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Knights Divided
Suzanne Barclay
Though Emmeline Spencer captured Jamie Harcourt as her prisoner, the rogue adventurer stole kisses from her that were sweet beyond her wildest imagining. Yet how could Emma love the man suspected of the murder of her beloved sister? Heir to the Sommerville legacy of bravery, Jamie Harcourt had willingly entered a maze of intrigue knowing full well there was little hope of escape. Though he hadn't counted on the interference - or the inspiration - of the Lady Emmeline.



Table of Contents
Cover Page (#u3a889858-d1ca-54ad-a5d7-381ef306dd0e)
Excerpt (#u9cf72bff-ec2d-5b2c-8e9b-e79d73c894ae)
Dear Reader (#u560ae63b-ec1e-5e51-9e91-d92f18a6aca4)
Title Page (#u0a025cf1-bc43-50bd-a817-61691ad40a08)
About the Author (#ue9c7c355-a5b6-5208-b9fb-5cde1b10838f)
Prologue (#ucb6da1c2-6a9c-5408-b06e-7fa3a450ee29)
Chapter One (#u2919d12b-2afb-57f6-8b0d-300c27239b64)
Chapter Two (#u60538f92-ca19-52eb-a8ed-ad5352ef5648)
Chapter Three (#u084fca1e-be0a-58cb-a057-0b241347c2d7)
Chapter Four (#ud9f90dcf-3ea3-58a2-b9c8-7c490332c67e)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

“Unhand me!” Emmeline tried,
futilely, to escape.
“Not just yet, Emma. First we are going to talk.”
“Emmeline.”

Jamie turned her and sat her down on one muscular thigh. “That name does not suit you. ’Tis too formal and stuffy for a lady with your spirit and passion.”

Emmeline’s mouth gaped open. She snapped it shut. “You know naught about me,” she sputtered.
“You forget, I’ve sampled that fire you seem so determined to hide.” He glanced briefly at her mouth, a subtle reminder of the devastating kiss they’d shared. When his gaze returned to hers, its intensity was anything but subtle. Blatant desire flared in that single midnight eye.

Emmeline gasped sharply as an answering heat streaked through her. It sank deep, touching some hidden core of herself. like a sleeping dragon, the seed unfurled again, spreading the flames. “Nay,” she whispered, denying the rush of sensation….
Dear Reader,

With this month’s Knights Divided, Suzanne Barclay again returns to her award-winning Sommerville Brothers series. Emmeline Spencer kidnaps Jamie Harcourt, believing that he is responsible for the death of her sister, but the innocent Jamie escapes;. turning the tables on her and bringing Emmeline along as his captive. Don’t miss this exciting story where lovers must battle evil before they find true happiness.
On the trail of a gang of female outlaws. Federal Marshal Clay Chandler doesn’t realize that he’s falling in love with their leader in Judith Stacy’s heartwarming Western, Outlaw Love. Haunted by their pasts, a gambler and a nobleman’s daughter turn to each other for protection against falling in love in Nina Beaumont’s new book, Surrender the Heart. And in Bogus Bride, by Australian Emily French, spirited Caitlin Parr must convince her new husband-that although he had intended to marry her sister, she is his true soul mate.
Whatever your taste in reading, we hope you’ll find a story written just for you between the covers of a Harlequin Historical novel. Keep a lookout for all four titles wherever Harlequin Historicals are sold.

Sincerely,

Tracy Farrell,
Senior Editor
Please address questions and book requests to:
Harlequin Reader Service
U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269
Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3

Knight’s
Divided
Suzanne
Barclay




www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

SUZANNE BARCLAY
has been an avid reader since she was very young; her mother claims Suzanne could read and recite “The Night Before Christmas” on her first birthday! Not surprisingly, history was her favorite subject in school and historical novels are her number-one reading choice. The house she shares with her husband and their two dogs is set on fifty-five acres of New York State’s wine-growing region. When she’s not writing, the author makes fine furniture and carpets in miniature.

Prologue (#ulink_c39ffd3f-8271-5a10-9a40-b8abbbcf51f1)
Derry, EnglandSeptember 4, 1386
“Mistress? There’s soldiers come into the shop asking for ye,” Peter whispered from the door of the workroom.
Emmeline started, scattering the costly saffron threads she’d been transferring to a parchment packet for a customer. “Did they say what they wanted?”
Her apprentice shook his head so violently blond hair whipped across his fear-filled eyes. “Th-they s-said they had to tell ye something.”
Something bad. “Did they mention Cedric?”
“Nay, ’twas ye they asked for, not yer sire.”
“I see.” Drat. Six months ago she’d nearly lost the shop paying up his gambling debts, and he’d promised…Emmeline sighed. She’d learned early that Cedric le Trompour’s promises were seldom more than a puff of breath. And that usually stinking with sour ale. What had the old reprobate done now? And how much was it going to cost her to extricate him?
Through the open doorway that separated the shop from the back room where she stored the more costly herbs and made creams from her mother’s recipes, Emmeline glimpsed the three men who’d invaded her establishment. Two were obviously soldiers, hard-faced men in dark livery with watchful eyes and huge swords.
The third stranger was a rumpled little man who prowled the shop’s interior, poking a pudgy finger into the bunches of dried herbs with the air of complete absorption. His face” was round and wrinkled as the old-fashioned brown gown he wore. A rim of frizzy gray hair lapped at the edges of his bald pate like moss on a shiny rock. He didn’t look like the sort of man who’d demand she sell the apothecary shop she’d inherited from her mother just to satisfy a drunken old fool’s gaming debts.
Emmeline drew in a steadying breath. “I’ll see what they want. Please finish packaging this saffron for Dame Wentworth, Peter, and mind no more than three threads per packet.”
“Mistress…” Peter caught at the sleeve of her gown, his thin fingers stark against the brown wool. “Let me go with ye. If there’s trouble, I can help.”
Despite her trepidation, Emmeline smiled. Though he was only three and ten, Peter was a good lad and likely to make a fine apothecary. Providing she didn’t lose the shop before his training was completed. “I’ll be fine.”
“I beg ye leave the door open,” he whispered as she left the workroom. “If they threaten ye, I’ll come running.” And he would, too. They were closer than apprentice and mistress, more like the only family either of them had. Peter was an orphan, and Emmeline nearly so. Her mother had died a year ago after a long illness, and her father…well, Cedric had been dead to Emmeline ever since she’d found out what he was.
More to salve Peter’s pride than out of any actual fear, Emmeline left the door ajar and stepped into the store. The soldiers tensed; the little man looked up. His eyes were brown, large and sleepy-looking in the gentle folds of his face. He resembled an old hound roused from his warm spot by the fire.
That comfortable comparison gave her the courage to answer his sad little smile with a tentative one of her own. “May I help you?” she inquired past the lump in her throat.
“Mistress Emmeline Spencer?” he inquired, bowing from the hips, for his belly precluded anything else. “I am Sir Thomas Burton, come up from London to speak with you on a matter of some—” his fleshy features tightened —some delicacy.”
“London”. Emmeline’s heart sank. Whatever trouble Cedric had gotten into would be expensive. “What has he done?”
“Who?”
“My…father,” she admitted. “Cedric le Trompour.”
“Le Trompour is your father?” Sir Thomas pursed his lips. “I had not realized he had chil…oh.” A flush stained his jowls as he made the obvious leap.
“My sister and I are Cedric’s natural daughters.” A prettied-up way of saying they were bastards.
Sir Thomas coughed. “Then Alford is your grandfather.” At her nod, his frown deepened. “I wished I had known. I’d have taken my news to Cedric, or to Old Alford.”
“Grandfather disowned Cedric years ago and won’t give you a farthing to repay his debts.” She, however, was more vulnerable. Though he’d failed to wed her mother, Cedric was her father, and could dispose of her as he wished. Thus far, she’d managed to forestall any marriage plans by keeping him in coin.
“I am no usurer come to collect my due.” His gray brows knit together. “I hate to presume on your hospitality, but is there a place where we might speak in private?”
“In private?” Belatedly Emmeline looked out the large window that faced Market Street. Bunches of dried herbs, rosemary, thyme and mint hung from the open shutters. The wide sill formed a counter on which sat baskets of pepper, black and white, both ready to be weighed up for sale. Most days she had a modest flow of customers. Today the opening was crammed with people absently fingering the merchandise while staring at the unfolding drama.
Emmeline felt the color rise in her face. No matter how hard she worked to erase the stains of her own past and the continuing stigma of Cedric’s debauchery, she was ever the object of the town’s pity, scorn and ridicule.
“My men could give your apprentice a hand in closing the shop,” Sir Thomas suggested.
Oh, it must be very bad. Emmeline’s fists clenched a little tighter in the folds of her gown as she called, “Peter.”
The boy popped out of the storeroom like a rock launched from a catapult. Brandishing the large pestle she used to crush peppercorns, he flew at Sir Thomas.
“Peter!” Emmeline grabbed her protector by the arm before the blow landed. “Please, do not hold this against him.”
“On the contrary. I find his defense of his mistress quite a tribute in this day of deceit, murder and betrayal,” Sir Thomas said so forcefully Emmeline wondered who or what he was.
She found out soon enough. Leaving Peter to deal with the flood of customers—under the watchful eye of the two soldiers—she led the way up the stairs to the small solar.
“Er, can I offer you wine?” Emmeline asked, not at all used to entertaining men. Cedric’s perfidy had made her ’distrust men, and she avoided them as much as possible, except for Toby, who’d been with the family forever, and Peter, who was just a lad.
“Tis most kind,” Sir Thomas said. “We’ve had a long, dusty ride.” The sturdy chair by the hearth, the best piece of furniture she’d inherited from her mother, creaked as he lowered his bulk into it. “But only if you’ll join me.”
Stiff with dread, Emmeline forced herself to walk to the side table and fill the two cups that stood next to the pitcher. Her neck prickled, but when she turned, Sir Thomas was looking around the room, not at her. No doubt gauging the worth of the furnishings. She wished she’d never brought him up here to see the few things she’d thus far managed to keep. The trestle table and stools her greatgrandfather had made, the tapestry and pair of silver plates.
Angry now at her own helplessness, she thrust the crockery cup at her visitor. He accepted it with a gracious smile, then gestured to the smaller chair that had been her mother’s. “Won’t you sit?” he asked.
Nay. She wanted to stamp and scream and throw things. She wanted to kick the stools and hurl the plates against the whitewashed walls. Impotent rage warred with her mother’s strictures. “You have a strong will, Emmeline,” she used to say. “Use it to overcome the base emotions you inherited from Cedric.”
Emmeline’s fingers knotted behind her back. “If you will kindly state your business, sir.”
“Mayhap we should send for your father.”
“Ha! So this does concern him.” Inside her, something cracked. Like a kettle set too long to fire, her anger boiled over. “This time I will not pay. I don’t care if you throw him in debtor’s prison. I don’t care if you—”
“I spoke truly when I said I haven’t come to collect money,” Sir Thomas said gently. “It…it is about your sister.”
“Celia?” Her anger evaporated. “What has happened now?”
“Now? Has she been having trouble of some sort?”
All her life. Beautiful Celia with the laughing eyes and insatiable appetite for self-indulgence inherited from their sire. She was Emmeline’s opposite in all things—pretty, popular, irresponsible. Though their mother had constantly harped about her younger sister’s frivolous ways, Emmeline loved her dearly.
“Not trouble, exactly,” Emmeline said. “But sorrow, surely. Two years ago she wed Roger de Vienne.” Proving herself as susceptible to a rogue as their mother had been, but he’d given Celia the one thing she wanted more than anything, a chance to leave Derry for the gaiety of life in London. The prize had not come without a heavy price. “Roger was killed six months ago.” Run through by a husband who’d returned home at a most unexpected and inopportune moment Celia had retired to Derry briefly till the scandal had died down, but declared she couldn’t work in the apothecary or bury herself in the country. “Is it money?” Like Cedric, Celia never seemed to have enough.
“Nay.” Sir Thomas set aside his cup and scrubbed a hand over his face, rearranging the fleshy folds into a mask of regret. “I am so sorry to bring you this news, but your sister is dead.”
“Dead!” The air whooshed out of her lungs, taking with it the starch in her knees. She sank into the chair. Tears blurred her vision; a dozen questions whirled in her brain. “H-how?”
“She was murdered,” Sir Thomas said softly. He handed her a linen handkerchief and went on, the explanation falling like hot acid on her aching heart. Two weeks ago, Celia’s maid had gone to awaken her mistress and found her dead. “I apologize for the delay, but it took me that long to conclude my investigation and locate you…through some letters in her possession.”
Emmeline battled her tears. “H-how did she die?”
“She was strangled.”
“Strangled?” Emmeline’s throat contracted. “By a thief?”
“No one had forced their way in, and naught was missing. Nor did Lily see anyone, for Mistress Celia had sent her off to bed. Despite the late hour, Lily says she was expecting a visitor.”
“A lover who killed Celia in a passionate rage.”
“Do you have proof of that?”
“Nay.” She was appalled she’d spoken aloud. “I am given to fanciful musings, I fear.” She’d tried so hard to break herself of such nonsense, to be practical and logical like her mama. But Cedric came from a long line of minstrels, and the urge to weave romantic tales seemed to be bred into her.
Sir Thomas nodded. “Small wonder. The minstrels fill women’s heads with songs of love and passion. Actually, we do believe Celia’s visitor was a lover. She had undressed and donned her bed robe. Do you know if she was involved with someone?”
“I had a letter from Ce-Celia a month ago. She mentioned a man.” Emmeline rushed to unlock the chest where she kept her receipts and papers. A rare letter from Celia was tucked along the side. As she took it out, she saw the ledger wedged into the corner, and a pang of guilt went through her. It contained the verses she’d penned in secret With her mother gone, there was no longer any reason to hide them, but it seemed unfaithful to Mama’s memory to flaunt a skill she’d detested.
Emmeline returned to the chair and unrolled the letter. Celia’s scrawl was as erratic and impetuous as her personality. Oh, Celia, I shall miss you so. Tears blurred her vision. She blinked them back. A Spencer did not cry in public. “’I have met the most…’” She squinted. “’Wonderful,’ I think this says. ‘Wonderful man. Lord Jamie Har…Har-something.’”
“Harcourt”. Sir Thomas grunted in what sounded like disgust.
“What is it? Do you know him?”
“Aye, and I’ve questioned him, too. I said naught before because I did not want to put words into your mouth, but Lily said Mistress Celia was having an affair with Lord Jamie. Though she was not certain ’twas he your sister expected that fateful night. Do you know how long she’d been involved with him?”
“I—I don’t. Celia seldom wrote or came to Derry, and I…I never cared for the city, so I didn’t visit her.” Reaction trembled through her. “I should have. I should have—”
“Humph. No sense flaying yourself over that, mistress. What else does she say about James Harcourt?”
Emmeline looked down, frowning. “He owns a ship…and is always sailing off on some…adventure or another, but when he comes back this time, I’m certain he’ll wed me.’”
“Humph.”
“I take it Lord Jamie is not the marrying sort”.
“He’s said to have been through more women than three men.”
Emmeline wasn’t surprised. Like mother, like daughter. “Do you have any proof he killed her?”
“Nay,” he said slowly. “But there’s one more thing you should know. Lily suspected your sister was carrying a child. Though Lady Celia hadn’t named the father—”
“My God! Celia tried to use the child to force him to wed her and he…he killed her.”
“We cannot know that,” he said gently. “Lord Jamie was out to sea when your sister was killed.”
“Then he had her killed.”
“Of that, I’ve no proof.”
“But…you mean he’ll go free? He’ll get away with murder?”
He sighed. “Without proof, my hands are tied. ’Tis possible she was also, er, involved with another,” he murmured.
Emmeline stiffened. “My sister was not like that.”
“Life in London is more, er, free than it is here.”
“Bother that. What about justice? Does Celia go unavenged?”
“I cannot prosecute a man like Lord Jamie, a wealthy lord from a powerful family whose friends number among them John, Duke of Lancaster, without proof.”
Emmeline’s chest tightened, and with it, her resolve. Sir Thomas’s hands might be tied, but hers weren’t. She didn’t know how, just yet, but one way or another, she’d prove this James Harcourt had murdered Celia and make certain he was punished.

