It took two days to arrive at his estate in Yorkshire. He stopped at his childhood home, Barrington Park, only long enough to unpack his things, put together a much smaller bag of necessities, change into his riding gear, and saddle his horse. He was eager to see the cabin, and more than a little concerned about how quickly the news of his arrival would reach the dower house. The last person he wanted to see on his holiday was his mother. He had no desire to be reminded of how rarely he visited, or how busy he had become, or how wonderful it would be for him to wed anyone—though preferably a female, he would imagine.

He shivered at the thought. He actually shivered. Gad, who had time for families when England might fall apart at any moment?

No, his mother could plead until she was blue in the face, but Drake would never marry. He hadn’t the time nor the heart for it. He rather fancied he hadn’t the capacity for it, either. He had gone thirty-one years and had not met a single woman that tempted him. Nor had he met a single woman who would not demand his attentions, taking him from his work.

He had made record time preparing for the short stay at the cabin, and now he sat firmly atop his steed with surprising grace considering how rarely he had ridden all these years.

With the expanse of the Yorkshire moorland spread out before him, he was relaxed in a way he hadn’t been in a long time. The icy wind in his face and the sounds of the moor were like a balm to his taut nerves, frayed by years of living amidst the hectic rush of London.

As he left the pile of ancient stones behind him, long-ago called Barrington Park by the long-dead first Earl of Saint Brides, he descended into the wood past the small ornamental pond.

The path was still cleverly manicured to look almost overgrown. As a child, he had imagined it as being the long-forgotten path to an enchanted forest. Even now, after so many years, he felt the same. Perhaps it was the memories of his childhood combined with the ever-present souls of those occupying the small cemetery a mere thirty yards in.

When he reached the small plot of land outlined by a short wrought-iron fence, he dismounted. He pulled out the flowers he had taken from the conservatory and removed his hat before passing through the gate. Deliberately, he separated the fragile blooms between four of the graves. One bore the name of Edward Thomas Ramsey; another of Edward’s son, Richard Graham Ramsey. Each passed within a measly two years of each other. The other two were Richard’s wife and young daughter, who died with him.

He still remembered the sound of their feminine laughter floating through the halls of Barrington Park so many Christmases ago, Richard’s deeper timbre mingling in. Father and Mother’s also. Hell, even he had laughed that year, blissfully unaware it would be the last Christmas they would all spend together.

He absently thumbed the cufflink at his wrist. The matching one was scratched, but he still wore it. It was all he had left of Richard, after all. He supposed it mismatched as much as his father’s gold watch fob Drake kept in his waistcoat on a platinum chain. While still fashionable for a gentleman, everything he wore was uniform, simple. All except his mismatched baubles.

“The beloved lord and his heir, the adventurer. I hope you are happy with yourselves. Leaving Mother all alone as you did,” Drake muttered, a fog blurring his vision. “Especially you, Richard. Bengal, of all the places you had to give up your soul.” He shook his head. “Anywhere, but home. At least Father was here when he succumbed to illness.”

Not that Drake had been with him when he passed. He had been up to his eyeballs in scandal and assassination attempts, and couldn’t possibly have left the Office unsupervised amidst such disaster. Surely his father could hold on a little longer to ensure the well-being of England. Drake had only asked for three weeks—three weeks to save an empire—but death rarely waited for convenience.

Was a man allowed to regret saving an empire?

His throat ached, and his eyes burned. He missed them. It was an awful feeling, a deep pain in his gut, a sour taste in his mouth. At times, it would send him to his knees. Simply because of the loss of someone he loved. A pain as devastating as it was unavoidable.

He ran a hand through his hair, clearing that train of thought. He would avoid it going forward. He would never allow himself to feel this wretched, excruciating ache ever again, as though something were tearing a jagged edge through his chest, straight to his heart and ravaging it. Only worse because, in that scenario, he would die. There would be relief.

He leaned forward, brushing off several small twigs that had fallen from the trees canopying the handful of graves. Only the last hundred years’ worth of Ramseys had been put to eternal rest in this refuge. The rest were in the ancestral burial ground, a far more gothic and depressing place atop a hill farther from the main castle.

