Later that night Kettle House, Flourmill Lane, Aberdeen

Ophelia Raines crept as quietly as she could up the backstairs of Nettle House, as she secretly called her aunt and uncle’s home. Moving about the house often felt like maneuvering through stinging nettle, so the name fit. Fortunately, her favorite escape route, the original servants’ stairs usually proved nettle-free. Deemed unsafe ages ago, the stairwell began gathering dust after a more modern stair was built for the household staff.

The expenditure was justified because her uncle, Irwin Russell, held that servants shouldn’t be seen or heard.

Leastways, as infrequently as possible.

Fortunately, the old stone house was large enough to allow such a luxury. Dating from the 16^th century, Kettle House gained fame as the dower house for the nearby and equally ancient provost’s mansion. In medieval times, one of the provost-widows living there had been a good-hearted soul, always keeping huge kettles of soup and fresh-baked bread ready to serve the needy – whenever such unfortunates called at her kitchen door. And so the house earned its name, along with the reputation of aiding the poor.

Ophelia frowned as she climbed the musty-smelling stairs, blessedly lit well enough thanks to the moonlight slanting through the air slits cut into the house’s thick stone walls.

She wouldn’t exactly call herself poor, though some would surely disagree.

But she was in need of a roof over her head, food in her belly, and so she imagined Kettle House was still deserving of its name.

Even so, she wasn’t a servant – however much she was expected to help where and when needed.

She did so gladly, was even grateful when, after a regrettable and disastrous scandal, her too-pious-for-her-taste aunt and uncle opened their home to her. Still, she was her own good self, and found it difficult to ignore her passions. To her, harmless but fascinating pursuits, mostly her interest in anything odd or otherworldly.

So she hadn’t complained when she’d been offered a cell-like room on the top floor. The true servants might also sleep there, but most slumbered like stones, their snores assuring her privacy to access the seemingly forgotten backstairs.

A boon she took advantage of as often as possible. Not that her adventures were wrong, or bad.

They weren’t.

She just did not care to be contained.

A trait she’d inherited from her late mother, according to her Aunt Sarah.

No matter, at the moment her only concern was to reach her room unobserved. Most nights everyone would be in their beds by now. But this was Samhain Eve. Her aunt and uncle would surely be sleeping. The clutch of women she’d seen at the kirkyard would likely have returned by now.

She just hoped they didn’t immediately seek their quarters.

Like as not, they’d gather in the kitchen to gossip and sip cider. They might prattle about the Samhain lovers, perhaps blaming a harlot and her conquest for keeping the spectral pair from appearing. As most of the staff came from the Highlands, there would also be tales of faeries and magic and blazing bonfires.

Samhain was a good time to remember how Scots of old celebrated the pagan holiday.

She’d gone to look for ghostly lovers.

And though she hadn’t seen them – not for more than an eye-blink, anyway – she had been kissed.

Her first kiss in more than three years, and...

Dear heavens, but it’d reminded her how much she loved kissing. How much she missed it. Her frown deepened for she didn’t want to have enjoyed the kiss.

But she had.

The kiss had melted her.

A shame a rogue had done the honors. How sad that didn’t surprise her. For sure, it fit the story of her life. Regardless, she could still see his handsome face in her mind. If the moonlight hadn’t lied, a small scar on his left cheek added to his appeal. Tall, deliciously dark, and imposing in height and build, he was the embodiment of the ‘sweep her up on his steed and carry her away’ kind of hero she’d once dreamed of, long ago when she’d still believed in such foolishness.

Now she knew better.

Even so, his kiss was a memory she’d carry with her all her days. She doubted she’d ever again experience such a thrill.

A shame she also recalled his baseness…

The sporran he wore to disguise his inability to control his lust. Why else would he don a sporran when not kilted? She tightened her grip on the handrail, sure that no other Scotsman would defile their national dress in such a nefarious manner. She’d felt the evidence – the fast and relentless thrusting of his ‘wiggle’ as he’d clutched her to him.

Her frown returned just remembering. In truth, she should be grateful to the older women for marching into the kirkyard. Otherwise, the scoundrel might have whipped aside his sporran and…

She paused on the top step of the ancient stair and pushed the rogue from her mind. Grand kisser, handsome or not, he was a lout and she’d best forget him.

All she wanted was to reach her room, strip, and dive beneath her bed’s covers.

