Phoebe looked back along the path from the veranda. The sun was gone, leaving behind a thick blanket of red and gold beneath the deepening blue of the twilight sky. Distant sounds of the party emanated from the open ballroom doors. Music mingled with occasional laughter and voices, intermittently sharpened and muffled by the soft breeze that carried it to the walled garden outside of Hugh’s study. Still there was no sign of him.

Captain Bell had visited Baronsford before, she told herself. He’d have no trouble finding his way. That is, if he was coming.

“He’ll come. He will,” she muttered, starting to pace to calm her agitation. At the end of a garden path, beyond the orchards, where the meadows fell away to the lake, darkness was already claiming the rolling hills of the deer park. Around her, a mist was beginning to rise from the fields.

I’m delighted you’re here, Captain. We hadn’t been expecting you.

She’d heard her brother’s greeting as she walked away from the dance floor. Hugh might be delighted that Ian Bell was here, but Phoebe certainly wasn’t.

“Why can’t you let it go?” she asked under her breath.

She knew why. She wasn’t blind. Ian had been mourning his sister for three years. And it was his nature to worry about others and try to prevent a similar tragedy from occurring. Especially to a person he knew.

Of course, she was more than simply a person he knew. Sarah had been closer in age to Millie, but the bond of friendship had been stronger with Phoebe. And she knew the reasons. They each had an independent nature and a sense of adventure. They shared a love of books and poetry and stories. They were both tall, almost the same height. Their stature was hardly a requirement to establish them as friends, but it served as one more link between them. And there were a hundred more things that bonded the two young women.

For a moment the music and the dance were back in her thoughts. To be held so close, to feel Captain Bell’s strong hands on her waist, on the small of her back. Her body relived the movement, each step in perfect harmony even as his words wreaked havoc in her mind. She’d never seen eyes like his, nearly black with a rim of silver encircling the irises. They’d held her captive throughout the dance.

Feelings she’d had for him from before kept pushing into her mind like the strains of a song that would not be forgotten. The song was distracting, somewhat embarrassing, and try as she might, she couldn’t ignore it.

But Phoebe had other, more important things to consider. The present situation was too stressful. She liked her life. She loved what she did. She wanted to get back to it. She hated the possibility of being exposed by someone else, and the certainty of disaster that would follow if she were. She now knew what the “sword of Damocles” meant.

“Damnation,” she muttered, turning on her heel and walking back along the same path.

She couldn’t blame Duncan either. She’d put herself under that dangling blade. The Highlander was an honorable man. He would say nothing that would demean or endanger her—especially to a gentleman who might be considered a suitable matrimonial possibility. His wife had delivered many a kindly lecture to Phoebe extolling the benefits of marriage and family. It was a favorite topic of hers. And Duncan shared her sentiments.

No, Phoebe alone had caused the current difficulty she was facing. Except for that weasel, Leech. He too was responsible. But she never should have agreed to meet him in the Vaults. They could have met in a thousand other places.

“You didn’t think it through,” she scolded herself.

The hoot of an owl quite close by was immediately answered by another down by the loch. Servants were beginning to light torches in the gardens at the far end of the west wing and along the paths. Light poured out a number of rooms on the upper floors and from Hugh’s study, and in the distance the music of a waltz ended.

“Will you make me wait all night?” she said aloud, growing restless as she looked back down the path.

Millie was right. She should have spoken to her family before tonight. It was childish not to make a clean breast of it, and she was hardly a child.

But she could not approach her father. He was too stubborn to understand. Everyone in the family was of the opinion that she had inherited the Earl of Aytoun’s temperament. “Like two bulls” was the way her brother Gregory once put it. Perhaps it was true. The two of them never seemed able to listen to the other.

Not her mother either. The husband and wife had no secrets, and the two had always operated as a united front. Growing up, Phoebe and her siblings knew there was no divide and conquer when it came to getting one’s way.

No point in talking to Gregory about it. He had too much to worry about with Freya expecting, and with a precocious six-year-old to raise. And Jo was out of question. For the first time in her life, their older sister was immersed in happiness. Phoebe would never dream of casting a shadow of worry over that.

