off his shirt and reached down to grasp her nightgown—she seemed not to be wearing her dressing gown any longer—and draw it up over her head.

“I want to see you,” he said, his eyes roaming hungrily over her exposed body as he peeled off his pantaloons. “I want to watch what I do to you and what you do to me.”

“Is the light not dangerous?” she asked, her eyes feasting on the magnificence of his naked body.

“No one will be out to see it on a night like this,” he said. “And anyone who was out would have his head down. Just once, Margaret, I want to see my wife as we make love to each other.”

She should have been horribly embarrassed. Her own nakedness often embarrassed even herself. She must be something of a prude, Daphne thought. But there was no embarrassment. She stepped forward and closed her eyes as the tips of her breasts touched warm body hair. His hands drew her the rest of the way against him and turned her chin so that his mouth could continue the process of arousing her. It would not take much to arouse her tonight. What they did would be done for the pleasure of play rather than from the necessity of preparing her as it had been on their wedding night.

“Give it to me the other way tonight,” she pleaded as he lowered her to the mattress and came down with her.

“The other way?”

“Yes, please.”

“It is good for you that way?” he asked.

“Yes. Good,” she said. “Deep.”

Daphne did not know what Margaret meant, but she gave herself up with unashamed abandon to the play that followed. She would not feel ashamed. She was both Margaret and Daphne. She need not feel ashamed of making love with another woman’s husband. And she need not feel ashamed either of lying with a man when she was unmarried. Part of her was married and there could be no shame in lying with her husband, giving and receiving love and pleasure. Some of it was repeated delights from the last time. Some of it was new and had her gasping with surprise and pain and pleasure. The pleasures of sight as well as touch and sound and smell and taste made their lovemaking somehow more complete.

His skilled hands and mouth had her shuddering into release so many times and with such force that there seemed to be no more pleasure to receive and no more energy with which to enjoy it. Yet they were still at play. He still had not penetrated her body with his. And then he lifted her over him instead of moving onto her, drawing her legs astride his body, her knees snug against his waist.

“Yes, this way,” Margaret said and Daphne understood.

“Beautiful,” he said, his hands moving up to caress her aching breasts and then feathering down her sides and over her hips and buttocks and along her outer thighs to her knees. “I always want to remember you as you are now. Your eyes are more beautiful than ever when you are being loved.”

And his were, too. Blue and dreamy and heavy-lidded.

“Watch,” he said, and her eyes followed his as he spread his hands on her hips and brought her slowly down onto him. She inhaled. Yes, deep. There was no place to hide from him if she had wanted to hide. And of course there was after all more pleasure to be taken and more energy with which to give. This was her husband’s greatest pleasure. She would make sure it was complete. She clenched her muscles about him, closed her eyes, and dropped her chin.

He lifted her a little so that he could move in her, and she opened her eyes and watched his face. His own eyes, closed at first, opened, and looked back. They both smiled. She soon picked up his rhythm. In more than a week of marriage her body had learned familiarity with his and with his various ways of making love, though each time there was something new. Tonight they could see each other, could watch each other give and receive.

She rode him, watching his face until the frenzy of approaching climax made her close her eyes very tightly. She tightened every muscle in her body into almost unbearable tension.

“Come,” he said, his hands on her arms drawing her down until her mouth touched his. “You were too far away. Now we can go. Together. As usual, love. Together. Now!”

They came with a shared cresting of pain, and descended together into the world beyond passion. Daphne was beyond thought except for one intrusive and unwelcome one. It was for the last time, she thought. It was for the last time.

He hooked a blanket with one foot and drew it up over them without either uncoupling them or lifting her off him.

“Justin,” she said, “I don’t want to lose you. I couldn’t bear to lose you. I would die if you died. I would not want to live.”

“Shh,” he said, his arms coming about her. “Shh. Sleep now for a little while. That was too good not to be savored. We’ll talk later.”

He felt it, too, she thought, her ear over his heart hearing it gradually slow to its normal beat. He knew. But he was right. What was to happen need not be hastened to its end. They had just shared a loving to end all lovings. They must have just a few minutes to savor the sense of relaxation and well-being. Instead of sleeping, she set herself to remembering the feel of him and the smell of him.