To that end, she cracked the stairwell door and peered into the dimly-lit hallway. The floorboards were polished and sometimes creaked, but a blue-fringed runner stretched the length of the passage and if she kept to its center, she’d not make a sound. Still, she waited a moment, holding her breath.

Nothing stirred.

Only silence and a hint of cold wood hung in the air. Perhaps also a trace of the bouillabaisse served at dinner. After all, the stair’s lower entrance was near to the kitchen.

No matter.

She wouldn’t have cared if the passage reeked of garlic. All that concerned her was its emptiness. Exhaling, she relaxed and hurried the short distance to her room.

Her refuge. Or so she thought until she stepped inside to find her aunt sitting on her bed.

“Aunt Sarah!” Ophelia blinked, sure the floor had just opened beneath her. “What are you doing here?”

“Waiting for you, my dear.” Her aunt stood, her sad gaze gliding from the top of Ophelia’s head to the tips of her toes and back again. “Where were you this time? Not in the old sealed-off tunnels beneath the city, nor any of the less reputable alleys along the harbor. Your clothes are too clean. Still…”

She came forward to lift the end of Ophelia’s silver-blue shawl. “How did you tear your shawl? Did you run through brambles? Were you chased? Much mayhem is stirred on this night in Aberdeen.” She let the silk drop and stepped back, angling her head as she fixed Ophelia with a troubled look. “I know you favor the shawl. You wouldn’t have damaged it gladly.”

Ophelia frowned. “But I didn’t.”

“Then you weren’t aware?”

“No.” Ophelia glanced down, seeing the rip. “I don’t know how it happened.”

She didn’t.

Her heart sank all the same.

The shawl was special, so much more than silver-blue silk and warmth. It was a gift from a long-ago friend and – she truly believed – imbued with magic. An enchantment woven of love and that her friend had sworn would protect her always, even when the shawl wasn’t draped around her shoulders. So strong was its blessing.

Now she’d torn it.

She looked up, hoped the room’s dimness hid the tears burning her eyes. “It must’ve caught on something.”

“So it seems.” Her aunt glanced about the cold and tiny room, taking in the bare floor and thin curtains at the window, the cot-like bed and narrow wardrobe near the door. “Nothing here could’ve done such damage. Nor do thorn bushes grow anywhere within these walls. You’d best tell me where you were this night.”

“I was out.”

Aunt Sarah folded her arms. “That is not an answer.”

“I know…” Ophelia went to stand at the window, seeking time, hoping to compose herself. “I wanted to walk,” she said, easing back the curtains. “It’s a special night. Enchanted for those who follow the old ways.”

“You shouldn’t speak of such things.” Her aunt sighed. “We now live in an enlightened age and the lore of Highland herb wives, charmers, magic, and what-not are known to be only legend. Such frivol should remain where it belongs - in the remote past, and blessedly so.”

“I do believe in magic.” Ophelia spoke to her aunt’s reflection in the shiny blackness of the window glass. “The old ways are real. The hills would crumble, the heather wither away, if everyone persists in denying centuries of tradition.”

“Ophelia…” Her aunt’s voice softened. “You know I understand. But you are here at Kettle House, beneath this roof, and your uncle disapproves of such thinking. It is becoming harder and harder to calm him when you do such things. Slipping away on All Hallows’ Eve, going out in the bitter cold of Winter Solstice to sneak down to the harbor and stare at the Northern Lights, looking for Viking gods in the heavens.” Her aunt paused, drew a long breath. “Come spring, you rush out in your bed robe to wash your face in the morning dew.

“My dear,” she said again. “I do not know how much longer I can shield you. Your uncle is concerned your presence will stain the house, draw unwanted influences.”

“I have done nothing wrong.” Ophelia touched the cold window glass, her throat thickening.

“Your uncle means well. He has even tried to find you a suitable husband. Someone decent, a man who would provide for you, give you children.”

“I did not care for those men. They were nice enough, but…” Ophelia pressed a hand to her cheek, trying to suppress tears. “I could not imagine being married to any of them.”

“Ah, well…” Her aunt sighed. “Sometimes a woman has little choice. “Respectability and the relief from worry are good reasons to wed.”

“I understand.”

“Do you?”

“Of course.” Ophelia turned from the window. She did her best not to dash at her eyes again, couldn’t allow tears to slip free.