“Hugh?” she mused, immediately frowning at the thought. She had a feeling the Lord Justice would drag her into his courtroom and prosecute her for trespassing in the Vaults, just to teach her a lesson.

No, she had to speak to Grace. She was the bravest woman Phoebe had ever met. She’d grown up on battlefields. She knew what women were capable of doing, and she was not one to accept any ridiculous confines based on a person’s gender. She would understand. Grace had also lived in some of the greatest royal courts of the continent, and she knew how politicians worked. Her sister-in-law could convey this information to her husband without upsetting him. Look what she’d done for Jo and Wynne Melfort. She had known exactly how to soften a blow and mediate when there was danger of a disaster.

“Why didn’t I think of it sooner?”

She looked in the direction of the ballroom. The scoundrel was not coming.

“Do you always talk to yourself?”

She jumped, pressing her hand to her heart as she whirled to face him. Ian was leaning against an archway, his arms folded across his broad chest. He was silhouetted by light from the study window. Phoebe fought the urge to shower him with a string of curses. Of course he wouldn’t walk through the gardens to find her; he came through the house.

“Did I frighten you?” he asked.

“Yes, as a matter of fact, you did.”

“I’m glad. You should be frightened more often.”

“By whom? You?”

“Not me.” He unfolded his arms and drew himself up to his full height. “But you should be frightened of going places where you don’t belong. Of exposing yourself to danger unnecessarily. Of trusting people you shouldn’t. Of dressing like a man. Of lying to your family . . . and to those who save your life. And with regard to that—”

She put up a hand to stop him. “I appreciate your concern, Captain. I accept all that you say.”

He scoffed. “I don’t believe it.”

“Is it that you don’t believe I appreciate your concern or that I’m capable of conceding I was in error? Or both? Or perhaps you’ve been practicing this admonishment for the past fortnight and you want to make sure you get in every word.”

“You’ll say anything to evade the issue at hand, won’t you?”

“Perhaps you’ve brought your schoolmaster’s switch and will require I kiss the rod when you’re done?”

“Now that’s a thought.”

Phoebe saw a smile tugging at his lips.

She tended to intimidate men with her quick tongue and her willingness to argue. She knew she could be somewhat persistent—perhaps obstinate at times—in refusing to concede even minor points. Millie claimed she did it to push men away. But Ian Bell didn’t seem at all put off by her nature. She took a deep breath, forcing a change in her manner.

“I apologize, Captain,” she said. “I know you’ve come out here to give me another chance to explain.” And you’ve not mentioned the Edinburgh misadventure to my brother, she finished silently.

He remained where he was, and she didn’t know if he was dubious or amused.

“Let me put your doubts to rest,” she said softly. “Please ask your questions.”

It was understandable that he did not entirely trust her.

“I’ve had plenty of time to think of that incident,” Phoebe continued when he said nothing. She touched the scarf at her throat. Every night since her return to Baronsford, she’d awakened in a cold sweat. The frightened lad appeared in her dreams again and again. Some nights she couldn’t get to him fast enough. Other nights, she was the one being chased by a fiendish assailant. She faced this in her sleep. But what of reality? The horror of what could have happened to her down there was a constant companion. She could have been killed when she fought him at the top of the steps. And if Captain Bell weren’t at the bottom, she would be dead now for sure, as she guessed the murderer would have come after her.

“I am grateful to you for saving my life. And as far as the fabrications . . .”

She paused, smoothing the front of her dress. The moment of reckoning was here.

“I’m a writer.” The words tumbled out and she hesitated, half expecting a great chasm to open beneath her feet. “And I was in the Vaults with Duncan that night to research a project I’m working on right now.”

The truth was out. She should have felt lighter, better about it. But the frown that now creased the man’s brow told her she might only have succeeded in opening Pandora’s box. And she didn’t wish to tell him more.

A person’s political inclinations determined how he viewed the newspaper she wrote for and her columns. She was a heroic social crusader to some but a troublemaking demon to others. She didn’t know for certain, but she could only imagine Captain Bell was firmly in the Tory camp. His father, having made his fortune in Baltimore, had returned from America on the eve of the revolution there. And the son had proven his value in the battlefield and now served as a high-level administrator in Fife. It would only make sense that they would be on opposite ends of the political spectrum with regard to support for the government.