He preferred them here. They could enjoy his special hideaway from long ago. Its peace. Its enchantment.

He cleared his throat and turned to pass back through the gate toward his mount, not allowing himself a single backward glance. There was no need. He had those stones etched into his memory where they would stay until the day he gave up on this world and joined them in theirs.

He returned to the mouth of the pathway, guiding his horse along the tree line where the thick forest met the open hills of grass, heather, and rock.

When he had decided to travel home for holiday, he knew he was chasing a memory of a time past, and he expected to feel as he did then, if only a little. Instead, as he looked out at the land he so loved as a boy, he felt… lost. So very far from the boy he had been, from the world as he had seen it. The world had been his to take, an adventure. He had been optimistic about… gad, about everything.

But that was a long time ago, even if it was as he remembered. Everything was different now. His father and brother were gone, and he lived in a world full of evil, greed, and pain.

And yet… And yet, he still wanted to see the hunting cabin, the place where his father had taught him how to be a man, what that meant. The place where he had pulled him aside and told him to follow his dreams, to never give up on them. To never allow anyone or anything to destroy his integrity in the process.

And so, he kept on until he could see the pond. Then he turned onto the pathway leading into the trees. Minutes later, the cottage came into view. The structure’s neglect through the years was apparent, and he felt shamefully responsible. He ought to have specifically seen that it was taken care of. Obviously, his overseeing of the estate was not as thorough as he had thought.

Nudging his horse to the small shack that served as a stable, he dismounted and led the gelding inside. When he was done caring for the comfort of the animal, removing the saddle and giving him a quick rub down and some hay, he turned back toward the cottage.

Vivid memories of those moments he had spent with his father came crashing in on him. He could see himself sitting by the fire so many years ago, enjoying the last hunting trip with his father before he went off to explore what excitement and opportunity the city had to offer him, before he had understood the fleeting nature of life and the tendency it had for laying to waste anything and everything good in this world.

He breathed in deeply, letting the air fill his lungs before slowly exhaling and forcing his feet forward. The sound of twigs crunching under his boots, the occasional bird, and the wind rustling through the trees were the only sounds as he moved to open the door.

He stepped inside, the shaft of light from the open door behind him brightening the space. To his right he could see into the small kitchen, and to his left was a small sitting area with a fireplace. Straight back would be the bedroom.

Every inch of the cabin brought back a memory, sucking him into his past. He stood unmoving, half expecting his father to burst in behind him with an armful of firewood, and his brother to raise his voice in a bawdy tune.

Ghosts lingered everywhere.

“If you want to live,” came a feminine voice, breaking the silence, “I suggest you leave.”

Speaking of ghosts… But no, Drake didn’t believe in ghosts. Not in the literal sense, at any rate. And if there were ghosts here, they would not be of the female variety. To his knowledge, no woman had ever stepped foot in this cottage before. This was a private refuge, where only he, his brother, and his father had ventured, not even Mother was allowed. Certainly, no Americans, which she was if he identified the accent correctly.

Where the devil had that voice come from, then?

“I beg your pardon?” he asked, his eyes narrowing on the hall leading to the bedroom, the only hiding place.

“I said go, or I shall put a hole straight through your middle.”

“I would greatly prefer you didn’t,” he said. “I would die a very slow and painful death right here in the entry, bleeding all over everything. It would take hours.”

“Would you prefer I shoot you in the head?”

“If you were capable of that, you would have mentioned it to begin with,” he said, spying the movement of torn fabric as it peeked out from the bedroom doorway.

He took a silent step forward.

“You underestimate my skill, sir.”

“Not at all,” he said, taking another step. “I imagine you find plenty of time to practice your aim while sneaking about and invading cabins. By now, you might actually be able to hit something. How many of my poor rabbits have fallen victim to you? Careful how you answer; poaching is a crime.”

Two steely eyes peeked out of the doorway to glare at him from under a pile of thick, dark curls ready to tumble out of their pins at any moment. “You are mocking me.”