She wouldn’t show weakness.

Aunt Sarah would pounce if she did, quickly summoning every available – and uninspiring, if reputable – suitor in all of northeastern Scotland, simply to get her out of Kettle House.

Sadly, she had nowhere else to go.

So she stood taller, squared her shoulders, and drew a long, spine-strengthening breath. She also kept her chin raised, her gaze steady on the older woman’s.

“Did Uncle Irwin see me leaving?”

“You were not seen at all. That was your mistake. You knew Rosie the laundress would be bringing her cat’s kittens this evening. We’d agreed to choose one to join our kitchen mousers.

“I am aware of your great love of animals.” Aunt Sarah’s voice softened again. “You would not have missed helping select a kitten.

“So-o-o…” She glanced at the window. “I must wonder what drew you out into the cold, mist-drenched night? Word of a dog roaming the streets, a beast needing a meaty beef rib? A baby duck lost and requiring a reunion with its mother? Or perhaps you wished to follow your other interests? As it is Hallowe’en, perhaps you thought to pay a visit one or more of Aberdeen’s haunted sites? That is what your uncle will think if he hears of this.”

“He doesn’t know?”

“I told him you were abed with an aching stomach. So tell me the truth. As long as a man wasn’t involved, I will make certain he believes that was so.”

“You already guessed why I went out,” Ophelia admitted, feeling a stab of guilt for not mentioning the rogue. Just the thought of him made heat bloom on her cheeks. Mercy, she could still feel the knee-melting thrill of his kiss.

“So what was it?” Her aunt was watching her carefully. “Animals, magic, or specters?”

“Ghosts. I went to look for the phantom lovers in St. Nicholas Kirkyard. They are said to only appear on Samhain Eve.”

“Did you see them?”

“No.”

“I am not surprised.” Aunt Sarah shook her head, clearly not a believer. “But you did see something. Whatever it was, it caused you to flee, tearing your shawl in your haste.”

“That is surely so.” Ophelia glanced at the black-gleaming window, the panes streaked with rain. How unnecessary that one of the rivulets just had to make a slight curve, reminding her of the small, crescent scar on Greyson Merrick’s cheekbone.

How bothersome that he had such a roguishly appealing name.

Her heart skittering, Ophelia drew another steadying breath. “Cook and a few other ladies arrived and I ran, not wanting them to see me.” It wasn’t the entire truth, but near enough. “I had to scramble over the burial ground’s back wall. It was the only way to leave without passing the women.”

Her aunt nodded. “Resourceful, as always,” she said, sounding almost pleased.

Highland folk always are.

That, too, Ophelia kept to herself. Her aunt was also Highland-born and she didn’t wish to appear surly. Doing so would only spur her aunt’s urgings for her to wed.

Most recently, she’d suggested one of the sons of Uncle Irwin’s colleague, Everley Dudding. Like Ophelia’s uncle, Mr. Dudding was a clerk at a shipping company. He was a perfectly respectable man – as were his sons. But aside from being English, something that did not bother her at all, though she would prefer a Scottish husband…

The Duddings bored her to tears.

Worse, to her way of thinking, they did not care for animals and thought all Scots saw faeries behind every bush. The Duddings made light of any belief in myth, legend, and magic.

Ophelia would be miserable in such a family.

They were worse than Uncle Irwin. At least there were animals at Kettle House. Her uncle’s hounds, her aunt’s terrier, and the kitchen cats.

She could not become a Dudding wife.

She’d rather scrub floors and eat dust.

She did have to do something.

Too bad, she didn’t know what.

Worse, the look on her aunt’s face said she had an idea…

And if she’d learned anything through her difficult times, it was to ‘know your enemy.’ Or, in this case, while her aunt certainly wasn’t a foe, she knew she’d be wise to discover the older woman’s plans.

“Aunt Sarah.” Ophelia smoothed her skirts, hoped her voice stayed steady. “You’ve already soothed things with Uncle Irwin. For this night, anyway. Yet…” She dug for courage. “I can see that you have more to say. Something to do with me.”

Her aunt smiled. “I was young once. The truth is I see something of myself in your wild heart. I was no match for your mother and her unbounded passions, but I did have spirit. Long ago, before…”

She glanced aside, her eyes glistening in the room’s dimness. When she looked back at Ophelia her face was earnest again. Clasping her hands together, she cleared her throat.

