Date: 2013-11-05 22:02:07+00:00
Keywords: Historical; General; Romance; Novella; Steampunk; Paranormal Romance; Paranormal; Fantasy; Adult; Urban; Fiction; Historical Romance; Regency; Magic
Description: Eamon Evernight has always lived in his older brother's shadow. While his brother is fair of hair and lithe in body, Eamon sparks fear with his fiery locks and massive frame-and rumors of a mysterious power. But when his brother has the good fortune to be betrothed to a beautiful stranger, it's Eamon's help-and quick wit and romantic heart--that he needs. Eamon agrees to write the noble lady...a generous offer that will forever leave him a changed man. Lady Luella Jane Moran has no interest in an arranged marriage and tries valiantly to dissuade her betrothed from afar. Though her own letters
Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Entwined

Kristen Callihan

New York  Boston

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Table of Contents

An Excerpt from Shadowdance

Newsletters

Copyright Page

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To J. and that summer we actually wrote each other letters

Chapter One

January 1825

“ ‘Dear Sir, it has come to my attention, by way of a most distressing yet undeniable order, that we are to be married. As I find arranged marriages to be both archaic and tantamount to a glorified stud service—’ ”

Eamon broke off with a choked laugh. “ ‘Glorified stud service’? This must be in jest,” he said to his brother.

Aidan was less amused. His mouth flattened into a grimace. “I fear it is not.”

Still gaping, Eamon turned the letter over to read the address once more. It had come in the morning’s post, addressed to Aidan. And Aidan had brought it directly to him with the usual order to “read it.”

The sender was Lady Luella Jane Moran, the name written in childish and rather florid script. Luella? She sounded like a nightmare.

“You are really to be married to this girl?” Eamon asked. “How old is the chit?”

Aidan sighed and ran a hand through his yellow curls. “Sixteen. And yes. Father told me a fortnight ago.” He scowled and paced over to the fire. At nineteen, Aidan was still shorter than Eamon, who was seventeen, but his body moved with quick assurance whereas Eamon bumbled about, still trying to adjust to his overly large frame.

“Apparently, when Father went down to London a few months back, Lord Edward Moran, Earl of Ballyloch, saved Father’s life during a gaming brawl. In return, Father offered him a boon. Ballyloch took it in the form of an arranged marriage between his firstborn and father’s.”

Eamon fingered the edge of the fine linen paper. It smelled vaguely of lavender and horse. “Rather odd, considering Ballyloch is a lord. I’d reckon he’d rather marry his daughter off to a titled gentleman, no offense.”

Aidan gave a small smile at that, but tension still had hold of him. “None taken.”

“Not to mention that we’re Irish. I realize that the Scots probably hold us in higher regard than they do the English, but not by much. They tend to stick to their own.” As did the Irish, for that matter.

“We’re half Irish. Half Scottish too,” Aidan pointed out.

That was true. Their mother’s family was Scots, from which Eamon had gained his red hair. And if he believed the tales, which he did, they were just as strange as he was.

“However, Father’s massive fortune appeared to be the deciding factor for the titled but cash-poor earl.” Aidan gave a careless shrug. “The contract stipulates a rather large bride-price.”

“Ah. Still, is she ugly or defective? I’d be wary if I were you.”

Aidan snorted. “Says the boy with ginger hair.”

Eamon grimaced. He knew his brother was in jest, but the quip stung just the same. Red hair, particularly on a male, was not only unfashionable, but most people—the English in particular—viewed it as a defect or, in the case of zealots, a mark of the devil. Lord knew his own father believed as much. Redheaded Devil’s child is what he called Eamon.

“Aye, well,” Eamon said, “I’m not the one having to marry her, now am I?”

Aidan’s expression grew more sour. “Just finish reading the blasted thing, will you?”

Eamon picked up the letter once more. “Let’s see… Stud service… Ah, ‘I am most unwilling for this union to come to fruition. Therefore it is my hope that we might join forces against this tyranny’ ”—Eamon snorted—“ ‘and fight our oppressors by way of refusal to comply.’ ” Eamon shook his head. “Lord above, but this is painful to read. Can you imagine the dinner conversations? She’ll drive you mad!”

“Yes, thank you, that’s quite helpful, Eamon.”

Aidan made another circuit around Eamon’s room while Eamon stared off, considering.

“You know,” he said after a moment, “the silly chit might be on to something here, Aid.”

When his brother stopped short, Eamon continued, “Why not join forces, as she says, and simply refuse?”

“No.” Aidan made a slashing motion with his hand. “That is out of the question.”

“You want to marry this, this, wee blowhard in pinafores?”

“It is done. Bloody Father has already paid half the price upon signing the contract. Ten thousand pounds, E.”

Eamon gave a long, low whistle of surprise, and Aidan nodded. “You see? It no longer matters what I want. I will not impugn the family honor.” He let out a long sigh. “The marriage shall take place one year after I reach my majority.” Aidan’s mouth pinched in a sneer. “Apparently Father believes he’s doing me a service by giving me a ‘year of proper manhood in which to sow my wild oats.’ ”

Eamon could only gape at his brother. If ever there was a moment in which he absolutely hated his father, it was now. The bloody, arrogant tyrant. “Bollocks to that,” he finally got out. “Do you want to marry her?” He might be the black sheep of the family who never did a thing right, but Eamon loved his brother. He couldn’t stand by and watch him suffer.

Aidan sighed, his slight shoulders sagging. “In truth, brother, I don’t want to marry. Ever. I don’t fancy…” He bit his lip and glared at the letter. “Now that I think on it, I do want to marry her.”

“You do,” Eamon repeated with ripe skepticism.

“I do.” Aidan nodded brusquely. “In fact, she is perfect, for she will never fall in love with me. If I must marry, I want it to be an arrangement and nothing more.”

His brother had gone mad. Assuredly. What of love? Passion? Eamon was young, but still he craved that sort of bond, that sort of lasting affection, with all that he was. The worst of it was, he feared he’d never get it. He was shy around strangers, especially girls, and people distrusted him on sight. “Aidan—”

“Write to her, Eamon,” he said with a bit of urgency. “Please.” He strode over and clutched Eamon’s hand. “Persuade her to change her mind, that marriage to me will not be a burden to her.”

“All right,” Eamon said slowly, “I reckon I could tell her that you—”

“No!” Aidan’s grip became painful. “Be me. She mustn’t know that I can’t—” He pressed his lips together. “Just be me. Persuade her.”

Eamon glanced at the letter. His chest constricted at the idea of lying. But he’d been hiding his brother’s inability for years. What was one more deception in the scheme of things? But he wasn’t a fool; his brother needed his help more than he realized. And Eamon would be the one to set things to rights. But he’d have to do it delicately. He couldn’t defy Father. Eamon’s back still ached from the last time he’d felt the force of Father’s cane across it. For there was one rule in Evernight Hall that Father enforced with iron clad tenacity: Eamon was not allowed to speak in his presence. “Yes, Father” or “No, Father” was the extent of his allotted vocabulary, or he’d feel the cane and be banished to his smithy. Eamon preferred the smithy, at any rate. It was his refuge. The one thing he loved other than his brother. Only with Aidan was he able to speak up. Not that it was doing any good now. Bloody stubborn Aidan.

“All right,” he said. “I’ll do it. But I’m none too happy about it, brother.”

Aidan simply grinned wide as Eamon turned back to his writing desk and began to sharpen his quill.

* * *

January 1825

Dear Lady Luella,

If you truly are whom you claim to be, for no sixteen-year-old girl in my acquaintance uses such florid and pretentious language. Young ladies are more apt to study water coloring or play the pianoforte.

Therefore, I’m rather inclined to believe that you are an impostor, determined to trap me into saying something that I oughtn’t. If so, kindly desist in this course of action. It will do you no good. I am too wily to succumb to such antics.

If this truly is Lady Luella, kindly cease this nonsense and devote yourself to practical matters. Such as how to run my household when we are wed.

—Evernight

February 1825

Dear Mr. Evernight,

I do believe you are making fun at my expense. I am quite serious in my intent. Patronizing your future wife is, in my estimation, not the most intelligent course of action, sir.

—Lady Luella Moran

Postscriptum—You’re one to talk. Never in my life have I read a more turgid note such as yours.

March 1825

Lady Luella,

Are you then acknowledging our impending nuptials as fact? I thought as much.

Turgid, was I? You should realize that, in an effort to make you feel comfortable, I purposely matched my tone to complement yours. So, really, you are only pointing the finger toward yourself.

—E

Postscriptum—Flower? Dog? Horse?

April 1825

Dear Mr. Evernight,

I am becoming quite cross with you. And am beginning to suspect that you suffer from a character weakness in the form of monumental conceit. To use your words, I really do think it best that “we cease this nonsense” and work together to end this impending disaster. You cannot expect me to waste my time and attention on one so flippant as you.

—L. L. M.

P.S. Horse, obviously. Would there be any other answer?

* * *

Eamon grinned wide as he set down little Miss Luella’s last letter. He ought not get so much enjoyment from baiting her, but he did. And he really ought not to have asked her if she preferred a flower to a dog or a horse. But he couldn’t help himself. He wanted to give her a little bit of him and see what she’d make of it.

Rising from his stool by the worktable, he went to the loosened wedge of masonry in the far corner of his smithy. There, he carefully set the letter inside the secret compartment to rest on top of the other one he’d received from her. Then he selected a length of iron. His forge blew hot, the heat making the skin of his cheeks tight. And as he heated the metal, he imagined the shape of a running horse. Then he began to work.

* * *

June 1825

Dear Lady Luella,

I have in my possession a portrait of you, provided by my father, perhaps in an effort to promote moments of romantic longing. Unfortunately, it is quite useless, as you appear to be no older than eight in the study.

Even so, I imagine you thusly: Your prim little nose is always in the air, not a wrinkle nor scuff mars your pretty dress, and multiple ribbons likely adorn your hair. A perfect Luella.

When, really, I believe you are a terror in secret. Or perhaps only to me?

Regardless, I shall do you a favor and call you Lu. No girl named Lu could possibly remain so high in the instep.

—E

P.S. Why is “horse” the answer to every question?

P.P.S. You appear to fancy long, pedantic words. Try this one: honorificabilitudinitatibus. Should you divulge its meaning without cheating, I might gain a modicum of respect for your intellect.

August 1825

Dear Evernight,

“O, they have lived long on the alms-basket of words. I marvel thy master hath not eaten thee for a word; for thou art not long by the head as honorificabilitudinitatibus: thou art easier swallowed than a flap-dragon.”—Costard, Love’s Labour’s Lost

You bore me. Really, one would think you had some notion of my father’s character, or your father’s, at the very least. Their shared love of Shakespeare is the reason for their initial bonding. Well, before they became embroiled in fisticuffs with an entire gaming hell, that is. I do hope you have better restraint.

High in the instep indeed. That is rather the pot calling the kettle. And I do not recall giving you leave to address me with such familiarity. We may be betrothed but that does not allow you to behave with impertinence.

P.S. My friends address me as Luella. Not that you may do so. I am simply pointing out a fact.

P.P.S. Thank you kindly for the clever little iron horse. It is astonishingly life-like. Wherever did you get it?

P.P.P.S. “Horse” is the answer to all questions because I love them to distraction. Obviously.

—L. L. M.

October 1825

Dear Lu,

I make it a point never to pay too great attention to anything my father says. After all, look where that has brought the two of us. Were my father to have his way, not a thought would rattle about in my brain box, nor a sentence pass my lips that did not start with “Yes” and end with “Father.”

Having never considered a horse more than a beast of burden or a means of moving from here to there, I must ask, what is it that you love so much about the animal?

—Evernight

P.S.

Lopado-temacho-selacho-galeo-kranio-leipsano-drim-hypo-trimmato-silphio-parao-melito-katakechy-meno-kichl-epi-kossypho-phatto-perister-alektryon-opte-kephallio-kigklo-peleio-lagoio-siraio-baphe-tragano-pterygon. Try to solve that one. Your knowledge of Shakespeare will not help you here.

P.P.S. You are most welcome. My brother Eamon made the horse. He is quite pleased that you admire it.

Eamon grinned wide as he set down his quill then closed the cover of the dusty, heretofore ignored, tome that rested beside him. Ha! He could not wait to read her reply to this letter. The only thing that could make his satisfaction sweeter would be to see her when she read it. Likely, her pretty face would scrunch up unbecomingly, and she’d stomp her little foot. Most excellent. He really couldn’t wait. Giddy anticipation had him whistling as he put the old book away and left the library.

November 1825

Dear Evernight,

Now I know you are jesting with me. That is not a word! I won’t believe it. Furthermore, it is not even in English.

As for horses, well, I suppose I love their faithfulness. A horse will run for its rider until its heart gives out. Can you imagine such devotion?

And stop calling me “Lu.” We are to be married, for pity’s sake. One does not refer to one’s wife in such an undignified manner.

—L. L. M.

P.S. It appears as though your father makes you feel as my family does me. As though you are a constant disappointment. If that is the case, I highly suggest you take up horse riding, if only as a means of escape. That is, if you do not ride already. Don’t all gentlemen ride?

December 1825

Lu,

It is a word. And we never stipulated terms. Not once did we say the words had to be in English. I dare you to discover its meaning. If you do, I shall send you another present.

Of course I ride. Though I do not find the same solace in the activity as you do. In truth, I have a dislike of riding, as the horses seem to despair of me. However, when I put down my quill, I shall take to the saddle. And I shall think of you. Do you suppose I shall find peace? I think not, but anticipate the exercise regardless. Will that make you happy, Lu? If I do as you ask?

You have to know, Lu, that I would do anything to bring you happiness.

—E

P.S. I cannot help but notice that you insist on referring to yourself as my future wife. Are you, then, finally conceding to the eventuality? Or shall you continue to plot against fate?

P.P.S. Were you to be my wife, I would call you Lu every day. I would call you Lu as I pulled out your hair ribbons and replaced them with lilacs. Purple, to complement your dark locks.

* * *

With a soft, happy sigh, the girl the world knew as Lady Luella Moran sat back against her window seat and watched crystalline rivers of water play over the glass. Lu. Aidan thought of her as a Lu. And she found she rather liked that. It was special because only he knew of it.

On the carved ivory mantel stood a little black iron horse so perfectly rendered that it appeared as though it were running over a lake of cream. Aidan’s gift to her. And now another. A tiny, delicate steel lilac. It was utterly beautiful. And hers.

“Lu,” she whispered with a tremulous smile. He’d put purple lilacs in her hair.

As if feeling his touch, her hand drifted to the dark locks hanging about her face. With Aidan, she could be someone else entirely. Someone new. A girl who could ride free across an Irish meadow. And a wife who would have a clever husband to tease her before he slowly pulled the ribbons from her hair. The idea was seductive, and she decided then and there that she would think of herself a Lu.

* * *

February 1826

Evernight,

I find myself softening on the subject of marriage toward you. I don’t know why. It must be a temporary form of madness, for I still find you too forward and altogether too pithy. And yet I quite like it. Yes, I must be mad.

Will you think less of me now that I have exposed my weak underbelly? Will it shock you to learn that last night I dreamt of lilacs, and felt the brush of your fingers through my hair? I am stopping now before I say too much.

—Lu

P.S. I am determined to discover the meaning of that “word” you have sent me. Do not think otherwise!—Even if I still suspect skullduggery at play.

P.P.S. First an iron horse, now a steel flower? You are spoiling me. Or rather your brother spoils me. Perhaps I ought to set my cap to him.

March 1826

Lovely Lu,

You honor me. I read your note with equal parts joy and dismay. Joy that you found something in me that caused you to change your regard. Dismay that I could not receive your acceptance in person.

Think less of you? You are all I think about. I dream of hair like black satin. Of petal pink lips that do not simper, but move quickly with sharp wit. I could grow to adore such lips.

—E

P.S. To me, you shall always be Lu. Whatever fate may bring for us, in my heart you shall always be mine.

P.P.S. I would never dare assume you have given up your quest. And stop creating reasons to fail. The word is real, and therefore yours to find. Now, hurry up!

P.P.P.S. Should you throw me over for my brother, he would be the happiest of men. Of that I have no doubt.

April 1826

Aidan,

May I call you Aidan? It hardly seems fair, you calling me Lu all this time and me remaining so formal. It rained today. I love the rain, have I told you? Which is rather a blessing, given how often it rains here in Scotland. Tomorrow, we go to London so that, in Father’s words, the ton might see Evernight’s bride. I believe you know how very much I detest being treated as cattle.

I’ve only been to London once before, as a young girl. It is horrid there. The air is black and foul and the streets mucky. I cannot breathe in London.

My only recourse is to think of you, wandering the rolling green grass of Ireland. Mayhap one of the reasons I adore you is that you detest the city as much as I do.

Yours,

Lu

P.S. Just two more seasons, and we shall be together. Do you long for it as much as I do? Or have you forgotten me already, now that you are of age and frequenting parties and the like?

May 1826

Dearest Lu,

You have a lifetime to address me as “Aidan.” Call it selfishness on my part—though likely you’ll simply think me rude—but I’d rather you withhold that privilege until we are face to face. For now, would you be so kind as to humor your fiancé and refer to me as E?

Your devoted, if not slightly eccentric, E.

P.S. Forget you? You are my waking breath, and my sleeping sigh.

* * *

Lu turned from the sound of men chatting in the hall. Pray God, her father wouldn’t call her down to entertain. She’d rather eat cook’s eel pie. Cold. Dipping her quill into ink, she applied it to the smooth vellum beneath her hand. From the silence of her room came the scratch of the nib across the page and the ticking of the mantle clock. A veritable menagerie of metal animals now called the mantle home. An elephant, turtle, cat, dog, lion, monkey, even a little ostrich made up the collection. She loved them all.

What she did not love was waiting. She was abysmal at waiting. The only thing she hated more was being in London, forced to give false smiles to people she did not want to know. Forced to pretend she was something that she was not. Her life was a mirage. Only with Aidan did she feel remotely like her true self.

And so she did the one thing that gave her happiness. She poured her soul into her letter.

* * *

June 1826

Dearest E,

There are days when I hate the letter carrier. Where is he? Why hasn’t he brought me one of your letters? I curse him for leaving me to wait in a constant state of distraction. My neck grows tired from turning toward the door, as if by mere staring, I can somehow conjure up his presence. It never works. Yet I keep trying.

In the silence of my London house, I hear the sound of footsteps coming up the walk, and my breath grows short, my cheeks flush, and my heart races. Is it he? The man I want most to see? By the time the knocker sounds, I am beside myself with anticipation, when it occurs to me that the letter carrier would not use the front door. My heart plummets. I hear voices in the hall, and my hopes are dashed. It is only Dr. Arnold, Father’s physician. And I hate him for who he is not.

Most of all, I hate the letter carrier. And yet I love him, for eventually he brings you to me.

—L

P.S. You run the risk of me forevermore thinking of you as “E.”

August 1826

Dearest L,

I am not certain I like this letter carrier fellow much myself. Love him, do you? The man you most want to see? In fact, I am quite certain I hate him myself.

He arrived yesterday, bringing your letter. It was all I could do not to grab him by his lapel and do him a violence. For in my mind, he has seen your lovely face, heard your pretty voice, and I have not. I have to remind myself that this is illogical; he cannot possibly be the same man who left London, nor would any carrier have direct contact with you. However, logic seems to vacate my mind when I think of you.

And I always think of you. Thoughts of you thread so tightly throughout my day that I lose track of where I am and what I am doing, until I cannot help but think that, although we’ve never met, your soul and mine are already entwined.

All I have of you now are these letters, and I covet them, hiding the stack away like some miser before the winter. For I fear that, should I lose them, I’d lose part of you, and my soul would be irrevocably torn.

—E

P.S. I shall take that risk. There are worse things you could think of me.

September 1826

My dearest E,

Ridiculous man, have you not realized? I am yours. In truth, I believe I was born to be yours. Just as you were born for me.

In a few months, it will be spring and we shall be meet for the first time. Has anticipation ever been so keenly felt? Or so cruelly drawn out?

—Lu

* * *

Snow swirled over hard cobbled streets, sinking white and pure into the cracks before growing black as sludge when carriages, horses, and people trampled over it. A hard wind howled down the lane, and Lu clutched the ends of her fur-lined pelisse with one icy hand. In her other hand, she held tight to the letter. The ends of the paper flapped, the words blurry in the whirlwind of snow.

She ought to be reading inside but Father was in a rare mood. And it was best to leave the house before he could take his anger out on her. A few steps behind her, Martha, her lady’s maid, and Fred the footman trailed her. She barely noticed them. A lump formed in her throat, and her heart squeezed as she read Aidan’s words, scrawled with such force that the nib had nearly run through the paper at some points.

When she finished, she pressed the letter to her heart and cried for him. “Oh, Aidan.”

February 1828

My Lu,

My father is dead. It was sudden and unforeseen. I will not sully your tender sensibilities with gruesome details, but I cannot help writing to you. For I feel guilt for his death down to the marrow of my bones. I experience not loss but the release of a great burden. His constant disapproval is no more. I ought to be wracked with grief. Yet I am not.

Sweet Lu, I fear I shall never be the man you believe me to me. In fact, I know so. It is only when I put pen to paper, with the image of you in my mind, that I am truly myself. Ink and vellum reveal my soul. If I should end up a disappointment to you, try to forgive me.

And should, by providence or some small miracle, you find yourself content with our union, would you, now and then, pull these dusty old letters out and think of this me? Of the pompous youth and hopeful romantic that I used to be?

—E

February 1828

My dear and wonderful E,

Neither of us are what we seem. Not fully. And how can we be anything different? When no one can know the whole of another’s soul. Just as you, I fear our eventual meeting as much as I long for it in my waking dreams. For I am not I know I will not be the woman you imagine.

—Lu

[Never sent.]

Chapter Two

Spring 1828

Eamon sat hunched over his writing desk, his hand clutched so tightly around the quill that it threatened to crack. The blank writing paper before him blurred even as the wind from without howled against the panes.

He had to write Lu back, had to tell her the truth. “Bollocks,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. Sweat drenched his temples, and he sighed, his heart aching, a lump rising in his throat.