“Of course I am mocking you, madam.” Drake’s eyes narrowed on the intruder as he took yet another step forward. “You are threatening me with death, demanding I leave my own property.”

“Don’t come any closer, or I swear I’ll shoot.”

“That is a promise I strongly suggest you do not keep. Murder is punishable by hanging.” He stopped halfway to where she stood. “Now come out from there.”

She pulled back out of sight. “No one has to get hurt. Just let me go. I have done nothing wrong.”

Drake raised a brow, once again closing the space between them. “In the very least, you have trespassed with intent to kill. It is also possible, though highly improbable, that you have poached rabbits. I ought to send for the authorities.”

“But I…” She stopped herself short, but not soon enough. He had heard the desperation in her voice, and desperate people were dangerous people. “I haven’t done anything wrong!” she burst out.

In that moment, he reached her, moving through the doorway to grab her wrists and push her against the wall in one swift action, using the weight of his body to keep her immobile.

For a split second, his gaze locked with surprisingly large, hazel eyes. Then she was struggling against him, and he became all too aware of her lush curves.

Hairpins fell to the floor and tendrils tumbled over her face in waves as she struggled against him.

For a moment, he was too shocked to move.

The woman was breathtaking. More so than any woman he had ever known. And she was wriggling that very feminine form against his decidedly masculine one, wreaking havoc on his senses.

He regained his mental functions and clenched his jaw.

“Stop moving,” he ground out, pressing himself more firmly against her to keep her still, realizing too late what that might do to him as her soft warmth seemed to permeate into his body, tightening every muscle.

This was no time to suddenly be susceptible to the opposite sex.

He lifted her hands above her head, clasping them both in one of his. With his free hand, he captured her face to look at him, pinning her with a stern glare. “You are hysterical. Stop moving, or I shall strike you.”

She jerked her face free. “How do I know you won’t do it, anyway?”

“I do not enjoy violence, and you have no reason to believe I would. I’m not the one trespassing and threatening to shoot people. I shall have you remember, I am the civil one.”

“Civil, are you?” She glared up at him, her focus moving back and forth between his eyes, as if one could tell her something the other could not. He was quickly losing patience by the time she lowered her lashes and glanced around the room. “I thought this place was abandoned.”

His brows winged high. “Oh, indeed? I was not aware that gave you the right to invade it and make yourself at home.”

“Does it not?” She affected a look of blatantly false surprise. “In that case, I shall just be on my way.”

He tsked. “I do not think so.”

“What a bother you are.” She winced and shifted slightly to one foot.

He didn’t want to notice the show of pain. He wanted to assume it was affected in order to manipulate him, as women, in his experience, were wont to do. Unfortunately, as a gentleman, he couldn’t very well ignore the possibility she might be injured.

“You look pained,” he said.

She sent him a glacial look that told him in no uncertain terms what he could do with his gentlemanliness, and the strangest thing happened. He smiled quite against his will.

“In your face,” he clarified, doing his damnedest to look serious and failing as one side of his mouth curled up. “You look to be in pain.”

“Your charm is overwhelming,” she said evenly.

“So I am told.”

Her eyes narrowed on him disapprovingly. “Does pain often amuse you?”

“It’s not your pain I find amusing, but your glare. It’s the blackest look anyone has ever given me, as though my very presence is distasteful to you.” He lifted his brows. “Perhaps it is. I would be rather piqued as well were I caught in similar circumstances.”

Her lips pursed as she held his gaze. Then she sighed. “If you must know, I twisted my ankle two days ago.”

“It still pains you?”

When she nodded, he softened his hold on her, realizing with a disconcerting jolt that he had been pressed up against her the entire time, her chest rising and falling against his own, his leg wedged between hers. What was worse, it had felt so natural that he had not even thought to loosen his hold on her the moment she had stopped struggling.

That was enough to wipe the humor from his lips.

He clenched and unclenched his teeth. “If I release you, will you give me your word you will behave yourself?”

When she agreed, he released her hands and eased back two steps, ready to grab her again if she darted for the door.