I love you so much it hurts. She did not speak the words aloud, though they were Margaret’s words as well as Daphne’s. She did not think he was sleeping either, but she was afraid to break the silence. She no longer wanted them to begin talking. Once they began talking, they would begin the end.

They held each other tightly and wordlessly when she was ready to leave, though she already held the candle.

“I’ll slip out before it is light,” he said. She knew that he meant immediately, as soon as she had gone.

There was no point in remonstrating with him further. They had talked themselves out. And really she supposed he was being sensible. Perhaps the idea of staying for a day or two in the tower had been a sound one at first, but now matters had become too serious. The trouble was not going to go away merely because he could not be found. Somehow he had to force the issue.

But forcing the issue meant danger to him. And unbearable anxiety for her—even more than she had suffered daily with the knowledge that he was in the last place anyone would think to look—Roscoe Castle itself. His leaving would bring heartache, too. Despite everything, this week had been magical. Now it would all be over.

She was thinking as Margaret, Daphne realized suddenly. His leaving the tower would be the end for Daphne. She could never hope to see him again after he had left. If he left the tower. History said that he had not, that he had died there.

But he was determined to leave before daybreak. He was going to go to Everett Park first of all to talk with his brother, to break the news of his marriage, to plead his innocence of the charges against him. With his brother on his side matters might not look quite so bleak. Then he was going to confront Sebastian and find out why Margaret’s brother was so loud in his accusations. Perhaps Justin could uncover the truth, clear his name somehow.

Perhaps after all they would be able to live happily ever after. He had said that they would be free and happy once he had cleared up a few matters. As if there was nothing serious wrong at all. But she knew he spoke with such confidence merely to reassure her. 

“Take care of yourself,” she said. “Be careful.” 

“I’ll see you,” he said, kissing her once more, “perhaps tomorrow. Certainly the day after. I should have done this a week ago, Margaret.” He grinned. “I could not tear myself away from our nightly feasts.” 

She smiled, too. He needed smiles.

He opened the door and she stepped out onto the stairs and looked back at him. He hesitated for a moment, crossed to the bench, buckled about his waist the sword belt that was lying there, settled the sword at his side, and then stepped out behind her.

“I’ll see you to the door into the passageway,” he said.

She did not argue. After all, he would be just as unsafe if she was discovered alone on the stairs as he would if he were there with her. The wind was still howling about the tower, she could hear as she descended the stairs slowly. The candle threw strange and shifting shadows on the walls. She felt a fear she had not felt the last time when returning to her room. A fear and a foreboding. Go back, she wanted to tell him. Let’s both go back. But perhaps only Daphne had the feeling of impending doom. Margaret said nothing.

She stopped when she reached the door into the passage. “Go back,” she said. “I am safe now.”

He kissed her, rubbed his nose against hers, smiled at her, and reached beyond her to open the door. It swung outward. There was a man standing just beyond it, a rather stocky young man with a bared sword in his right hand. Daphne did not know who he was but she could guess.

“Sebastian!” Margaret said, stepping out into the passageway, hoping to block his view of Justin. “I could not sleep. Have you ever heard such a dreadful storm?”

But with his left arm he brushed her aside so that her shoulder cracked rather painfully against the stone wall. He did not even look at her. He stepped through the doorway.

“I am decidedly slow,” he said. “It took me until today to realize that if I kept an eye on Margaret by night as well as by day, she was bound to lead me to you sooner or later. An hour and a half ago she was still in her bed. Five minutes ago she was not.”

His sword was pointed upward. Oh, God. Daphne clung to the wall, waiting for the nightmare to end. It must after all be a nightmare. But Margaret was still with her and paralyzed by shock and terror. It was real. It was happening.

“I was going to find you today anyway, Sebastian,” Justin’s voice said calmly. “I want some questions answered. Better sooner than later, I daresay.”

“I suppose,” Sebastian said through his teeth, “you have been up there the whole time and have been rutting with my sister every night.”

“Margaret is my wife,” Justin said.

“Your wife?” Sebastian laughed. “Since when?” 

“Nine days ago,” Justin said. “The same day as someone was busy thieving, I believe.”