His fingers were clumsy and uncooperative.

Dearest Lu,

I am—

Eamon flung the quill, ink splattering against the wall as it hit. I am, what? An impostor of the highest order? My brother never wanted you. He merely wants a dutiful, quiet, ghost of a wife, so you best start preparing yourself.

He couldn’t do that to Lu. Shite, but he’d already done it. He’d gone too far, revealing his soul to her when he ought to have kept his distance. Shite, shite, shite. He’d ought to have told Aidan to get stuffed from the first. And now his Lu would come here and marry Aidan.

The pain around the region of his chest grew hollow. Eamon rubbed it, trying to breathe.

He could offer for her… A miserable laugh broke from him. Offer her what? He was the second son, with little funds. Worse, he was a big, ginger-haired brute. None of the village girls even looked at him when Aidan was near, and very few looked when he wasn’t. And there was the small matter of the fact that his particular talent was not… normal.

He scowled down at his large, scarred hands. These hands, what they could do was a secret that his family had kept for him since he was just a lad. Unnatural. Yet Eamon coveted that part of himself. While his hands chained him to a life of solitude, they were necessary.

No, he could not offer for Lu. Likely she’d hate him on principle for deceiving her all these years. And she’d have every right to.

Whatever may come, Eamon knew he had to convince his brother to call off this wedding.

Taking a breath, he retrieved his quill and returned to his desk, only to stop when someone knocked on the door.

Aidan stood on the other side, holding a letter. As always, the sight of a letter sent a bolt of happiness mixed with anxiety shooting through Eamon. However, the handwriting wasn’t Lu’s.

He took the damp missive. “Just came in?” Eamon usually made it a point to collect the mail.

“It did.” Aidan glanced at the windows, where the storm still raged. The rider had to have been well paid to come out in such weather. Aidan’s mouth tightened as he looked at the letter. “Well?”

Aidan hated to admit his weakness, but Eamon was his brother and they had long ago accepted that he’d read for the both of them.

Frowning, Eamon tore open the letter. And his insides dipped. Bloody. Hell.

“It’s from Ballyloch’s solicitor. Cholera hit the Moran house. Ballyloch is dead.” His mouth went dry. Lu. “And half his household besides.” His eyes darted over the words desperately. “Luella was the only one spared.” Eamon sagged against the door frame as he said the words. And then he looked up at his brother.

“She has no one now.” No one but them. But Aidan. Shite. “She’s on her way here.” To marry Aidan.

The lump within Eamon’s throat grew thicker. He thought he had more time.

Aidan nodded, a wooden and stilted gesture, his jaw firming up as though facing a firing squad. “Well,” he said, “we knew this day would come. I’d always planned to marry the girl.”

Girl. As if she were still that silly little chit who sent her first letter at sixteen. As if it were a chore. For one, blinding moment, he hated Aidan. It was all he could do not to punch his arse of a brother in the face.

Eamon swallowed the anger down. Aidan wasn’t the arse here.

“You don’t have to—” Eamon snapped his mouth shut. Of course Aidan had to marry her. Lu had nowhere else to go. Besides, it had been decided on long ago.

“I do,” Aidan said, and they both knew the truth of it. He sighed, running a hand through his golden hair. “I do, and there’s nothing for it.” He looked at Eamon and paused as if considering. Eamon said nothing, for there was nothing to say. Aidan frowned. “Well then. I’ll have the staff prepare.”

Perfect. Bloody. Perfect.

* * *

Two Weeks Later

She stood on the front drive, halfway up from the gate and halfway to the house. A light mist swirled through the air, beading on her cheeks and dampening her hair. But she did not open her umbrella. No, that she leaned upon until it wobbled under her weight. She couldn’t seem to let go of the death grip she had on its handle long enough to raise the bloody thing and open it up.

Between the mist and the setting sun, the sky had turned a soft violet color, darkening to deep plum where storm clouds threatened.

“Dither out here any longer, old girl,” she muttered to herself, “and you’ll soon be swamped by the storm.”

Sadly, the prospect of being swept away was a shade too tempting. Beneath her skirts, her knees locked, refusing to allow her limbs to move. Ahead lay the edifice of Evernight Hall. The large manor house, done in a classic Greek revival style, shone ivory white against the crepuscular sky, as if even the impending weather would not dare mar its beauty.

And behind those walls lay Aidan Evernight. Aidan. Just thinking his name sent flutters of anxiety and excitement quivering through her belly. Four long years she’d ached to meet him, tried to imagine the way he smelled, the precise shade of his fair hair, the exact timber of his voice. She’d fancied it would be deep now, rolling over her like a wave from the sea. A shudder of longing went down her back as she imagined all of Aidan crashing over her.

He was so very close. It might has well have been a hundred miles.

Here she stood, bedraggled, her pelisse ripped on one shoulder and the hems of her skirts covered in muck and mud. She ought to be arriving in a proper coach. With proper servants to attend to her. Another shudder rippled through her flesh. This one so violent that she almost lost hold of her umbrella. The coach was at the bottom of the sea. And everyone else gone with it.

Bile surged up her throat at the memory. The screams, both of horses and of people. The sight of the carriage dashed upon the rocks, and in an instant, of the sea sweeping all sign of it away. Grief and fear threatened to crush her just then. She ought to be dead as well. Only she’d gotten out before the horses spooked. Having an indelicate yet undeniable need to relieve her bladder had saved her. And her bloody umbrella. The one she had insisted upon taking with her to use as a privacy shield.

A mad laugh escaped her. Not at all a bad omen, this. She swallowed hard. She’d seen too much death of late. As if it haunted her.

Perhaps it did. She ought to have died of cholera too. No. She wouldn’t think about it. Later she could cry for those lost. Ahead lay her future. All she had to do was claim it. To claim Aidan.

All she had to do was move. In the direction of the house. And yet she remained riveted to this bit of halfway earth. When really, she needed to be all in.

He was waiting for his bride. To be his bride was a notion that had, at first, struck fear into her heart and then become the only thing to keep her going. Years, she’d written to him. Fallen in love with him over parchment, ink, and quill. Horribly, the reality of actually meeting him was not the stuff of rainbows and chirping birds. But one of terror. She wanted this so badly it made her teeth hurt and her bones thrum.

Yet what right had she to pursue happiness when she lived a life of smoke and mirrors? Her family had died, a coach lay at the bottom of the sea, and she only here by providence.

Blinking up at the swirling clouds, she thought of old Irena the cook’s saying, fate throws fortune, but not everyone catches it. Was it really this simple? Could she do it and not feel guilt with every passing day?

Put the past behind her. And embrace her future. What could go wrong?

Chapter Three

Eamon hadn’t imagined that his temper could grow any fouler, but it had. He fair ached to smash his fist to the wall and feel the welcome bite of pain. For here Lu stood. At last. Battered and nearly swaying on her feet. And prettier than he’d imagined. Her fine, sherry-sweet voice was soft as she explained her harrowing journey, of how the coach horses had spooked from the sudden flash of lightning, and how the bloody stupid driver hadn’t been able to control them. The coach had gone over the cliff and into the sea, killing her lady’s maid, the driver, and two outriders.

Jaysus, but she could have been killed as well. The mere thought had his insides pitching and icing over. Lu. At last. And his eyes ate up the sight of her like a man starved. By God, but she was lovely. Delicate features, large, wide eyes the color of midnight, and a determined little chin with a cleft in it. A sign of stubbornness, Nan used to say. Not that anyone need tell him that Lu was stubborn. He adored that aspect of her.

Her hair was darker than he’d expected. A pure, raven black so glossy it shone gold where the lamplight hit it. Rainwater dripped from the ends of the limp tendrils falling about her face. She ought to be tended to, carried up to her room and set before the fire, not standing here swaying upon her feet.

Eamon was of a mind to suggest it when his brother spoke.

“How did you manage to get here from the cliffs, Lady Luella?” Aidan asked quietly.

His brother sat close to Lu, his body tense and his countenance pallid. As unhappy as Eamon. If only they could trade places.

“Well, I walked, didn’t I?”

Eamon almost smiled at her not-so-subtle dig at Aidan’s inane question. She had every right to be annoyed.

Mud streaked down like tears along the fine curve of her alabaster white cheek. “It wasn’t far.” Even so, she visibly trembled, and Eamon had to clench his fists to keep from reaching out for her.

“That you had to walk at all is a travesty,” Aidan said shortly, then reached for the bell. “We ought not have kept you here.”

At Aidan’s use of “we,” Luella ’s gaze flicked to Eamon. As fleeting and disinterested as her inspection of him was, he felt the look down to his marrow, and his breath caught short. But her attention had already returned to Aidan with a greedy appraisal that had Eamon’s tender heart squeezing in pain. God, he was nothing to her now.

“Let us get you settled,” Aidan said.

Lu frowned slightly at Aidan’s impersonal tone but nodded. “Thank you.”

Everything was wrong. The thick, awkward tension in the air, the way Lu’s glittering gaze soaked up the sight of his brother instead of him, and the way Aidan all but recoiled from his intended. All of it wrong. Eamon wanted to shout the truth, throw Lu over his shoulder and claim her. But years of being ordered to be silent, hold his tongue, and blend into the walls were difficult to overcome.

So he obeyed those long-ago edicts and said nothing as Aidan guided Lu out and introduced her to Nan, their housekeeper and general pest as far as Eamon was concerned.

The parlor fell to blessed silence, and he took a slow breath to ease the tightness in his shoulders. He could do this. He could keep quiet and watch Aidan and Lu—

“Fuck.” His fist smashed through the plaster, and the portrait of Great-Aunt Tilly swayed.

“Nan will have your head for that,” said their butler, George, as he entered the room.

Eamon shook his aching hand, scattering plaster dust. “She’s welcome to it. I’d rather not have it upon my shoulders at the moment.” He sucked on a split knuckle before eyeing George. “Why are you looking at me in that manner?”

Reproach Eamon would have understood, but George hovered in the middle of the room and stared at Eamon as though he’d soon wail upon him as well. Laughable, as Eamon had never raised a fist to anyone in his life. And George well knew it.

“There’s talk in town today.”

“There’s talk in town every day.” Eamon said it lightly but dread began to curl tight in his gut. “Talk” usually revolved around him, the dreaded fear rua who had the nerve to hide away in Evernight Hall. He almost snorted. As if being redheaded was a curse. Ah, well, perhaps it was. His father certainly considered him a curse, and no lady had looked upon his flame red hair with anything other than distaste.

Eamon clenched his hand to refrain from running his fingers through his hair.

“This talk,” said George, “is a mite distressing. Last night Seamus O’Neil ran off a man who’d been wheeling his cart through the town square at midnight.” George peered at Eamon as he continued. “Seems O’Neil didn’t like the look of the gall.”

“Every self-respecting Irishman views foreigners as a threat, George.” Damn, but Eamon knew where this was going. His day was officially ruined.

“An’ for good reason. That cart was filled with bodies.” His weathered face wrinkled further. “And parts of them.”

Eamon held his gaze without blinking. Even as his heart beat harder. “What did they do with the man?”

“He got away.”

Relief swept through Eamon, but he didn’t let it show. “It’s a good thing O’Neil was on guard. I’m certain the town was grateful for his diligence.”

“It’s a good thing O’Neil was drunk off his nut and tripped over his own feet before he could catch the bastard.” George raised a knobby finger and pointed it at Eamon. “I don’t know what you’re doing in that smithy, and I don’t want to know. None of us do. There are whispers enough in town over you. Takes naught but one bit of proof to have them come demanding answers. Mind yourself, boyo. We’ve got a new mistress in this house now.”

As if that wasn’t Eamon’s every waking and dreaming thought.

“I suggest you maintain your self-imposed ignorance, George, and let me worry about the rest.” Eamon didn’t wait for a retort but walked out of the room and headed for the smithy. The town could go to hell; he wasn’t about to let their fear keep him from the one pleasure he had left.

* * *

“What you need to understand,” said the housekeeper named Nan as they marched down a long corridor, “is that Eamon and Aidan are the lights that keep Evernight alive.”

Lu peered at the wiry woman, whose grey hair glowed silver in the dimly lit upper hall. “A strange thing to say.” She picked up her pace to catch up with Nan’s brisk stride. “What do you mean by ‘light’?”

Nan stopped by a door and looked her over. It was a very thorough assessment, one that left Lu feeling as though her flesh had been picked clean to the bone. “Every one of us at Evernight Hall loves those boys. It is our devotion to them that kept us going.”

Her use of “boys” made Lu smile. Aidan had quite a boyish quality about his features. It had surprised her to discover that about him. For some odd reason, she’d pictured him as more manly. His voice deeper instead of the soft, steady modulation he favored. Her smile fled. She’d also pictured him welcoming her with open arms, perhaps a passionate kiss. He’d simply treated her like a guest. A favored one, to be sure, but a stranger nonetheless. Perhaps it was due to the presence of his younger brother, Eamon.

Lu hadn’t taken a good look at Eamon. She’d been too distracted by seeing Aidan for the first time. But she recalled his hulking size as he clung to the shadows. Had he said a word? She couldn’t recall.

“I don’t like speaking ill of the dead,” the housekeeper said, “but the old Master Evernight was a hard taskmaster. Hard on everyone.”

Nan opened the door and led Lu into a lovely, well-appointed room done in shades of royal blue and white. “Your room. Feel free to request any changes.” Nan bustled over to the hearth and tended the flames before turning round. “They are as different as brothers can be. They are also as close as brothers can be,” Nan went on. Her gaze grew sharp on Lu. “They’d do anything for the other.”

“Then I shall have to get to know Eamon as well as I know Aidan,” Lu said.

If anything, Nan’s eyes narrowed further. “That you do. Though I suggest you get to know Aidan anew. Letters take time to compose,” she said quietly. “A person can hide in the written word in a way one cannot hide in life.”

Lu’s heart stilled, and it took all she had not to fidget under the woman’s piercing stare. She couldn’t possibly know.

“Are you saying that Aidan hid his true nature in our correspondence?” Desperation and the need to understand more of her now-distant fiancé made her ask. In truth, Lu barely refrained from asking how Nan knew of the letters.

Nan looked at her with genuine surprise. “Aidan hide his nature in correspondence? Never fear that, child. If there is one truth in this world, it’s that Aidan has never, and will never, lie through the written word.”

She appeared so utterly convinced of this fact that Lu had to accept it. Lu ought to feel guilty, given her own secrets, but frustration welled within her breast instead. “Then why advise me to know Aidan better? Won’t this occur naturally? We are to be married after all.”

Nan cocked her head and frowned as if Lu had said something daft. “A man and woman might live together as man and wife for the whole of their lives and never know more about each other than their Christian names.” She gave a small shrug. “’Tis no matter to me if that is how you’d like to live your life. I merely suggest that you try to know your new family better by asking the questions that must be asked.”

“I never thought not to.” Honestly, what was the woman getting at? And why did Lu want nothing more than to leave this house?

A knock sounded at the door, and a moment later, a maid came in with a tea tray.

“Consider this house as your own,” Nan said as the maid left and she headed to the door. “No door will be locked to you.” She paused. “That said, do not go to the smithy. It isn’t safe, and I’ll not have the masters at my head should you get hurt.”

Lu paused, holding the teapot in midair. “The smithy?”

“Master Eamon’s smithy. He’s often at work there and doesn’t like to be disturbed.”

“Ah, yes.” Lu poured herself some fragrant, steaming tea. “I remember now. Eamon is quite talented at metalwork.” Regret pierced her heart as she thought of the small menagerie of animals that Eamon had created and Aidan had sent to her over the years. They were now at the bottom of the sea with the rest of her possessions. Only one tiny, perfectly wrought steel lilac had survived. It lay warm and familiar against her skin, for she’d turned the piece into a pendant long ago and never took it off.

Nan raised her pointy chin a notch. “Only Master Aidan is allowed inside. Please remember it.”

A flicker of fear shone in the housekeeper’s eyes, and Lu went still.

“I do not foresee any reason why I should desire to explore the smithy,” she said carefully. Lie. She’d been desperate to watch Eamon work. In her mind, he’d always been a shadowy figure. Aidan rarely spoke of him, only to say that he’d created her gifts. But they were so beautiful and perfectly formed that she wanted to see how he created them.

“Very good. Master Eamon would be most displeased should anyone invade his privacy.” The fear returned, a bit stronger now before Nan mastered her expression. She quit the room then, leaving Lu wondering just what Aidan’s silent brother was hiding in his smithy and why the housekeeper claimed devotion to a man who so clearly frightened her.

A shuddery breath left her. What would Master Eamon do if he found out she’d been lying to his brother? Father’s words haunted her, as they had for four long years. “If ever they discover what we’ve done, it will be the prison barges for you as well as me, girl. Never think otherwise. We committed a crime, you and I. The money paid is all but gone so we can’t give it back.”

No matter how much she wished otherwise, she didn’t have enough trust in her soul to tell Aidan the truth.

Lu turned and looked at herself in the mirror that hung above the mantle. Her eyes were two wide, dark, glossy disks floating in an overly pale face. “I am Lu,” she said to herself, trying to make herself believe it. “I am Lu.” She clung to the thought like a raft at sea. It was the one thing that was hers, for Aidan had given her the ridiculous moniker because he’d seen the real girl hiding between the lines. Pray God, he’d love her still.

Chapter Four

“Keep going that way and you’ll find the garden wall.”

Lu came to a sudden halt at the sound of the deep voice. It wasn’t Aidan’s; his was a bit lighter in tone. No, this voice was warmer and tinged with more of an Irish lilt than her fiancé’s well-bred English diction.

A note of humor colored it as the man continued, “Besides, the stables are in the other direction.”

She turned and found Eamon Evernight sitting in the shadows with his back against a large rowan tree. The younger Evernight brother hadn’t spoken a word in the house. He’d simply eased away from conversation until he’d blended into the woodwork. A fine trick for one so large as he. But Lu had been aware of him, or his stare rather. She’d felt it linger across her neck when her back was turned and heat her checks when she’d faced his way.

Oddly, he never outright stared, but tracked her from under his lashes. Which made it all the more unnerving that she’d known he’d been watching her.

He watched her now as well, his gaze steady and waiting.

“How did you know I was headed for the stables?” She’d been out of her room and headed for them as soon as the weather had cleared.

The corners of his eyes crinkled just a touch. “I recall hearing you had an affinity for horses.” His lids lowered, a slow perusal that had her skin prickling. “Seems inevitable that you’d suss them out as soon as you could.”

The way he spoke to her, as if to tease; she did not know why, but it roused her. Why hadn’t Aidan taunted her in this manner? She’d expected it of him, even hoped for such an exchange.

“Oh?” she said lightly. “And what if I was merely going for a walk?”

“Well, your muttering ‘where the bloody hell are the stables’ might have provided me with further clues.”

She laughed. “I must say, Mr. Evernight, your powers of observation are keen. Though it wasn’t very nice of you to repeat a lady’s indiscretion to her.” Good Lord, she had been swearing like a stable hand, hadn’t she? Ladies did not do such things. She’d have to repeat that fact until she remembered. Damn it.

A deep, slow chuckle drifted over to her. Strangely, she thought that Eamon Evernight did not laugh often. Which was a shame because it was a very nice sound.

“I won’t think any less of you, I promise,” he said. “Especially when I have uttered a few of those words a few times myself today.”

Shaking her head slightly, Lu stepped closer, bringing herself under the shade of the tree, and Eamon came into better focus.

My, but he was large. His shoulders were twice the width of hers. His arms beefy with muscle, now on display behind the thin, improper lawn shirt he wore. Massive, scarred, and callused hands hung limply upon his bent knees. She looked away from them and into his face.

His coloring was unfortunate. One could not shy away from it. Vibrant, angry red hair swirled in a thick wave from his crown, giving the impression of a flame. On this towering brute of a man, the color was excessive. And not at all fashionable. Indeed most people in England looked upon red hair as a defect. Ridiculous notion, but one that did not abate. Regardless, her preference was for golden hair and light blue eyes.

“I merely wanted to brush down the horses, perhaps have a chat with them,” she said to him. “I am quite accustomed to caring for them, you know.”

The corners of his mouth curled in a hint of a smile. “It’s the grooms, you see. They do not yet know you. If you wander in, they won’t know what to do with themselves.”

The quiet way in which he spoke was firm but not reproachful. Even so, her shoulders slumped. No servant wanted an unfamiliar woman drifting into their territory. Especially in the stables. How long had it taken her to win over the hands at her father’s stables? “Well, I suppose I shall make do with roaming the garden.”

She must have made a face, for he smiled then, and his face was transformed to something almost boyish, with little dimples appearing on each side of his wide mouth. Strong, white teeth flashed in the shadows.

“Ah, now, don’t go fretting. You simply need an able escort. I can take you to the stables, if you’d like—” He stopped, his high cheeks coloring in that strong, ginger way that he must abhor. “That is, Aidan can escort you, of course.” His gaze settled on his hands.

Yes, Aidan could take her. Only the thought made the horrid lump within her chest grow. She did not want to face the man who called himself Aidan yet treated her as if she were a stranger.

“I’ll go fetch him, shall I?” He moved to get up, and Lu put out her hand.

“Oh, no. Don’t bother. Truly, it’s all right.”

An uncomfortable silence descended.

“May I sit with you, Mr. Evernight?” Lu did not know what had prompted her to ask. And when he looked up at her with his dark brows raised in surprise, she wished she could take back the request. But only a little.

There was something oddly comforting about Eamon Evernight. She fancied that whatever she said or did, he would not sit in judgment.

“Call me Eamon,” he said, shifting over so that she could sit with her back supported by the tree. “Mr. Evernight makes me think of my father.”

Lu arranged herself, and her skirts, at the base of the tree. There was not much room, Eamon being as large as he was, and their shoulders were close enough to feel his body heat. “So then you did not get along with your father either?”

“Either?” Eamon frowned.

“I merely meant that Aidan told me he did not have a close relationship with your father, and it sounded like you did not either.”

Eamon cleared his throat. “Right, of course. Well, ours was not the best of accords.” With a distracted air, he scratched the back of his head, and the curve of his biceps bulged against the tight stretch of his sleeve.