She watched him as she rubbed her wrists, for which he didn’t feel the least bit guilty as a gentleman ought. He had worked at the Home Office long enough to know anyone was capable of causing harm, most especially those who were desperate. And he would not make the mistake of thinking her defenseless simply because she was a female. The only person to ever press a knife to his throat had been female.

He motioned to a chair, eager for them to be at a proper distance from one another, and waited until she was seated.

“Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

She raised a brow. “Does it matter whether or not I mind?”

He smiled humorlessly. “Only to you, I would imagine. I was merely endeavoring to be polite.”

“Quite the gentleman,” she muttered.

“I would have you know that fact has never before been tested quite so thoroughly as it has today.”

“You’re welcome.”

He frowned, not in the least amused with her little quip. Still she held that confident visage, as though she had every cause to say what she did. It surprised him, and it wasn’t often anyone surprised him. This woman had managed it within five minutes of their meeting. She had also made him smile. He didn’t know what that boded, but it couldn’t be anything good.

“What is your name?”

Her gaze drifted briefly toward the ceiling. “Persephone Barnstaple-Tollet.”

His incredulity must have shown, because her lips twitched before they pursed into a thin line while she fought a smile, which proved only to make her more beautiful, and him infinitely more uncomfortable.

He clenched his jaw. “I shall have your real name, if you please.”

“I prefer Persephone.”

“Do you, indeed?” He paused, then shook his head. “Very well. I believe it’s time for the local magistrate to make the acquaintance of Miss Barnstaple-Tollet.” He turned stalked out of the room, certain there would be a rope he could bind her with somewhere in this dilapidated heap. If he was lucky, he might even find something to gag her with.

He had just spotted a coil of rope hanging on the wall by the door when her strained voice stopped him.

“That will not be necessary,” she called. “My name is Mrs. Tindall.”

He turned and slowly walked back into the bedroom. She held his gaze, her chin slightly raised and her breathing steady. She was either an exceptional liar or she was telling the truth.

He bowed. “A pleasure, Mrs. Tindall. You may call me Saint Brides. Now, will you tell me why you are here, or shall we stumble through this dance with every question?”

“If you must know, and if this is indeed your property, then I suppose the request is perfectly reasonable,” she rambled, focusing on her hands as she smoothed her skirts. “The gist of it is… well, I’m here because I landed myself in a little trouble.”

“Trouble?” He echoed the vague response as though he hadn’t heard it more times than he could count.

She nodded.

“Mrs. Tindall, nearly everyone on this miserable planet is in some sort of trouble. It doesn’t explain why you have invaded my hunting cabin or threatened to shoot me.” He was not prepared for the interrogation of an impertinent beauty in the moors. He was prepared for solitude and quiet, relaxation. Or, in the very least, a moment of self-reflection followed by a week of wallowing in depression.

“With what gun? I am unarmed,” she pointed out.

“I said threatened,” he emphasized. “Had you been armed, would you have shot me?”

Large, hazel eyes focused steadily on him. “Yes.”

Now his head began to throb, and his teeth ached from the pressure of his jaw.

“Where is your husband, Mrs. Tindall?”

“I am a grown woman, plenty old enough to be about on my own.”

She didn’t look a day past twenty, but he was in no mood to dispute anything that wasn’t completely necessary. It was too much damned effort, especially compounded with the effort needed to ignore her—or more accurately, to ignore his body’s response to her.

The dress she wore was threadbare and torn, showing shapely ankles disappearing into ragged half boots. Her sleeve had been ripped at the shoulder, sliding down her arm and sending the neckline dangerously low on her generous bosom. He fought to keep his attention on her face, but even that was a distraction. Her eyes were ethereally vivid, her mouth full and wide, and her neck a lovely arch beneath it all.

Bloody hell, why her? Why him? What god or demon had he insulted so gravely as to deserve this? All he wanted was a damned holiday, a well-deserved one, he might add.

“You are Mrs. Tindall,” he said doggedly. “Surely there’s a Mr. Tindall?”

“Yes, there was… but he is no longer amongst the living.”

His fists clenched at his sides, forcing himself to calm. She was a widow. Good manners dictated he grant her some measure of consideration.