“Your uncle’s wife, Gwyneth Douglas Pennington, isn’t she a novelist?” he asked.

His statement surprised and relieved her. Captain Bell knew of her aunt’s writing, and she heard no hint of scorn or condemnation in his voice. Gwyneth’s work was published pseudonymously, but the subject of her writing was far less problematic than Phoebe’s.

“Yes, for many years she’s been quite successful with her adventure novels. How did you know about it?”

“Sarah was a great fan of her work,” he told her. “So is my mother.”

“Of course. I knew that.” Phoebe had given her friend some of those novels and arranged for Sarah to meet Gwyneth at Baronsford when her aunt and uncle were visiting. But it surprised her to know that Captain Bell was familiar with his sister and mother’s choice of authors and books.

“Is that what you do? Write romantic adventures?”

Phoebe decided evasion was in order. If that’s what he thought, it was close enough to the truth. In any event, it would have to do. “My aunt has always been my idol, but I’m only at the start of my calling. I’m still feeling my way, as it were.”

He nodded but didn’t seem convinced. “But you haven’t mentioned any of this to your family?”

“I have. Well, I mean they know of my aspirations. They’ve encouraged me to pursue it on some level. There is a collection of fables in Baronsford’s library right now that I put together from the stories Ohenewaa told us.”

“Ohenewaa?”

“She was a freed African woman who was a grandmother to all of us as we grew up.” Phoebe never forgot how happy her mother had been when she presented the printed collection to her. “What my family doesn’t know is that I foolishly put myself in such grave danger in Edinburgh that night. I went there to gain firsthand knowledge of the Vaults. It was a mistake.”

She saw no reason to draw Millie into any of this. Phoebe slid her hands along the embroidered belt that ran beneath her breasts and looked along the path. She couldn’t remain in one place. Pacing suited her restless nature, especially when she didn’t care to tell the absolute truth.

“Would you care to walk, Lady Phoebe?”

“That would be very nice. I love the scent of flowers in the evening, don’t you? You have lovely gardens at Bellhorne. The roses should be blooming at this time of the year, I believe.”

“They are,” he said, falling in beside her. “But you wouldn’t be thinking of changing the topic, I hope.”

“No, of course not.”

They walked in silence for a moment. The music in the ballroom had stopped, and in the distance, the faint yipping of a brood of young foxes could be heard.

“Going into the Vaults was more reckless than anything I’ve ever done.” Her words were heartfelt, and she hoped he recognized that. “And you found me. You must know how terrified I was. I know how close I came to catastrophe. I’ll never do that again. I assure you.”

They reached a wall at the bottom of the garden. In the orchard beyond, apple trees stood in neat rows like burly night sentinels.

“You don’t know how close you came,” the captain said brusquely. “A man was killed there that same night.”

“A man?” Her nightmares abruptly became reality. Had she saved the lad only to have him be caught again? “Was he old? Young?”

“I don’t know his age.” He pressed a fist into his other hand. “The murder was discovered by a constable the next day as two men were carrying the body through Cowgate toward the medical college.”

Her chin dropped, and she stared at the dark paving stones between his boots and her skirts. Duncan had warned her, but she’d heard before about the villainy and dangers lurking in every shadow. Life lost its value when you ventured into those catacombs and the twisting alleyways surrounding it. But the warnings hadn’t dissuaded her from going.

Her thoughts cleared. She’d battled only one man.

“Two men?” she asked.

“Workmen. Not the murderers.”

“Horrible. I . . .” Words seemed insignificant in the face of something so awful. She wanted to know if the boy she fought for had been the victim, but there was no way for her to find out. And what difference would it make? A human being had died.

“The men said they found the body in an alcove not far from the place where your attacker approached you.”

Unexpected tears threatened to break free, but she fought them back and looked away.

“The throat was slashed. That was enough to cause the victim’s death. But then the murderer made another cut, from the chin to the navel.”

Her hand flew to her neck. Her wounds were healing, but the memory of those moments in the dark passageway—the hot panic, the fight for the boy’s life and then her own—wasn’t fading. And now, to learn what happened afterward stung her badly. She’d fought a battle only to find out later she’d lost.

The captain injected no added drama into his voice. The facts were harsh enough.