Chapter One (#ulink_869bc1ed-a1d9-566e-ac75-3054ca00a85d)
Harte CourtSeptember 18, 1386
It was dark by the. time Jamie Harcourt drew rein at the crest of the knoll. Not that he needed the light to guide him, for this was the land of his birth. He’d explored these fields and forests from the time he could walk, and every square inch was indelibly engraved on his mind.
Yet a thrill went through him as he looked across to the keep built high on the opposing bluff. Harte Court was as vast as a small city, its four sturdy towers and countless dependencies tucked safely behind twelve-foot-thick walls. Fierce and intimidating, some called it the impregnable fortress, but to him it was home. Or had been once.
Home. A pang of longing struck him, swift, sharp and totally unexpected. After seven years in exile, he’d hoped he’d gotten over his attachment to this place. Now he knew he never would. As the eldest son, Harte Court was his birthright, yet he could never claim it. The familiar bitterness rose up inside him. Impatiently he shoved it away. His time here was short, too short for useless regrets.
“No sense borrowing trouble when we’ve plenty enough, eh lad?” He patted Neptune’s glossy black neck and kneed the stallion back onto the road. The air smelled sweet indeed to a nose more used to the tang of the sea. ’Twas fragrant with the mingled scent of ripe wheat and the wildflowers nodding in the hedgerows separating the fields into neat squares. Prosperous and well tended, he mused. There seemed to be more cultivated land than he recalled from his youth, but then, he’d been more interested in chasing the maids and learning to wield a sword than overseeing the estate that would one day be his.
Now he could not afford to care.
Resolutely pinning his gaze to the ribbon of dusty road, he thought instead of the things he must do after he’d paid his duty call. Return to London. Meet with Harry. Sail quickly back to Cornwall. Tight schedule. No time for lagging or sentimentality.
“Who goes there?” demanded a gruff voice.
Jamie looked up, startled to find the moment he’d been anticipating and dreading was nearly at hand. The drawbridge had been lowered over the moat, but was manned by a guard of twenty. Not surprising in these troubled times. “Jamie Harcourt, come to bid my mother well on her name day.”
“The hell ye say.” A stout soldier in Harcourt green and gold strode forward and held a torch aloft. “Jesu, it is ye.”
Jamie laughed. “I know. George of Walken, is it not?”
“Ye’ve a good memory, milord.” The old warrior grinned. “Yer sire said ye’d come to honor yer lady mother, but—”
“No one thought I’d dare show my scarred face.”
George looked at the patch covering the ruins of Jamie’s left eye, then away. “There was some who thought ye’d not come…considering that murder business, but I wagered on ye.”
The reference to Celia made his stomach lurch. Would that mistake haunt him, as well? “How much did you win?”
“A pound, all told.” George chuckled. “New men. They don’t know ye as well as I do.” His smile dimmed. “I was always sure ye’d be back. I just didn’t know ’twould be so long.”
“Ah, well, black sheep are never certain whether they’re welcome or not,” Jamie replied with a cheeky grin.
“Ye were never that,” George said stoutly. “Just a high-spirited lad who pulled his share of pranks, ran off to sea and found he liked the adventuring life better than all this.”
A few pranks…like getting himself maimed, his brother crippled and breaking his parents’ hearts. How he wished he could go back and live his life over, but that was impossible. “Fortunately my brother isn’t cursed with my wild nature.”
“Sir Hugh’s been a fine lord in yer stead. Fair and honest and as hard a worker as any under him. But…but he can never be the warrior ye are. What if we are invaded by the French?”
“I doubt the French will come, but if they do, good old Hugh will do what’s needful. He always rises to the occasion.”
“Aye, that he does.” George glanced at the patch again, no doubt recalling the day that had changed Hugh’s and Jamie’s lives forever. “Ye just missed him, rode down to settle some trouble in the village not half an hour past. I could send someone to—”
Jamie shook his head. “Unless Hugh has changed greatly, he’d not thank either of us for dragging him from his duty for so frivolous a thing as greeting his errant twin. I’m certain he’ll return before I leave. Thanks for wagering on me, George.” For believing in me where others have not, Jamie thought to himself.
Kneeing Neptune into a trot, Jamie passed under the teeth of the portcullis and up the road that cut through the outer bailey. Here were the barracks for the soldiers, the stables and the training field. A wave of nostalgia assailed him as he recalled the many hours spent in the tiltyard learning to wield a sword under his father’s exacting eye. The memory was tainted by the fierce competitiveness between himself and Hugh, the strife that had ended in a blood-spattered glade seven years ago.
Look ahead…never back, he warned himself.
All hope of slipping within, seeing his mother and leaving without causing a stir vanished when he rode through the gatehouse and into the inner ward. The courtyard was washed bright as day by the hundred torches fixed to the massive stone towers and packed with those who’d come to celebrate the forty-third anniversary of Lady Jesselynn’s birth. From inside drifted the sounds of music, laughter and general merrymaking.
The ringing of Neptune’s shod hooves on the cobblestones brought several heads around. The crowd in the courtyard fell silent quickly, as though they’d all been struck mute at once.
“Pon my word. ’Tis young Jamie,” a man exclaimed.
His name riffled through the crowd like an ill wind. Men’s eyes widened, their mouths twisted over words he’d heard before: Ingrate. Brigand. Wastrel. Murderer. The older women flinched and crossed themselves; the younger ones giggled and stared.
“Dieu, he’s a handsome one,” said a blonde upholstered in red silk. She appraised him as greedily as she might a slice of beef.
“Too rough. Too dangerous ”hissed her companion.
Beneath her elaborate headdress, the blonde’s eyes sparkled with a lustfulness he’d had directed at him by women from the time he sprouted a beard. “I certainly hope so.” She sauntered over, laid a hand on his hose-clad knee and gazed up at him through kohl-darkened lashes. “Did you really lose your eye battling the pirates?” she purred.
Jamie grinned, tempted to oblige her by lifting the black leather triangle. That’s what they wanted…men and women alike…a peek under his patch. Well, jaded ladies like this one wanted a bit more, a quick tumble to judge for themselves if he was as dangerous as he looked, as hedonistic as his reputation. Many’s the time he’d been only too happy to oblige. But not tonight. “Not pirates, milady,” he replied, cool but courteous. “I fear the story is far less colorful.” Far more tragic.
“A jealous woman, then?” she asked archly, wetting her lips, clearly not discouraged by his lack of warmth. “I know I’d not take kindly to sharing you.” Leaning forward, she pressed her ample bosom against his leg, giving him an unimpeded view of the charms spilling over the bodice of her low-cut cotehardie.
Jamie groaned inwardly and struggled against the nature with which he’d been blessed—or cursed, depending on your view. Women fascinated him. They were soft, fragile and endlessly pleasurable creatures. Coy, seductive packages whose silken wrappings he could no more resist exploring than he could stop breathing. Since that near disaster with Celia, he had been celibate as a monk. His life was currently dangerous enough without added complications. “Another time,” he said gallantly. “I must first seek out my lady mother.”
“Have you come back to stay?” asked a tall man. Though older and grayer, Jamie recognized Gilbert Thurlow, chief of his father’s vassals. Gilbert had often criticized Jamie’s wild ways and doubtless preferred Hugh’s stable hands at the helm. With Gilbert stood several other Harcourt retainers, faces equally concerned as they waited for his response.
“I fear I cannot stay,” Jamie said. The sigh of relief that went through the group confirmed the difficult decision he’d made seven years ago. They were better off without him. “You’ll excuse me if I don’t linger, but I am anxious to see my parents.” He inclined his head cordially, winked at the blonde, because old habits die hard, and wheeled Neptune toward the stables.
Grinning over the whispers he’d left in his wake, as usual, he dismounted and tossed his horse’s reins to the stable boy along with a penny. “We’ve had a long ride. See he gets a rundown and an extra measure of oats, lad.”
The boy stared at Jamie. “Ye are Lord Jamie. I’ve heard tell of ye. Are ye truly a pirate, milord?” he whispered.
Jamie grinned. “Aye, that and more. What’s your name, lad?”
“Rob. I’m George of Walken’s son. Please, milord, take me with ye when ye leave.”
“Pirating’s a hard life, Rob.”
“I don’t care,” the boy said passionately. “Tis deadly boring duty here, and I’ve wanted to go to sea ever since I went with yer sire to London harbor and stepped aboard his ship.”
Jamie knew the feeling well. He’d been smitten when he was five and his father had taken him on a short voyage aboard The Sommerville Star. Later, when he’d run off to sea, his father had understood…up to a point. “You need to grow some before you’re big enough and strong enough to manage the sails,” Jamie said gently. He didn’t want to pinch Rob’s pride, but he was not taking him into harm’s way. And that’s exactly where his own ship, Harcourt’s Lady, was sailing.
“I could be yer cabin boy till I’m grown.”
“I already have a lad to serve me, but we’ll talk of this again next time I come home.”
“Promise?”
Jamie nodded. Another lie. When he returned, ‘twould be for burial in the family plot. Presuming traitors were allowed such privileges. “Saddle my horse after you’ve rubbed him down and leave him just inside the stable in case I must leave quickly.”
The last was no whim. It was as deeply ingrained a habit as sitting with his face to the door and back to the wall, or sleeping in his clothes with his sword to hand. A sad commentary on what his life had become. But more often than not a man did not choose the path he trod; it chose him. Just a little longer, he told himself. A month or so and he’d be free of this terrible responsibility. Free to get on with his own life.