By Saint Joan, she shouldn’t be looking at the man’s muscles, or noting the way they moved. She bit her lip in annoyance and tried to focus on his face. But that did no good. For she realized, with a bit of a start, that he was quite handsome when one looked past that flaming red hair. Classically so.

His nose was strong and straight, his jaw squared and graceful.

She was staring now. She knew it, yet Lu could not help but keep looking. To find such masculine beauty here was like discovering a secret treasure.

With such bright red hair, one would expect him to have freckles and pale eyes, but his skin was mellow ivory, and beneath sweeping brows of auburn, his eyes were deep, saturated cobalt blue, such as found in Chinese porcelain.

Looking into them, she felt a strange sort of hitch in her chest, as if someone had stolen her breath for a moment.

Perhaps she made a sound or something showed in her expression, for his brows drew together and a small half-smile pulled at his lips. “What is it?” His voice was soft and searching, as if he worried he’d offended her.

“You’re…” She trailed off in a mad blush.

“I’m what?” he prompted gently, yet looking a bit apprehensive.

Lovely. Rare. Unexpected.

“You’re Eamon,” she said instead. Lord, what was wrong with her? Had she gone mad?

Again came that smile, a slow stretch of his mouth. And it was as though someone had lit a tinder within him. “So we’ve established, Bit.”

“Bit?” Surely she had heard him incorrectly. “What does that mean?”

His smile vanished with a wince. “I apologize,” he said after a moment, “that was rude of me. Now you have an idea why the family refrains from taking me anywhere. Or why I refrain from going,” he said under his breath.

How well she understood that feeling of awkwardness. She’d never said or done the proper thing in her life. Much to everyone’s despair.

“I don’t mind the familiarity,” she said, feeling too warm. “After all, we are to be brother and sister.”

He scowled at this, as if unconvinced.

“What does bit mean?” she prompted once again.

“Nothing. It was a foolish slip of my tongue. Forget I said a thing.”

“Oh-ho no,” she said with a light laugh. “You cannot tell a person to forget what they’ve heard. It only tweaks the curiosity more.” She narrowed her eyes at him, and he went an endearing shade of pink that clashed with his flaming hair. “Tell me.”

Eamon cleared his throat. “Well, you’re a little bit of a thing, now aren’t you?”

“Little?” she scoffed. She was a quite respectable five foot three inches. “Compared to some, I suppose.”

He laughed, a rasping sound, and then ducked his head. “You’ve the right of it. I’m a big brute, to be sure.”

“I did not mean it as an insult, Mr.—Eamon.”

Still smiling, he squinted up at her from under his lashes. “Then I shall not take it as such, Lady Luella.”

“Lu,” she corrected, ignoring the small pinch in her heart. “You may call me Lu, if you’d like.” Even as she spoke the words, her skin heated. Lu? Was she mad? It was Aidan’s name for her. Perhaps it was a bit of revenge for Aidan’s current frostiness toward her, for her embarrassment faded and defiance surged forth. Anyone might call her Lu. And why not?

As for Eamon, he went utterly still, his expression unreadable. And she wondered again if she had overstepped. Lu opened her mouth to recant her offer when he cleared his throat.

“All right then, Lu.” He swallowed audibly, and his gaze rested on her. It was strange, she thought in a daze, that looking into his steady, too-blue eyes felt familiar, safe, and at the same time, extremely dangerous. A bit like standing on a cliff that overlooked the sea. One could study that view forever, know it would always be there, and at the same moment, one could leap into danger.

Thankfully, Eamon tilted his head back to look up at the green leaves swaying above their heads. “I wanted to say how sorry I was to hear of your loss.”

Those softly uttered words fell heavy upon her breast. “Thank you. My father’s death was…” Hell. Lu struggled to find a word that didn’t have her sounding heartless, yet didn’t make her any more of a liar than she already was. “Distressful,” she settled on. “He had lived a full life, thus it was not unexpected in the way of the others.” Everyone she’d ever loved or cared for, gone within days. “Such as when I lost my sister.” For a moment, Lu could not speak. A chasm of pain opened up within her. Why had she told him?

“I did not know you had a sister.” Eamon rubbed his jaw, looking pained, as if he ought to know. Which was ridiculous, she hadn’t even told Aidan. Some things she couldn’t speak of.

“Half sister, actually. She was my half sister.” Lu took a deep breath. “My father would not recognize her as such. She was born on the wrong side of the sheets, as it were.” A pained laugh filled her throat. “Didn’t stop him from bringing her into the house as my servant.”

“You were very close to her, weren’t you?” he asked gently.

Eamon’s strong arm pressed against hers, and she let herself lean just a little bit against it. Lu bit her lip. “We were the closest of friends. She died years ago. Scarlet fever.”

Thankfully, he was silent as she surreptitiously wiped at her tears with gloved fingers.

“We shall care for you, Lu,” he said quietly. “I promise you that.”

Lu turned toward him and suddenly there was no air for her to breathe. He was inches away, his gaze roaming over her face, his lips parting softly as though in invitation. And she felt her lids lower, a languid sort of heat stealing over her even as her heartbeat quickened. The most intriguing thin scar marred his upper lip, creating a little raised path along the left corner. Would the imperfection be hard or soft? If one ran one’s tongue along his lip, would one feel the scar?

A shadow fell over the path before them, and Lu looked up to see Aidan standing there. Instantly, she stood, as if she’d been caught with her hand in the biscuit bin.

“Aidan.”

His nod was brief, polite, gutting. “Lady Luella.” He turned his attention to his brother, and his expression hardened. “If I might have a word, Eamon.” It wasn’t a request.

Too dismayed with his abrupt dismissal of her, Lu stood wordless and aching as Eamon brushed by her with a soft murmur of “Good day.” Aidan glanced back. Wariness lined the corners of his eyes. Something he couldn’t hide, though she could tell he tried. “Lady Luella,” he said again.

And then he left her. Again.

* * *

Eamon followed Aidan to the smithy. If there was one place they’d have privacy, it was here. No one but Aidan dared go to Eamon’s smithy. Far removed from the rest of the outbuildings, it was also isolated enough that any shouting would go unheard. And Eamon knew there’d be shouting. He and his brother needn’t words to communicate; Eamon knew Aidan had found out about the letters.

They’d both known about the first few letters in which Eamon tried to set Lu in her place. But they had been boys then, arrogant and mischievous. Eamon hadn’t thought he’d fall in love with the girl on the other side of the correspondence. And he hadn’t told Aidan that he’d been continuing to write to her. Lu’s letters were the light in his life that he couldn’t bring himself to extinguish.

Eamon stopped in the middle of the space and turned. Only to run into Aidan’s fist.

“Bloody idiot,” Aidan yelled as he swung again, connecting with Eamon’s cheekbone. Eamon saw stars. “Bloody, fool, idiot!”

Eamon stumbled back. Though he was six inches taller and a good three stone heavier, he’d let Aidan pound on him. Years of pretending to be his brother was a despicable act. Cowardly.

“Why did you do it?” Aidan shouted. He punched again, and Eamon went to his knees, blood filling his mouth. “Why?”

“Because I l-lov—” Eamon pressed his busted lips together and glared up at Aidan. “Because you begged me to. ‘I have to answer her. Make her marry me.’ Or do I have that wrong?” If only Eamon had refused.

Aidan scoffed. “You know precisely what I mean.”

Eamon looked away.

“Answer me,” Aidan cried, holding up his fist as if he’d take another swing. He stood over Eamon, panting lightly, his blue eyes blazing, but his arm slowly lowered. “That girl came here to marry me. And it’s as plain as day that she’s in love with you! Or me, or rather you. Bother!” Aidan flung a hand up in disgust.

Aye, well, Lu might have fallen for him, but she’d had Aidan’s image to fawn over all this time. It was Aidan whose every move she tracked with a hungry gaze, and it was Aidan she was promised to. That hadn’t changed.

Eamon leaned forward, his hands hitting the gritty stone floor, and spat out a mouthful of blood. “She’s in love with something that never was.” Eamon spat again and then climbed to his feet. He peered down at his brother through a rapidly swelling eye. “It will be all right, Aidan.” A hopeless laugh left him. “In truth, I’ve eased the way for you.”

“How, may I ask, is this predicament helpful,” Aidan ground out, “when you knew I’d have to marry the girl?”

Aidan had never wanted love from Lu. Just a simple agreement. A business transaction. The fool.

“She’ll be a good wife for you.”

Aidan looked away, his expression pinched. “I never wanted a wife.”

“I know.” Bastard.

As if he heard Eamon’s thought, Aidan glared back. “I never wanted one, but I’ve always known my duty.”

What could Eamon say to that? He stood silent as Aidan’s cool gaze bore into his flesh.

“You love her,” Aidan said softly. “That was what you were going to say.”

Eamon nodded shortly, his eyes averted. It hurt his heart too much to say the words out loud.

Aidan sighed, the sound loud in the stone room. “And you’d just give her up to me?”

They were silent for a moment, Eamon’s lips twitching as he fought to keep them shut. But he had to say it. “She was never mine to give up.”

* * *

It took Lu a good twenty minutes to hunt Aidan down but she finally accomplished the task. He was in the stables of all places.

“I thought you disliked horses,” she said as she walked toward the open stall where he was brushing down a fine bay gelding. At the sound of her voice, his head whipped to the side, and his wide gaze landed upon her. Perhaps he was merely shy in person. So she smiled. “Or did I finally turn you to my way of thinking?”

Aidan stepped back from the horse. “I suppose you must have.” He tossed the brush down and took a step in her direction. Since it had started to rain again, lanterns were lit along the length of the barn, and the light shone bright in his golden hair. He ran a hand through the springy mass of curls. With his full lips and slightly snub nose, he put her to mind of a sweet putto. Which was unfortunate. She did not want to associate Aidan with plump, winged immortal babies.

His pale blue eyes studied her for a moment, and he shifted his weight to one leg. “I meant to discuss our upcoming nuptials.”

Good Lord, the way he spoke to her, as if they were new acquaintances.

“Are you decided upon me, then?” he asked carefully.

Lu blinked. “Well, of course I am. What a question. I decided years ago. You know I’ve been waiting for this.” She took a step closer and was distressed to see him stiffen. “Aidan… Have you decided upon me?”

His nose wrinkled. “As you say, this has been decided upon years ago.”

“Then why ask me?”

He looked down at his boots. “A man likes to be sure.”

“As does a woman. Do I not please you?” Please tell me that I please you.

“Of course. You are lovely, Lady Luella.”

“Why won’t you call me Lu?” Her throat ached now. “Why are you so”—she waved a hand in the air—“formal with me. After all these years.”

He paled and ran his hand through his hair again, making the golden locks bounce. “I apologize, Lu. I am… nervous.”

She smiled a little. “I understand. I’ve been beset by nerves for a week now.”

Looking off, he nodded then turned back to her. A frown remained on his angelic face. “Lu… can I ask you, how do you see our marriage progressing? That is”—his round cheeks pinked—“how do you see us living day to day? What do you want from life?”

Not so odd a question, she supposed. Yet the knot of feeling within her seemed to grow. “Oh, I don’t know. I suppose I want what we had in the letters. I want that discourse. I want to read the books you’ve read, to tell you about the ones I’ve read.” She took a step closer, coming up before him as he frowned down at her. They were to be married. She had to break this horrible awkwardness between them. Oh, it was madness to touch him first, but she’d been aching to feel him.

Tentatively, she rested a hand on his chest and felt the rapid beating of his heart. He was nervous. Shy. It was endearing. “I want to finally figure out what that blasted word you sent me means.” Her voice dropped as she leaned into him. “I haven’t, you know.”

“Haven’t what?” His voice sounded strained now. Strained good? Or bad? She couldn’t be sure.

So she let her hand trail up to his neck as his gaze darted over her face. Gently she threaded her fingers into his silky curls. “Haven’t discovered the meaning of the word. Can you not give me a little hint, E?”

“ ‘E’?”

Lu didn’t have time to answer for she was already standing on tiptoe and pressing her lips against his. So very forward. Not at all like a lady. But she needed to know if the fluttery excitement his letters wrought would return. It did not. Aidan stood stock-still, his soft mouth just touching hers. And she felt nothing. Rather, nothing but a hot, sick embarrassment that made her skin crawl.

Lu wrenched back, her cheeks blazing. “I’m sorry.”

“No!” Aidan made to touch her arm then dropped his hand. “Do not ever be sorry.” His innocent features turned into a fierce scowl. “You have no reason to apologize. I simply…” He flinched. “Blast. I am out of sorts, Lady—Lu.” He’d backed away as he spoke and was now clear of the barn. “I apologize. But all will be well.” Aidan held up a hand in entreaty. “I promise.”

Her fingers drifted to touch her lower lip as she watched him go. She’d felt nothing. Nothing but disappointment, and dread.

Chapter Five

One Week Later

Eamon stared down at the note in his hand. The letters were poorly formed, the s’s were backward, the w inverted, but the message was clear: She is yours now.

A sharp breath left him as he tried to focus. He took another, deeper breath. “His rooms are cleared out?”

“They are.” George’s expression was implacable. “Harrison tells me the master left on his horse before dawn.”

The note crumbled in Eamon’s hand. Aidan had left him. And Luella.

Anger surged up like molten metal, burning his throat. Lu would be crushed.

Nan chose that moment to bustle in. “Young Gerald is back from the docks.” She gave Eamon a quick look. “I sent him to look for Master Aidan. Our boy was seen boarding a ship bound for New York.”

“You had to tell him about the letters,” Eamon spat out. The bloody woman had her nose in everything. He’d never been able to hide anything from her.

Nan’s thin brows knitted together. “I did. For I can no more see you bleeding than I could my own child, Eamon Hollis Evernight. And neither can Aidan.”

“And Lu?” Eamon snapped. “What of her? She’s dressed in her wedding gown and ready for the chapel. Has anyone given any consideration to her feelings on the matter?”

“Well now,” said Nan, crossing her arms, “that is a fine question, boyo. One you should have been asking yourself years ago!”

Eamon deflated like a bellows and rested his arm upon the mantle to gaze down at the fire. A lump rose within his throat and choked him. “You speak the truth of it.” His fists curled. “I’ve no right to be angry. Hell, I’m the villain in this play.”

“Do not dare disrespect yourself in that manner, do you hear?” With a sigh, Nan stepped closer. “Look at this as a blessing, my boy. An’ a chance to start anew.”

Life did not offer a fresh start. Never to him. He was painfully shy. Men did not know what to say to him and women stayed clear. Start anew? By telling Lu that he was a liar? That not only had his brother played her false but he had as well?

Eamon took a deep breath and fought against a wave of nausea. It didn’t work. “Lu needs a home. Protection. She doesn’t deserve this, or me. But I’m going to offer for her.”

Would she accept his hand? No. First, he’d have to tell her that Aidan was gone. And then she’d leave him too.

* * *

Abandoned. Not precisely at the altar, but close. Regardless of location, it stung. Lu stared at her white silk slippers, a bit of extravagance worn as a nod to the specialness of the occasion. Her near-wedding. Her vision turned blurry, her eyes burning hot.

A few feet beyond her, Eamon stood, not shifting, not moving a muscle, but solemn and quiet. She didn’t have to look to know it. He’d delivered his foul news and then stood guard at the edge of the room, feet planted wide and arms at his sides like a soldier at the ready. That burned as well, the knowledge that he had to bear witness to her shame. Oddly, it was also a comfort to have him close.

The wind sang a mournful song outside her windows. She wanted to join in, cry and wail. Aidan had left her. In truth, he seemed more a ghost than anything. The man she’d met hadn’t been Aidan. Not her E, the irreverent soul who’d made her feel more just by reading ink upon paper than any person alive.

Resting her head against the back of the chair, she stared off into the flames. Perhaps Aidan could only be that man when he wrote. Perhaps that had been what Aidan was trying to warn her about. Heavens knew she was a private person. She hadn’t been able to confess the deepest, darkest truth about herself. Her hands fisted upon her lap. Now she was glad of it; Aidan hadn’t been worth that risk, as it turned out.

Her breath hitched sharply. Oh God, had Aidan seen the defect in her? Had he realized that she was not that girl he’d imagined when corresponding with her? “What shall I do now?” she whispered.

The logs snapped and crackled as the fire ate at them. And then Eamon’s deep, rolling voice broke the silence. “You stay here.” He said it as though stating the obvious.

A snort, unladylike and far too similar to a sob, escaped her lips. “Here?” She shook her head. “I will not take charity.”

His bronze brows furrowed tight. “Charity? The Evernights vowed to care for you. Would you have us break that vow?”

“I’d say Aidan broke it when he left me today,” she snapped before flinching. Bad form, dear, displaying a temper now. Keep that stiff upper lip. “I merely meant that you have no culpability in this, Mr. Evernight.”

“I was Eamon before,” he muttered, his voice stronger now, as if he’d moved closer. She daren’t look. Not when she feared she might cry should she meet his gaze. “And I am also the head of this family now. Which means you are mistaken, Miss Luella. I am very much culpable. More than you know.”

Lu glanced his way, focusing on his shirt, now stretched tight over the wide expanse of his shoulders as he crossed his beefy arms in front of his chest.

She kept her voice soft and modulated as she’d been taught. “Setting aside any feelings of responsibility, misguided or not”—he snorted—“the fact remains that I cannot stay here without feeling that I am accepting charity.”

His chest did not move. And she turned back to the fire. The heat of it warmed her cool skin. What would she do? A rustling sounded to her right, and then he was crouching before her, caging her in with his big body and gentle warmth. Holding on to the chair arms, Eamon waited for her to look him in the eyes. When she did, a strange burst of feeling coursed through her limbs. That deep, pure, blue gaze of his tripped her heart and tugged at her center. She wanted to lean forward and bury her face in the crook of his neck, where she instinctively knew it would be warm and smooth. She wanted to beg him to hold her. Just for a moment or two, until this feeling of slow drifting away abated. Instead, she let her head dip down and stared at her clenched hands.

“Lu…” He paused as if not knowing what to say before starting up once more, his words halting and unsure. “Aidan did not—”

“Stop,” she said, with a viciousness of feeling that surged up from her depths. “I beg of you, do not speak of him. Or make excuses, for I won’t believe them.”

Eamon took a breath. “Perhaps you would. Perhaps it would make things—”

“Please.” She gripped her skirts as she blinked rapidly against the growing tears. “I cannot bear another revelation now.” She did not want to know if Aidan found her unsatisfactory, or if he perhaps had fallen in love with someone else. She could not. “If that makes me a coward, then so be it.”

“You are no coward,” he said softly. “Nor does it change my insistence on you remaining here.”

“Eamon,” she whispered, “don’t make me feel like a poor relation.” She’d had enough of that feeling for a lifetime.

His hand, so warm and rough, covered hers. “Then become the mistress of this house and rule it.”

Her head snapped up, and he did not blink. “Marry me.” As he spoke, a wash of red flooded his cheeks and ran in a crimson wave down his neck. He swallowed audibly. “I know I am not the man you hoped to have, but I will honor and protect you with all that I am. I swear it, Lu.”

Shock tingled through her and robbed her of her breath. She could only stare at his lovely, strong, yet guarded face, watching as he grew redder with discomfort. “Oh, Eamon.” Tears smarted. “I couldn’t ask you to—”

“You are not asking. I am.” He peered at her as if willing an answer from her lips. “Not out of pity, or obligation, but because I want to.”

“Why?” The question burst forth, and she winced. “Why would you want to marry me?” she said more gently.

His jaw bunched, and for a moment, she feared he might not answer.

“I am lonely.” He closed his eyes at the admission, squeezing them tight as if pained. Then he looked at her again. “I am not… good with people. I never expected to marry. That was Aidan’s privilege. But I feel comfortable with you, Lu.” His lashes lowered, shielding his gaze as he stared down at their still-joined hands. “I think perhaps you are lonely too.”

A lump filled her throat. If only he knew the half of it.

“We could have each other to turn to,” he said.

“Oh, Eamon.” She turned her hand over to thread her fingers through his, and the clasp felt so very natural and comforting that she smiled tremulously. “You would do that for me?”

He frowned down at their hands then raised his gaze. “I am doing it for me, Lu. Don’t forget that.”

His reply had been soft, almost a warning, and yet a shiver of heat ran through her all the same. The heat within her grew when she licked her dry lips and his focus tightened, growing intent. She’d dreamed of Aidan for so long, and here she was suddenly wanting Eamon.

But enough to marry him? Outside the wind raged. The thought of moving on, leaving here, where she at least had Eamon’s friendship, terrified her. Was she a coward for considering?

Eamon remained still, waiting, not pushing her. He would never try to make her into something she wasn’t. The irony of that nearly made her laugh. She needed to tell him all. But what would he say, when he was so kindly offering to take his brother’s place? Lu didn’t know, and it hurt her head to even wonder. Could she do this?

She was already in for a penny. Lu took a breath and plunged in. “I won’t forget, Eamon.” She forced a smile. “In fact, I’m certain I’ll have to remind you at one time or another when you begin to wonder why you took me on.”

His answering grin was the sun breaking through the clouds. He was incandescent in his satisfaction, and far too appealing. “I shall look forward to those reminders, Bit.”

The promise sounded almost carnal, and a heat flared along her thighs. Oh, but she was definitely swimming in the deep now.

Chapter Six

“You make a lovely bride, my lady.”

Lu stared at the reflection of herself and the maid standing by her, Lu with her wide haunted eyes and the maid with her floppy mobcap and satisfied smile. The long, oval mirror was old and had a hazy quality to it, making them appear like ghosts—her most of all. The white gown, trimmed in pale blue ribbons, hugged her bodice, then floated about her frame like an ephemeral cloud.

The maid Jean had twisted Lu’s heavy hair into a coil high upon the back of her head. Snakelike tendrils of black hung about her face. They’d been curled with a heated iron but even now Lu’s fine hair fought to return to bone straight.

“Thank you, Jean. You did a wonderful job.”

The dress and a dozen others had been ordered in Galway. While the gowns were not in the height of fashion as the ones found in London, Jean had a fair hand with sewing and had reworked each dress to fit Lu’s form to perfection.