“She is a slut and a whore,” Sebastian said, his voice becoming hysterical. “And you are the worst kind of vermin.” He lunged forward and upward with his sword. Daphne’s paralysis left her and she rushed back to the doorway with the candle. She was not sure whom the near-darkness favored. But Justin, she could see, was having difficulty drawing his sword free of its scabbard in the confines of the narrow stairwell.

“Wait!” she cried, holding up a staying hand. “Sebastian. Let’s talk. Please, let’s talk. Can’t you see that Justin is virtually unarmed. Please don’t.”

But he ignored her, his attention focused entirely on Justin, a few steps above him.

“No!” she said as he made to lunge again. And she stepped forward onto the stairs between them, with the intention of staying her brother’s arm and protecting her husband, at least until his sword was free and he could meet Sebastian on equal ground.

The strange thing about being wounded, she thought quite lucidly and quite calmly a moment later, was that at first one felt no pain. Some shock, perhaps. Certainly the knowledge that one had been hit. But no real pain. She sank down to sit on the step above her and then lay back against the one above that. She knew that Sebastian’s sword had pierced her side. When she pressed a hand to it, she felt the wet heat of blood.

And then she was aware of Justin beside her and over her, his one arm about her shoulders, his other hand touching her, assessing the damage. His face was gazing down into hers. Strange grotesque shadows danced on the walls, like hovering demons. She did not know where the candle was, but clearly it was still lit.

He was crying. She knew it even though she could neither hear nor see him clearly. She was dying, then. She was feeling rather cold. But she was strangely calm. Let him just hold me while I die, she thought. Let his face be the last thing I see on this earth. She tried to smile at him, but she knew that her facial muscles were not responding to her will. I am not unhappy, she wanted to tell him. I love you.

“Margaret. Margaret.” His sobs were torn from him in what she knew must be painful gasps. But Margaret could not hear. Unconscious or dead already, she lay on the stone steps, his arm beneath her neck, her eyes closed. Daphne, disembodied, watched from somewhere above. She looked down on them—on the woman who looked exactly like herself, on the man she loved even over the span of one hundred years, and on the brother of that other self.

“She asked for it,” Sebastian said viciously. Perhaps he felt horror or remorse, Daphne thought, but could cope with reality only by masking his feelings thus. “She should not have consorted with someone as poor as a church mouse and with a thief and a murderer.” Justin slid his arm slowly from beneath Margaret’s neck. He rose to his feet slowly, disengaging his sword from its scabbard as he did so. “In descending order of importance, Sebastian?” he said. “My poverty is my greatest sin?”

“She should have married money,” Sebastian said. “Lots of it. There are any number of wealthy men who would have had her.”

“For her sake?” Justin asked. “Or your own? Were you hoping to benefit from your sister’s marriage, Sebastian? Are all the rumors I have heard of your gambling and other debts true? And is your father still the nipfarthing you have always claimed him to be?” 

“Worse,” Sebastian said. “He is worse. An infant could not live on what he allows me.”

“Is that why you needed the jewels?” Justin asked. “And why it did not hurt your conscience to steal from your own father?”

Sebastian laughed.

“Or to kill your father’s man?” Justin said. “Did he see you do it? It must have seemed a nice touch to put all the blame on the relatively poor man who has spoiled your plan to prey upon your sister’s husband. Where are they hidden?”

“In a secret place that only I know of,” Sebastian said. He looked down at the inert form of his sister. “Now that Margaret is dead.”

“Then they will remain forever hidden,” Justin said. “I am going to kill you.”

Sebastian laughed again. “Why not?” he said. “They can hang you only once, after all.”

Daphne watched as both men raised their swords and began to fence in deadly earnest, Margaret’s body and the guttering candle between them. The advantage should have been all Justin’s since he was above Sebastian and looked to be by far the fitter of the two. And indeed, it seemed after a minute or two as if he would edge past Margaret and finish off his weaker, less skilled foe. But Sebastian fought with more than physical strength and skill.

“Ha!” he shouted, just when it seemed that he would overbalance and be forced to drop his guard. “Margaret is stirring.”