“Over the past three years, I’ve learned of or seen with my own eyes over a dozen corpses with the same wounds. All of them were found in the Vaults or in the wynds of Cowgate and Canongate. All in the same vicinity. And these are just the bodies that were recovered before they could be sold and dissected by anatomists. I have no way of knowing exactly how many have died by the same hand.”

Her stomach churned. She recalled the impression of malevolence when the man passed, before she knew him for what he was. She felt the evil he exuded.

“Someone is killing in a consistent manner?” she asked, unable to ignore a chill that had taken root in her very bones. Whatever horrors had infected her dreams, they were nothing compared to this grim assertion. “One person is doing all of those killings?”

“Yes. A coldblooded hunter who is manic enough to leave a distinct mark. A signature, so to speak.”

Phoebe turned away from him, trying to force air into her lungs. After the incident in the Vaults and the exchange of only a few words with Ian, the vague idea of a criminal underbelly existing in the world became an ugly and horrifying reality. She had grappled with a murderer.

She was relieved when she felt him press his hand into the small of her back, steering her back toward the house.

“I’ve said too much, Lady Phoebe. I apologize for telling you all of this.”

His candid description only now struck her as surprising. How many men, she wondered, would have been so blunt? So graphic? Women were to be sheltered from the sordid and the horrific.

“Do not apologize. I was there, Captain. The man I fought with, he could surely have been the killer. He could have been responsible for the other man’s death. For all those other deaths.”

His hand remained on her back, a gentle caress giving her support and comfort through the layers of her dress.

She wondered if any person had seen another attack, someone who’d been as close as she was. Someone who could identify him. For a moment, it had been only the two of them, predator and prey. She’d felt this killer’s knife slashing toward her throat. But the Vaults were too dark, the moment too frenzied. She’d been too blinded by fear and the need to fight to look at his face. But he saw her.

She glanced out into the night. He could be out there in the darkness now. Waiting to strike. To finish what he’d begun.

The thought flashed through her mind that perhaps Sarah had been the victim of this same man. But she was hesitant to ask, unwilling to dig at wounds Ian was still nursing.

They paused by the door leading into the house, and Phoebe felt an odd sense of loss when he removed his hand from her back.

“This tragedy is only one incident amid a morass of corruption and murder that is rampant in the rookeries of Edinburgh.” His face was in shadow. “I don’t know what your novel pertains to. But please, don’t ever, ever, place yourself in such danger again.”

Captain Bell had kept her secret. He hadn’t exposed Phoebe to her family. He believed the partial truth she’d told him. She was grateful for that. But it was his concern that touched her more deeply than she would ever have imagined. She felt the emotion—the pain—that laced his words. He was thinking also of his sister, Sarah.

“I am sorry,” she said softly, touching his arm. “I’ve said a great deal, but nothing excuses what happened.”

She stared at his chest, not trusting herself to look into his eyes. Sadness, like some hot poker, wedged itself into her breast and pried loose a long-buried regret; she’d not had the courage to speak the words in her heart at Sarah’s funeral.

“The most upsetting part of all of this right now is knowing what I’ve done to you. Of dragging up bitter memories. For that, I can offer no excuse. Sarah was my friend. I loved her dearly. But then the tragedy struck. She was in our lives one day, and the next, she was gone.” She heard her voice quaking. His face wavered in her vision as tears burned her eyes. “Whatever feelings of loss I had, I know they were nothing compared to what you suffered. The prolonged search for her. And then . . . the day of the funeral . . . seeing how you suffered.”

A single tear broke free and found a path down her cheek. Another followed, and she dashed them away.

He pulled her roughly into his arms, and she went willingly. Her hands found their way around his middle. Her face pressed against his heart.

The workings of her disposition—how she felt and even acted—were always so extreme. Right now, her heart ached because of what he’d suffered, because of what she’d made him suffer.

“Forgive me. I didn’t intend to dredge up the tragedy of Sarah’s death.”

“There’s nothing to forgive. You cared for her,” he said in low voice. “Do you think she’s ever far from my thoughts?”

“No,” Phoebe murmured. “How could she be?”

Ian caressed her back and then, taking hold of her arms, pushed her just far enough away to look into her face.

“Promise me you’ll never again put yourself in that kind of danger.”