And while Lu was grateful, she could not quell the nerves that clutched at her insides and made her pulse hammer hard against her throat.

For two weeks, she’d been left alone with only her thoughts to occupy her. Two weeks in which it took Eamon to get a new special license so that they may wed. Now he had returned and the day was upon them.

She couldn’t do this. She couldn’t marry Eamon. They should wait. Get to know each other. There should be no secrets between them.

Perhaps her distress showed for the young maid began to fiddle with her skirts, arranging the drape into perfect folds. “We’re so glad to see Master Eamon have his chance at happiness.” She stopped, her mouth opening in apparent horror as she looked at Lu in the mirror. “Forgive me, my lady. I didn’t mean… well we know that you had your hopes set on…” Jean snapped her mouth shut with an audible click.

Lu had to smile. It was that or cry. “On Aidan. It’s all right. It isn’t a secret, and I can hardly blame the household for discussing it.” Lord knew that sort of gossip would be too much for anyone to resist.

Jean nodded woodenly. “It’s only, well, Master Eamon is so kind. He always saw to our needs and cared for the estate when Master Aidan went off on those long trips.”

“Trips?”

“Master Aidan was rarely here. He’d often leave for months on end. And Master Eamon would be the one to run things, and doing a fine job of it, no matter what old Master Evernight said about him.”

Aidan never mentioned leaving Evernight Hall for extended periods. Hells bells but had she ever really known Aidan? Lu paused as the rest of Jean’s words sank in.

“What did their father say about Eamon?”

Again Jean winced, her snub nose wrinkling. “Oh, my mam speaks the truth when she says my mouth runs faster than a river going downhill.” She waved a helpless hand when Lu merely stared, waiting. “It isn’t a secret either, and I suppose you’ll hear it anyway. Old Master Evernight hated Eamon. Hated the sight of him, his size, even the sound of his voice. Called him a simpleton, a brute, and a blight upon the Evernight name. All rot. And we all knew as much.”

Lu put a hand to her chest, where a sharp pain pinched her. “Why would he be so cruel to his son?”

“The missus died in childbirth with Eamon. The master never forgave him for it.”

The room before her wavered. Lu’s heart thumped hard and insistent against her ribs. Her mother had died giving birth to her. The guilt and pain never truly left her. But she’d never been blamed. She couldn’t imagine the burden Eamon carried.

“Evernight would say that Eamon bore the mark of the devil, what with his flame red hair and—“Jean cut herself off and shook her head. “Old tales do no good. Don’t you be believing that nonsense, miss. Master Eamon is a good man and will take care of you, I’m certain.”

“I’m certain he will.” Even so, the idea that she was about to join her life with a virtual stranger in an hour’s time left her weakened and queasy.

Jean eyed her with worry. “I ought not have said anything, I know. Only, well, eventually you’ll be going into the village and hearing talk. Don’t pay it no mind.”

“Talk of what?”

“Of Master Eamon.” Jean frowned as she tucked a sprig of orange blossom into Lu’s hair. “Few fools took to believing Master Evernight’s rants, and when the master died unexpectedly, well”—she shrugged—“they believed Eamon killed him as well.”

My father is dead. It was sudden and unforeseen. The silk of Lu’s skirt whispered as she turned to face Jean. “How did Mr. Evernight die?”

Jean blanched. “He burned to death after being caught in a fire. In Eamon’s smithy.”

Chapter Seven

“Luella Jane Moran, wilt thou have this Man to thy wedded Husband, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony…”

The rest of the priest’s words were lost to the buzzing within Lu’s ears. Heat prickled along her skin, over her arms, and up to her cheeks. She feared she might be ill.

Above her head, a sorrowful Jesus upon his cross looked down at her with an expression bordering on reproach. At her back, the eyes of the Evernight household staff—the only people invited to attend the ceremony—bore into her like hot pokers.

Her hand rested in Eamon’s larger one, now as sweaty and shaking as her own as they both promised to love and keep each other for the rest of their days.

How could she make such a vow when she didn’t even know him? Would love come? And could she trust it when Aidan had let her down so completely? Worse still, how could she expect Eamon to love her when she was living a lie?

Eamon’s clear blue eyes, the color of forget-me-nots, gazed into hers. She could stare into them forever and still not grow accustomed to their beauty. The corners of his wonderful eyes creased, and his skin grew paste white. As though he were afraid. Afraid of what?

Suddenly silence was all around her, stretching outward and crushing inward with a weight that felt physical, oppressive. Silence so profound she could hear someone cough, and the minister clearing his throat.

And then she remembered herself. They were in a church. He was waiting for an answer. By the look of him, he rather feared she’d respond in the negative.

The very idea of hurting him, rejecting him the way she’d been rejected, was reprehensible. She’d rather die than do that to someone as kind and quietly proud as Eamon Evernight.

Without another thought, the answer flew from her mouth in an abrupt yet ringing clear, “I will.”

Heaven help her, she’d stood before God and all who witnessed and lied. Worse, she lied to Eamon.

* * *

Married. Eamon had gone and bloody married her. A fool act. It did not matter that it was the one thing he’d wanted in the past four years. He knew it would come to no good. She was in love with a phantom. Eamon knew he ought to be pleased that Lu unknowingly loved him. But it wasn’t really him she’d been yearning for. It was the soul of Eamon wrapped up in Aidan’s gilded perfection.

No lady would want an awkward, ginger-haired giant when compared to Aidan’s lithe golden splendor. Likely she’d be shocked and mortified once she realized just whom she’d been truly corresponding with all these years. But she’d have to know soon. He couldn’t keep up this charade.

A complete cock-up.

“Cheer up, my boy. It’s not so bad, now is it?”

Eamon looked up from the scarred wooden table and glared at Nan, his sometime voice of reason. He did not want to hear that voice now.

“Not so bad?” Eamon laughed darkly. “I’ve become sorry seconds for Aidan’s bride.”

“Have you now?” Nan took the kettle off the fire and continued to prepare a tray of tea. Aside from being the housekeeper, she was also their cook. After all, Evernight Hall never entertained visitors, and she’d only had to look after the men. Until now.

Eamon grunted, ignoring his own long-cooled cup. “Likely she’s up there crying, distraught over Aidan’s defection, and hating the very idea of me.”

Nan merely made a noise that, to Eamon’s learned ear, meant he was feeling right sorry for himself. Which he was. Not that she needed to push the point in.

“Your father, God rest his soul, was an eejit to let his grief turn to hate.” She lifted a knobby finger and pointed at Eamon. “And you are an eejit to believe his mad ravings. You’re the best of men, Eamon. You only have to believe it.”

“Is that so?” Eamon retorted.

“It is.”

“So then when he told you that your currant biscuits tasted like plaster dust and were harder than a horseshoe, you naturally ignored that tripe and continued to bake them.” They both knew she’d never again made another biscuit, much to his and Aidan’s disappointment.

Nan’s lips thinned, and he snorted without mirth. “You see, Nanny, I know he was a mad bastard with a vicious tongue, but the heart has a tendency to ignore logic, no matter how hard we try to tell it differently. And each time I attempt to forge a new self, his words creep up and pound me back down.” But he was trying. By God, he wanted to be the man he knew he could be for Lu. He just hadn’t yet figured out how.

The sounds of the house grew loud around the silence in the kitchen, then a kind and cheerful smile crinkled Nan’s plump cheeks. “There now, boyo. If you can stand up to me, you can certainly buck up and take the young lady her tea.”

“What? Me?”

“Are there any other men in here? Cowering away like some frightened puss? Go.” She waved her hand when he scowled. “Let her get to know who you are.”

Eamon flushed, annoyed at her, Aidan, and himself most of all.

He grabbed the tray, tempering himself when the china rattled. “Fine. I’ll go.”

* * *

Lu sat in her room, crowding in front of the crackling fire. She was married now. To Eamon. How strange life was. Whenever she tried to plan it, her course shifted down unforeseen avenues, tugging away from all of her intentions.

Sighing, she curled her knees to her chest and cuddled farther down in the dainty settee that matched the rest of the room’s feminine furnishings. A soft knock at the door had her tensing. “Yes?” she called, hoping it was merely the maid coming to stoke the fire.

“Lu?” Eamon’s deep voice was muffled through the thick door. “May I come in?”

“Of course.” Lu sat up and put her dressing gown to rights.

He came bearing gifts. The fragrance of hot tea and fresh buns hit her, and her stomach made a gurgle of impatience. One that Eamon unfortunately heard. A sly curl pulled at his mouth as he set the tray down on the little table before the fire. “So you won’t be saying no to tea, then?” He winked, a quick, sweet gesture that had her grinning.

“Tease,” she retorted as she reached for the pot.

“Only with you, Bit.” His massive frame had the delicate gilded armchair creaking, and he leaned his weight forward, bracing his arms upon his muscled thighs.

“I see I shall have to order new chairs for my sitting room.” Lu handed him a plate of hot buns. “How do you take your tea?”

“With milk.” Eamon frowned slightly. “Why should you do that?”

Lu paused, the cup of tea in her hand hovering between them. “So that you may sit comfortably when you visit me.” Her skin prickled. “That is, should you like to visit me. You needn’t if you’d rather not.”

Carefully, Eamon took the tea from her hand but his gaze stayed locked with hers. “Lu, I married you because I fancy your company.” That gentle smile of his, the one that crept up like the dawn, graced his face once more. “Keep your little chairs if they please you. I can manage.” He took a sip of tea. “Though I shall not stop you if you insist upon having a sturdy leather chair brought in.”

“Leather, eh? Duly noted, husband.”

Eamon ducked his head at that, a flush working across his cheeks as he bit down on a grin he could not hide. The action, combined with his big, strong frame and chiseled features, made him utterly appealing to her just then. And she had the mad urge to lean forward, kiss his cheek, perhaps crawl into his lap and nuzzle his throat so that he might blush some more.

“Well then, wife”—he grinned again—“once you’ve settled the issue of proper chairs, what shall you like to accomplish here at Evernight Hall?” He leaned in, tilting his head as he considered her. “Shall you improve our sadly lacking stables? Restock our aging library? What will make you happy, Bit?”

For a moment, she could only stare at him. No one had ever asked after her wants and desires. Deny joy, do as you are told, survive. Those had been her truths. But no longer.

She took a deep, easy breath. It felt so good that she did it again. Breathe. Let the past go.

“The stables,” she said. “I’ll see to them first.”

“And where shall you escape to when you ride?”

Eamon’s eyes were bright and happy, but his words made her heart skip a beat. She’d written to Aidan that riding was her means of escape. Had he told Eamon? Let him read her letters? Lu couldn’t bear that; it was too humiliating now.

Eamon noticed her disquiet for his expression sobered. “You must be tired. I shouldn’t be keeping you.” He moved to go.

“No.” Lu reached out and clutched his forearm. It was like stone beneath her fingers. “I want you here.”

When he reluctantly sat back, she let him go and forced a light smile. She was being suspicious and overthinking things. Eamon was a shy man and clearly trying to forge a path toward an amicable partnership.

“I am not sure where to ride,” she said. “Perhaps you can show me?”

His high-bridged nose wrinkled at the base. “I’m afraid I am not much of a rider.” He looked down at himself with dispassionate appraisal. “Horses tend to find me a mite too big for their comfort.”

She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. “Yes, well, we simply have to find you a horse of the proper size.”

“Didn’t think they came that large,” he muttered.

She laughed at that. “And when I escape my cares on the back of a horse, shall you be in your smithy, creating something lovely?”

He stared at her for a moment, as if shocked.

“I lost all the animals you made for me,” she blurted out in the silence. “During the coaching accident.”

Eamon blinked, his skin going pale. “You…” He cleared his throat. “You brought those trinkets with you here?”

“Trinkets?” She scowled at him in mock outrage. “Do not dare call them that. They were works of art.” She couldn’t quite meet his eyes as she confessed, “They were among my most treasured possessions.” Her letters being the most. Those she had carried on her person, the heavy weight of them in her pocket a comfort during her travels.

Lu took a fortifying breath. “I hope Aidan conveyed to you how very much I appreciated you making them for me.”

The fire snapped and hissed.

“He did.” Eamon’s voice was rough, and she glanced up to find him watching her with something that appeared to be yearning. But then he frowned. “I did not know they meant so much to you. I’m sorry that you lost them.”

“Not all was lost.” Lu slipped a hand beneath the collar of her dressing gown and pulled free her pendant.

As if drawn, Eamon leaned forward, and so did she. They met in the middle. His long, blunt-tipped finger cradled the tiny steel lilac as he inspected it. While he did, she inspected him, wondering how a man with such large hands could have forged something so small and delicate.

“I never take it off.” She felt the need to whisper and hold her body still, as if he might take flight and disappear. So close were they that she could feel the warmth coming off his skin and see the gentle rise and fall of his chest with each breath he took. His thumb slid over a fragile petal, a slow hypnotic gesture that she followed with her eyes.

“How did you add the blue color into the steel?” she asked.

“Chemical reaction.” His soft reply was like a breath against her lips, and she found herself leaning in closer.

“I want to see you work,” she said in a hushed rush. His thumb stopped, and the pendant slipped away to fall with a thud upon her chest.

Pain, yearning, and regret tightened his expression. “I want nothing more than to please you, Bit. But my work… The smithy…” He scratched behind his neck and scowled. “I don’t do well with people watching me work.”

“I understand,” she said, even though a lump of disappointment lodged beneath her breastbone.

He didn’t look pleased but miserable, and Lu touched his wrist. “Honestly, Eamon. I do. Artists are a temperamental lot. Everyone knows that.”

Eamon snorted. “I’m hardly an artist.”

“Oh, but you are. I’ve never seen your equal.”

His mulish, ruddy expression did not abate. Stubborn man. Then he caught her eye, and a wry smile curled over his lips. The moment held, and slowly that smile turned into something quite different, something darker, hotter, and Lu’s breath caught as his deep voice slid smooth and warm over her skin. “Nor have I seen yours, Bit.”

Before she could answer, he stood abruptly and gave her a formal nod. “I’ve some house business to settle. I’ll see you tonight.” At that his face went violent red up to the tips of his flame-bright hair. Lu felt herself redden too, for she knew precisely what Eamon was thinking of now, and the knowledge filled her thoughts as well. Tonight, they’d consummate their marriage.

Chapter Eight

Night was far from falling, and Eamon’s nerves were swiftly rising. When he thought of what awaited him in just a few hours, his cock grew hard and hot, and his stomach dipped down to his toes.

Shite, shite, shite.

Would he be able to please her? Would he make a fool of himself and spend at the first touch? Given how twitchy he was, he just might.

Pacing his room was of little help. Nor did he want to drink; that might make him sloppy, and he wanted his full faculties when he finally got to touch Lu. Ah, gods, but she was lovely. The mere sight of the graceful curve of her neck where it swooped down to meet her shoulder could hold him in thrall. She’d be soft there. Warm and fragrant. He imagined her breast would be soft too, soft and plump and waiting to be suckled.

A groan left him, and his hand drifted down to the ache in his trousers. He’d suckle the sweet pillow of her bottom lip first. Lick his way along her jaw and down to her collarbone. Perhaps she’d open her legs for him, and his hand would slide up her tender thighs.

Eamon gave himself a squeeze and shuddered. “Shite.”

The knock upon his door nearly had him jumping out of his skin, and his voice was not quite steady when he finally managed to say, “Enter.”

George entered. As usual, the man wore a frown of worry and disapproval.

“What is it now?” Eamon bit out.

“Two things.” George handed him a thick envelope. “This came for you. From London,” he added unnecessarily, as the postmark was apparent. It was from the family’s solicitor and the Evernight family trustee, Mr. Sawyer.

Eamon opened the missive and scanned through the documents inside. “Bloody hell,” he muttered as he finished.

“Bad news?” As usual, George’s curiosity rivaled ten cats. And while Eamon kept his own counsel on many things, this wasn’t one such instance. Not when his head was reeling and he had the great urge to hunt Aidan down and throttle him.

“The little shite has given me Evernight Hall and over half of the family fortune.”

George’s thick white brows knitted. “And this is a bad thing, sir?”

“It’s his! Not mine.” Eamon ran a hand over his now-aching brow. “Father was quite clear on that.” It did not sit right with Eamon that Aidan had just given him the lion’s share of the Evernight funds.

George, however, looked at Eamon as if he were cracked. “Master Aidan was always of the mind that the estate was yours to share. It appears he’s finally done something about it. And not a moment too soon, now that you have Mrs. Evernight to care for.”

Eamon sighed. In truth, he wanted his brother back. This news felt ominous, as if Aidan would never return. And as thankful as Eamon was for the money, he did not want it in exchange for never seeing Aidan again.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Eamon asked, “What was the other thing you wanted to tell me?”

“Young Sean went into town this morning. It appears there is a man asking questions about you and Mrs. Evernight.”

It took Eamon a moment to realize that George was referring to Lu. God, she was his wife. His.

“What sort of questions?”

“If anyone had seen her in the flesh. About the details of your wedding.”

Eamon’s hands fisted. “Odd.” And disconcerting. Did they seek to sully Lu’s name now that she’d married him? And why? He’d kept to himself, hadn’t he? Why bother her? The thought of his supplier escaping the other night made Eamon’s gut go cold. Had someone found out what they’d been up to?

“The man’s a Londoner,” George continued. “People are thinking he’s a reporter or some such gossip hound, so they’ve been tight-lipped for the most part.”

Eamon’s voice was surprisingly even when he spoke. “Does Sean know where this fellow is now?” Because Eamon was going to have a nice chat with him.

George’s smile was slightly evil, as if he too were picturing how Eamon would be communicating his displeasure. “He’s camped out at the Red Lion.”

* * *

Whoever had been asking after Lu was not in the Red Lion. Eamon recognized this with one glance. The sad little room held only a few patrons, local men who went there to drink away their cares.

The moment he stepped into the tavern, all conversation ceased. He could hear old Shaughnessy’s stomach gurgle from the far side of the room as he slowly walked to the bar. Eamon had never been friends with these men, who watched him as if he were the devil incarnate. Nor did he want to. He’d decided long ago that those who would judge him based on appearance or rumor were not people he wanted to be acquainted with.

Finley, the tavern owner, eyed him with open suspicion as he stopped before him. The man made an ineffectual swipe over the greasy bar with his rag. “I reckon you’re here about the gall who was asking after your lady.”

Not a difficult guess. Eamon couldn’t fathom any other reason for being there.

Finley tossed the rag aside. “He ain’t here.”

Eamon’s fist curled with the urge to punch something. Or someone. “When did he leave?”

“An hour’s past.” Finley’s small eyes narrowed, the wrinkles about them deepening. “Felicitations, Master Eamon, on your nuptials. ’Twas a great surprise to us simple townsfolk.”

At his elbow, Danny, the local furrier, snorted. “Considering she was your brother’s fiancée, I’d say she was surprised as well.”

Eamon turned and stared. Hard. Danny looked away first, hunkering down in his seat before muttering a weak, “Felicitations on your marriage.”

But the seeds of dissent had started. And a grumble went through the bar.

“An’ I heard he had to pay a bride-price for the privilege.” Dougal’s stage whisper carried as intended. Eamon knew Dougal well. They were of an age. When Eamon had been twelve and scrawny, the farmer’s son had pummeled Eamon until his father found him, face first in a pile of horseshit.

Father had taken one look at him as Dougal ran off and sneered in disgust. Beaten down by a pauper. What a shining example you make for our family, boy.

Eamon outweighed Dougal by two stone of muscle now, and towered above him by at least a foot. Not that Dougal seemed to take that as a threat. He continued on his overloud voice, “Twenty thousand pounds.” He elbowed the man sitting beside him. “Imagine you were fair relieved when her old man went feet up before the wedding.” The two of them erupted into hennish cackles.

Eamon kept his gaze on Finley, who had the grace to pale. “Let me know if he returns.” He set some coin upon the bar, and the man nodded, his hand sweeping the bribe up in a blink.

The patrons were silent, and Eamon turned heel and walked toward the door. Dougal watched him come, his expression imperious. Every man here knew Eamon did not resort to violence. Eamon grinned inwardly. That might have been true once. But he hadn’t a wife before now. And he was right finished with playing nice. No one was dragging Lu’s name through the mud.

He nearly passed Dougal, not making eye contact, and the fool smirked as if knowing he’d won. But then Eamon stopped short and leaned close, taking note of the way the smaller man’s eyes went wide and his mouth opened in silent protest. “You know what I’ve heard, Dougal?”

Dougal weakly shook his head, unable to speak as Eamon pressed in, resting one of his massive fists upon the table before him. “I heard your pecker has spots and no woman in the village will have you.” With a swipe of his foot, he knocked the seat out from under Dougal just as he grabbed the man’s greasy hair and slammed his face into the table. Dougal’s head rattled the cups.

Eamon held him down, exerting enough pressure to hurt. “And if you ever speak of my wife again, I’ll cut that pecker off and cram it down your throat.”

* * *

Eamon walked on light feet the whole way home. In truth, he grinned. He was grinning still as he took a moment to check on his smithy before going in for the evening. He didn’t even see the danger before a blow took him across his temple, and everything went crimson.

Chapter Nine

Eamon did not come to dinner. Lu was painfully aware of the fact as she waited in the empty dining room on the night of her wedding. The fire roared in the grate, the candles flickered in their silver holders, and the ormolu clock upon the mantel ticked away. And still he did not come.

Sitting before a rapidly cooling first course of fish soup, Lu tried to ignore the presence of young Sean the footman, who was witnessing her humiliation, or the hollow feeling within her breast. He had not abandoned her too. He had not. He’d merely lost track of time.

Ten minutes later, she’d had enough. Tossing her napkin down, she wrenched back from her seat before Sean could pull out her chair. She ignored his sputtered apologies and queries as to her well-being. No, she was not well. She was close to murdering her husband on their wedding night.

Stalking out of the house by way of the conservatory door, Lu headed toward the smithy. The moon rode high in the now clear sky, and she easily picked her way along the well-worn path. The small, squat stone building had windows that were glowing blocks of light in the darkness. A beacon that did little to quell her temper. In fact, it grew. Exponentially.