Justin glanced down involuntarily at her prone body, and in the instant of his inattention, Sebastian’s sword flashed beneath his guard and pierced his heart. Daphne watched from above, powerless either to intervene or to close her eyes. She watched him fall dead beside Margaret, slumped against her, on the narrower inner part of the stair.

And then suddenly she felt pain and cold, and she was staring upward from the stairs, Justin’s body half across hers. She knew he was dead. And she was glad again that she was dying, that after all they were not to be separated. She closed her eyes.

“Foolish Margaret,” Sebastian said from above her. “You could have been my salvation if you had not been so selfish. As it is you have died with your lover. History will not be kind to the two of you.” He laughed softly.

He was standing on the step below her. Her feet were brushing against his leg. He had killed Justin. And blackened his name for all eternity. She was dying. She would not have the strength during the minutes that remained to her to uncover the jewels from their hiding place behind the fireplace in his room and to return them to her father.

“Good-bye, Margaret,” he said. “Sweet dreams.” But whatever his inner feelings might have been, there was no remorse in his voice, only a gloating kind of triumph.

She did not know how she found the strength. Perhaps it was the strength of love, the need to strike one small blow for the husband and the lover he had just killed. As he turned to step out into the passageway, she managed to stretch out one foot and hook it about his leg. She felt him lose his balance. She heard the sound of fingernails trying to claw a hold against the door frame and the wall. And the clattering of a sword bouncing downward from stair to stair. And then there was one long, blood-curdling scream as he fell backward and hurtled downward. It was followed by silence. He was lying at the bottom with a broken neck, she knew.

She tried to push one arm beneath Justin’s body so that she could cradle him until she died. But she did not have the strength. She turned her head so that her cheek rested against his shoulder. The pain was going away again. She was very cold. But she was happy. Almost excited. Soon they were going to be together again. Together for always.

Perhaps it was a fanciful idea for a dying woman to have. Perhaps it was the way the dying consoled themselves and prepared to face the inevitable. But however it was, she knew that they would be together again. A love like theirs could not die, could not be snuffed out almost before it had blossomed.

They would be together again. In this world or the next. It did not matter which. They would be together again.

“Until then, my love,” she whispered. “Good night until then.”

Daphne was above them again. The candle had burned low. Even as she watched, numb with grief, it shivered and went out, to be replaced by total darkness. At last she was able to close her eyes. At last she had hands with which to cover them.

She held her hands over her eyes for a long, long time. When she finally removed them and opened her eyes, she was staring upward at the canopy of her bed. The blankets, drawn up beneath her arms, were gradually warming her chilled body.

She did not try to move. Or sleep.

Mr. and Miss Tweedsmuir talked with some enthusiasm throughout breakfast about the probable return of the Earl of Everett to Everett Park that day. If he arrived home early enough, Miss Tweedsmuir suggested, nodding encouragingly at Daphne, perhaps he would make his call during the afternoon and not wait for tomorrow. It was very unlikely, Mr. Tweedsmuir said, since the countess would inform him that he was not expected until the morrow.

Daphne did not join in the conversation, though she tried to look as if she were a part of it. She tried to smile. She tried to appear as if she were anticipating the earl’s visit with some pleasure.

In reality she felt worse than wretched. She had died the night before and so had her husband, her dearest love. She had killed her brother. It had all happened a hundred years ago. All sense of humor had temporarily deserted her. She could not even appreciate the utter absurdity of her thoughts. In reality, of course, she was merely a maiden with a vivid imagination, who was prone to vivid dreams. But that was not right either. It really had happened. Lady Everett had described at least a part of it. And she, Daphne, had seen it all happen. More than that—she had lived it.

She grieved deeply for both of them. For Margaret and Justin. But more for Justin. Margaret seemed somehow to have been resurrected in herself. But now she was separated by a hundred years and all eternity from the man she loved passionately and totally. It was not absurd. Had she described it all to anyone, of course it would have seemed so. Worse. Anyone listening to her story would think her quite mad. But she was not mad, and her feelings were not absurd.

“I am surprised you have anything left to discover, my dear Miss Borland,” Miss Tweedsmuir said after breakfast when Daphne announced her intention of spending the morning exploring again. “These rooms are so chilly unless one is seated almost on top of the fire.” She shivered delicately and rubbed her hands together.