“I promise.”

They stood still, his hands on her arms, their bodies so close.

And suddenly, the rest of the world ceased to exist. There was Ian. His face, with its hard edges and rugged lines. She saw tenderness and vulnerability in his eyes. She’d longed for this moment for much of her life.

Before she could even think to stop herself, Phoebe raised her hand to his cheek. She felt the rough shadow of whiskers, and then the tips of her fingers moved to his lips. They were surprisingly soft. Their gazes locked, and she saw hunger in his eyes.

She withdrew her hand, knowing she’d gone too far. “I shouldn’t have—”

He crushed her lips beneath his, silencing her. Phoebe’s palms pressed against his chest, but her body wouldn’t muster the strength to push him away. It had been so long since she’d felt a spark from any man’s kiss, but never had she felt the scorching heat that Ian ignited in her now.

He deepened the kiss and her knees grew weak. She leaned back against the stone walls of the building. He followed, pressing against her. Excitement blazed a delicious path through her veins. She wanted him even closer. Her hands moved up and slipped around his neck, and she molded her soft curves against his hard, powerful body.

The dreams of youth were back. Far too many times she’d imagined this, pictured herself wrapped in Ian’s embrace, protected by the shadows of the night, lost in the passion of their kiss.

Phoebe knew the moment a sense of urgency seized him. His arms tightened around her. The pressure of his lips increased, and she melted into the kiss. His tongue was soft and insistent, and she opened to him as he started sampling, tasting, learning the texture of her mouth.

Never before had her body burned like this, seared by the mere touch of lips and tongue. Never before had she wanted more of this. And she wanted it now. Her tongue responded to his, becoming bolder by the moment as his taste, his scent, the pressure of his body dazed her. The heat, the raw desire growing within her was unlike anything she’d ever imagined.

Phoebe didn’t even hear the sound until Ian broke off the kiss abruptly and stepped back. Two people were approaching along the path from the ballroom. They were talking and laughing. Ian stood staring silently into her eyes, and she burned with excitement, nearly overwhelmed by what had just happened.

The intruders stopped at the entrance to the garden when the music began again. The two were here to stay.

“I have to go to Bellhorne for a few days,” Ian told her, his voice sounding strained.

“I’ll be returning to Edinburgh at the end of this week.” She didn’t know what made her speak so candidly about her plans. Yes, she did. She was offering him a chance to call on her if he chose to.

“Edinburgh, it is, then.” A smile tugged at his lip. “Will you promise not to cause any trouble or put yourself in any danger until I get back?”

He was asking too much of her. She still had an inflammatory article to write. And she still needed Mr. Leech’s information.

“Until you get back,” she promised.

* * *

The wind, foul with the dead salt smells of the harbor and fish, whipped across the darkened town, yanking at shutters and roofs of thatch and scattering the sleep of those huddled within. Windows rattled fiercely, as if marauders from the marshes were beating at the panes, threatening entry. Children clung to each other in their beds and cried out that the death crone had come. Ragged clouds scudded across the face of the dying moon, and out in the raging sea, battered sailing men clung to crude miniatures of loved ones while their ships rose and fell, shuddered and groaned. If this was summer, what evil would descend with the bitter northern blasts of winter.

But monsters did not roam abroad. They dwelled within.

He pushed the papers on the table away and rose to secure the window latch. It had been a night not much different from this one when he began his journey. When he first heard them.

You’ve been chosen. Avenge us.

He’d not yet reached his fifteenth birthday when he stumbled out into the dark street to answer the summons.

The man came into his path by accident, stumbling from the tavern. The sounds of carousing followed him out the door, but the drunkard came alone.

His knife burned in his hand. It was the same tool he used to sharpen his pens, trim the wick. But when the voices called, it took on new life. It was Excalibur, the claymore of the Wallace, the sword of Drogheda.

Avenge us.

As he drew the blade across the drunkard’s throat, he felt the Fire of the Ages ignite within him. Power surged through his veins. The sweet, copper smell of blood flooded his senses, overwhelming the foul odor of the bog.

Finish. Mark him. As they did to us. Mark him.

He left the mark. And it was done.

Until they spoke to him, the Chosen, again. And again. And again . . .