And then what? mocked a harsh voice.
He knew nothing else but death and deception. Where did spies and murderers go when they gave up the craft? To hell. The now-familiar weariness crept in to weigh on his spirit and conscience. He pushed it away, having neither time nor patience for selfpity. He’d wallowed in both the year he’d lost his eye, and nearly himself. Never again, he’d vowed when his father had succeeded in hauling him back from the brink of self-destruction. Squaring his shoulders, he started for the house.
“Lady Jesselynn’s greetin’ her guests in the gardens, sir,” Rob said. “Just follow that path ’round the back.”
“I remember.” Only too well. Jamie strode down the walk that ran alongside the manor. On one side it was bordered by the stone keep, on the other by the gardens put in by his Aunt Gaby, because his mother preferred managing the estate to domestic tasks. So why couldn’t she understand why he preferred the sea to land? Because she knew it for a lie. Much as he loved sailing, he’d have stayed here if he could. But that was impossible.
Jamie rounded the corner of the castle and stopped, every muscle in his body tensing. Damn, half of London was here. The crush was too much even for the vast hall, and tables had been set about in the grassy verge between the blocks of flowers and trees. Laughing and drinking, the noble lords and ladies milled about before the stately old manor. Torches stuck in rings in the old stone walls shimmered on costly silken gowns and the precious gems banding them at throat and hip.
No expense had been spared, it seemed. To one side, a pair of sweaty-faced boys turned an oxen over a blazing fire. Platters of roasted game, pink salmon and a dozen accompaniments he recognized as his mother’s favorites crowded the long tables. Musicians played in the shadow of a pin oak tree for a line of merry dancers. Maids bearing heavy trays worked the crowd, making certain no ale cup or wine goblet went empty.
Footsteps behind him brought Jamie around. In one swift move he drew the knife from his belt and crouched to repel an attack.
“We’ve had our differences, but I hoped it hadn’t come to this,” drawled the voice that had dispelled his childhood fears.
“Papa.” Jamie sheathed his blade and straightened. Uncertain what to do, he stood still, struggling not to squirm beneath the piercing scrutiny of midnight eyes so like his own.
Time had laced silver hair at his father’s temples and etched deep lines around his mouth. Or was his own behavior responsible for his father’s air of weary resignation, Jamie wondered. An apology bumped against the lump in his throat. But what could he say that would make up for all he’d done.
“I prayed you’d come,” his father said.
“I…I shouldn’t have, I suppose,” Jamie murmured. “I’d hate to taint you with my trouble.”
“Nonsense.” The fire that never quite left Alex’s eyes flared. “You were acquitted of that girl’s murder.”
That wasn’t the trouble he’d meant. Strong was the urge to unburden himself to the one person who might understand what he was doing and why. The need for caution kept him silent.
‘Is it my imagination, or does this gaiety seem a bit frantic?” Jamie asked, smoothly changing the subject. He was good at that, so good at lies and evasion it was sometimes hard to separate them from the truth.
His father glared at the nobles, most of whom were friends and acquaintances of long standing. “They’ve gone mad. The whole damned country’s hysterical with fear of this rumored French invasion. They say Charles has mustered thirty thousand men.”
“And is reportedly readying a transport of near twelve hundred ships to bring them here.” Jamie had seen both the soldiers and ships for himself. But of course, ’twould be treason to admit as much.
“Two days ago the king ordered London’s suburbs demolished.”
Jamie gasped. “Why? Has he gone truly mad?”
“Oxford thought ’twould make the city easier to defend.” Alex shook his head. “I do not agree, but ’tis fruitless to oppose the king or his ministers. They are so anxious to find someone on whom to blame the excesses and stupidity which has landed us in these dire straits that they lash out at any who disagree with them. Walter Dunwell is a case in point. He converted his coin to jewels and tried to flee to the safety of Italy with them sewed into his tunic. He was arrested in Dover, charged with treason, and hanged before his family’s eyes.”
Jamie felt the noose tightening around his own neck. “London buzzed with talk of it when I landed a few weeks ago.” He’d barely paid them any mind, for he’d had troubles of his own. Sir Thomas Burton had met him on the docks with the news of Celia’s death and a lot of tricky questions. Damn but that had been a close brush with disaster. If not for his loyal crew—
“Nor is Walter the only one who has panicked. Those who have not succeeded in leaving are spending their money like…like sailors come ashore on their first liberty.”
“In case there is no tomorrow.”
“Aye. Fools. They’d do better to fortify their castles and hold up in them to resist the invaders.”
Jamie winced, imagining hordes of blood-crazed French troops battering down the gates of Harte Court and slaying those dearer to him than his own life. “Richard and his advisors are not fit to rule,” he said in a hoarse whisper.
“I agree they’ve brought much of this trouble upon us, but the French have taken advantage of Richard’s weaknesses and now have us in a stranglehold.” Which was true enough. Last year King Charles had captured Bruges and confiscated the goods of English merchants there, effectively cutting off the wool trade that was a main source of royal revenue. A new wool staple had been established at Middleburg, but profits were slim because the ships had to sail in armed convoys to protect them from French privateers. “The royal treasury is so depleted it cannot fund foreign mercenaries to protect us, and we nobles have been taxed to the limit.” Alex sighed. “No one disputes the fact Richard has been a disappointment. He’s headstrong, capricious and—”
“Irresponsible. Oxford and the other greedy fops he’s surrounded himself with since he cast off his uncle’s good counsel will be the ruin of us all. They are the true traitors.”
“None would dare say so. Oxford stands so high in Richard’s favor he has only to whisper a thing in the royal ear and it is done. John of Gaunt alone had the power and courage to speak out against them. Tis a pity he picked these perilous times to go to Spain and press his claim to his father-in-law’s throne.”
“Lancaster chose it apurpose,” Jamie said. “He has been so vocal in his censure of his Richard’s actions he feared the king would give in to Oxford’s urgings and put him in the Tower.”
“Are you still close with Lancaster and his brood?”
Closer than ever, but that would only hurt the father from whom he’d become estranged. Jamie had been fostered into the royal duke’s household at age nine, and a valuable, if sometimes dangerous, association it had turned out to be. “His Grace asked me to provision his ships for the voyage to Castile, and Harry and I hunted together a few months ago.”
“You’d best be careful how you go. There are some who’d like to see Lancaster or young Henry of Bolingbroke on the throne in place of Richard.”
And Jamie was one of them. “Enough of this war talk.”
The militant light faded from Alex’s eyes, replaced by quiet joy. “Aye, I’m glad you’ve come home, Jamie. Your mother has been worried about you.” He grinned ruefully. “As have I.”
“I can only stay a short time,” Jamie murmured, not wanting to raise any false expectations.
“But if there is trouble, we’ll need every fighting man.”
“I’ve never stayed away from a battle in my life,” Jamie exclaimed. “But the attack will come from the sea, and I can best serve England from aboard the Lady.” If it came to that.
His father nodded. “I suppose there is truth in that, still…” He sighed. “Though you’re a grown man, I hate having you off fighting where I cannot defend you if need be.”
Jamie longed for the days when his problems were simple enough to be solved by his father’s strong arm and sage advice. He was on his own in this, vulnerable as a fly on a whitewashed wall. If he was caught, he’d die a traitor’s death, and no one, not even his powerful foster father, would step in to save him.
So he must not fail.
“I may not have you standing behind me, Papa, but I have the skills and training you drubbed into my thick skull.”
Alex laughed. “’Twas not easy to teach a lad who thought he already knew it all.”
“Shall we see if we can find Mama. I’ve a gift for her…a dagger from the East that I think will take her fancy.” He was adept at knowing what women liked, especially his mother, whose tastes ran to practical things, not pretty baubles.
“Your presence is the best gift she could have.” He draped an arm over Jamie’s shoulder and together they worked their way around the fringes of the crowd. “Hugh should be back soon.”
Jamie stiffened instinctively, but his father only held tighter to him.
“You are both grown, now. Let there be peace between you.”
“Of course,” Jamie said, but he knew he and his twin could never live in harmony. There was too much between them. Blood and betrayal. Guilt and remorse. “I know it hurts you that we always fought when you and your brothers were so close, but Hugh and I are so different.” Hugh, the stuffy prig, Jamie the hellion.
“Aye, Hugh was ever quiet and serious—”
Cold, remote and sanctimonious.
“And you a hellion bent on mischief,” Alex added. “’Twas evident from the first night. We’d put you together in the one cradle because we hadn’t known we’d be needing two. When you awoke, you howled for attention. Hugh just lay there, quietly waiting his turn.”
Jamie laughed. “Mama said I’d inherited your temper, curiosity and thirst for adventure.”
“Ha! Speaks the woman who pitched a kettle at me when she saw me talking…only talking, mind you…with another woman. At least I learned to control my temper. And taught you the same.”
“Lessons that stand me in good stead, else I’d have shoved Hugh’s teeth down his throat every time he tattled on me.”
“Which was often and with good cause, you rascal. Ah, there are your mother, uncles and aunts.” Alex veered toward a fivesome standing beneath the spreading branches of an old oak.