Daphne took the hint and assured her companion that she did not expect to be accompanied.

Sebastian’s room, she thought. How was she to know which one of the numerous bedchambers had been his a hundred years ago? It would take her months to examine the fireplace of every room in the castle. But Margaret, when she had thought of the jewels and the hiding place, which apparently only she and Sebastian knew of, had briefly visualized a room—a room at one end of a passageway. She had even turned her mind for one moment in the direction of the open door. Was it on that passageway, then, the same one as she herself had occupied? It made sense, Daphne supposed, for brother and sister to occupy rooms on the same floor and in the same wing of the castle. Her room was at one end of the passage. Was Sebastian’s at the other end?

It was decidedly silly to go treasure hunting on such slight evidence, of course, and one hundred years after the event. But she had to do something. And she found herself this morning almost obsessed with the need to clear Justin’s name. No one remembered him directly—except her—and very few even remembered the story about him. The chances were that no one would be at all interested if she were suddenly to proclaim his innocence and declare that she had found proof of it. There would be a great deal of interest in the discovery of a box of jewels, of course. They would be hers, she supposed—or the earl’s soon if she married him. Some unknown American relative’s if she did not.

Daphne suddenly felt a deep and unreasoned hatred for that unknown relative. Roscoe Castle was hers. Justin was there. All that remained of him lingered in the sealed tower. Oh, not bones. She did not doubt that his body had been given burial. But he was there. She would do anything in the world, she realized— anything—to keep the castle. She would beg and grovel if she had to to persuade the earl to marry her—how she hated him, too! Certainly she would dress with greater care tomorrow than she had ever done. And she would wear her very best smile.

The room at the beginning of the passage was cold. But then most of the rooms were. Daphne was growing accustomed to the discomfort. She wore a warm woolen dress and a thick shawl. Besides, mingled feelings of grief and excitement and dread of the morrow combined to make her largely unaware of her physical comfort or discomfort.

The fireplace was large and surrounded entirely by heavy oak carvings. The artist who had designed it had decided to decorate it with a riot of heads and leaves and flowers and cherubs and demons. It was a monstrosity, Daphne decided, and she was glad that the fireplace in her room was a great deal more elegant. She stood before this one, her eyes roaming over the carvings, and tried to feel a familiarity with the sight. She tried to feel an instinctive knowledge of where a secret compartment might be. Would it be inside the grate or the chimney? Or behind part of the surrounds? Was one of these carved projections a secret handle?

Alas, Margaret was dead, and Daphne could no longer think with her mind or make use of any of her memories. She was not even sure she had the right room. She was not sure that Sebastian had spoken the truth. She was not sure the jewels had never been found, though the Countess of Everett believed that they had not.

But she had to do something. If she did not do this, she would be obliged to sit with Miss Tweedsmuir for much of the day, since it was raining dismally outside. And if she had nothing to do but sit, then she would have nothing to do but brood. There was no point in brooding. Life had to go on. She could not spend what remained of hers grieving for a man who had died a century ago.

Daphne spent almost an hour pressing, poking, pulling, twisting. She had touched every single projection of the wood carvings at least twice, she thought finally, sitting back on her heels and rubbing her hands together to restore some warmth to them. It was hopeless. Obviously there was no secret compartment. Or else she was looking in the wrong room. She had told herself at the start that she did not expect to find anything. But she could feel now how much she had hoped. She felt like crying with frustration and disappointment.

“You,” she said aloud to the carved head of a particularly hideous gargoyle on a level with her eyes. “Why cannot you be the secret handle?” She jabbed a finger at the rather prominent nose, as she had done at least twice before. She took hold of the nose and twisted.

It would be the easiest thing in the world to have a temper tantrum, she thought, to start throwing things and kicking things. But she was not naturally of a volatile temper. She merely sat on her heels and sighed.

“Justin,” she muttered, “I so wanted to prove your innocence.” And she so wanted, she knew, to prove to herself in one more way that she had been neither dreaming nor imagining all that had happened. It had been real. If she could just have found the jewels, the last vestiges of doubt would disappear.