“Do not go to the smithy, my arse,” she muttered. What rot. She was beginning to suspect Nan had ordered her not to go to the smithy to bait her. Lu didn’t know why Nan would want to, nor did she care. Eamon wasn’t hiding from her. And if he’d left, well then, she’d…

Her steps slowed. She didn’t know what she’d do. She was now mistress of Evernight Hall, so she supposed she could stay here, humiliating though it might be. But then you aren’t really Mrs. Evernight, are you? Not if anyone should find out the truth.

Lu ignored the insidious little voice in her head as she arrived at the smithy. Standing before the door, she could feel the heat coming off the walls, as warm as a baking oven. It stopped her in her tracks and trepidation skittered over her skin. Perhaps this was a mistake.

“Fuss and feathers.” Lu opened the door, and faced a dark outer hall. Slowly she crept forward, only to jump when the weighted door swung closed with a thud, plunging her in blackness.

“It’s all right,” she whispered. “It’s all right.” Indeed, a sliver of golden light along the floor marked the inner door. She merely had to reach it.

Heart pounding in her ear, she edged along, holding her hand out before her to warn her of any impediments. By the time her palm came into contact with the warm inner door, she was sweating beneath her gown.

Fumbling, she found the door latch. A blast of heat hit her full-on. Lu blinked in the brightness.

Eamon’s smithy sat empty. The fire of the forge was banked for the night, and his tools were hung neatly along the wall. A few pieces of wrought steel lay upon a battered worktable. Lu couldn’t make out what they were supposed to be, only that their shape appeared vaguely familiar. They looked almost like small renditions of branches or driftwood. But that wasn’t right. The pieces were something else.

Frowning, she turned her attention to the back door, which lay open just a crack. Cool air drifted through the door, and a strange, cloying smell had her insides recoiling and her instincts clamoring to run in the opposite direction. It was tempting to do just that, but she moved closer. Eamon wasn’t here. And perhaps he had well and truly left her just as Aidan did. If so, she wanted to know for sure. She needed to see all of the smithy.

Ignoring the sticky feeling of dread, Lu walked with assurance toward the door. She would not cower nor make excuses for being here. She was Eamon’s wife, damn it all, and she wanted answers.

Oh, but this was bad. The door led to a cellar. Lu paused at the top. Darkness and dank air lay beyond. Grabbing a small lantern that hung by the side of the door, Lu lit it and descended.

Stupid, stupid, stupid girl. Turn around now.

Lu continued on, the weak light of the lantern wavering under her shaking hold. Cool stone pressed against her feet with each step, and the air grew thicker, fouler. Death. It was death and decay.

That scent was prevalent in London, where the corpses of horses and dogs would rot where they’d dropped. And the realization filled her with terror. Yet her damned, ridiculous curiosity pulled her onward, into the low, square cellar. The light of her lantern bounced off the damp walls and brought the room into blurry focus. There were worktables here, littered with bundles of wood, bleached white.

White. White wood. The image rearranged itself.

She stood frozen for one long, horrid moment. A scream rose and died in her throat. They were not wood. They were bones. Panting, she swung round, illuminating another table. More lumps, meaty and red, pale and swollen.

A severed arm. A leg. A hand. Body parts.

A gurgle rumbled in her throat as her vision went spotty. She was going to faint.

And then she heard it, a low, pained moan. Lu screamed, stumbling backward in an effort to flee. Her foot caught on the edge of her skirt, and she fell hard, her bottom slamming onto the stone and her teeth rattling. The lantern landed at her side, illuminating the floor, and the light shone on a pair of eyes.

She screamed again before realizing that she was staring into the eyes of her husband.

* * *

It was her scream that woke him. Eamon’s eyes snapped open in an instant, and pain followed. Darkness surrounded him and then a blinding light. He saw spots before he could focus. And then he saw her face, so pale and frightened as she stared at him.

“Lu,” he whispered.

She scrambled back, crab crawling to get away from him. Eamon frowned and then became aware of the cold stone beneath his cheek and the smell of decay filling his nose. Christ, he was in the cellar. Christ, she’d seen what he kept here.

“Lu!” He hauled himself up as she got to her feet and dashed up the stairs. His head spun and his stomach pitched as he stumbled after her.

“Lu, wait.” God, but his heart pounded.

She was nearly to the outer door, her tumbled-down hair streaming out behind her and her dress marred with mud.

“Lu.” He grabbed her arm and tried to be gentle as he pulled her back. She wasn’t having any of it. With a guttural cry, she wrenched her knee up between his legs. The only things that saved him were quick reflexes and a man’s instinctive drive to protect his cods at all costs. Pain shafted through his thigh and he grunted, but he didn’t let go.

“Stop, Bit. Just stop.” He wrapped an arm about her and hauled her against him. “I’m not going to hurt you, Bit. Never. Never.”

Something of his words got through to her for she stilled, her small frame heaving against his, and her breath heating the hollow of his neck.

Slowly, he stroked her hair and slim back. “Calm, Bit. Calm.”

When she shuddered to stillness, he eased back a touch and looked down at her pale face. “If you’re going to attack a man, love, punch him in the throat or go for his eyes before you knee him in the stone, eh?”

When she eyed his throat, he laughed. “Please don’t. I’ve had my share of blows for the night, thank you.”

Now that he’d eased her fright, the pain in his head came back with pounding, insistent force.

“You’re bleeding,” she said as she reached out with a tentative hand to touch just above his left temple.

“Someone nearly bashed my head in.”

Her cool fingers feathered over his skin, and he relaxed a bit more. “Who would do such a thing?”

He had a good idea, not that he’d involve her when the bastard had resorted to violence. “I don’t know. Perhaps a vagabond looking for food or a warm place to pass the night. I must have surprised him.”

With utmost gentleness, she brushed her fingertips through his hair, and he barely suppressed a shiver. Lu didn’t notice but frowned at the lump just over his temple. “A few inches down and he might have killed you.” A shudder went through her, and Eamon was base enough to be glad for her concern.

“I’m hard to kill,” he quipped, and she nearly smiled, save the cellar door caught her attention and she went stiff. Eamon tightened his grip once more, lest she try to flee. “Let me explain before you have a go at me, Lu.”

“I know what I saw.” She eyed him with wariness. “What possible good reason can you have for keeping human body parts in your cellar?”

Eamon sagged and let her go, stepping back a pace. “God, I know it looks bad. It’s foul work, and I cannot say I enjoy that part of it.” He ran a hand through his hair, wincing when he hit a tender spot. Ignoring the pain, he moved to the worktable at the center of the room. “I’m making false limbs, Bit.”

“Limbs,” she repeated as though he were a lunatic. Which was understandable. Most people would think that.

Eamon reached under the table and pulled out a long, thin box that held his first model. “Human limbs of steel.” Setting the box down, he opened the lid as Lu edged near.

She held herself out of striking distance as she peered into the box. Eamon lifted the steel leg out of the box and set it before her. “This was my working model. I improved upon it since then.”

Slowly, she came closer, and with a tentative hand, she touched the leg that was shaped in the exact likeness of a human skeletal limb. “Why would you do this?”

“I take it you met Harry, our head groom?”

She nodded.

“Did you notice his limp?”

“Yes, it’s slight but I did see it.” The dark wings of her brows drew together. “Are you telling me that he has one of these artificial limbs?”

“I am.” Eamon ran his hand along the cool, steel femur. “He lost it to gangrene a few years back. When his spirits began to flag, I made him a leg. I don’t know, I thought, perhaps if he had a proper substitute, one that he could move with ease, that he could regain his confidence.”

The corners of Lu’s pink lips curled in a soft smile. “That was kind of you, Eamon.”

“It was something I could do.” Eamon touched a finger to the metal. “I can do more. I can fashion arms and legs for those wounded at Waterloo. I can help.”

She glanced up, and her dark eyes narrowed. “But why do you need real human limbs?”

“To study. I need to understand how they work, need to replicate their shape.” He shrugged. “As I said, I don’t enjoy that part, but it is necessary.”

Lu took a shuddering breath and laughed lightly. “I feel like a fool. Here I am imagining Gothic horrors and you’re doing your part to better mankind.”

Eamon let himself smile. Relief was a cool balm that flooded his sore muscles. “I’d have screamed as well had I walked into that unsuspecting.”

“Somehow I doubt that,” she said, but returned his smile.

“So you aren’t planning to flee at first light?”

Her gaze flickered to his mouth and then over his body. “No, Eamon,” she said in a low, rich voice. “I’m not leaving you.”

Tension coiled within his gut, a low pleasurable burn that had nothing to do with fear. “That is good, wife.”

Lu’s lashes lowered on a blush. “Come then, let us see to that bash upon your head, and we’ll have our dinner.”

Eamon followed, watching the subtle sway of her rounded arse beneath her skirts, wanting nothing more than to skip dinner and take her directly to bed.

Chapter Ten

Over the years, Lu had been given specific instructions as to what to do upon the night of her wedding. That her father had been the one to give the instructions had been both mortifying and aggravating. His words rang clear in her mind still. “Come to your bed in a gown of white. Wait for him and do as he says. No begging or pleading, girl. You are a Moran, whether you want it or no, and you will do your duty.”

She’d wanted to hit him whenever he spoke of it, to tell him that he could take his well-laid plans and get stuffed. But she’d been under his thumb, and they both knew it. Without money or a man’s protection, a woman’s world was a cold, dark place that often led to pain, degradation, and eventually death. Lu had been too cowardly to run off and try her odds. The unfairness of it had cut into her. Only Aidan’s letters and the promise of his love had staved off her rage. For Aidan, she would have endured anything.

Lu snorted. “See where that hope got you.” Her voice echoed in the cavernous space. The room was dim and cool, the fire’s heat barely reaching the high, canopied bed upon which she sat. Some maid had turned down the covers, and the fine linen was soft against the bottoms of her feet.

Knees tucked against her chest, and her obligatory white nightgown tenting over her legs, Lu had made herself as small as possible. Try as she might, she was frightened, and her heartbeat would not slow.

After Nan had fussed over Eamon and slapped a raw steak straight from the cooler onto the side of his head, they’d had a nice, quiet dinner. Eamon was easy to talk to and quite witty when he let his guard down.

Lu had found herself both comfortable and entertained. Yet all the while, a certain tension had remained between them, for they both knew what this night would bring. He’d left her at her door with a proper kiss to the back of her hand and a promise to see her at the turn of the hour. Lu hadn’t missed how Eamon’s eyes had gone molten blue, or the way his breath quickened to match her own. He wanted her. She understood it instinctively. And she wanted him. Even if she feared the act in equal measure.

Now she waited.

Nan had prepped the room, putting fresh, pure white linens on the bed and placing a large vase of sweet lilies upon the mantel. The clock ticked, and outside the wind groaned. When the clock struck nine, the door snicked open and Lu’s breath grew ragged. She forced it steady as a large shape filled the doorway.

Eamon. He paused for a moment then walked into the room on quiet feet, moving from the shadows into the light of the fire. So very tall. His shoulders broad and straight. He wore a linen nightshirt that reached his knees, and the color set off the mellow tone of his skin and the brightness of his hair.

Tension coiled and tightened in her chest as he looked at her without saying a word. He was close enough that she could see the rapid yet light pace of his breath. His deep blue eyes gleamed in the firelight, and a muscle twitched at the corner of his square jaw.

Afraid as she was, Lu could not deny that he was a finely made man, one that had her skin heating with each passing moment they faced each other.

His low voice broke their silence. “I won’t lie to you, Lu. You look like a dark angel sitting there upon that bed with your hair running free as a midnight river. Never in all my living years have I seen a sight equal to you.” He took a deep breath. “And you absolutely terrify me right now.”

A shocked laugh left her, and the tension within snapped. “Well, that’s good, for you terrify me right now as well.” Oh, but she liked that he liked the look of her.

His shoulders eased on a deep breath. “Good, now that we’ve established our mutual terror, we’ve nothing to worry about.” He grinned wryly and walked closer, those long limbs of his moving with utter grace.

Lu swallowed hard. “Nothing? Are you sure?”

Eamon’s eyes crinkled at the corners as he stopped before her. “Well, not nothing, but we’re both in the same boat now, aren’t we, my little Bit?” Slowly he sat at the very edge of the bed, watching her as he did, as if he didn’t want to scare her. “Which means,” he went on in a soft voice, “that I can take your hand”—his large palm extended toward her—“and you can take mine.”

Trembling, she reached for him, and their hands clasped, his rough and warm and secure as his fingers threaded through hers. Eamon smiled then. “And we’ll face this together.”

Lu wasn’t sure, but she just might have fallen a little in love with her husband in that instant.

He slid closer, resting a long thigh upon the bed, so that they were only a foot away from each other. The mattress dipped under his weight but Lu had Eamon to hold on to and her fear ebbed further.

“We needn’t do this tonight,” he said, looking her over with a small frown. He let her hand go and brushed a lock of her hair back from her temple. It was a fleeting touch, the tips of his fingers barely grazing her skin, yet it seared just the same. Eamon let his hand rest upon the bed between them. “We can wait.”

“I was never good at waiting.”

Eamon raised a brow, and she bit her lip. Gods, that sounded like she was eager.

“I mean, it would only make it worse—no, not worse, but harder. God.” Lu winced. “Everything is coming out the wrong way.”

He laughed, a low, easy chuckle. “It’s nerves. And I knew what you meant.”

Well. Good. Fine. She was through making an ass of herself.

Sitting with him under the shelter of the velvet canopy, with naught but the crackling of the fire and the warmth of his body so close, Lu felt a certain camaraderie. He was right. They were in this together, and suddenly it didn’t seem so frightening.

“Have you ever…” She bit her lip. It seemed too personal to ask, and yet they were to do this thing together. “Ever done this?”

For a moment, she thought maybe he’d misunderstood or hadn’t heard, his expression was so blank. But then he cleared his throat and frowned.

“I haven’t.” His tight frown was glum. “Was saving myself for y—” He drew a quick breath. “Well, for my wife, wasn’t I?”

Lu could not help it; she smiled. “I think that is lovely.” Warmth bloomed within her chest, and she had to restrain herself from touching his cheek. Women were expected to remain chaste and pure. That Eamon wanted to keep that part of himself for his wife made him more of a man than the bragging bucks she’d come across in London.

His lashes lowered a bit, hiding his eyes, but she could tell that her smile was not welcome.

“It only seemed fair, didn’t it?” he mumbled. “After all, you are… That is, my bride would be a… Curse it. Let’s just say that neither of us will know what we’re doing and right now I’m sorry for it.”

“Why?” She let her hand move an inch, and her pinky grazed the fabric of his nightshirt.

“Seems one of us ought to know.” His brow furrowed as he studied her face. “And it ought to be me. I want to do right by you, Lu.”

This time, she did touch him, running a finger along his jaw, where it was just a bit rough with his evening stubble, taking note of the way his breath caught and the answering thrill that rushed through her. “I trust you, Eamon.” Strangely, she did. They were virtual strangers, but she knew he would not harm her. More so, she knew he was a gentle soul, despite his obvious strength.

He gave her a brusque nod. “Then let us get to it.” He moved to lie on top of her. Their legs tangled, knees knocking as they both shifted to fit. His chest pressed against hers, the expanse of it like a brick wall.

“I cannot breathe,” she got out with a gasp, the sensation of Eamon all around her overwhelming.

He muttered a curse and rose up on his elbows. “Better?” he asked, looking down at her. A lock of hair fell over his brow like a glowing tinder. She had the mad urge to brush it back, perhaps touch his cheek. His breathing had gone fast and light as well, and each inhale had his chest touching hers, but no longer crushing.

“Yes.”

“Right. Good. Then… I’ll…” Long, masculine fingers fumbled at the skirt of her nightdress, pulling it up, stopping when the linen snagged under her bottom. Eamon wouldn’t look at her as he cursed beneath his breath and tried to get it free.

“Here,” she said, “let me.” Face positively burning, Lu lifted her hips, and the gown, no longer constrained, flew up to her waist from the force of Eamon’s tug, his hand knocking into the side of her breast before he could control the momentum.

“Sorry,” he muttered, drawing up his nightshirt.

Lu wondered if it would be a blessing should they both expire on the spot. But no such luck. Eamon’s hips closed in over hers, and she parted her thighs, instinctively making space for him.

When the warmth of his hips settled in between her legs, she sucked in a breath, and then she felt it, hot and hard and heavy against her inner thigh. His manhood, as most ladies would call it. Though Lu had overheard the grooms use another word: cock. She liked that word more; the sinful sound of it always gave her a flutter. And all her attention was now riveted on the feel of Eamon Evernight’s cock.

His skin there was silky soft, a surprise, but not enough of one to quell the tight fear that overtook her when he shifted. Because his skin might be soft, but his shaft was hard as iron, and that heated weight pushed against her sex. Oh, but just the feel of that sent a strange, dark thrill coursing through her, and her insides clenched. So very strange, this mix of anticipation and fear.

He ducked his head, and their cheeks touched. A blessing really, for they didn’t have to face each other in this moment. Eamon nudged forward a bit, trying to push the rounded tip into her, and a rush of cool heat washed over her skin even as her breath caught. But he stopped. It did not want to go in. In truth, he felt so large, so massively thick in that area, that she wondered how he ever thought he would fit inside her.

“Damn,” he muttered. “You’re dry.”

She did not know what that meant precisely, but the accusation had her cheeks burning and her insides cringing. “I’m sorry?”

Eamon’s gaze went sharp. “It’s not—” He sighed and rolled off to hunch over the side of the bed, and the loss left her cold. She hastily pulled her gown down as he sighed. “The fault is mine, Bit.”

He got up, and his nightshirt fell to his knees, leaving strong-looking calves, lightly furred with auburn hair. The linen was too billowy to see the rest of his form but it hugged his broad shoulders as he moved to the bureau at the far side of the room. She wanted the shirt gone, to see him bare.

Was he hairy all over? How many shades of red colored his massive body? Was his skin smooth in other places? Tight? Rough?

She swallowed hard and composed her expression as he walked back toward her with a silver box in hand.

Not meeting her gaze, he gave her the box. “For you—us. This is,” he ground out as she lifted the lid. The scent of roses and lavender touched her nose. Inside was a salve.

The substance was almost oily, sliding easily between her fingertips. “What is it for?”

She didn’t think it possible, but Eamon went a shade redder. “To ease the passage… Usually, I’m supposed to prepare you.”

“How?” The whole thing sounded horribly embarrassing yet slightly intriguing.

He swallowed thickly. “Kiss you, touch you…” A strangled sound came from deep within him, and he hurried his speech. “But that there will do the trick if I cannot… well, if you’re not ready to receive me.”

“Oh.” With a tentative finger, she touched the salve once more. “Don’t you want to?”

Eamon’s head jerked up. “Want to what?”

“Kiss me?” she clarified, her heart pounding. Mercy, would she ever learn to keep her mouth shut?

Eamon jerked again, and the firelight glowed gold against the column of his neck as he glared down at his clenched fist. “I do.”

“Then why—”

“You were to be his.”

The harsh declarative echoed over them.

For a moment, neither of them spoke, then she slowly handed Eamon the box. “But I’m not his.” Aidan had left her. And while the hurt hadn’t eased, she had to live in the here and now.

Eamon raised his head, and their eyes met, and held.

She licked her dry lips and said what she must. “I am yours now, aren’t I?”

“Aye,” he whispered. “You are.”

Still he did not move to kiss her, but with the slow, stiff moves of the reluctant, he took the box from her hand and lay down next to her. The fierce blush on his cheeks remained. “You need to… lift your gown again.”

His eyes did not quite meet hers, and for that she was suddenly glad, for mortification swamped her. Was there any dignity in the act?

Linen rustled as she fumbled about and gathered up her gown in her damp hands. With each inch of thigh exposed, she grew colder, and Eamon’s breath grew more ragged. His dark gaze was shuttered and focused on her progress. The coveted look heated her blood. He liked what he saw. It gave her an unexpected measure of power that made her go slower, teasing him.

He licked his lower lip, his fist curling into the bedding between them. She liked that too.

By the time the gown was past her hips, they were both breathing too fast and light.

“Part your legs.” It was a rasp, his gaze focused on the dark patch of hair covering her sex. Lu’s insides clenched again, her nipples growing tight and sensitive against her nightgown. Watching him watch her, she eased her thighs apart.

His breath hitched. “Jesus.” It was a bare whisper, but it did not sound as though he was put off, which was good, for baring herself to him left her so flushed that perspiration tickled between her breasts and her blood rushed in her ears. In the silence, he swallowed hard, his lashes fluttering down one brief moment before he reached for the salve.

And then his big, warm hand was cupping her. A gurgling sound escaped her before she took a quick, helpless breath. Eamon’s gaze flicked to hers but then went quickly, almost desperately, back to the sight of his hand holding her, and a shudder rent through his large body. Slowly his two middle fingers, coated with the salve, began to glide back and forth over her sex.

Lu sagged against the bed and struggled to keep her head up. Ye gods, had anything felt so… decadent, indecent, wickedly good… It made her head sway, her insides dip and rise as if she were on a boat in a turbulent sea, and her breath quicken. She wanted to moan, open her legs wider and pump against his steady torture. She bit her lip and clenched her fingers, not wanting to startle him. What if he stopped?

Somehow, he drifted closer, his warm chest touching her shoulder and his breath brushing her cheek as they both watched his hand. His fingers were slipping now, slick and coated, making small explorations over her flesh that quickly plumped and grew wetter. With a frown of concentration, Eamon pushed a finger into her, and Lu gasped.

He stilled. “Hurt?”

“No,” she bit out quickly. “No. Don’t—don’t stop.”

He nodded, biting his bottom lip as he applied himself, moving that long, thick finger of his in and out.

A restlessness spread over her. She wanted him to touch her elsewhere, perhaps cup her breasts and relieve the aching there, or kiss her mouth so that she wouldn’t let go of the sounds that were building within her. But he merely kept at his task. Not that he was unaffected. His linen nightshirt tented over a rather prodigious erection, one that appeared to bob, as if wanting to be free of its confinement. She wanted to touch Eamon’s cock. Wanted it to fill that empty place inside her that his fingers could not satisfy. And Lu couldn’t stop the small sound of distress that rose up.