How handsome they are, Jamie thought with a spurt of pride. Light from a nearby torch played softly on the fair hair of the two tall men, Ruarke, youngest but bigger and more thickly muscled. Gareth, the eldest Sommerville and now earl, and the smiling faces of the three petite women, his mother and aunts, Gabrielle and Arianna. Though Alex had also been born a Sommerville, he’d changed his name to Harcourt when he’d wed Jesselynn, last of that line, so her name wouldn’t die out. The minstrels had devoted many a verse to that romantic gesture.
“Let the French come!” Uncle Ruarke roared in a voice that in his day had urged men to victory against the French, making him the hero of Poitiers and the scourge of the Continent. “My men are well trained. They’ll not take Wilton whilst I live.”
Aunt Gaby clutched at his sleeve. “Oh, Ruarke. ‘Tis been years since you’ve fought Is there no other way?”
“Nay!” her husband shouted. “Do you impinge my skills?”
“No one doubts your strength,” soothed Gareth. “But the French number thirty thousand. How many can you field?”
“Two thousand, twice that with your men and Alex’s. And there are at least ten other nobles who can muster a like force.”
“Too little. Too late.” Gareth shook his head. “Mayhap the king is right to try and solve this by treaty.”
“Treaty!” Ruarke’s roar shook the branches overhead and caused heads to turn the length of the garden. “That effeminate little brat will lose his crown and his head if he trusts Charles. Curse the Earl of Oxford and the other greedy—”
“Hush,” Gareth interjected. “Do you want to be arrested?”
“’Tis good to see you’ve not grown soft with age, Uncle,” Jamie called before the man dug himself in any deeper.
All five whipped around. Their mouths fell open, then lifted into smiles of welcome as they rushed to him with glad cries.
“You are well come, lad.” Uncle Ruarke lifted him off the ground in a rib-cracking hug, then passed him down the line of grinning Sommervilles, their cheeks wet with happy tears.
Lastly he came to his mother. “Happy Birthday, Mama.”
Jesselynn Harcourt’s green eyes filled with the ghosts he knew he’d put there. But they were chased away by delight. “Oh, Jamie…I thought…I feared…” She opened her arms.
“I’m fine, Mama. He bent to bury his nose in the veil that hid her wild red hair. She still smelled the same, like lavender, like home, but the fragility of her body startled him. Either he had grown or she had shrunk. Before he could voice his fears, his father’s muscular arms enveloped them. For several moments Jamie stood there, soaking up the balm of their unspoken love, then a shriek rent the air and a solid body collided with his back.
“Jamie! You wretch.” Despite the harsh words, slender arms encircled his waist and clung. “Why did you not write you were coming?” wailed a muffled voice. A fist slammed into his ribs.
Grunting, Jamie released his mother and twisted about to plant a kiss on the red curls that barely reached his breastbone. “You’ve grown, bratling, but you’re still a heathen.”
“I was ten and five last birthday and know how to act the lady when I choose.” Johanna was a miniature of their mother, with flaming hair, brilliant green eyes and a wayward nature that made Jamie seem tame by comparison. Their mother had lost two other children before delivering Johanna, so she was doubly precious to them all. And spoiled. “I’m old enough to be betrothed,” she added loftily.
“Perish the thought,” Jamie teased, though the idea of his darling Jo wed to some man was intolerable. “Who’d have you?”
“Lots of people. I’m an heiress, you know.”
Jamie glanced at his father. “You haven’t—”
“Nay, I haven’t.” Alex exclaimed. “I’m never going to part with her.” He ruffled her curls. “No man is good enough for my little princess.”
Agreed, Jamie thought. Despite the differences in the sexes and ages, he and Jo were as close as he and Hugh should have been. There was always a letter from Jo waiting when he put into port, and she’d come to London a few times with their parents to see him. Hugh had never come, of course, claiming pressing work on the estate as an excuse, whilst Jamie pleaded a busy schedule as the reason he didn’t travel to Harte Court. “More like, no man is fool enough to undertake to discipline her as we never could.”
Jo snorted. “If I have to become a prissy mouse like Willa in order to catch a husband, I’ll never wed.”
“Who is Willa?”
“Willa Neville. Hugh’s betrothed.”
“This is news.”
“The contracts were signed only last week,” Alex explained. “Though they won’t be wed till she is sixteen.”
Jamie smiled. “Is she beautiful and well dowered?”
“She has her father’s hawk beak and is so homely she’d not get a husband if she weren’t a great heiress,” Jo muttered.
“That is no way to speak about your new sister,” her mother chided. “Willa is only eleven. She may…grow into her features.”
“She is Lord Matthew Neville’s only child,” Alex hastened to add. “His lands border Harte Court on the north and on the east, those of Austen Heath, the keep we gave to Hugh.”
“Trust Hugh to take a wife who will increase the family fortunes,” Jamie said more sharply than he’d intended.
“At least he is marrying,” Aunt Gaby said pointedly.
“I am certain my parents are glad Hugh thinks with his mind and not his—”
“James Harcourt!” Jesselynn exclaimed.
“I beg pardon, Aunt Gaby.” Jamie bowed stiffly. Jesu, even when Hugh wasn’t present there was trouble between them.
“I think they deserve each other.” Jo wrinkled her nose. “Willa is as dull and serious as Hugh.”
“Your brother carries a heavy load of responsibilities,” Jesselynn said, but she looked at Jamie, silently reminding him the burdens Hugh shouldered should have been Jamie’s.
I cannot, Jamie cried, staring into his mother’s hurtfilled eyes and wishing things didn’t have to be this way.
Johanna broke the tension by plucking on his sleeve. “How long can you stay?” she demanded.
Another unwelcome question. Over the guests’ laughter and jesting, he heard the minstrels strike up.a sprightly tune. “Long enough to dance with you, brat.”
Catching hold of her hands, Jamie tugged his sister toward the couples forming up for the next set. As they passed by the minstrels in their red and gold tunics, he realized one of them, the one glancing over her shoulder to speak with the leader, was a woman. ‘Twas not unheard of, merely unusual, especially since their badges identified them as members of the Golden Wait of Harrowgate, the professional troupe employed by the city of London. ‘Twas a source of great pride and prestige to be a member of the group founded by the legendary Alford le Trompour.
Out of long-standing habit, Jamie looked the woman over a second time. She was tall, her figure unfortunately obscured by the concealing folds of the simple woolen gown that fell from shoulders to hem without a belt to cinch it in. He noted she was not wearing the badge. A substitute called to fill in for an ailing player? If so, she was not much skilled, for the instrument she held was the bells.
“Jamie?” Jo asked, plucking at his sleeve.
“Hmm. I am waiting for the music to begin,” he said without looking away from the girl. Not beautiful, he mused, studying her profile. But pretty. Her dark hair had been skinned back into a single braid, exposing her high forehead, slim nose and determined chin. At the moment, said chin was thrust out in a manner reminiscent of Jo in a fury, and her cheeks were flushed. Ah, a lass with fire. He liked that.
Jamie redirected his gaze to the source of her anger, a bull of a man with black hair and coarse, florid features. He mistrusted the man on sight. The bastard’s lips moved as he took the girl to task for something. In one hand, he held a trumpet, the other beat the air as he made his point.
The girl lifted her chin further and countered with a remark that turned her opponent’s face purple.
He is going to hit her.
Without waiting to confirm the hunch, Jamie dashed across the intervening space, shoving people from his path. But he was too late. Just as he leapt over the wooden rail separating the minstrels from the dancers, the brute lashed out with one massive paw, and the girl went down in a heap.
“Bastard!” Jamie launched himself at the man. The impact of flesh hitting flesh drove the air from his lungs and toppled them both to the ground. Jamie came out on top. Conscious that the man outweighed him by several stone, he got his hands around his opponent’s fleshy throat and braced for a fight. But the man lay beneath him like a dead fish, gasping for breath and moaning piteously. “Do you yield,” Jamie rasped.
“Aye…” the man said, choking. “P-please do not strike my mouth. I…the horn.”
Thoroughly disgusted by this craven display, Jamie lifted himself off the man and sat back on his haunches. “See you never strike her again.” Speaking of which, he turned his head and found the girl sitting on the ground a foot away, her eyes round as serving platters, one hand on her cheek. He crawled over to her. “Are you all right?”
She nodded mutely.
“Let me see.” He took her hand to move it aside, and something ruffled through him. A shock of awareness, a feeling of being connected. His gaze locked on hers, and for an instant the noise and lights faded away. “Wh-who are you?” he whispered, because the air had been punched from his body by whatever was happening to him…to them.
“Em…Emmeline.” She sounded as dazed as he.
“Emmeline.” He savored the taste of it on his tongue.
“Jamie!” His father grabbed hold of his shoulder, breaking the spell. “What happened?”
“I was rescuing the fair Emmeline from yon brute.” Jamie gave her his most dazzling smile. The one that caused ladies to melt at his feet. This lady looked cold as the North Sea in December. “You’ve not asked, but I will tell you ‘tis Jamie Harcourt you have to thank for saving you.”
Emmeline pulled free of his grasp. “I know who you are.” She glared at him with such hatred she stole his breath for the second time that night. Scrambling to her feet, she speared him with one last, damning glance and dashed off into the crowd that had assembled around the musicians.
“What is going on?” his father demanded.
Damned if I know, Jamie thought, staring at the place where the mysterious Emmeline had disappeared. But he meant to find out. No woman ran away from him.