“My dear,” she began. “I have no wish to constrain you. There is a brightness about you that shouldn’t be dimmed. Or perhaps we should liken your impetuousness to the wind?” She reached to smooth back Ophelia’s hair. “A brisk wind can refresh us, but too much can sweep us away, blowing us to who knows where.”

“I see.” Ophelia did. “This is a warning? You’re here to reprimand me.”

“Not at all. I have a proposition for you. One that I believe will benefit us both.”

Ophelia waited, not sure she agreed.

“However much I sympathize with your spirit, such boldness draws talk, and none of it is ever good.” She skimmed her gaze over Ophelia, assessing her. “You are attractive with your dark hair and blue eyes. Indeed, you’ve grown even more beautiful than your mother. But a wayward reputation weighs more than fetching looks. A roguish man will always be admired, even by his foes. A woman who challenges mores?”

“No one here knows my past.” Ophelia’s stomach knotted. “Oban is on the far side of Scotland. I left those memories there. I have no wish to retrieve them.”

“And you needn’t.” Her aunt reached out to squeeze her arm. “You are not the first woman so betrayed and you will not be the last. That is not what I meant.

“The truth is however innocent your jaunts about the city, folk notice and draw their own conclusions.” She paused, released Ophelia’s arm. “Women who behave boldly land in the gutter. There is no kind way to say it, and sadly, it is true.”

“That’s hardly fair.”

“Life rarely is.”

“I’ve gone out in search of ghosts.” Ophelia wouldn’t deny her passion. “Everyone knows I am interested in such phenomena. Many people are. Aberdeen is an ancient city, filled with haunted places. I enjoy visiting them. Sometimes I see and hear things, and so-”

“Do you not understand?” Her aunt leaned toward her. “There can be thousands of tales and legends in this city. But there is only one Kettle House and it is owned by your uncle.”

Ophelia blinked. “He is ashamed of me.”

“No, he wants the best for you.”

“He wants me gone.” Ophelia’s heart beat faster, her palms dampening.

“I have distressed you.” Her aunt’s face clouded. “My dear girl, I only wish to help you. To see you find the happiness you so deserve. A better life than slipping around this house, trying to avoid the stern eye of your uncle.

“I learned to live with him,” she added, her expression clearing. “You needn’t do so.”

“What are you saying?” Ophelia curled her fingers in the smooth silk of her ruined shawl. She was sure her aunt meant well, but she was also certain that whatever happened, it would not be pleasant.

“I met Mrs. Dudding in Union Street a few days ago. She told me that her eldest son is now wed. The remaining three are still amenable to a match with you, should one be desired.”

Ophelia’s chest tightened. “I have no wish to marry a Dudding.”

“You could do worse.” Her aunt gave her an encouraging smile. “You would be well treated. Have a lovely home of your own. The Duddings are respected in Aberdeen.”

“They are English.”

“So is half Aberdeen, if not more.”

Ophelia stiffened. “The Duddings do not like animals.”

“You could surely persuade a perspective groom to allow you a pet.” Aunt Sarah made it sound so easy. “I could even help you, would speak to Mrs. Dudding.”

I will not pretend passion. Ophelia shuddered at the notion.

“There is more,” she said aloud. “They sniff at the old beliefs of Scots and laugh outright at the mention of ghosts. I would be made fun of all my days for I shall not abandon or hide my interests.”

“Will you not even consider it?”

“No.” Ophelia shuddered. “My life would be so dull that my heart would wither. My soul would weep…” She let the words tail off, not wanting to voice her horror at imagining herself trapped in such a marriage.

I would suffocate.

“Well, then.” Her aunt took her hands, squeezing them lightly as if she’d heard the silent words and wished to comfort her. “We do have another possibility.”

“Employment.” Ophelia turned back to the window, dread racing through her. “I am sure I can find something.”

It shouldn’t be difficult. I can teach herb lore and ancient tradition, rattle on about the distinguishing differences between gray, green, and pink lady ghosts, or share the castles most prone to have spectral pipers prowling the ramparts after dark.

I can even cook.

But I could not stitch a straight seam if someone held a dagger to my throat.

Nor can I be around children because they only remind me of the bairn I lost.

“You needn’t trouble yourself. Though…” Her aunt made a gesture at the room’s modest furnishings, and – the only luxury – a tiny coal-burning brazier for warmth. “I do not think you belong here.”