“Well,” she said to the gargoyle, “keep your secret. It is all the same to me. I don’t need the old jewels anyway. I thumb my nose to you.” But instead of thumbing her own nose, she thumbed the gargoyle’s, reaching a finger beneath it and flicking upward.

A whole large square of paneling tipped upward and inward to reveal a square, dark hole. Daphne snatched her hand back as if it had been scalded and rubbed both palms over her dress at the knees. Her heart was beating rapidly and painfully. This was it. This really had been Sebastian’s room. There really was a secret compartment in the fireplace. It was a little below the level of her eyes, its base almost at floor level. She would have to stoop down farther to peer inside. She was afraid to do so. What if it was empty?

Daphne drew a deep breath and lowered her head. A box. Very much smaller than she had imagined. She had pictured a treasure chest, a pirate’s chest. This was a velvet box, long and rather thin. She reached in a shaking hand and drew it out. It was covered with purple velvet, rather faded, not at all dusty as she would have expected. There were two metal clasps at the front. Daphne flicked them upward and opened the lid after a lengthy pause.

Her hand shook more noticeably. She was looking down at what she knew must be a vast fortune. Diamonds, rubies, sapphires, other gems, all set into necklaces, earrings, brooches, bracelets, pins. Even if Sebastian’s debts had been astronomical, there would have been enough left after paying them to have kept him in luxury for the rest of his life. It was no wonder that he had been willing to kill in order to keep them. And no wonder that the hue and cry after Justin had been so persistent.

Daphne closed the lid and bowed her head over it. She knelt where she was for a long time. Justin. Ah, Justin. The pain was raw. It tore at her heart until she felt she could not bear it. This was what he had died for? But now, finally, it was real beyond any doubt at all. She was Daphne, firmly anchored in the beginning of the nineteenth century. And yet she held in her hands very tangible proof that last night and four nights ago she had been caught up in the real and tragic events that had led to the deaths of three people.

To Justin’s death.

Something splashed onto the purple velvet of the box top and darkened its color. Daphne set the box on the floor, spread her hands over her face, and gave in to the misery and the luxury of tears.

She was wearing blue muslin, the best color for her complexion, she thought, and her favorite color, too. Of course it was ridiculous to be wearing muslin on the second day of November and at Roscoe Castle of all places, but it was her best and her very favorite dress. Besides, she was feeling too much nervous terror really to be aware of the cold. She had washed her hair and her maid had brushed it into soft curls about her face. The color in her cheeks was high, she noticed at a glance into the looking glass, and her eyes were bright. She looked for all the world like a young girl awaiting the arrival of her suitor—which she supposed was just as well.

He was there at the castle already. She had not seen him arrive, but Miss Tweedsmuir had sent a message to tell her that if she was not ready, she must hurry as his lordship’s carriage had just drawn into the courtyard. His mother was with him. They had sent a message that morning.

Of course, Daphne was discovering, she need not have hurried, though all she had needed to do was push her feet into the slippers that matched her dress. The earl was closeted with Mr. Tweedsmuir, and a discussion of the marriage settlement was taking an age. Daphne had wondered if the courteous thing to do would be to go to greet the countess, who would be in the drawing room with Miss Tweedsmuir. She was not sure what correct protocol demanded and had not thought to ask Miss Tweedsmuir at luncheon. She would wait until she was summoned, she had decided. She just hoped it would not be long. There were butterflies dancing in her stomach.

She glanced at the purple velvet jewel box, which was standing on her dressing table. For some reason she had told no one about it yet. It was too much part and parcel of the events in which she had been caught up. And she could never tell anyone about those. Though the compulsion was still there to clear Justin’s name. Justin. She dared not think of him. Not now. She hoped she would not be kept waiting much longer.

And then the maid she had dismissed fifteen minutes earlier reappeared at the door to request that Miss Borland attend the Earl of Everett in the library. The girl’s eyes were wide with excited anticipation. Everyone down to the lowliest scullery maid knew why his lordship was calling.

Daphne drew a deep breath. “Justin,” she whispered. But she must not think of him. She left her room with resolute steps.

He was standing in front of the fire, facing the door. She was aware of that though she kept her eyes on her hand as it transferred itself from the outer door handle to the inner one and carefully closed the door behind her. She had not once looked at him, and yet she was somehow aware that he was tall and elegant and immaculately dressed. She had caught a glimpse of white-topped, tasseled Hessian boots.