“I am sorry to hear it. When did this happen?”

“Two days ago.”

To his credit, the curse that nearly flew from his mouth stayed obediently behind his teeth.

Two days? A landlord who evicted a woman immediately after the death of her husband ought to be publicly flogged, and Drake would jump at the chance to administer the punishment. Particularly since, in this case, it meant she had been booted out of her home and into his hunting cabin.

“Have you no family or friends who can take you in?”

“No,” she said. “I know two or three people, but no one I could impose upon.”

“Of course not,” he muttered. “Why impose upon those you know when there is a perfectly good stranger handy.”

Her eyes flashed. “Under the circumstances, I couldn’t possibly ask someone I hardly know to shelter me.”

“Circumstances,” he echoed. “Circumstances being the death of your husband? Is that the trouble you have found yourself in?”

She looked away. “More or less.”

Drake narrowed his eyes as he assessed her. She was withholding pertinent information. She must be. People do not hide in abandoned cabins, acting scared and suspicious without good reason.

“Mrs. Tindall, allow me to make one thing very clear,” he stated. “I am not someone you ought to be toying with. In my experience—”

A quick rapping sounded at the door, interrupting him.

“Hullo? Anyone here?”

Her breathing seemed to stop completely as she grabbed handfuls of her tattered skirt in each tightly clenched fist.

He watched her, wondering at her reaction. She hadn’t been afraid of him, but she was most certainly afraid of something now. What the devil could be more frightening than him? He, who could spur an entire Parliament of slovenly lords into taking action in one moment, and browbeat a group of pugnacious assassins into behaving themselves the next?

Good heavens, how dastardly could this fellow be? Now his curiosity was piqued.

He mouthed, “Stay here,” and brought his finger to his lips.

She nodded jerkily.

“Hullo?” the voice came again from the front door.

“Yes,” Drake answered, turning his back on Mrs. Tindall and moving toward the man standing just outside the cottage.

“I thought I noticed a rider not long ago. I’m Mr. Gordon, local magistrate.” He smiled genially and dipped his chin. Then he leaned to the side to peer past Drake. “I had forgotten all about this cottage. It’s been abandoned for so long.”

“Indeed, it has,” Drake said, moving to block Mr. Gordon’s view. “Are you looking for someone, Mr. Gordon?” Because, if so, he had a pretty good idea of whom that someone might be.

“Why, yes, I am. A murderess, to be exact. Killed her husband only two days ago. Burnt the poor bugger to a crisp.” He pulled out a handbill from his coat pocket.

Drake mentally rolled his eyes. He just couldn’t get away from the damn things.

“She’s a handsome little thing by the name of Sarah Tindall. Have you seen her?”

Well, that explained a few things. Although, he did not recall her smelling of smoke. Nor had he noticed any burns on her. Or bruising. Or blood. Something wasn’t quite adding up.

Drake glanced at the notice, schooling his features to betray nothing as he gazed at a rather impressive likeness to the aggravation in his bedroom. He could give her away right now and be done with her. He would give his account of things, perhaps stop by the magistrate’s office for a report, and then continue on his merry holiday without further intrusions.

But… she was intriguing, and damn him, he felt in his gut there was more to the story than a simple case of domestic homicide. Not that he thought she was innocent. She might well be guilty, but there were other facts to uncover, and he wanted to know what they were.

He shook his head. “Sorry, but no,” he said, his stomach sinking with regret the moment those words left his mouth.

He held out his hand to return the handbill, but Mr. Gordon stepped back without taking it.

“You had best keep that,” Mr. Gordon said. “We believe she is in the vicinity, and she is dangerous. If you see anything, don’t hesitate to report it to the magistrate’s office in Barnsby. They will contact me, and I shall hurry over.”

“I certainly shall. Thank you for the warning.”

The man nodded and mounted his horse before riding off into the trees.

Drake shut the door and stepped slowly back into the room. Her face was chalk white, her hands still clutching her skirts.

A dangerous woman who had allegedly burnt her poor husband to a crisp was scared witless by this lone, amiable magistrate. Not exactly the trait of a heartless killer.