“Where then?”

“Perhaps a place more suited to your wishes?”

Ophelia blinked, for a terrible moment wondering if her aunt somehow knew she’d thought of the rogue’s kiss as she climbed the stairs?

“What do you know of my wishes?”

Aunt Sarah gave her a fond look. “It’s no secret you’d love to spend your days searching the streets for stray animals and then pass your nights creeping about every corner of the city said to be haunted.”

“Is that wrong?” Ophelia didn’t think so. “A man can do what he wants. Why can’t I?”

“Because you are a woman,” her aunt reminded her. “It is a man’s world and ever shall be.”

“Not if women refuse to be yoked.”

“There are other ways to achieve one’s goals. I believe my second option will please you. It will certainly allow you to fulfil a few of your dreams.”

“How?”

“Through sea travel.”

Ophelia’s eyes rounded. “Sea travel?”

Her aunt nodded. “I joined your uncle for lunch at the harbor recently and overheard a discussion concerning the dearth of suitable companions for wives journeying to join their husbands overseas. Men employed on the Continent, mostly. Apparently, many wives aren’t keen on braving the high seas and appreciate company.”

Ophelia frowned. She knew where her aunt was heading.

“Such women probably have children,” she said, sure of it. “They will want a seafaring nanny more than anything.”

“That could well be so.” Her aunt didn’t deny it. “Another woman at hand would be welcome if the rigors of sea travel made a young mother ill.”

“I do not want to care for another woman’s children.” The very idea was a stab through her heart. “Not on land, nor on sea. Besides, what if I came down with seasickness?”

“Think of your dreams.” Her aunt tried to persuade her. “You would have adventures, see so much more than Aberdeen. Strange lands and different customs, perhaps even a few of those ghosts that so interest you.”

Ophelia considered, almost tempted.

But the truth was she’d had an adventure once – and it’d ended in disaster.

She couldn’t risk another.

Pressing a hand to her breast, she recalled the repeated thrusts of the rogue’s ‘wiggle.’ She didn’t finish the thought, knowing where it would lead…

To wicked musings that went beyond the memory of his kiss, his bold and wonderful tongue. How she craved its plundering even now. Her good sense might rebel, but her body had wakened, her womanly needs, so long in frozen slumber were now restless. Needy, yearning, and dangerous.

And if Greyson Merrick, a rakish stranger, could fire her blood so quickly…

Spending time with the children of others would ignite a different kind of need – one that would rip open old wounds and make her bleed all over again.

Straightening, she spoke as purposefully as she dared. “I do not care for either plan,” she said, holding her aunt’s gaze. “Neither one is for me.”

“I’m afraid I must press you to choose.” Her aunt’s pity was clear. “Your uncle will make a decision for you if you dally too long.”

“I understand.”

“Do you?”

“Of course.” Ophelia fingered her ruined shawl and wondered when its magic had faded. Like as not, when she’d made the mistake of wanting to catch a glimpse of phantom lovers.

Now…

She drew a deep breath. “I can wed a Dudding. Or I can become a seafaring governess.”

“That is the way of it, yes.” Her aunt went to the door. “You have two weeks to decide.”

“A fortnight?” Ophelia blinked. “That isn’t very long.”

Her aunt turned, her hand already on the latch. “It is when your uncle plans to visit his Inverness cousins. While there, he also intends to call on an old friend. A most aged man, and a widower. Irwin has indicated he’d like to settle you on his friend – the man is a great landowner and quite wealthy.”

Ophelia felt herself blanche. “He’d marry me to a doddard?”

“A rich one, yes. Irwin was quite fond of your parents, you know. Whether you believe it or not, he feels an obligation to see you secure in life, and content.”

“So I have three choices?” Ophelia’s head was beginning to ache.

“Four, actually,” her aunt said, looking unhappy. “We can go on as ever. But sooner or later you will push your uncle too far and his patience will snap. If that happens, he could set you before the door and there would be little I could do about it.”

“I see.” Ophelia did.

She was doomed.

So she waited until her aunt left, and then she sank onto the edge of her bed. Lifting her hands, she pressed her fingers to her temples and exhaled a long breath.

Aunt Sarah had it wrong.

She didn’t have two weeks to decide. She had a fortnight to escape.

If only she knew where to run.