She turned toward him after closing the door and lifted her chin resolutely, remembering the smile with which she had intended to greet him. But the smile never reached her face.

Blond hair. Silver blond, cut fashionably short. Blue eyes. Very noticeably blue despite the distance between them. Regular, handsome features. An Adonis, no less. She stood very still and stared at him. He stared back. Daphne was not sure if seconds passed or minutes before he spoke.

“Margaret?” It was a whisper.

Her mouth opened and closed. She swallowed. “Justin?”

They stood transfixed, staring at each other. One part of Daphne’s brain wondered if her own face was as pale as his.

“You have cut your hair,” she blurted at last. The foolish words hung in the air between them. They seemed to have been spoken very loudly.

“And you,” he said at last.

“You died,” she said, her hands going behind her to grip the door handle. “The night before last. A hundred years ago. He tricked you and you died.”

“And you,” he said. “I thought you died first, but you did not. You were still alive. You died alone.”

She stood gripping the handle as if only it kept her firmly anchored to the earth. He stood on the hearth as if turned to stone.

“Are you Miss Borland?” he asked at last.

“Yes.” She drew breath. “You are the Earl of Everett?”

“What is your name?” he asked.

“Daphne,” she said. “And yours?”

“Andrew.”

“I can prove your innocence,” she said with a sudden rush of eagerness. “I found the jewels yesterday morning. They were hidden where Sebastian said they were. They were in a secret compartment beside the fireplace in his room. Margaret thought of that room while I was still sharing her thoughts, so I knew where to look yesterday morning. It took me a whole hour of poking and prodding. I thought I would never find them. It was not that I wanted the jewels. I wanted to prove your innocence. And the reality of what had happened. I found them. A whole fortune in gems. I have them in my room. Now everyone can be told that you were innocent.”

“That Justin was,” he said.

“Yes.” Her burst of eagerness faded and she leaned her head back against the door.

“You look so much the same,” he said. “And you sound the same.”

“And you.”

He took a step toward her and stopped. He held out one hand toward her. She looked at it and hesitated. He was a stranger. She had never met him before. She looked up into his face—his familiar and beloved face. He was Justin. She loved him.

“Oh,” she said, and she abandoned the sanctuary of the door and hurtled across the room. His other arm was out, too, before she reached him. Both closed about her as her arms circled his neck and her face buried itself against the elaborately tied folds of his neckcloth.

“God!” He held her so tightly she could scarcely breathe. “You even feel the same.”

She tipped her head back and stared up at him in wonder. Up into his blue, dearly familiar eyes. He was the same man. There was no difference at all except for the length of his hair and the style of his clothes.

Even his kiss was the same. His mouth was open when it met hers so that she was enveloped in moist heat. His tongue probed gently against her lips and accepted the invitation of her opened mouth to press inside. She felt the flaring of a familiar passion—and a familiar tenderness—and knew with the instinct of love that it was something shared.

And then they were looking at each other again, each exploring the other’s face with wondering, hungry eyes.

“I have been consumed by grief,” he said. “It seemed foolish to blight my whole life with love for a woman who has been dead for a century, but I could not stop thinking of you and longing for you. I knew that I must acquire Roscoe Castle at any cost. I had to own it and keep it as a sort of shrine to you. Even if it meant marrying the new owner—Miss Borland.”

“I had to keep it, too,” she said, “even at the expense of marrying a stranger. I have wished and wished for two days that I could have died with Margaret. Or that if I really was Margaret I could have stayed dead.”

His eyes smiled into hers. Justin’s eyes. “It happened to you only the night before last?” he asked.

“And three nights before that,” she said. “Nothing bad happened that first time except that I could not get back there for three more nights and thought I would never see you again. I felt stranded across an ocean of time.”

“We just made love that first time?” His eyes were still smiling into hers. Daphne could feel herself flushing.

“Yes.”

“It was wonderful, wasn’t it?” he said.

Her cheeks felt as if they were on fire. She nodded. “How did it all happen to you?” she asked.