Chapter Two (#ulink_b6c0c82f-1682-588a-88ab-f44fa7b176ee)
James Harcourt was here! Her desperate gamble had paid off.
Emmeline hurried through the crowd in search of Toby to tell him the news. He’d come disguised as the minstrels groom and should be near the stables, but in her haste, she got hopelessly lost in the gardens. Dazed and winded, she sank down on a small, secluded bench to catch her breath and get her bearings.
James Harcourt had actually come to his mother’s birthday fete. Proving, she supposed, that there was a speck of decency in even the most evil of men. He charged in to rescue you from Uncle Markham, a sly voice reminded her.
Ha! Such an unprovoked attack proved Lord James was a man of violent temper and ungoverned impulses. Unprovoked? Well, he couldn’t know her foolish taunts had goaded her father’s brother into slapping her. She should have known better than to try the patience of one who had not only disliked her because he hated her father but was jealous of her talent, as well.
Poor Markham, her arrival in London a week ago had set his well-ordered world on its ear. She’d arrived on the doorstep of her estranged grandfather, half expecting to be tossed out Fortunately Alford le Trompour was not one to bear a grudge. He’d made her welcome and even cried over Celia’s death, despite the fact that she’d spurned his offers of friendship years ago. A stiffness in his limbs prevented Old Alford from getting about easily, so he’d turned the running of the Wait over to Markham, his younger son, but he still taught a few pupils.
“None of them is as gifted as you, my dear,” he’d told her as they chatted in his private chamber over a cup of wine. High praise from the man whose musical skills had made him a legend among players and leader of the famous Golden Wait of Harrowgate, the minstrel band chartered by the city.
“Thank you, sir.” She’d smiled briefly, recalling the magical summer when her father’s parents had come to Oxford to meet the children Cedric had never told them about. Small wonder, since his alliance with their mother had béen a lie and a sin. When he’d wed her, Cedric had neglected to mention the wife he already had. ‘Twas not until Olivia found out about them and followed him to Derry that Cedric’s sins had been revealed.
Cedric’s parents had been anxious to meet their only grandchildren, but embittered by Cedric’s betrayal, her mother had refused the old couple’s overtures of peace. Curious as she was to know her grandparents, Emmeline wouldn’t have defied her mother if not for the lute. The one her father had brought her; the only gift he’d ever given her. Gift, ha! It turned out the lute was a priceless antique Cedric had stolen from his father. Alford recognized the instrument as he was leaving her mother’s apothecary shop, but told her she might keep it.
Emmeline had felt bound to return the lute and sneaked out to the inn where Alford and his wife were staying. Alford had coaxed her into playing a song for him and then another. Her talent, raw and unformed, as he called it, had so impressed him he’d not only insisted she keep the lute but offered to teach her. Torn between loyalty to her mother and a soul-deep longing to make music, Emmeline had agreed. The lessons, given in secret, had opened up a whole new world for her, but the glimpse of heaven had cost her dearly. She’d deceived her mother and finally ended up hurting her nearly as much as Cedric had.
“I am sorry I could not come to London with you after that summer,” she told Alford. “But Mama collapsed, and…”
“You could not leave her.” He patted her shoulder with a gnarled hand. “You are far more loyal than your father. It’s been years since Cedric has crossed our threshold.”
Nay, I am no better than my father. Out of selfishness, she’d deceived her mother and broken her heart. And she’d failed Celia, too, but she was trying so hard to make amends. “I have come to London to learn what I can of Lord James Harcourt.”
“I know of him. He was often at court, being a member of John of Gaunt’s household. A handsome young man and much favored by the ladies, as was his father, Lord Alexander, who was accounted a rake in his day.”
Like father, like son. She explained how Sir Thomas’s hands were tied by Harcourt’s connections and his men’s testimony. Alford had immediately sent out inquiries, but they’d found naught to link James to Celia’s murder. Elusive and mysterious were two descriptions applied to the wayward Harcourt heir. He’d always had a penchant for adventure, and rumor linked him to smuggling and other illegal activities. But ‘twas speculation without a shred of proof. Adding to her frustration had been the disappearance of Celia’s maid. Lily had gone off a week ago, taking with her Celia’s few pieces of plate and the small silver brooch Emmeline had given Celia. They’d not been taken by the murderer, for Sir Thomas had listed them on his inventory of Celia’s possessions. None of Alford’s contacts had been able to find Lily. The silly girl was probably hiding somewhere, afraid she’d be arrested for thievery. Emmeline didn’t care about the pin, all she wanted was answers. And to make James Harcourt pay.
“Ah, there you are,” murmured a deep voice.
Emmeline gasped as the object of her speculation plopped down onto the bench beside her. She would have leapt up and run off, but he was sitting on the edge of her gown.
“Stay,” he commanded when she tried to wriggle free. “Why did you run away?” He stared at her intently from that single, black eye of his. Torchlight filtering in through the bushes limned his ruggedly handsome features, high cheekbones, sensual mouth and strong jaw. Even sitting still, there was a vitality about him that commanded attention. An aura of power, leashed at the moment but likely to explode as it had when he’d attacked her uncle. She’d been right to think him dangerous.
“I—I was afraid.”
“Of me.” He managed to look as guileless as a schoolboy.
Fraud. “You hit Markham, and ‘tis said you killed a girl.”
“Your uncle is a fool and a bully. He deserved a few bruises for hitting you.”
“He was wroth at me because my grandfather insisted I be allowed to play with the Wait” That much was true. When Alford had heard about the party, he’d been certain James would attend and had forced Markham to bring her. Her indignation at being relegated to playing the bells had precipitated the slap.
“Is Alford le Trompour your grandfather?”
“Aye, he is. I’m surprised you know of him.”
“He is a minstrel without equal. As a lad I sat enraptured whenever he came to play for King Edward. I longed to make music as he did.” He gazed at his wide, callused hands lying palm up on his muscular thighs. “You’d think I had ten thumbs so poorly do I play. ’Tis not fair, for I always know all the words.”
“Grandfather says it is a talent you are either born with, or not.” Unfortunately she’d gotten the gift from Cedric, along with other, less pleasant, traits.
“What is your special talent?” He watched her as though her answer were the most important thing in the world to him. His regard, his attention, were too flattering to deny.
“The lute.”
“Yet you play the bells today.”
“Aye. ‘Twas the source of the argument and the slap. Markham does not think me good enough to play with them because I am neither a trained harpist nor a member of the Wait. I am only here because—” She stopped, aghast to realize she’d been about to spill her plans for revenge to Celia’s murderer. What kind of wizard was he to make her so quickly forget her goals?
“What is it? Did the slap cause your head to ache?”
“Nay. Aye.” Emmeline put a hand to her temple. Damn, he was the most confounding man. “Why did you come to my aid?”
He grinned and laid a hand over his heart. “I am the most chivalrous of men. If I see a maiden in distress, I must ride to her rescue like the knights in the ancient ballads.”
“Humph.”
“Not even a hint of a smile to reward my foolishness? You are far too serious, my lovely little harpist”. He leaned closer, his face so near it filled her vision. “Damn.” Gently grasping her chin, he tilted it toward the light. “He marked you.” His thumb barely grazed her cheek. “I should have been quicker.”
Light as the touch was, it sent an odd tingle streaking down her neck, leaving gooseflesh behind. His fingers were so warm, his expression so full of concern she felt herself being drawn in, drowning in the depths of his dark, compassionate gaze.
Shivering, Emmeline struggled back from the edge of disaster. Pulling her chin from his hold, she said, “Please…”
“Your head aches. Small wonder.” Quick as lightning, his hands slid around to the nape of her neck and attacked her braid.
“Wait! What are you doing.” She leaned away. Or tried to, but only succeeded in getting her hair pulled. “Ouch!”
“Hold still.” He was nimble and knowledgeable. In seconds he had her braid undone. “There.” He tunneled his fingers into her hair at her temples and gently massaged her scalp.
It felt so good a moan escaped her throat.
“See. Is that not better?” he murmured. His fingers slid in farther, tracing circles on the sides and back of her head.
More than better. ‘Twas magic, pure and simple. Her mind ceased to function. Her eyes drifted shut; her head fell back into the supporting cradle of his hands, her entire being focused on the wondrous sensations created by his touch. Exciting little ripples radiated down her spine. Deep inside her, something ruffled, like a flower unfurling beneath the warmth of the sun.
“Your hair is beautiful,” he murmured, his voice blending with her drifting senses. “Dark and soft as finest silk.” His breath fanned her ear as he leaned close. “And it smells of flowers. I’d like to see it spread across my pillow.”
“Mmm,” she said from her cloud.
“But not here. My ship’s in London harbor…we sail on the tide. Will you come away with me, my lady fair? And all the wonders of love’s pleasures will we explore.”
“Mmm…what?” Emmeline’s eyes flew open as his words penetrated her haze. A pirate stared back at her, a cocky smile on his lips, his single eye smoldering with the sort of fire she’d avoided all her life. “Sweet Mary!” She yelped, jumped back and yelped again as a few hairs remained in his grasp.
“Don’t be alarmed.” His grin was a pale blur in the dimness. “I realize we’ve only know each other a short time, but I believe in plain speaking. I want you, and I think you feel the same.”
Emmeline gaped at him a moment before finding her tongue. “How…how can you think I’d agree to such a thing? Is it because I am only a common minstrel and you think—”
“There is naught common about you, Emma. What I feel for you is most uncommon, I assure you.”
“Oh, they were right. You are a rogue and a scoundrel.” And a murderer. It occurred to her that he had taken control of her inquisition. And he’d never denied killing poor Celia. Cheeks hot with shame and fury, she leapt from the bench. “You…you…”
“Easy, I meant no offense.” He stood, taking her shoulders in a painless but unbreakable grip.
Determined not to show weakness by struggling, she glared at him. “How could I not be offended by so low an offer?”
“My aim was just the opposite,” His gaze, warm and appreciative, moved over her face. He towered head and shoulders above her, sun-streaked blond hair gleaming like a beacon in the gloom. Even with the eye patch, he was a handsome man, his deeply tanned face set off by a blue velvet doublet that gave him the flash of a songbird. “I meant to laud you, to cosset you and please you. ‘Twould be good between us…I feel it.” His seductive mouth hiked up in one corner as though he knew something no one else did, a secret that would bring her untold pleasure if only she would come away with him. ‘Twas a tempting offer, especially embodied by an elegant, dangerous man. The lure of exploring such a mystery was a siren’s call to which countless women had harkened…including her sister.
Sobering thought, that. Beneath his smooth demeanor and sleek finery, he was as ruthless as a hunting hawk. “Your interest is not returned,” she said coldly. “Kindly unhand me.”
His smile fled. “Why? I know when a woman is interested in—”
“You, sir, are a lecher…a conceited lecher. I’d not share a cup of wine with you, much less a bed.” She tore herself from his grip, picked up her skirts and fled into the night.
Stunned, Jamie listened to her footsteps on the gravel path. What the hell? He had not mistaken the intense connection, the awareness that had flowed like a molten river between them.
“My compliments on the lady’s taste, whoever she was,” grated an all-too-familiar voice. Giles Cadwell strolled out of the darkness.
“What are you doing here?” Jamie demanded.
“I came with my lord of Oxford.” He was Oxford’s tool, a shrewd, ambitious man who would go to any lengths to serve his powerful master. His comely features and courtly polish belied a genius for cruelty, which Oxford exploited. A dangerous enemy, indeed, Jamie thought as Giles’s malevolent gaze cut to the path Emmeline had taken. “An interesting piece, lovely hair. Mayhap she’ll find me more to her taste.”
Jamie schooled his face to betray none of the possessi veness raging inside him. “Only if she has a preference for snakes.”
Giles’s hand went to his sword hilt. “Name the time.”
Anytime, but Jamie could ill afford to kill Oxford’s man and land himself in trouble with the crown. “I’d not want to bloody your fashionable new garments.” He looked Giles up and down. His close-fitting green doublet was cut so scandalously short it revealed the tops of his golden trunk hose and the padded, bejeweled codpiece. The church called such displays sinful. Jamie thought it boastful for a man to wander about with his private parts decked out like a Fleet Street whore.
“I’d be happy to strip them off,” Giles said. Though he looked the fop, he was a dangerous man.
They’d been enemies since their days as pages to rival lords, Jamie with Lancaster, Giles with Oxford. But it wasn’t only political. Giles had a mean streak, a penchant for abusing defenseless creatures, that Jamie found abhorrent. They’d crossed words and swords several times when Jamie had stepped in to protect some hapless victim. But tonight Jamie had to protect himself and his mission. “I’d not want to ruin my mother’s fete.”
“Ever the gallant. I’d forgotten how solicitous you are of women…except for poor Celia.”
Jamie’s hand fell to his sword hilt. “Careful, Giles…”
“I meant that the girl might still be alive had she not shunned me and gone off with you that night.”
The breath caught in Jamie’s chest; his mind whirled. If not for Giles, Jamie never would have met Celia or bedded her. Had the whole thing been staged by Giles in hopes he might use Celia to spy on Jamie? “Are you saying you killed Celia because she had the good sense to reject your advances?”
“Of course not.” Giles looked more amused than affronted. “I was not even in London that night.”
“Nor was I,” Jamie growled.
“Hmm. Your men say you were aboard ship bound for Calais, but they’d tell the sheriff whatever you bid them. I, on the other hand, was with His Majesty’s court in Lincoln…in full view of a hundred noble witnesses.”
Jamie crossed his arms and silently counted to ten…his father’s technique for controlling a hot temper. “Have you proof I was not aboard the Lady, or is this just idle talk?”
“I have no proof…yet. But I know you are up to something. I mean to find out where you keep sneaking off to.”
Jamie’s blood ran cold. Damn. Did Giles know about the ships, or was he merely grasping at straws, trying to bring him down while Lancaster was too faraway to help? If they succeeded, they’d ruin more than they guessed. Stiff as he was, he managed to shrug. “Just a bit of honest trade.”
Giles snorted. “I think you’re trading with the French. I’ve men searching the most likely ports. I’ll catch you.”
Damn. Was he looking as far as Cornwall? “Oxford would be the one to know about such things. Is his man, Roger Salisbury, not negotiating a treaty with the French?”
“King Richard is exploring all means of preventing war,” Giles said hotly. “If a peaceful settlement could be arranged, ‘twould be our salvation.”
“Or our ruin. King Charles would use the treaty as an excuse to gobble us up without having to wage a war.”
Giles’s lip curled. “Brigands such as you would not understand a pledge made between honorable men.”
Jamie glared back to hide the fact he was shaken by Giles’s astute guesses. “You wouldn’t know an honorable man if he came up and bit you in the arse.” He watched anger flare in Giles’s face. “Charming as it has been to cross words with you, if not swords, Giles, I must attend my lady mother.” Jamie walked away, as though dismissing the man as harmless when the truth was just the opposite. Giles was a danger to his plans. It had been a mistake to come here, a weakness to want to see his parents one last time…just in case things turned sour.