“Eamon.” She shifted her hips, unable to keep still. “I need…”

“Now?” His voice was sanding paper, his breath agitated.

She made an awkward grab for him, catching a handful of his nightshirt, and he tumbled forward, knocking into her chest. They both grunted, but went silent as his hand reached between them and he put the smooth, hot head of his cock into position. Lu’s breath caught, her body trembling and her sex clenching. His arm came around her, holding her, and he pushed in, so thick and there that she gasped.

He paused, his chest heaving as if he’d run miles. “All right?”

Even the small question seemed to cost him effort. Lu nodded in a haze. The feel of him stretching her, filling her up. It was unlike anything she could have imagined. Eamon groaned low and rough as he sank farther in. And she felt every inch of progress he made. Full, full, full. She blinked up at the ceiling, her breath going short and her flesh flaring white-hot.

Eamon shuddered, his body pressed against hers and his lips touching the delicate spot just below her ear. They paused for a moment. And then he moved, pulling out, leaving her empty, before pushing back in.

A whimper died in her throat, and Lu gripped the thick swells of his biceps. Then he did it again, out and in, his movements slow, almost jerky, as if he couldn’t quite control them. And the trembling of his limbs grew stronger, his breathing harder.

“Lu. Lu.” His pressed his open mouth against her neck, not a kiss but a taste. And she was the one shivering as his tongue, so hot and wet, licked her skin.

He was pumping now, pushing the too thick, too hard length of his cock through her tight flesh. It ached. And yet she lifted her hips to meet his thrust, the feeling of being filled preferable to the loss of him when he drew back.

Her movements affected him greatly for he made a noise, helpless and pained. His grip grew tight upon her shoulder.

“Lu. I can’t… I need to…” He groaned again, and then he bucked hard against her, his movements uncoordinated. She ought to be scared. Instead, her sex went molten.

With an agonized cry, Eamon tensed and ground his hips into hers, his cock so deep within her that it hurt. Her body throbbed, her entire focus on the feel of him and the flood of warmth that suddenly filled her. He collapsed on an exhale.

He held her that way for one moment longer, his fingers biting into her flesh, his mouth pressed into her neck. Violent tremors wracked his body, and despite the mad beating of her heart and the throbbing between her legs, Lu found herself stroking his hair, now damp along his neck, wanting to soothe him.

“Did I hurt you?” Eamon’s question was stark in the stillness of the room.

She cleared her throat, trying to find her voice. “No.”

His cheek moved against hers as he gave a short nod. And then he was rolling off her, turning away. His hands shook, and his shoulders were still heaving. Lu reached for him, worried. Had it been awful for him? She didn’t believe so, but he was visibly undone. Her fingers just touched the folds of his sweat-damp nightshirt when he stood.

“I…” He didn’t turn but took a deep breath. “I’ll leave you to get some rest, then.”

The words struck her in the center of her chest. She gaped at his broad back, too upset to say a word. Then somehow she found her pride. “Of course. Thank you.”

A considerate husband, her father had assured her, will not stay with you. Husbands and wives keep their own rooms and their own lives. She ought to be thankful that Eamon was extending her that courtesy. Instead, she wanted to toss her pillow at his head as she watched him walk away in quick, though unsteady, strides. Perhaps he felt her displeasure for he paused at the door, his hand clutching the frame like a lifeline. She waited, her heart pounding, but he merely turned his chin, his gaze not on hers but focusing somewhere in the vicinity of the bed.

“Good night, Lu.”

The door closed behind him with a soft click, and her pillow sailed through the air a moment later to land with an ineffective and muted thud upon the middle of the floor.

* * *

Eamon cursed viciously as he stumbled into his bathing chamber. God, he was still shaking, his throat raw from the force of his rapid breathing. Splashing cold water onto his face did not help.

Water ran down his neck to sneak beneath his nightshirt. God almighty, he hadn’t realized how good Lu would feel, or how much making love to her would unhinge him. Glancing down at his half-stiff cock, he frowned. He’d been inside her. Lu. And it had been transcendent. He wanted to do it all again, all night. Every night.

But what of her needs? Had he done well? No, he couldn’t have. He’d gone off like a caustic hitting water, all flaring heat and violent motion, ending far too soon. With another curse, he ripped off his shirt and tossed it aside. He was too bloody hot. Still. And his stomach churned.

The single, most perfect moment of his life had just occurred, and instead of elation, he felt ill. Afterward, it had taken all he had not to kiss her, not to tell her that he loved her with all that he was.

He’d wanted to stay, snuggle into her warmth, and hold her tight.

But she would be expecting him to leave. Proper husbands did not beg to stay in their wives’ beds, did they? No, they got up and left them in peace.

Oh, and there was the wee fact that he’d been pretending to be Aidan all these years. That revelation would have gone over quite well after having spent himself in her.

Eamon sagged against the wash table. Bollocks. He may very well have got her with child this night. Another wave of nausea washed over him. He had to tell her the truth.

Chapter Eleven

Lu expected awkwardness to reign when she next saw Eamon. And she was correct. They’d both blushed, him an angry shade of pink that clashed with his copper hair. She could only imagine with dread as to what shade her cheeks had turned. Eamon was nothing but polite and proper as he greeted her at breakfast, even jumping up to pull out her seat.

Save once they both sat and attended to their breakfast, the room was filled with oppressive silence and the odd sharp scrape of cutlery against china.

And how could they not be awkward with each other? What they’d done went beyond intimacy. It had also been raw and animalistic. The mere thought of which had Lu’s flesh heating and the tender space between her legs clenching tight.

She’d dropped her fork then. And Eamon had pushed back from the table as if pinched. He hadn’t let his gaze meet hers as he explained in stilted fashion that he was starting a new project and would be in his smithy for most of the day.

Well, good. That was a relief.

Save it wasn’t.

And it went on for a week. A week of nearly silent shared meals and Eamon running off to his smithy. A week of Eamon not returning to her bed. Had once been enough for him? Was she sinful and wrong for wanting more?

Oh, but she caught his looks, those heated, yearning looks. He was careful about it, waiting until her attention was turned to other things. But she was watching him too, aware of every movement he made, so she’d seen.

Desire was not the issue. Lu couldn’t help but think that the specter of Aidan, and her own guilt, had built a wall between them.

The rains had returned, so heavy and strong that the roads turned to muck and the house grew dark and gloomy. Given that she had no place to go, Lu took to roaming the endless corridors of the house. Evernight Hall certainly did not bore her. Room upon room opened up to her inquisitive gaze. The Evernights were collectors. Celadon bowls from China, alabaster figurines from Egypt, little brass elephants from India, her fingers trailed over treasures as she moved along.

Eventually she ended up back in the family wing. Upon their marriage, Eamon had taken up the master of the house’s room, with hers connecting. But she remembered the move and realized that she was now walking past the door of his old rooms, and next to his were Aidan’s.

Lu’s heart pounded as she stood before her door, her hand cold and heavy upon the handle. Part of her felt like a traitor to Eamon. She ought to let Aidan go. He was her past. But she couldn’t. She had to know… something. Any clue as to what he’d been thinking was better than being lost in the dark.

So, like a thief, she crept into Aidan’s room. Cool air and the smell of staleness enveloped her. Her heart was going like a rapid metronome. Fear of discovery—that somehow Aidan would pop out and yell “Ah-ha!”—heightened her senses. Every creak of her step upon the floor, every shallow breath she took, rang loud and clear in her ears.

The room was fairly sparse by way of decoration or even furnishings. A large bed took up one wall, and before the hearth there were two masculine armchairs. Between the two tall windows was a sideboard holding crystal decanters and glasses. No writing desk, no books, no sign of Aidan’s personality.

A hollow ache spread through her chest as she took in the room. She’d expected more.

Sinking into the nearest chair, she stared at the empty hearth. The Aidan she knew liked to read, he wrote her diligently, he had a sly sense of humor and hated horses. He was sensitive, and a disappointment to his father…

Pushing up from the chair, Lu hurried from the room, no longer worrying about discovery. Her steps thudded upon the floorboards as she went down the hall and into the next room.

* * *

Heat smothered Eamon in a heavy embrace. It filled his lungs and clung to his skin. And he reveled in it. Wiping away the sweat on his brow with his forearm, he readjusted his grip on the tongs and swung the hammer down. It connected with the glowing steel, and the impact hammered through his bones, rattled about in his skull. Clang. Clang. Clang. Sparks flew. Each hit shaping and strengthening the length of steel into his creation. His muscles ached. Sweat ran in rivulets along his chest and abdomen, cooling him even as the forge raged and heated his every breath.

And it was perfect.

Almost.

For he could not quite let go of Lu. She invaded his thoughts. Made him want.

Grunting, he swung again, and his tight body vibrated. He might have done this the easy way, but physical labor was better. Better than gritting his teeth and picturing himself slamming into Lu’s tight, wet…

“Bollocks!” He tossed the hammer down, where it bounced with a loud clatter. Leaning his weight on his forearms, Eamon hunched over his anvil. The steel was cooling wrong and would be ruined. Cursing again, he picked it up with his bare hand, and the hot metal hissed against his skin. As ever, there was no pain, no burning of his flesh.

The piece appeared very close to what a radius bone ought to be, save for the tip. That would take hours of finessing with his tools. Right now, he was impatient. Eamon walked over to the cleaned radius bone lying upon the work counter. Peering closely at it, he let his grip cover the steel. It was hot and smooth against his palm as he moved. Closing his eyes, he thought of the design and willed the steel to reshape.

Power, pure and clean and thrilling, coursed through his veins. The metal seemed to sigh, sing a song in his head: Make of me what you will. Beneath his grip the steel moved, writhing, changing. Eamon shuddered, the feeling so close to what he’d felt when he’d come inside Lu that his cock stirred.

Double bollocks.

He took a calming breath and opened his hands. A perfect steel replica of the radius bone lay there. Really, it felt like cheating using his power, but satisfaction lit within him just the same. He put the cooled section on the table and picked up the piece he’d created earlier.

Running the length of his palm and reaching five inches in height, it was a small figure of a horse and rider. The little rider sat astride but her long hair stretched out behind her like a banner in the wind.

Gently he touched the tiny face of the rider. Lu. Would she like it?

His fingers curled around the horse, as his breath grew short. He would soon know, for he was going to give it to her at dinner—and then tell her everything.

Chapter Twelve

Eamon dressed carefully, like a man going to face the firing squad. There ought to be some dignity in baring one’s darkest deed to his victim. His hand shook only a little as he wound the white cravat around his neck. His shoulders only tensed slightly as George helped him into the tight-fitting dinner jacket of midnight blue.

And his knees didn’t wobble at all as he went down the stairs and entered the dining room, where she waited. Why she felt the need to go on ahead of him, he did not know. Nor could he ask when he finally laid eyes upon her.

She would always be the brightest star in the room. Candlelight made her skin glow like the finest alabaster. The plump swells of her breasts all but spilled over the tight clasp of her violet bodice, and Eamon’s mouth went dry. He wanted to lick a path over those soft, little hills.

Clearing his throat, he came closer, and her dark eyes shone like polished onyx as they studied him. Heat flushed up his neck. She looked at him as if he were a tasty meal, and as if she was about to enjoy it.

“Lu.” He made a small bow. “Are you well this evening?” God, could he say anything less benign?

The sweet curve of her pink lips tilted with a small smile. “Quite. Husband.”

The word slashed like a lance, and Eamon peered more closely. She was holding herself too tight. Guilt swamped him anew. He’d been neglecting her. And she was angry.

He moved to take his customary seat when he realized that she’d placed his setting at the opposite end of the table. Frowning, he held her seat for her before retreating all the way down to the other end.

“Let me move my plate,” he began, picking up the china. “I’d rather sit closer to you.”

“No.” She smiled tightly. “Leave it be. I’d rather you sit there so that I may look at you.”

Eamon didn’t see how him being ten feet away was any better than being right next to her, but as he’d rather her be in an amicable mood, he sat. Unease pricked at his spine, intensifying the queasy feeling that had been boiling away within his gut for hours. Days really.

He cleared his throat yet again and tugged at his collar. “Lu—”

“Everything going well with your project?” she cut in.

“Yes. It’s fine. Lu—”

“I must say I’ve had enough of this rain.” She placed a linen across her lap. “I explored the house out of sheer boredom.”

“I’m certain the rains will ease soon. Lu—”

“You do have the most interesting artifacts lying about Evernight Hall.”

“We do.” Eamon braced his forearms upon the table. Sweat pebbled his brow and made his linen shirt stick heavily to his chest. His heart beat in his throat. If he didn’t say it now… “The thing is, Lu—”

“And so many books.” She laughed, high and trilling. “I must say—”

“I wrote the bloody letters!”

The words rang out between them. Eamon deflated in his chair. “It was me, not Aidan.”

She merely stared at him without expression.

The door to the room opened, making Eamon flinch, but he said nothing as the servants poured in, one after the other, carrying dish after dish hidden beneath silver domes. So many that he began to frown. What the devil? As if performing a dance, the servants placed the dishes upon the table and, with perfect timing, lifted the domes as one.

The scent of roasting meats, fish, and fowl filled the air. Crabs, three kinds of pigeon, sliced fish, hare, a jug of honey, a bulb of roasted fennel… Eamon’s head grew light, a strange buzzing sounding in his ears.

Dimly he heard Lu’s voice. “I drew the line at rotted shark’s head. It sounds revolting. Though, really, where would one procure that on such short notice?”

The buzzing grew louder, Eamon’s fingers growing cold as ice. Somehow, he made his mouth move. “My word challenge.”

Lopado-temacho-selacho-galeo-kranio-leipsano-drim-hypo-trimmato-silphio-parao-melito-katakechy-meno-kichl-epi-kossypho-phatto-perister-alektryon-opte-kephallio-kigklo-peleio-lagoio-siraio-baphe-tragano-pterygon. He’d been so cocky.

Lu’s dark eyes narrowed, and small flags of color pinked her cheeks. “An obscure, ancient Greek word for sixteen dishes? Really, Eamon, that was low of you. Though I will admit, quite inspired.”

Despite the panic and terror, his lip twitched. “Yes, well.” He took a great breath. “You knew.”

She sat so very calm and composed, her expression giving nothing away. “Only just today.”

One domed platter sat at her side. She lifted the cover. Her letters to him, tied up with twine, lay upon the plate. Mocking him. She’d done a fine job of searching his room, that was certain.

Next to the bundle was another stack of letters wrapped in a violet silk ribbon. His letters to her.

“It occurred to me,” she said lightly, “that the man I fell in love with, the man in these letters”—her voice grew sharp as she pointed at the evidence—“could not possibly be the Aidan I met last week. Oh, no.” She laughed shortly. “No. What became even more glaringly obvious was that the man I was falling in love with this week was exactly like the man in my letters. My E.”

At this, she threw her hands up in exasperation. “ ‘Would you be so kind as to humor your affianced and refer to me as E?’ And fool me thought you were referring to Evernight. How could I have been so bloody blind?”

Eamon tried to formulate a reply but his mind was stuck on one particular. “You’re falling in love with me?”

Her glare was a ferocious thing, and he might have recoiled, but his heart was growing bigger and bigger within his chest. He feared it might soon burst free.

“Have care, Eamon Hollis Evernight. I am in a temper, if you hadn’t noticed.”

He ran his fingers along the back of his neck and tried to look contrite. He failed. But then he caught her gaze. Her eyes glimmered with unshed tears. That was enough to bring him back. He moved to go to her when she raised a hand. “Don’t.”

Eamon tensed for a moment then sat back with a sigh. “I’m so sorry, Lu. For all of it.”

With a shaking hand, Lu picked up another paper upon the tray, a crumpled bit of parchment. He knew what was on it: She is yours now.

“Aidan truly cannot read or write, can he?” she asked.

“He never could. No matter what the tutors attempted.” Eamon squeezed the back of his neck tightly. “We didn’t mean to deceive you. Aidan simply didn’t want you to cry off of the marriage, but he could hardly reply to your first letter. So he begged me to do it. I’d been hiding his secret for so long, Bit, I couldn’t deny him.”

Her pert nose wrinkled. “If he wanted me to marry him, why did you respond with such… sass?” At that, the corners of her lips pulled tight as if she were fighting a smile.

He fought one too, remembering her letters and how much he loved that girl. “Because he didn’t want to marry, he merely wanted to please our father. So I thought…”

“That you’d put me off further by being an ass?”

“It wasn’t the best of plans, I’ll grant you.” He laughed, but it was a pained sound, his chest being too heavy to bear at the moment. “I didn’t count on you becoming my dearest friend, Lu.” He rose then, slowly so she wouldn’t bolt. “I didn’t count on falling in love with you.”

She watched him come, her face pale and her shoulders shaking. “And you didn’t know how to confess, did you?”

“I was a coward.”

He crouched before her, taking her cold hand in his shaking one. “Ah, Lu love, it slashes my heart that I deceived you. When Aidan left and you were hurting, I wanted to die from shame.”

She nodded as though in complete understanding. Eamon ran his thumb over her fingers. “I shouldn’t have married you in deceit. I should have told you, told you that I loved you and have wanted you for my own for so long that I couldn’t think straight.”

A sob broke from her, and he gathered her up then, lifting her from the chair and holding her close against his chest. “Lu, please don’t cry.” His hand stroked her hair, destroying the coiffure, setting her silky tresses free. “I love you. I just didn’t love me enough.”

She sobbed again and clutched his lapels. “Oh, Eamon. What a fine pair we are.”

He didn’t quite know what she meant by that. He was the liar. And the coward. So he simply kissed her temple and told her again. “I love you. With every day, I love you more.”

But she pushed back. And he let her go, for he wouldn’t force his love on her. He didn’t deserve her.

“I am not Lu,” she cried.

Eamon stilled, his hands loosely holding her wrists. “I don’t—”

She broke completely free of him. “I lied to you too.”

His stomach hollowed out, and he swayed. “What do you…” He swallowed against the taste of bile. “What are you saying?”

Tears ran down her face now. “Luella is dead. I am Lucinda.”

Chapter Thirteen

She fled. She couldn’t bear the sight of Eamon’s horrified expression or the way he’d recoiled from her as if slapped. It wasn’t fair of her not to give an explanation. Hadn’t she waited patiently for his? Given him a chance? For once her shock had died down, she’d understood his motives for deceiving her. They’d both lied for good reasons. Not that it made things right. In truth, it made them worse. How could they possibly build a life on such a flimsy house of cards?

Years of deception. Years of playing the part of Luella left her confused and soul sick. She didn’t even know who she was anymore. Lucinda had faded into nothing, a mere jumble of old memories. And Luella? She was the constant ache in her heart. She missed Luella still. Every day. She hated pretending to be Luella. And yet she clung to the part, as if it kept a piece of her sister alive. And from the moment Eamon had decided to call her Lu, that was how she thought of herself. Even if she was merely poor and illegitimate Lucinda Jones.

A snort escaped her, echoing in the cold night air. She was a complete mess. And how did she end up outside? Lucinda paused. She was next to the smithy and halfway to the stables, and she was breathing far too fast. A ride. That was what she needed. Escape. She could leave here. Go somewhere new. America. No one would know her, no one would care.

But she did not take another step.

“Eamon,” she whispered. She couldn’t leave him. He was her heart. Over the years, she had fallen in love with the man expressing himself on paper, and she’d fallen in love with the man of flesh and bone practically on sight. He’d had the right of it long ago; he was her waking breath and sleeping sigh. And she had to face him, come what may.

Lucinda turned on her heel, back toward the house, and promptly collided with a solid frame. Her hands grabbed thick arms to steady herself. “Eamon.” She breathed out a sigh of relief. “I was just…” Her words trailed off as she realized with a lurch that she was not in Eamon’s familiar embrace.

“Just going to confess?” said the man.

He was an older man, greying at the temples, with great, bushy sideburns that whipped along his cheeks and ended at the corners of his mouth. It gave him the appearance of having a maniacal grin. He reeked of gin, and his clothing, while good quality, was just this side of shabby. Fallen on hard times, then. And he appeared familiar.

“Who are you?” she asked, trying to back away. He wouldn’t let her go.

“Look again, child. Surely, I have not changed so much.” His thumbs caressed the exposed skin just below her sleeves, and she flinched, her insides turning as he let his gaze wander over her. “Though I cannot say the same for you. Quite lovely, Miss Lucinda.”

Lucinda stilled, making herself appear as innocuous as possible as she studied him again. Recognition hit. “Dr. Arnold.” Dread sucked at her chest. Her father’s doctor, the one who had tended to Luella. And the one man left alive who could recognize her. He’d been there the day Luella died. He’d been the architect behind Father’s mad scheme. Lucinda had heard he’d died. She’d clearly been misinformed.

His oily smile said as much, and that he knew precisely what she was thinking. “I admire your gumption, child. Going ahead with the plan even after your father passed. However, you forgot one small thing.” He gripped her hard and brought her in close where she could see the veins upon his nose and cheek even in the blue moonlight. “I was promised half.”

“I don’t have any money,” she said. “My-bride price no longer played into account once my father died.”

“Not true, sweet. Ten thousand pounds were deposited in the Bank of London under your name on the day of your nuptials.”

Lucinda wasn’t surprised. At the time, she’d been too distraught over Aidan’s apparent defection, but she understood that Eamon was a man of honor and would keep the Evernights’ promise to her family.

“I know,” Arnold went on with a sneer, “because I work there now. As a lowly clerk when I once was a sought-after doctor. A stunning fall from grace after your father hired thugs to kill me so he wouldn’t have to share the wealth. Yes,” he said when Lucinda gaped up at him. “I had to hide away, pretending to be another man for years. Ballyloch, while poor, was also an earl and too powerful to fight. Only now the bastard is dead, and we, my dear, are alive and free.”

Part of Lucinda felt a degree of sympathy for the doctor. Yet his greed had put them both in this stew.

“All right,” she said, ignoring his hold. “I’ll give you your half.” Anything to be rid of him.

A low chuckle rumbled from him. “Oh, no, sweet child, I do believe I want a bit more, now that I’ve had time to contemplate.” His gaze slithered down her bodice. “After all, I am the only one alive who can identify you.”