“I considered buying Roscoe Castle because my father had always wanted it and your grandfather was always hinting about selling,” he said. “But there was always that enmity between our families. He was only teasing us, I believe. After the first time I called on him, two months ago, he told me to look around to my heart’s content. And so I wandered about the courtyard and into the north tower and up the stairs and found myself in another world in the middle of the night although it was supposed to be afternoon. I found myself clothed differently. And then I heard or felt you come up the stairs and I hid behind the door. When I first saw you, looking like someone out of another century, I wanted to ask you who you were and what was happening. But I found myself speaking someone else’s thoughts and feeling someone else’s emotions. Although they felt like my thoughts and my emotions, too. And then we made love. You were my wife, I discovered. And I loved you more than life.”

It had been Andrew and Daphne making love as well as Justin and Margaret, then? Or were Andrew and Justin one and the same person? Were she and Margaret one? “There was no stone wall at the bottom of the tower stairs?” she asked.

“Not on that occasion,” he said, “and I did not know there was supposed to be. Not until I went there the next time and the next and found no way up. That was when I asked my mother about Roscoe Castle. She revels in piecing together stories of the past. I learned that I had got somehow involved in events that really had happened.”

“But you did go back again?” she said. “You know about our death—about Justin’s and Margaret’s.”

“I called after your grandfather died,” he said. “I went at the bidding of the executor of his will, Mr. Tweedsmuir, since it seemed that the will had something in it that concerned me. Of course I went to the tower before returning home—for weeks I had been sick with longing to find you again. And I found you and loved you. And lost you.”

She rested her face against his neckcloth again. It was only then that she realized they still had their arms about each other, that their bodies were still pressed together. But he did not feel like a stranger. He was not a stranger. He was Justin—Andrew. He was her love. He had been her love for a hundred years and would always be her love.

“Are we the same people?” she asked him.

“Yes and no,” he said. “You are Daphne. I am Andrew. We are living in a different century. I am the Earl of Everett rather than a younger son. You are the owner of Roscoe rather than a daughter of the house. We both have short hair.” He chuckled and set a cheek against her curls. “But I think that after just a few minutes of acquaintance in this century we already love each other deeply. Because we have loved for a long time. We are continuing the love of Justin and Margaret. We are, aren’t we?”

“You always said we would be free to be together and to love one day,” she said.

“I remember you asking me if it would be in this century or the next,” he said. “I don’t believe you realized what a serious question it was.”

Daphne sighed. “I was so dreading this meeting,” she said.

“Me, too,” he said. “I have been hating you, sight unseen.”

Daphne sighed again.

“Will you marry me, then?” he asked. “That, after all, is why I came here, is it not?”

She raised her head and smiled up at him again. “But we are married already,” she said.

“I believe there is an obscure rule in canon law,” he said, “that after each one hundred years marriage vows must be renewed.”

They both laughed. And kissed. And rubbed noses. And murmured nonsense to each other.

They were caught in each other’s arms when the countess tapped on the door and opened it almost simultaneously. Miss Tweedsmuir was peering over her shoulder.

“Oh, my,” Miss Tweedsmuir said, and turned an interesting shade of mottled pink.

“Splendid!” the countess said. “The suspense is over. Daphne must have said yes.”

Daphne flushed. But the earl would not release her. He turned her to face the new arrivals, but kept her at his side with an arm about her waist.

“You might say it was love at first sight, Mama,” he said. “Was it not, Daphne?”

“Oh, my,” Miss Tweedsmuir muttered again. His lordship was already addressing dear Miss Borland with great familiarity.

“Yes,” Daphne said, smiling and blushing and breathless.

“In fact,” the Earl of Everett said, his blue eyes laughing down into hers while his mother clasped her hands to her bosom and Miss Tweedsmuir fumbled in a pocket for a handkerchief with which to dab at moist eyes, “we have just been agreeing that it feels as if we have known each other for a hundred years. Haven’t we, Daphne?”

“Yes, Andrew,” she said. “Or at least that we have been waiting that long to meet.”

“Miss Tweedsmuir,” the Countess of Everett said firmly, “we have a wedding to plan, my dear ma’am.”

The earl lowered his head to kiss his betrothed as the two older ladies bustled from the room.