“Do ye still want to go through with this?” Toby asked.
Emmeline nodded, hoping the shadows in this corner of the stable hid her flushed cheeks. She’d rebraided her hair, but her emotions were still in turmoil. “I know he’s guilty. He sidestepped the question when I asked if he’d killed her.”
“Jesu, Mary and Joseph…ye cannot accuse a murderer—”
“Oh, I—I worked it into the conversation so it didn’t sound that way. He didn’t answer. You’ll never guess what he did.”
“What?”
“He…” Emmeline sucked back the rest of her words. How could she explain to Toby that she had turned out to be as weak as Celia where this man was concerned? “He attacked Markham for slapping me.”
“Markham slapped ye?” Toby’s fists clenched.
Emmeline grabbed hold of Toby’s hand. “’Twas only a slap, and I provoked him with my demands to play his lute.” See where her thirst to display her talent had gotten her? Her mother had been right, emotions were a bad thing. Twice tonight an excess of emotions had gotten her into trouble.
“I don’t care if Cedric did try to steal the Wait from him, Markham’s got no cause to take his grievances out on ye.”
“Life is rarely fair. And Cedric’s antics would try a saint Now, how are we going to capture Lord Jamie? Oh.” She straightened on the cask she was using for a stool. “I should have gone with him as he asked. ‘Twould have been easy to—”
“Gone where?”
“Er, never mind that. I think I know how we can take him.”