Quick as a lash, he tugged down the left side of her bodice, exposing her breast right up to the crest of her nipple. Lucinda yelped, thrashing back, but he held her tight with one hand as he poked her breast. “Lady Luella carried a small birthmark here.”

Lucinda kick at his shin with her slippered toe and hurt herself for her efforts. “And how did you know that?”

He smiled again. “Perhaps I conducted a little inspection for just such an eventuality.”

Saliva filled her mouth, and it was all she could do not to spit in his face.

“Get. Your. Bloody. Hands. Off. My wife.”

They both spun at the sound of Eamon’s deep, cold voice. He stood a few feet off, his broad shoulders and sharp features bathed in the moonlight, and his eyes glittering with rage as he focused on Arnold.

“Hate to be the bearer of bad news, Evernight,” Arnold said to him, “but this is not your wife. Your marriage contract states the name Luella Jane Moran, not Lucinda Jones, bastard and simple maid.” He tugged Lucinda closer, putting a hand around her throat. And then she felt the sharp point pressing into the place where her pulse thrummed. It felt like a claw but cool and unyielding like metal.

“A little insurance,” he said when Eamon took a hard step forward, his eyes wild. “Why bother with a knife when this simple thumb claw works just a well. One good push at her artery here and she’ll bleed out in moments.”

Without breaking his attention from Eamon, Arnold slowly backed up to the smithy. “Shall we discuss things civilly?”

“A bit late for civilities,” Eamon bit out. “When you’re threatening my wife.”

“You don’t even know who you are trying to protect. She isn’t Luella.”

Lucinda knew Eamon did not care. She could see it in his eyes, though he’d yet to look at her.

“I know who she is,” he said, “and make no mistake, chancer, she is mine.”

Arnold made a sound of amusement. “All right, ginger. I won’t argue with you. I simply want what’s mine. Ballyloch was relying on his daughter’s marriage to young Master Evernight to save his dwindling funds.” Arnold’s gin-laden breath caressed her cheek. “Unfortunately Lady Luella died a few weeks after he received his first payment. When I pointed out that Miss Jones here looked very much like Luella, it was a simple thing to convince her father to let the chit take her sister’s place. So you see, the bride-price really ought to be mine.”

“Rather twisted logic you have there,” Eamon said sedately. “But I won’t argue with you. Just let her go.”

Arnold reached for the smithy door and pushed it open, still holding on to Lucinda. “Let’s settle this where there’s more light.”

The coals in the forge were banked but still held a bit of a glow, one that roared to full flame when Arnold worked the bellows with the foot pump. A few lengths of iron lay close to the edge of the forge, and Arnold nudged them farther in.

Eamon eyed the move, and a smile pulled at his mouth. It was not friendly but chilling. “You plan to use one of those against me?”

“Perhaps. I’ve hit you before,” Arnold answered. “A hot iron through the flesh ought to finish the job.”

“Trust me, friend. You do not want to fight me. After all, I’m the devil’s get. Forged in hell.” Eamon’s blue eyes went dead cold. “Isn’t that what they told you?”

“All the more reason to kill you,” Arnold said.

Eamon didn’t even blink. “You want the bride-price, I can give it to you. But you’re going to have to let Mrs. Evernight go first.”

“Do not give him a dime,” Lucinda snapped. “He was the attending physician at Luella’s death. If anyone would appear guilty, it will be him—”

Bloody. Hell. She abruptly shut her mouth and cursed again. She could have kicked herself for speaking up. And by the looks of Eamon’s reproachful glare, he was having somewhat similar thoughts, but his tone was calm and reasonable as he spoke. “Look, it’s clear that you didn’t think this out properly. End this now before someone gets hurt.” His expression hardened. “I can assure you, if harm comes to my wife, you will not walk out of here alive.”

Arnold’s thumb dug into her neck enough to prick the skin. He talked into her ear as he stared at Eamon. “Do you really believe that I would approach without a proper plan? You are correct, Miss Lucinda. I have more to lose than gain should the truth of your origins come out. Something I realized on the long trip here. So I reassessed. I’ve been watching, waiting.” He angled his chin toward the cellar door. “Quite the interesting collection of body parts you have down there, Evernight.”

Eamon merely looked at Arnold.

“Not a soul in the village trusts you. And should the strange, unfortunate Eamon Evernight be killed, say in a fire in his smithy, no one will mourn him. Especially after they find what you’ve been hiding.”

As he drew near, the tip of Arnold’s cold nose touched Lucinda’s cheek, and his voice dropped low and disgustingly intimate. “I’m sure I can persuade the widow to marry again.”

Rage boiled up within her. For years she’d done as bidden. For years, Eamon had been told he was someone unworthy of love or affection. And this horrid man thought he would destroy the fragile happiness they’d just found.

Lucinda exploded into action, bring her elbow swiftly back into Arnold’s ribs as she turned and jammed her knuckles into his throat.

He gagged, falling back a pace, but his hand dug into her hair before she could pull away. The claw scraped along her scalp, drawing tears to her eyes.

Eamon charged. Arnold threw her down and grabbed the heated iron, brandishing it like a club. Sparks flew from the forge, and the glowing iron swung in an orange arch and went straight to Eamon’s chest.

“Eamon!” Lucinda screamed.

Arnold’s body blocked her view but she saw Eamon stagger then fall down. A red haze fell over her eyes as she surged upward, her body vibrating with anger. It was as if she became another person, feral and intent.

Her hand wrapped around a length of iron. The heavy weight seemed insubstantial as she smashed it down upon Arnold’s back. Arnold bellowed and turned. “Bitch!”

Her world slowed as Arnold grabbed the wooden handle of the crucible that hung over the forge. The cauldron, full of bubbling, molten metal pitched toward her, and she could only duck down with a cry, holding her arms up for protection. But then Eamon was there, his big body covering hers as the metal poured down upon his back.

Hot metal snapped and popped as it hit Eamon and the floor, and Lucinda screamed. She looked into Eamon’s eyes and saw not pain but rage.

Their gazes held for one moment, his roaming over her face as if to assess her injuries, and hers in utter shock for he was not writhing in agony.

“Eamon,” she breathed, but he did not flinch. Nor did he burn.

He pivoted, rising up like a cresting wave. She could only gape as the molten metal began to swarm off Eamon’s back, beading and gathering in brilliant orange pools as if it were alive. The moving mass of metal crawled along Eamon’s flesh and down his arm as he grabbed Arnold about the neck with one hand and wrenched him away from Lucinda.

Arnold thrashed and fought to get free of Eamon’s hold. But he could not. And as if it were attacking, the metal flowed over Arnold, invading his neck and face, and an agonized scream tore from him. Smoke rose from his skin as he shook. He was burning.

The screams grew, the scent of roasting flesh filling the air.

“Lu!” Eamon snapped, not looking at her. “Go. Now!”

Somehow she found her feet and ran.

* * *

Lucinda didn’t know how long Eamon had remained in that hellish room; from the moment she’d fled, time had gone hazy. She was curled up on the grass, shivering and ill to her stomach, when Eamon found her. His steps were slow as he approached. When she didn’t move, he crouched down beside her.

“Lucinda?” he whispered. “That’s your name, then?” He made a soft sound, bittersweet in the night. “I always thought you couldn’t be a Luella. Lucinda suits you better, a beautiful light in the darkness of my life.”

A wobbly smile pulled at her lips as she blinked down at the grass. But it ebbed.

“I was born Lucinda Jones,” she said, not raising her head, “the bastard child of my father and his housemaid Ann. She died at birth, and though it surprised the staff, my father let me stay. I was a kitchen girl by age five, and by age thirteen, I became my sister Luella’s companion and lady’s maid.”

Her eyes prickled. “I loved Luella, and she loved me. We were the best of friends, despite the social chasm between us. She…” Lucinda took a choking breath. “She died a month after your father made his agreement with mine. Scarlet fever.”

Even now, it hurt to remember Luella staring blankly with eyes that would never see again, and then her father and horrid Dr. Arnold bearing down upon her with their threats.

“I was given the choice of eviction or being Luella.” She swallowed back her tears. “I took the coward’s way out, Eamon. But I tried in my own way.”

“The letters.” Eamon’s voice was rusty. “You wanted to dissuade me, just as I sought to dissuade you.”

“Yes.” Save she fell in love with him and, in doing so, saw her way to salvation. “Do you know,” she said with a ragged breath, “I haven’t thought of myself as Lucinda since the moment you called me Lu.” In truth, she never considered Lu as a nickname for Luella but for her, for Lucinda. Her eyes filled, and she blinked hard. “You promised to always call me Lu.”

Eamon took a great, shuddering breath. “So I did. And so I will.” They didn’t say another word, nor did he try to reach for her. It was a long moment before he spoke again.

“That is my truth,” Lucinda said.

“And now you know mine. The very worst of me.” Sorrow weighed down his voice.

“You killed him.”

“I did.”

Lu shuddered. It had been awful. Even far away from the forge, she’d heard the screams until they died out. The silence had been almost worse. Oddly, none of the staff came out of the house. Had they known?

“Were you… How were you not injured?” The image of the red-hot liquid metal moving as if alive over Eamon’s flesh haunted her.

He sighed. “Metal is… I touch it, and it does my bidding.”

He was silent for a moment, his big body shifting a bit as he adjusted his weight onto his heels. “The heat needs a place to go. Into me, into another. The heat doesn’t harm me, but others? They are not so fortunate.”

Slowly Lu raised her head. Eamon’s handsome face might have been sculpted marble. Only his eyes were alive, watching her with a weariness that hurt her heart. He blinked and his expression turned fierce. “I did not want to kill him. But I won’t regret defending my heart and home in the way that I did.”

Hesitantly, he reached out and touched a lock of her hair that hung limp over her shoulder. “Because you are my heart, Lu. And my home.”

Lu took a deep breath, ready to tell him that he was that to her as well. But all that came out was a weak sob, and as a shiver wracked her body, Eamon stood and backed away. “Let us go inside,” he said woodenly. “You need rest.” He did not touch her as she rose. And she did not protest his withdrawal.

* * *

Lu slept. She slept through the night and far into the next day. A dreamless sleep of one returning home after a long journey. And not a soul disturbed her. When she finally awoke, her mind was clear and her body twitched with the need to move.

All was quiet as she drew herself a bath and then eventually put on a dressing gown.

Eamon’s room was empty. Not surprising. She’d been expecting it.

Sliding on a pair of slippers, Lu went to the smithy.

The sound of metal clanging against metal filled the air and grew louder as she let herself into the sweltering room. Oh, but he was a sight. Shirtless and wearing a pair of dirty, low-slung trousers, he was bent over the anvil, sweat making his skin gleam as he pounded out a piece of steel.

Eamon Evernight was utterly glorious. Nature had given him beautiful proportions, long legs, wide shoulders, a graceful back. Hard work had given him immense strength.

She didn’t know where to look: the rounded caps of his shoulders, the great slabs along his back, the hard rocks of his biceps. He seemed cut from granite, yet with every blow of his hammer, his muscles bunched and twitched. They rippled, for God’s sake.

The fires in the forge colored his skin gold and bronze. A shock of red hair fell over his brow. He was a living flame. A bronzed god. And he was hers.

Mine.

The knowledge and the want were undeniable.

He noticed her then, and his hammer froze midair. Heaven help her but his chest was just as delicious as his back.

“Lu.” He lowered his arm. “Are you well?”

“I am.” She came closer. The heat in the room was nearly unbearable, and she was glad for her light gown. Sweat pebbled over Eamon’s chest and ran in rivulets along his neck and down the valley of his abdomen.

But his scent was clean, hot metal and soap.

His teeth bit down on his bottom lip, and he wouldn’t quite meet her eyes. “I know what you saw, what I can do, must be…” He searched for a word and his cheeks went ruddy. “Shocking.”

“Yes.” How could it not be? It was wondrous and strange. Much like Eamon.

He flinched, all of his muscles bunching tight. Lu came closer still. “And yet it doesn’t change a thing.” Taking a breath, she said what she’d come to say. “I still want you, Eamon.”

He closed his eyes as if her confession brought him pain, looking like a man who didn’t believe himself worthy. And her heart squeezed. “The question is,” she went on, “do you want me now that you know who I am?”

He looked at her then, his eyes like polished lapis in the flickering light. “Names mean nothing. I’ve always known who you are. Inside.” He turned his head as if it hurt to look at her. “And I’ve always wanted you, Bit.”

“I lied to you.”

He laughed without humor. “And I to you. It doesn’t matter. Not to me. I want you still.”

“Then why do you stand there? Shying away from me?” No matter how much she wanted to go to him, she needed him to meet her halfway. Call it pride or insecurity, she did not know. But she needed him to open his arms to her.

He set the hammer down and stared into the flames. “I killed my father.”

After last night, Lu rather thought that might be the case.

“I did not intend to,” he said quietly. “I did not even know I could.” He turned then, his expression guarded and pained. “He caught me reading your letters.”

Lu’s breath hitched.

The corners of Eamon’s eyes creased as though he were looking inward upon the memory. “He accused me of trying to steal my brother’s bride.” A short, harsh laugh left him. “I suppose I was.”

“Eamon—”

“He came at me much like Arnold did, swinging an iron like a club.” Eamon’s face went white. “He wanted to kill me. His own son.” A shudder went through him, and she couldn’t stand still.

Lu went to him, wrapped her arms about his waist, and held him tight. Eamon didn’t move to embrace her but stood stiff. “I grabbed the iron. I knew it wouldn’t burn me. But I didn’t know what would happen to him. Not then.” His throat worked on a swallow. “Ah, well, Bit, you know what happened next. All that heat went directly into him and he was lost before I realized what I’d done.”

“Eamon, love, I’m so sorry.”

His arms came around her then, so tight and hard that her ribs flexed. He did not cry but simply held her to him as his body shuddered in waves.

“I am never leaving you, Eamon,” she said against his chest. “Never. Do you hear?”

His hand smoothed over her hair and along her back. “Yes, Lucinda. I hear.” There was a smile in his voice, and his tension slowly ebbed.

“Good.”

They held each other for a long while, softly swaying in a soothing motion that had her going boneless, and she pressed her cheek to the smooth swell of his pectoral muscle. His flesh was wonderfully firm and warm. A dusting of auburn hair covered his upper chest, playing about his small nipples and swirling in the center. The hairs tickled her cheek as he breathed, and she found herself nuzzling him with her nose. Eamon stilled, his grip on her growing more secure.

Lu’s body went wonderfully tense, a tight sort of ache that made her sex throb and her stomach clench. Barely daring to breathe, she grazed his chest with her lips, and his skin prickled. A smile pulled at her lips as she trailed them over him, heading toward his tight little nipple.

A raw sound tore from him when she nipped the bud. With the tips of her fingers, she drew a path down the center of his chest. His pecks jumped, a small twitch. A light trail of dark red hair gathered below his navel. She traced it with one finger, loving the way he began to pant and his flat, rippled abdomen rose up and down in rapid, agitated movements.

With a strangled gasp, Eamon gripped her upper arms, and he pulled away. They stood apart, merely a handspan in distance, yet the separation seemed only to heighten the sensation of being surrounded by his strength and warmth. They stared at each other, breathing light and fast. He held her gaze as the backs of his fingers touched her collarbone and then drifted down her bodice.

Lu’s breath hitched. His touch was so light that his knuckles barely skimmed the fabric, yet the whole of her feeling was centered on it. He traced the path of the buttons fronting her dressing gown. When he met the rise of her breast, his exploration grew even lighter, a mere tickle that had her heart pounding.

Eamon stopped at the button between her breasts. “You smell nice.” His voice was so low it felt like an intimate caress against her skin. He fingered the tiny shell button, circling it with the blunt tip of his thumb, and a shiver went through her. “Had a bath, did you?”

He was teasing; her hair was still damp, falling in a dark wash down her back. But she found the strength to answer. “Yes.”

His gaze darkened. And she knew that he knew she wore nothing beneath her dressing gown. He said not a word, but fiddled with her button, driving her mad. When her lids began to flutter down, he gave her a reprieve.

His thumb pressed against the button, twisting it slightly as he pushed it through the buttonhole. And her breath hitched in a small hiccup. Button undone, her bodice gaped between her breasts. Eamon slipped a finger inside.

The rough tip grazed her nipple. “Oh!” Lu sucked in a breath.

Eamon’s dark gaze held hers, and he worked his finger back and forth, slowly, lightly.

Her sex clenched hard, wetness flooding her. The tormented nipple grew stiff under his ministrations. So hard that it throbbed. Lu’s fingers opened and closed on air. She wanted to grab him, wanted to beg him to put more pressure on her aching nipple, pinch it perhaps. Do anything. But she remained still, hating him, loving him.

“Shall I tell you a secret, Lu?” The light rhythm of his fingertip did not abate.

She could scarcely breathe much less nod. But he told her anyway. “I used to take myself in hand thinking of seeing your breasts. I’d spend myself, dreaming of sucking, oh so gently, on their pretty tips.”

She swayed, catching the hard slab of his waist to steady herself. “Eamon,” she said weakly, struggling to keep her head from falling forward.

His breath grew quicker, agitated, the packed muscles on his abdomen clenching. “Show them to me, wife. Show me your breasts.”

Her head grew light, and her insides dipped. Panting lightly, she lifted her hands to the buttons. Her fingers shook as she pushed each button through, fresh air chasing along her skin, marking her progress. She couldn’t look Eamon in the eye, but focused on his throat, where his pulse beat a visible tattoo just above his collarbone.

The bodice grew loose and gapped. When she got to her waist, she was shaking.

“Let me see you.” Eamon’s husky demand rolled over her.

Slowly, she raised her eyes to his as she bared herself to him, the hot air in the forge feeling cool against her skin. His breath stopped and held, his gaze molten as it roved over her. That look and the sight of her own naked breasts, the pink tips quivering ever so slightly from the force of her unsteady breathing, filled her with liquid heat.

“I’ve died,” he whispered, and then he moved.

His mouth opened over one nipple, and she moaned, her head falling back, her hands clutching the massive swells of his shoulders to keep from falling. He did as promised, suckling her so gently there was barely a pull, just the flat of his tongue against her flesh as the wet heat of his mouth surrounded her.

She was undone. Nothing could feel better. Then he filled his big palms with her breasts, kneading them lightly as he moved to the other nipple and tortured her anew.

Her hands now gripped his hair, holding on, holding him to her. “Eamon,” she said desperately, “I shall faint.”

He pulled free and glanced up at her, the wet curve of his lower lip grazing her distended nipple. Lust and wicked triumph glinted in his eyes. “I’m not done.” And then he grasped the sides of her gown and tugged.

The fabric tore with a loud, long rip. Before she could protest, he threw the gown upon the worktable and then set her upon it, stepping between her legs and cupping the back of her head with a swift move.

His looked wild and fierce staring down at her. High color stained his cheeks, and his nostrils flared. Over six feet of immensely strong, roused male. And it sent a thrill through her.

“What are you waiting for?” she whispered. She was splayed out before him, naked and leaning back upon her hands. And he hadn’t yet moved.

Eamon’s lids grew heavy, his gaze traveling over her in lazy perusal. The muscle at his jaw twitched, and his grip upon her neck tightened. “I’ve waited four years,” he said. “I’m merely enjoying the moment now.”

She laughed lightly, as if anticipation and nerves were not making her heart pound and her insides flutter. “Hardly fair.” She let her gaze roam over his chest, glistening with sweat and so very hard with muscle, down to the bulge pushing against his trousers. “When I am naked and you are not.”

In an instant, he’d let her go and ripped open the packet of his trousers. They slipped to the floor, and Lu sucked in a sharp breath. His thighs were powerful and thick, lightly furred. His cock. She’d had that inside her? Beneath a thatch of flame red hair, his cock was long and weighty, bobbing as if impatient.

“Oh, my.”

All his glorious ruddiness, the various shades of red and gold and bronze that colored him, did something to her, made her want to devour him whole, lick him from head to foot.

She settled for reaching out and grasping him. Eamon groaned in approval, his hips swaying forward as she tugged. His skin was shockingly smooth and hot, his flesh so dense that it had no give beneath her questioning squeeze.

“Lu.” He fell forward, leaning into her, his hands slamming onto the table with a thud. He gripped it hard, his arms and shoulders bunching. “Pump it. Up and down. Like you’re… that’s… Christ.”

“Am I doing well?” she asked, though she could guess the answer.

He swallowed audibly. “A perfect student.” He voice ended on a strangled note, and he dove his hand into her hair once more and placed an open-mouthed kiss on her neck.

“Eamon, you haven’t yet kissed me, you realize.”

He stilled, his breath buffeting her sensitive skin. “I haven’t,” he agreed.

Lu let his cock go as he cupped her cheeks with his large hands and tilted her head up to him. Tenderness softened his hard features. “Lu,” he said, “I love you.”

His soft lips brushed hers once. Then again. And they both let out a sigh. It was her first kiss. As she knew it was his.

“I love you too, Eamon.” When he pulled back to look at her, she curled her hand around the base of his throat, holding him. “I have loved you, you, since I sat with you beneath the willow tree.”

He was not kind, not gentle, when he kissed her again, his lips crushing against her. He held them there for a moment, and then, on a soft groan, he adjusted his grip and his mouth moved over hers, shaping and nuzzling her lips as though they were the sweetest fruit.

Lu opened her mouth to his, and he tasted her with his tongue. God, his tongue. It was slick and soft and warm and made her sex pulse each time he slid it over hers. She lost track of the kiss. It went deeper and deeper until her lips throbbed and her jaw ached, and still she did not want it to end. “I like kissing, Eamon,” she whispered. “We ought to have done it from the beginning.”

He chuckled against her mouth. “I like it too, Bit. So very much.”

Eamon held her head in his hands and devoured her mouth with his own as he eased her back. Lu slid a hand down his firm chest and grasped his cock again. He grunted into her mouth, and then his hands were clutching her thighs, spreading them wider as he kissed her.

The head of his cock moved through her slickness. “Now,” she said against his lips.

It was better than before. All that hard thickness pushing into her without pain. She took him deep, tilting her hips.

“I love this part,” he said as he gave a small thrust. And then he grinned.