“Is he gone?” she asked, her voice trembling slightly.

He nodded as he held up the handbill for her to see. “Care to explain this?”

* * *

Sarah felt the icy claws of fear the moment she had heard Gordon’s voice. But now, as she gazed at the freshly printed handbill, those claws became savage. They dug into her back and crushed her ribs until she could hardly breathe.

She had suspected this was how things would turn out, but she couldn’t possibly have been prepared for it.

Frank’s likeness was sketched into the bottom right corner, with her face taking up most of the space in the middle with words like MURDERESS and DEAD OR ALIVE scrawled along the top.

He lifted a brow. “Well?”

“It looks like a handbill.”

“It looks like you,” he returned, not sounding the least bit amused.

Her chest squeezed. Panic. She forced it down.

“I didn’t kill my husband.”

“Of course not,” he said, almost mockingly. “I suppose you were conveniently taking a stroll at the time. Alone.”

He was an arrogant, insufferable human being, she decided—something that hadn’t taken long for her to discern. However, he was right, though he was being as sarcastic as his stony countenance would allow. She had been, in fact, taking a quiet walk about the grounds when it had happened.

A walk had always been just what she needed on restless nights, and since arriving in England a month earlier, she hadn’t been able to sleep well at all, especially since Frank had become far less than genial the instant their ship had docked in Bristol. She had hoped he would have at least acted the gentleman a few more months, until she could take her portion of her dowry and leave, but she had underestimated the devil in him.

“Mrs. Tindall, I do not have unlimited patience.”

The masculine rumble was grating. She looked up at the imperious man who held so much power over her.

He was attractive, with eyes like emeralds, but he was distant and over-analyzing. She could almost see the gears working behind his eyes. Pity. A stupid, less attentive man would have been easier to convince. Even so, she had to at least try to sway him. Her life depended on it.

“I couldn’t sleep, so I stepped out,” she said, deciding the best course of action would be to tell the story exactly as it had happened. At least part of the story. “I was only gone for a few minutes when I first noticed the smoke. When I returned, our bedroom window was filled with flames.”

She could still smell it, the way it had clouded her vision and burned her nostrils. Tears stung the backs of her eyes as she envisioned the scene, recalling the panic that had engulfed her when she realized he could be dying… that he might be dead already. She hadn’t loved her husband, she hadn’t even liked him, but she had never wished for him to die, and she had certainly never wished to witness the morbid event.

“Go on, Mrs. Tindall.”

“I ran back as quickly as I could, calling out for him. I wanted to rush inside to….” She stopped, suddenly unable to speak. Her throat felt thick with smoke, and she could still feel the heat of the flames as they licked the roof.

No one deserved to die in such an awful way.

Saint Brides watched her from under a knit brow as he stuck a hand inside his coat, revealing a small notepad and pencil. “Did you hear him, or see him through the window?”

She shook her head. “No, but he was sleeping soundly when I left. He must have still been there. I tried to go in after him.”

“Into the fire?”

She nodded. “I don’t know what I could have done. I shall never know. I was dragged away and strapped to a tree. The man accused me of murder. He said I would hang. I was… I don’t know what I was. Shocked, I suppose. When he ran off to help control the fire, I wriggled out of the ropes and made a run for the trees. I kept running until I twisted my ankle. That was when I came across this place.”

“If this is the truth, why not turn yourself in to the local authorities? It would clear your name, and they could begin looking for the real culprit.”

She met his stare with a grim smile. “It was the magistrate, Mr. Gordon, who tied me to a tree, threatening to deal justice right then and there. No trial needed. I daresay, my humiliating him by running away will not endear him to the idea of waiting for a judge and jury now.”

His scowl deepened. “It isn’t far to the next district. You can plead your case there.”

Sarah shook her head. “It wouldn’t matter.”

“Why is that?”

“It just wouldn’t.” There was no way she would be found innocent, even without Mr. Gordon ready to take the stand to prove her guilty. The evidence was already stacked too high against her. She had no alibi, no character witnesses, no defense whatsoever.

If she were to be taken into custody, she would be as good as dead.