He had tarried too long. Jamie strode quickly down the path toward the stables. Already the moon rode high in the starry black sky, and he’d have to set a merciless pace if he hoped to reach London before the tide turned. But his heart wouldn’t let him go till he’d danced with Jo, his mother and his aunts, and talked defensive strategy with his father and uncles. He’d left behind a few tears and lies that tweaked his conscience, but he could not even hint at the desperate odds he faced.
As he rounded the keep, he spied someone walking toward him. Hugh! ‘Twas like gazing into a mirror. Except that his twin didn’t have an eye patch. Hugh’s scars were more easily hidden.
“Jamie.” Hugh stopped a few feet away, his glance going first to that damned patch. “You are looking well.” So formal. So cold, but that was Hugh for you. Ice to
Jamie’s fire.
“And your limp is scarcely noticeable.”
Hugh glowered. “Only you would be crass enough to mention my crippled leg at all.”
“Why, when I am responsible for it? I thought we’d agreed I am crass and low.” They stared at each other like rival dogs sizing each other up, except they knew each other’s strengths and weaknesses all too well. He’d forgotten how eerie it was to look into a face so like his own, yet not. The absence of the black patch wasn’t the only difference. Though Hugh was tanned from riding over the estate, his skin lacked the burnished glow Jamie had acquired from years at sea. Hugh’s chin was a little softer, no doubt because he’d stuck it out less often than Jamie had his. And his eyes were colder, his mouth unsmiling.
“You’ve come home, then,” Hugh said.
“But not to stay, so you can lower your hackles.”
“Harte Court is yours, after all.”
“True, but you’d not be pleased if I did decide to claim the estate you’ve sweated over these past years.”
“Tis yours by right of birth.” He looked grim, yet determined to do the honorable thing and step aside, if that’s what Jamie wanted. Hugh had not changed one whit.
“If not by deed.” Jamie held up his hand to forestall Hugh’s rebuttal, the bitterness so acrid he nearly choked. “I have not returned to take up the mantle I tossed you when I rode away.”
“I do not understand how you can turn your back on this.”
Because I owe you. The silence deepened.
“Where are you bound this time?” Hugh asked at length.
“To sea. I’m patrolling the coast in hopes of encountering French spies.” That, at least, was the truth.
“If the king succeeds in negotiating a peace treaty, such measures won’t be necessary.”
Jamie snorted. “The treaty could be a trap.”
“I…I agree ‘tis risky to trust the French,” Hugh said slowly. “But surely the hope of peace is better than war. Harte Court does not lie very far north of London and would doubtless be pillaged by the French if they invaded.”
“I would hate to see that happen, but—”
“I’ve done all I can to keep us safe,” Hugh said earnestly, and began detailing all the precautions he’d taken, from building new storage buildings inside the castle walls to hold more foodstuffs to arming and training the villeins to defend the lands around Harte Court.
Jamie could well imagine similar efforts going on throughout the country. The knowledge that such measures would, at best, only slow the advance of the well-armed French, strengthened his determination to see his own plans through. “You are a fool to trust the French to negotiate in good faith.”
Hugh stiffened. “How like you to want a war. To you, life is one long adventure. You were always charging into danger.”
“And dragging you after me.” Jamie fingered the patch. If he hadn’t gotten angry, hadn’t issued that stupid challenge, neither of them would have been maimed. “You saved my life that day.”
Hugh looked away, a muscle in his jaw jumping. “If I’d been closer…if I hadn’t hesitated.”
“You saved my life,” Jamie repeated, conscious this was the first time they’d discussed the fateful attack that had changed their lives so drastically. “And I know you’ll do your best for Harte Court.” He smoothly changed the subject. “I understand you are to be congratulated on your future marriage.”
Hugh shrugged. “’Tis an advantageous match. Did Papa tell you she is Neville’s daughter, and her lands—”
“Bother her lands, do you love her?”
“Love?” Hugh blinked. “What has that to do with it?”
“Everything.”
“To you, mayhap,” Hugh said stiffly. “You’ve fallen in love with every girl you saw from the time you were ten and five.”
“Ten and three,” Jamie amended, chuckling. “’Twas the rope dancer at the London fair, and she taught me such wonders.”
“You’ve lusted after low women ever since.” Hugh’s lip curled. “’Twas your duty to wed well and breed up heirs.”
Jo was right, their brother was a sanctimonious prig. “You are my heir, Hugh, and I’m well pleased to keep things that way.” His throat tightened as he realized this might be the last time he saw his family. “Take care of things here,” he said hoarsely. “If Harte Court is threatened and you need me, send word to the Killigrews at Arwenack in Cornwall.” ‘Twas as much of his whereabouts as he dared give out. Only a few people knew where he was and, of those, even fewer knew what he was really about. “Tanner, my agent at the docks, can dispatch a ship.”
“Do you really think the French will come?”
“Tis the moment they’ve waited for. A chance to repay us for the humiliating defeats they suffered at the hands of King Edward and The Black Prince. So long as they believe we are weak and vulnerable, they will come.” And we may all die. ‘Twas his last chance to wipe clean the slate. Jamie turned to face his twin. “I want you to know that I tried to sign my inheritance over to you, but the estate is entailed to the eldest, and there was naught I could do. ’Tis not fair. You should have Harte Court,” Jamie muttered. “Jesu, you’ve worked hard to make it prosperous.”
“Life is not always fair,” Hugh muttered. “I will have a fine estate when I wed Willa.”
But it wouldn’t be Harte Court. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up.”
“’Tis all right.” Hugh cleared his throat, a sure sign he had something to say. Something he deemed unpleasant. “I…we were upset when we heard you’d been accused of murdering that woman. I abandoned work on the west walls and rode with Mama and Papa to London to support you, but we arrived to learn you’d been cleared and had returned to your ship.”
“Sir Thomas had naught against me save the maid’s word her mistress had been expecting a man that night. Lily never actually saw who did visit poor Celia, but it wasn’t me. I was aboard the Lady at the time, and my men bore out my story.”
“I should have known you would come out on top…you always do. Did you know her…Mistress Celia, I mean.”
Jamie nodded. “Aye, but not well.”
“She was very beautiful. The sort of woman you like.”
Celia had been vain, stupid and shallow, but Jamie wasn’t one to speak ill of a lady. Especially a dead one. “Aye.”
“I heard she loved you.”
“Who said that?”
A shadow passed over Hugh’s face, gone so briefly it might have been a trick of the light. “’Twas the talk at court.”
“Since when are you a courtier?”
“Even crippled second sons are welcomed at court.”
“I did not mean you weren’t welcome there. “Tis a surpris—
“Aye, I’m sure you are astounded anyone could enjoy spending time with me. Icicle, is that not what you and Jo call me?”
Jamie flinched. “I am sorry that my biting wit wounded you. Despite our differences, I think you are a good man, Hugh. A better man than I.” He deeply regretted the gulf between them caused by his youthful pranks and mockery.
Hugh looked even more ill at ease.
“Lord Jamie,” called a soft voice. The overblown blonde hurried along the path toward them. “Have you a moment?”
Jamie gazed down into naughty eyes and wished they moved him half as much as Emmeline’s sober ones had. Ah, well, a man could not have everything. “Sorry, I must be going.”
“Let me come with you.” She pressed against him.
“Impossible, I’m afraid,” Jamie said with no real regret.
Hugh cleared his throat and bowed stiffly. “If you’ll excuse me, I should be getting back to Mama’s party.”
“Hugh, please take Lady…”
“Chantal,” the blonde replied.
“Of course. Please take Lady Chantal back to the—”
“I want to go with you.” Chantal pouted prettily.
“She obviously prefers you.” Hugh sounded petulant, too.
Jamie had no time to humor either of them. “Well, we don’t always get what we want.” He bowed over Chantal’s white hand, gallantly lied about seeing her in London and hurried away. “Thanks for everything, Hugh”, he called over his shoulder.
The nape of his neck began to prickle as he reached the stable. The courtyard was deserted, Rob nowhere in sight. Jamie paused at the stable door, acutely aware he’d be silhouetted in the opening when he entered to retrieve Neptune. An inviting target if someone waited within.
His ears and eyes strained to pick out any hint of trouble lurking in the dimness. All was quiet save for the low, contented sounds of horses dozing or chewing. Reassured but still vigilant, he stepped within. The new straw crunched beneath his boots, and he cursed his father’s fastidiousness. Had the straw been old and wet, his movements would have been soundless.
Neptune was saddled and waiting in the first stall. Nerves taut, Jamie reached for the reins and prepared to swing into the saddle. Straw rustled to his left. Quick as lightning, Jamie dove to his right, drawing his sword in the same practiced move and raising it to counter an attack.
“Sweet Mary,” gasped a soft voice.
Jamie stared up the length of naked steel into Emmeline’s pale, shocked face. “Emma, what are you doing here?”
“Emmeline,” she replied. “Waiting for you.”
“For me?” he echoed.
She nodded, her eyes huge, her fingers pleating her skirts.
“Is Markham after you?” Jamie leapt up, wrapped an arm around her and scanned the darkened stables for her uncle.
“What? Nay.” She looked even more uneasy, and shudders rippled from her body into his, tearing at him.
“Easy, sweetling.” He drew her closer. “Tell me what troubles you, and I’ll deal with it.”
“I…oh, this is so difficult.” She looked up at him, her lips set in a grim line.
He had a sudden urge to kiss her and soften her mouth, bend her to his will. Not now, you randy wretch. “Tell me,” he coaxed.
“I will go with you.”
“With me?”
She nodded. Her slender throat worked as she swallowed, the gulp audible in the silent stables. “If…if you still want me.”
Want was a feeble word to describe the thrill that shot through him. Anticipation. Triumph. He hid both. ‘Twas not chivalrous to gloat. “Of course I do, but what changed your mind? You were so, er, vocal in rejecting me earlier.”
She looked away, then up at him, not through her lashes as a practiced flirt might, but openly, directly. “I am afraid.”
“Of Markham,” he guessed. At her nod, he sighed. “Well, at least I am accounted the lesser of two evils. You were supposed to smile at that,” he added when she didn’t.
“I have not had much to smile about lately, milord.”
“None of that formality if we are to be, er, traveling companions.” He wondered if she meant to share his bed, then dismissed the notion as unworthy of a white knight. “Have you a horse?” he asked.
She let go the breath she’d been holding, the sound even louder than her gulp had been…and more touching. “Aye, but I fear the poor old thing will not keep up with this fine beast.”
“I could take you up with me if you’d prefer.”
“Would you mind?”
“Mind cuddling you on my lap all the way to London? I should say not.” He waggled his brows in a mock leer that never failed to make the ladies giggle.
Emma, or Emmeline as she preferred, blinked like a solemn little owl, then nodded. “Let us be about it,” she said grimly.
Damn. She really did see him as the lesser of two evils. If matters had not changed between them by the time they reached London, he’d take her directly to her grandfather’s house. ‘Twas likely for the best anyway. Though she stirred him as no woman had in years, taking her to Cornwall with him would be lunacy.
As he swung up behind her and put his arm around Emma to grasp the reins, Jamie’s good intentions faltered. That voluminous gown of hers concealed a delightfully slender, supple body. The poker stiffness of her spine as she held herself away from him only heightened his interest. What would it take to get her to relax and lean against him?
The good-natured ribbing of George and the other guards at the front gate did not aid Jamie’s seduction. He deflected their jests gruffly and nudged Neptune into a ground-eating gallop that spirited them out of earshot as quickly as possible. “Sorry about that,” he murmured, slowing as they cleared the drawbridge.
“Why? Th-they were right in what they said. You are taking me with you so you…so we…” Her voice trailed off.
“Only if you want to, Emma.”
“Emmeline.” Her back was stiffer than ever. “Tis what you do with your women, is it not? Take them to some tavern or mayhap in their own homes and…and…”
“Only if they are willing.” A new idea intruded. “Emma…Emmeline, have you ever been with a man?”
“Of course I have. D-dozens of them.”
Liar. Sweet, prickly little liar. He was stricken by absurdly conflicting urges to ravish and protect her. He was glad the distance she’d put between them would keep her ignorant of the effect she was having on his wayward body, which had already decided what it would prefer to do.
They rode along the moon-washed road in a tense silence, their only contact the brush of his forearm against her waist as he held the reins. She was shivering, dammit. Hoping it was from the chilly night air, he pulled his cloak from the roll behind the saddle and draped it over her shoulder.
“Wh-what are you doing?”
“You are cold. Since you refuse to share the heat of my body, I’m gallantly giving you my cloak.”
“Oh. Thank you.” Grudging words.
“What do you do in London?” he asked politely.
“Do?”
“You said you were not a member of the Wait. Are you your grandfather’s chatelaine? I recall his wife died years ago.”
“Oh. Aye, she did.”
“I am sorry. I didn’t mean to make you more unhappy by bringing up her death. Were you very close?”
“Nay. I—I was estranged from my grandparents until recently…because of my father, Cedric, Markham’s older brother.”
“Did he inherit leadership of the Wait, then?”
“Nay.” Short, curt and angry.
Jamie didn’t ask why. He knew full well elder sons sometimes did not follow in their father’s footsteps. “What does he do?”
“He lies and breaks hearts.”
Damn. He could feel her pain and longed to ease it, but she’d take naught from him, certainly not pity or comfort.
“Could we stop?” she asked suddenly.
Jamie started and looked around. They’d reached the tumble of rocks and trees that marked the base of the next ridge. “I cannot leave you here, Emmeline. If you want to go back—”
“Nay, I need to get down for a moment.” Her voice dropped to a miserable whisper. “I—I should have visited the garderobe before we left, but did not, and now I have to—”
“Certainly.” Jamie eyed the thick woods and giant boulders. A fine spot for an ambush. “But not here. Up on the ridge—”
“I need to get down now.”
Jamie sighed, dismounted and lifted her to the ground. She darted away into the brush. “Call if you need me.”
Almost immediately he heard a grunt and a thud.
“Emma?” He drew his sword and started forward. “What is it?”
“I—I fell…I think I’ve broken my ankle.”
“Don’t try to get up.” Sheathing his blade, he stepped into the woods. ‘Twas dark as the inside of a pocket “Where are you?”
“Here,” she called from his right.
He turned, tripped over something and pitched forward. As he brought up his hands to break his fall, something slammed into the back of his head. Pain exploded and black dots danced before his eyes. He fought it, fought to stay conscious, but the darkness sucked him down, down….