Looking up into his face, she grinned back. “Let us do it every day.”

They grinned at each other like fools before Eamon’s gaze turned smoky and he began to go at her with deep, assured thrusts. She arched her back, her breasts pressing into his slick chest.

“I love it,” she said on a gasp. Her skin prickled, fire nipping at her breasts, down the backs of her thighs. “Oh, God, Eamon, I love it hard.” She almost laughed for the joy of it; they could be anything they wanted to be, do anything they wanted to do here.

He shuddered, and his grip on her bottom grew tight, nearly painful, as he hauled her closer. “Shall I fuck you harder, Lu?”

It was her turn to shudder. The words. They were even better illicit yet direct. And her sex clamped down on him. “Yes, Eamon.”

He shoved back into her with a grunt, and then he did as asked, thrusting so hard that the bones cradling her sex ached. The table rocked back and forth with squeaks of protest. Something clattered to the floor. Lu wrapped her legs about Eamon’s waist and held on.

Every thrust drove her higher, drew her tighter. Pleasure was illusive and overwhelming all at once. She dug her nails into his moving muscles, spurring him on. “Eamon, Eamon.” Her sight went dim.

They flew apart together, Eamon releasing with a disjointed bellow that drowned out her cry.

He collapsed against her, and for a moment, they simply panted as one, their bodies slick with sweat. But then he moved, hauling her and the gown up. He swathed them in it as he sank to the floor and cradled her against him. Weakly, she rested a hand upon his chest and felt the hard beat of his heart.

Eamon pressed his lips to her temple then peppered her face with soft, searching kisses. His care sent warmth flooding through her.

“I love you, Lucinda Jones,” he said. “You weren’t meant to be mine. But I love you just the same, and I am never giving you up.”

Lu cupped his cheek. “Fate meant for me to belong to you, and you to me. I think you know that. I think we’ve both known all along.”

Closing his eyes, he rested his forehead against hers and simply breathed. “I shall thank fate for the rest of my days.”

They were silent, their limbs entwined as they held each other in gratitude, when a thought occurred to her. “Eamon,” she said in growing despair, “Arnold was correct, you realize. We aren’t truly married. I am not Luella. If someone were to find out—”

Eamon kissed her. “I’ll make it right, Bit.”

“But how?”

He caressed her cheek with his thumb. “Do you trust me?”

Lu sank into him on a sigh. “Always and forever.”

Chapter Fourteen

Lucinda spoke the truth when she said she trusted her husband. And one bright Sunday morning, he walked into their private sitting room and gave her a copy of their marriage contract. Frowning in confusion, she read it, and her mouth opened in shock.

“It says Eamon Hollis Evernight and Lucinda Jones.”

Eamon grinned. “And it says the same in the village church registry.”

“But how?” She found herself grinning back at him. “How did you do it?”

Eamon gave a light laugh, and with the very strength that had always made her marvel, he scooped her up and sat back down with her upon his lap. Lucinda snuggled in as he kissed his way up her neck. “Did I ever tell you about my Scottish cousins?”

“Mmm… No, I don’t think you have.”

He caught her earlobe in his lips. “Well”—he gave her a nip—“if you think I am strange… Let us just say that that branch of the family can perform a variety of miracles.”

“I’ll have to thank them,” she said faintly, for his hands were busy elsewhere.

Eamon hummed in agreement. “You’ll have your chance sooner than you think.”

The next day they went to Scotland and were handfasted so that they could say their vows anew. She called herself Lucinda in the ceremony, but she was always Eamon’s Lu.

* * *

Some forty years into their happy marriage, one of Eamon’s Scottish cousins came to him. Though he knew her as Mary Margaret, she called herself Moira Darling. She brought with her a man named Isley.

And while Eamon’s inquisitive little granddaughter Holly checked the mathematics on a set of schematics they were working on, the man asked him a question.

“Tell me, Mr. Evernight,” said the man, “have you one of those splendid mechanical arms of yours available for purchase?”

Mary Chase has been assigned to help Jack Talent find a vicious killer in the streets of Darkest London.

But her prime suspect is Jack Talent himself.

See the next page for a preview of SHADOWDANCE.

It was inevitable that Jack be called into headquarters. The Bishop of Charing Cross had struck the night before. Murder was nothing new in London. Strange ones of a public nature, however, were another matter. Jack had been the regulator in charge of this particular case for a year now, a blight on his otherwise stellar record. This time a shifter had been murdered. As one of five—make that four now—known shifters living in London, he took it personally. Having intimate knowledge of certain facts, Jack was also unnerved by this new murder. Deeply. And he wanted answers.

Cool shadows slid over him as he strode down the long, echoing corridor that led from the SOS common rooms to the main meeting area. Headquarters was full of regulators updating their intelligence before going out. He did not like being around them, or anyone. Not that he had to worry on that score. The others steered clear of him, their eyes averted and their bodies tense. Fear he could handle, hell welcome, but pity?

One younger agent lowered her lashes when he passed, and a growl rumbled in his throat. She started and hurried off. Rightly so. No telling what sort of beast would break free should he lose his temper. Not even he knew. That was the way of a shifter, not owned by a single monster but possessed by all. He was everything, and he was nothing in particular. In truth, being a regulator was the only certain and good thing in Jack’s life.

At the end of the black marble hall, a guard stood beside a massive steel door. He saw Jack coming and swiftly opened it.

“Master Talent,” said the guard, “they are waiting for you.”

He was precisely on time and the director was already waiting? And what did the guard mean by “they”? His meeting was to be with the director. Who the bloody devil would be here—

Her scent slammed into him like a punch. And what little equanimity he’d maintained flew out the door. Oh, no, no, no… they wouldn’t dare. He eyed the inner wood door that blocked him from the meeting room. She was in there.

His muscles clenched tight as he forced himself to enter.

“Ah, Master Talent,” said Director Wilde from the head of the table. “Right on time. Excellent. Let us proceed.” His clipped voice was unusually animated, as if he knew Jack’s displeasure at the unexpected third person in the room and reveled in it. Which wouldn’t be surprising. Wilde loved to keep regulators on their toes.

Jack heard every word, but his gaze moved past the director and locked on her. Mary Chase sat at Wilde’s right, serene and ethereal as ever. Her face was a perfect replica of Botticelli’s Venus, and her body… no, he wouldn’t think about that. It was one rule he refused to break. He never, ever, thought too long on Mary Chase.

* * *

Mary Chase would have liked to think that, after years of being on the receiving end of Jack Talent’s hateful glare, she’d be immune to it by now. Unfortunately it still worked through her flesh like a lure, hooking in tight and tugging at something deep within her. One look and she wanted to jump from her chair and hit him. However, knowing that he found her presence bothersome gave her some small satisfaction.

He stood in the doorway, filling it up, poised for a fight like an avenging angel of Old Testament wrath. Over the last year, Talent had reached his physical prime, shooting up well past an already impressive six feet, and adding what looked like twenty pounds of hard-packed muscle to his frame. It was as if nature had given him the outer shell he needed to protect himself from all comers. The change was unnerving, as the man had been intimidating enough before, mainly due to the sheer strength of his stubborn will.

With a sullen pout, Talent dropped his large body into the chair opposite her. She suspected that he sought to convey his displeasure, but the blasted man was too naturally coordinated, and the move ended up appearing effortless. “Director Wilde.”

Talent turned back to Mary again. His rough-hewn features might have been carved from stone. “Mistress Chase.”

Oh, but the way he said her name, all oil and flame, as if it burned him to utter it.

Mary dug a fingernail into her palm and modulated her voice. “Mr. Talent.”

He paused for a moment, his brows raising a touch in reproach. She’d been childish in not giving him the proper form of address, but some things burned for her too.

His quick, irrepressible smirk said he knew as much. “Master,” he reminded her.

He loved that she had to call him “Master.” In their first year in training, he’d taken every opportunity to make her use the official title for all male regulators. Their gazes held, and heat rose to her cheeks. Thank God she hadn’t the complexion to blush or he’d be all over her. “Master Talent,” she ground out.

His annoying smirk deepened, and her nails dug deeper into the flesh of her palms. One day…

“Now that we have our forms of address clear,” cut in Wilde, “might we proceed with the actual investigation? Or shall we continue with this little pissing contest?”

“Pray continue. If Chase can manage to refrain from straying off track, that is.” Talent adjusted his broad shoulders in the chair and crossed one leg over the other.

Never react. She turned her gaze upon the director. “I was ready to hear the facts of the case twenty minutes ago, Director.”

Talent bristled, and she let a small smile escape. He bristled further, but Director Wilde ploughed ahead.

“Good.” Setting his hands upon the polished mahogany table, Director Wilde proceeded to give them the facts. Mary had already memorized them, and so she let the director’s words drift over her as she studied Talent. The man was good, his strong, blunt features not revealing any hint that he might have personal knowledge of the Bishop of Charing Cross’s most recent kill.

One powerful arm rested upon the table, and the fabric of his plain black suit coat bunched along the large swell of his bicep. Talent did not so much as twitch when the director set down a photograph of the last victim.

“Mr. Keating of Park Place,” said Director Wilde. “As with the other murders, he has been branded with the Bishop’s cross. The sole difference in this victim is that, while the others were demons, this man was a shifter, and by all accounts a law-abiding citizen of London.”

Mary glanced at the photo, featuring a young man stripped naked. The cross branding his chest was a raw, ugly wound, but it was his eyes, wide and staring, that made her clockwork heart hurt. It was the expression of an innocent man pleading for mercy.

Talent looked as well. And when he did, she watched him. The ends of his brows lifted a fraction, and she was inclined to believe that he was surprised. Then again, he had always been a fine actor. In the beginning of his association with the SOS, Talent had made a name for himself by successfully tricking a powerful primus demon into believing he was Poppy Lane. Of course, being able to shift to look exactly like Poppy had been part of it, but it was his mimicking of her character to the letter that had made the difference between success and catastrophe.

How could a man who had nearly died defending others be a murderer? But Mary feared she understood all too well. Although he was arrogant, obnoxious, and a general ass, he’d survived an ordeal that would break most men. Was he irrevocably broken?

“Do you recognize the victim, Master Talent?”

Wilde’s query had Mary focusing once more.

Talent’s heavily lidded eyes lifted from the photograph. “Shifters by nature are a solitary lot. No, I did not know Mr. Keating.” His long fingers curled into a fist upon the table. “I was under the impression that the SOS kept the identity of shifters secret.”

The director’s mouth tightened. “We do. There is no indication that the files have been breached.”

Talent made a noise that might have been construed as a snort, but it was just soft enough to get by Wilde without earning any reproach. For once, however, Mary agreed with Talent’s sentiment.

After researching long into the night, Mary had learned that, in the last hundred years, the SOS had made a concerted effort to locate and document the existence of all shifters living in Europe. A daunting task. However, when the Nex began hunting shifters for their blood—whose properties gave demons the ability to shift into anything—the SOS, realizing its mistake in outing shifters, provided as much protection as it could by offering them new identities and keeping their whereabouts hidden. But it was a constant battle, for the Nex, an organization dedicated to seeing supernaturals rule the world over humans, was resourceful and ruthless.

Talent leaned forward a fraction. “Who was Keating? Before?”

“Johannes Maxum.” Wilde pulled a paper from his file and handed it to Talent. “He’s an older shifter. Date of birth unknown, but he once worked as an alchemist for Augustus the Strong in the quest to discover the Chinese’s secret to making porcelain.”

Talent scanned the page, then set it down. Protocol dictated that he hand the paper to Mary, and she might have been insulted at his obvious slight, had she not been expecting it. No matter, she’d read about Maxum as well. Besides, Talent’s juvenile tactics would not cow her.

In any event, Director Wilde was now looking at both of them. “Research has been instructed to provide any and all assistance you might require.”

“Thank you, Director,” Mary said. “We shall keep you informed as the case proceeds.”

Talent’s jaw snapped up as if he’d been punched. “We?”

The force of his inner agitation was a maelstrom creaking against the walls. Any moment now it would break. Mary remained calm. “We are to be partners now, Master Talent. Or haven’t you been paying attention?” And I will stick to you like a barnacle until I find out the truth.

The small vein at his temple pulsed. “I work alone. Always have.”

Wilde laid a hand over the file. “There is a time to every purpose under the heaven, Master Talent. Which includes knowing when to receive help.” The steely look in the director’s eyes made it clear that Talent would find no leeway should he protest.

The sound of Talent’s teeth grinding filled the room. “I was under the impression Mistress Chase was here in a clerical capacity.”

“You hoped,” Mary corrected. “Otherwise, I have grave concerns regarding your propensity for jumping to conclusions.”

Talent leaned his weight on the table as his gaze bore into her. “Keep baiting me, Chase, and you’ll find out what else I have a propensity for.”

She leaned in as well, until they faced each other like dogs in a pit ring. “I am quaking in my knickers.”

“There you go, mentioning your knickers.” His mouth slanted, and his eyes gleamed dark green. “What I cannot discern is if you only do so to me, or if you want the whole of the SOS to be thinking about them.”

“Why, Master Talent, are you trying to tell me that you think about my knickers?”

His lips pinched so tight that she had to bite back a grin. A low growl rumbled from the vicinity of his chest.

“Children.” Director Wilde’s expression was stern, but his eyes held a glint of amusement. “The discussion is over. You will work together on this.” His good humor fled. “And you will not fail the SOS. Now”—he motioned to the door with his chin—“take your squabble out of here. Perhaps you can pull Mistress Chase’s braids in the common room, Master Talent.”

* * *

On the outside, Mary knew she appeared serene as she left the meeting room. On the inside, however, she quivered in anticipation. For years she and Talent had detested each other. He treated her as if she were some low, conniving wretch. Solely because she was a GIM. Lousy, arrogant bounder.

The outer hall was cool and quiet. A calm before the inevitable storm. And that storm was right on her heels. Although, in truth, Jack Talent reminded her more of a panther, all dark and brooding, his powerful body so still when at rest, yet capable of instant, violent action.

Mary headed down the corridor, knowing that, while he made no sound, Talent stalked her. The skin at the back of her neck prickled, and her heart whirred away within her breast. With his shifter’s senses, he’d hear her spinning heart, she was sure. Oh, yes, come and get me, and we shall see how well you dance around the truth now, Jack Talent. It was torture not to quicken her step or turn around.

By the time she reached the shadowed corner that led to another section of headquarters, her breast was rising and falling in agitation. Damn him.

And damn her too, for some small, traitorous part of her liked the chase, reveled in it. Gripping her weapon, she waited until his heavy hand fell upon her shoulder, and then she spun.

He grunted as they both hit the wall. The hard expanse of his chest barely gave under her weight as she pressed against him. For a moment they both panted, then his gaze lowered to the knife she had at his throat.

She had expected his rage, but not his grin, that wide, brilliant grin that lit up his dour features and did strange things to her equilibrium. His cheeky smile grew as he spoke. “Pulling iron on me, Chase? How bloodthirsty.” His hot breath fanned her cheeks. “I knew you had it in you.”

She did not ease her grip. Training with Poppy Lane had honed her skills. The slightest move from him, and he would be tasting that iron. “Trying to intimidate me, Talent?”

His body tightened, but he kept his hands at his sides. “What the devil are you playing at? You aren’t a field agent. You’ve been hanging on to Mrs. Lane like a limpet, and now you want to partner.” He leaned in, not flinching when the tip of her iron blade cut into his skin. “With me.”

A rivulet of crimson blood trickled down his throat. She tore her gaze away from it. “This is the most important case the SOS has seen all year. Any regulator would be mad to pass up the opportunity to take it.” When he snorted, she gave him a pretty smile. “Who my partner is makes little difference.”

His lips pressed into a flat line. “This is my investigation. It always has been.”

From the moment she’d asked Poppy to be assigned to the case, she’d known she’d face his rage. But she’d told Talent the truth: Having the opportunity to move away from her assistant’s role into fieldwork was not to be missed. And if he was guilty of murder, she would be the one to take him down. Keeping that little personal victory in mind, it was easy to give him a bland look. “Oh yes, and you’ve done a bang-up job with the case so far.”

His growl seemed to vibrate through her, but Mary ignored it and the way the hairs lifted along the back of her neck. “What gave you reason to believe that it would remain yours alone after all this time, when you have nothing to show for your efforts?”

With an unfortunately easy move, he shrugged free. She let him; bodily contact was not a situation she wanted to prolong, as it was far too unsettling. He loomed over her. “Toss out what insults you will, Mistress Merrily.” He poked her shoulder with a hard finger. “But do not for a moment try to undermine me. You think I’m a bastard now, try handling me in a temper.”

He turned to storm off when she grabbed his lapel and hauled him back. Taking pleasure in the shock that parted his lips, she smiled. “I’ve seen your temper, Master Talent. You haven’t been privy to mine.” With lazy perusal, her gaze took in his heightened color and narrowed eyes. “While you’ll be shouting about like a tot who’s lost his lolly, I’ll be the lash you never saw coming.”

It was quite satisfactory to leave him openmouthed and silent—for once.

About the Author

Kristen Callihan is a child of the eighties, which means she’s worn neon skirts, black lace gloves, and combat boots (although never all at once), and can quote John Hughes’s movies with the best of them. A lifelong daydreamer, she finally realized that the characters in her head needed a proper home and thus hit the keyboard. She believes that falling in love is one of the headiest experiences a person can have, so naturally she writes romance. Her love of superheroes, action movies, and history has led her to write historical paranormals. Kristen lives in the Washington, D.C., area. And when not writing, she looks after two children, one husband, and a dog—the fish can fend for themselves.

You can learn more at:

KristenCallihan.com

Twitter @Kris10Callihan

Facebook.com/KristenCallihan

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After a fire consumes the Ellis family fortune, the beautiful and resourceful Miranda finds herself faced with an impossible dilemma: enter a life of petty crime or watch her family succumb to poverty. But once her fiancé learns of her descent into danger—and of the strange, new powers she’s discovered—saving her family may come at the high price of her heart.

When Lord Benjamin Archer’s one chance for redemption is destroyed by corrupt London antiquarian Hector Ellis, he vows to take what Ellis values most—his daughter, Miranda. Forced to hide his face behind masks, Archer travels the world hoping to escape the curse that plagues him so that he can finally claim his prize.

But once Archer returns home to London, will it be revenge he seeks? Or will the flame-haired beauty ignite new, undeniable desires?

* * *

Once the flames are ignited…

Miranda Ellis is a woman tormented. Plagued since birth by a strange and powerful gift, she has spent her entire life struggling to control her exceptional abilities. Yet one innocent but irreversible mistake has left her family’s fortune decimated and forced her to wed London’s most nefarious nobleman.

They will burn for eternity…

Lord Benjamin Archer is no ordinary man. Doomed to hide his disfigured face behind masks, Archer knows it’s selfish to take Miranda as his bride. Yet he can’t help being drawn to the flame-haired beauty whose touch sparks a passion he hasn’t felt in a lifetime. When Archer is accused of a series of gruesome murders, he gives in to the beastly nature he has fought so hard to hide from the world. But the curse that haunts him cannot be denied. Now, to save his soul, Miranda will enter a world of dark magic and darker intrigue. For only she can see the man hiding behind the mask.

* * *

Once the seeds of desire are sown…

Finally free of her suffocating marriage, widow Daisy Ellis Craigmore is ready to embrace the pleasures of life that have long been denied her. Yet her newfound freedom is short lived. A string of unexplained murders has brought danger to Daisy’s door, forcing her to turn to the most unlikely of saviors…

Their growing passion knows no bounds…

Ian Ranulf, the Marquis of Northrup, has spent lifetimes hiding his primal nature from London society. But now a vicious killer threatens to expose his secrets. Ian must step out of the shadows and protect the beautiful, fearless Daisy, who awakens in him desires he thought long dead. As their quest to unmask the villain draws them closer together, Daisy has no choice but to reveal her own startling secret, and Ian must face the undeniable truth: Losing his heart to Daisy may be the only way to save his soul.

* * *

Once blissfully in love…

Poppy Lane is keeping secrets. Her powerful gift has earned her membership in the Society for the Suppression of Supernaturals, but she must keep both her ability and her alliance with the Society from her husband, Winston. Yet when Winston is brutally attacked by a werewolf, Poppy’s secrets are revealed, leaving Winston’s trust in her as broken as his body. Now Poppy will do anything to win back his affections…

Their relationship is now put to the ultimate test.

Winston Lane soon regains his physical strength, but his face and heart still bear the scars of the vicious attack. Drawn into the darkest depths of London, Winston must fight an evil demon that wants to take away the last hope of reconciliation with his wife. As a former police inspector, Winston has intelligence and logic on his side. But it will take the strength of Poppy’s love for him to defeat the forces that threaten to tear them apart.

* * *

Available December 17, 2013

Once a heart is lost in shadow…

Life has been anything but kind to Mary Chase. But the Society for the Suppression of Supernaturals has given her purpose. Now she’s been tasked with catching a vicious murderer dubbed the Bishop of Charing Cross. But someone is already on the case—and the last thing he relishes is a partner.

Only someone who lives in darkness can find it.

Jack Talent has been alone with his demons for many years.

He never expected to have the willful Mary Chase assist him on the Bishop case. Their age-old rivalry reaches new heights—even as their desire for each other reaches a fever pitch. Though he aches to bring her close, Jack’s dark secrets are a chasm between them. With dangerous enemies closing in, Jack must find the strength to face the past… or risk losing Mary forever.

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Grace King fell in love with Jax Anderson, her big brother’s best friend, when she was six years old. Eleven-year-old Jax came to her rescue when some older boys were bullying her, becoming Grace’s knight in scuffed-up sneakers on the spot.

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Ember (short story)

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Winterblaze

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Contents

Cover

Title Page

Welcome

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

An Excerpt from Shadowdance

About the Author

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Also by Kristen Callihan

Newsletters

Copyright

Copyright

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright © 2013 by Kristen Callihan

Excerpt from Shadowdance copyright © 2013 by Kristen Callihan

Cover design by Christine Foltzer

Cover art by Gene Mollica

Cover copyright © 2013 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.

All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at permissions@hbgusa.com. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

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ISBN 978-1-4555-7777-4