Chapter Three (#ulink_5c5484dd-280a-568c-a37b-60828dcd27f3)
Liord Giles, what a surprise to find you here.”
Giles turned away from trying to decide which of the guests he might use to spy on Jamie and started. “Oh, Lord Hugh, for a moment I thought ‘twas your brother.” “I do not see how. His patch is most distinctive.” Giles ground his teeth together. Cold, haughty bastard. Though they’d only met a few times at court, he disliked Hugh nearly as much as his twin. “Ah, you are the one with the lame leg, are you not?” he sneered, pleased to see Hugh flush. “I recall both afflictions were the result of the same incident.” Hugh’s gaze turned even frostier. “Why are you here?” So, he was as loath to discuss the event as Jamie. Interesting. Giles had heard they’d been set upon by brigands and nearly killed, but there was something else. Something in Hugh’s expression when he mentioned Jamie that made Giles’s heart leap. Anger. Jealousy. Did Hugh dislike his brother? If so, Hugh might prove useful. “I could say I was here to honor your mother,” Giles said, smiling now, “but the truth is, I came to spy on your brother.”
“What has he done now?” Hugh grumbled.
Fascinating. “The Earl of Oxford has appointed me—”
“I am well aware you are Robert de Vere’s hireling, so you needn’t wrap this up in fine linen. What has Jamie done now that will again stain our family name and wound our parents?”
“We think he and Lancaster’s son are involved in something.”
“Of course they are. Jamie fostered in Lancaster’s household. He and Henry of Bolingbroke are close as brothers.”
“What are they up to?”
“I am the last man Jamie would take into his confidence,” Hugh growled.
Better and better. “You two are not close, then?”
“Tis a fine jest that we are identical in looks, yet under the skin we are completely different. Except, of course, that we are both scarred…in our own way,” he added bitterly.
“Jamie and I never dealt well together. I did not enjoy being the brunt of his sharp tongue,” Giles said on a hunch.
Hugh snapped up the bait, his manner softening as he nodded. “I suffered the same fate till he went to Lancaster’s.”
“It cannot have been easy being Jamie’s brother.”
“You are a master of understatement. He was always first in everything, swordplay, wrestling, running, swimming and, of course, women.” A muscle worked in Hugh’s jaw, and his eyes burned with the fire of past grudges. “The victories came so easily to him, yet they meant naught. Even Harte Court, an estate any man would give his soul to possess…Jamie turned his back on it and went off adventuring.”
Giles smiled inwardly. He was the son of a simple knight, but he’d risen to the right hand of a powerful earl by exploiting others’ weaknesses. Each man had his price, and Hugh had just declared his. Harte Court. Now he saw how he might fan Hugh’s resentment into the fires of Jamie’s destruction. “You should have been the firstborn…not him.”
“Aye.” Hugh shifted his weight off his left leg and grimaced. “Jamie does not appreciate what he has.”
Giles looked around the crowded garden, then drew Hugh onto one of the shadowy paths. Lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, he said, “Oxford agrees with you. Your brother is not only unworthy of the high station he holds, he is a danger to England. We think…” Giles cast about for a suitably nefarious crime. “We think he is plotting against the crown.”
Hugh’s lips thinned. “I knew he’d go too far one day. It’s the Lancasters, is it not?”
Oh, this was too good to be true. “Has he said something?”
Hugh shook his head. “I told you he’d not confide in me.
“Quite so. Then what makes you mention Lancaster?”
“Jamie’s thick with them, and the duke has been vocal in his criticism of the king. If Lancaster decided he’d make a better king than Richard, Jamie would be certain to support him.”
Giles nearly wept with joy. Though he doubted Lancaster was plotting to usurp his nephew’s throne, he did agree with Oxford’s suspicions that the duke, Bolingbroke and Jamie were working secretly to thwart Oxford’s peace treaty with the French. ‘Twas Giles’s job to uncover their scheme before they ruined the agreement that would make Oxford the most powerful man in England…and fill Giles’s own pocket with gold.
Carefully he began to reel in the fish he’d unexpectedly netted. “We must have proof. Do you know where Jamie has gone?”
“Well…” Hugh looked uneasy. “He said he was patrolling the Cornish coast to keep watch for French ships.”
Cornwall. They’d not looked so far afield. He’d dispatch men there at once. “That area is ripe with smugglers.”
“Smuggling. I’d not thought of that,” Hugh murmured. “But ‘tis far more likely he’d be trading in stolen goods and evading the king’s tax collectors than that he’d actually try to overthrow the crown.”
Pity, Giles thought. The penalty for treason was much stiffer. “Well, I must return to London. If you hear anything you think the king should know, please contact me at once. His Majesty is lavish with his gifts to those who aid him. Who knows, you might be rewarded with an estate as fine as your brother’s.”
The grinding of Hugh’s teeth was audible. “I shall see what I can discover.”
I am certain you will.
Jamie awoke to shadows and a wretched pounding in his head. The rest of his body was so stiff and sore he wondered if he’d been beaten. Where was he? The last thing he remembered was tripping over a rope. Giles! Giles had captured him?
Terror drove out the pain. Had he talked? Then he remembered Emma, and an agonized moan clawed its way out of his chest.
“Ye’re awake,” said a coarse feminine voice. A cup pressed against his lips. But when he tried to lift his head, hot pain tore through it. “Easy, don’t try to move. Just open yer mouth.”
He obeyed, sighing as something cool slid down to ease the wool from his parched throat. Sweet wine laced with herbs. No dungeon fare this. Opening his eye, he focused on his nursemaid, an older woman in clean homespun. She offered him the cup again, and he drank, a dozen questions whirling dizzily in his mind. When she took the cup away, he asked the uppermost one. “Emma?”
“If ye’re meaning Mistress Emmeline, she’s sleeping.”
“Safe?” At her nod, he took heart. “Where am I? How long have I been here?”
“Two days.”
“Can’t stay.” Jamie tried to sit up. There was a loud clanking noise, and something caught at his wrists and ankles. That was nothing to the agony in his head. Fighting to stay conscious, he lay still. When the worst of the pain had passed, he rolled his good eye toward the maid. “Have I bedded down in the scullery with the pots and pans?” He smiled faintly.
“Nay…” She frowned.
The pounding in his head disoriented him. “Then where am I?”
“Tis not for me to say.”
“Is he giving you a hard time?” asked a familiar voice. Emma’s face appeared above him in the gloom.
“Emma.” The relief at seeing her was almost as dizzying as his headache. “How is your ankle?”
“Fine. Go up and break your fast, Molly. I’ll sit with him.”
Jamie smiled as he watched Emma primly tuck her skirts about her and take the stool Molly had vacated. “I fear I failed miserably at rescuing you and am now in your debt What happened? My limbs feel like they’re made of lead.”
“I expect that’s the chains,” she said flatly.
Chains? Teeth clenched against the pain, Jamie lifted his head just far enough to survey his body. His bare feet stuck out of the end of a coarse blanket, shackled at the ankles. “What the hell?” His wrists were chained, too. Belatedly his dazed brain fit the pieces together, the thin pallet on the floor, the meanness of the stone walls, the dank smell of earth and straw. “Giles Cadwell’s dungeon?” he croaked.
“My storeroom,” she countered. “You are my prisoner.”
“Yours, but why? Did Giles put you up to this?”
“No one employed me to imprison you. I have my own—”
“How much to release me. That is what this is about, is it not? Ransom,” he added when she still didn’t catch his meaning.
“Certainly not” She seemed affronted. “I want justice.”
“Because I tried to seduce you?”
“Not for myself, for my sister. Celia is…was my sister.”
Good God! “Impossible. You don’t look anything like—”
“I am aware I am no beauty, but she was my sister.”
“I didn’t kill her,” Jamie exclaimed.
“So you told Sir Thomas, but we do not believe that.” Her expression tightened. “He explained that his hands are tied—” her gaze flickered to his bound wrist, a half smile hinting at wry humor he’d have appreciated at another time “—by your alibi and your family’s prestige. I, however, am not so constrained.”
“What do you hope to gain by this insane—?”
“Your confession.”
“For something I didn’t do?”
Emmeline glared at him, disgust mingling with disbelief. “You had been my sister’s lover for several months—”
“Once! I took her to bed only once. And rued the episode almost the moment it was over.”
“So naturally when she told you she was pregnant, you—”
“Pregnant! That’s impossible.”
“You refused to marry her, and—”
“She never told me she was pregnant.”
“And when she persisted, mayhap even threatened to drag your precious family name into the mud, you killed her.”
“I did not!”
The door to the room flew open, hitting the wall with enough force to make the room tremble. A large, sturdy man strode in. “Do ye need help, mistress?”
“Nay. Toby, could you hear us upstairs in the shop?”
Shop? Jamie’s eyes widened. A shop meant people. If—
“Not a whisper,” Toby said.” This room’s hollowed out of solid stone. Ye could scream your lungs out down here, and no one would hear ye.” As he spoke, the big man grinned and fingered the knife in his belt. “Mistress Emmeline’s got some odd notion of wringing a confession from ye. Me, I’d as leave slit yer gullet for what ye did.”
“I did not kill Celia,” Jamie said, enunciating every word as though speaking to backward children. Or lunatics, which he very much feared they were. “I was only with her the once, and that five months ago,” he protested. “If she was carrying my child, she’d have contacted me.”
“Her maid claims you were a frequent visitor this summer.
“Impossible. Bring her here. Let her say so to my—”
“Lily is not available. But according to Sir Thomas, the neighbors saw a man of your description enter my sister’s house on several nights over the past months.”
“It was not me. There is another man, a knight with a grudge against me and your sister. Giles is tall and blond, like me, and he knew your sister.”
“Celia wrote and mentioned you…by name. She said she loved you. She hoped you’d wed her. My poor, trusting sister.”
Jamie groaned. None of this made any sense. It must be some diabolical scheme of Giles’s to get rid of him. “You have my word as a knight and a gentleman that I did not murder your sister. Please, release me. I must return to my ship.”
“You’ll stay till I have your confession.”
“Nay! I have to be in Cornwall by Wednesday,” he exclaimed.
“Well, your latest doxie will just have to wait.”
“This isn’t about some woman.” He choked back his anger. “’Tis a matter of import to the whole country,” he risked adding.
“And I’m the queen of England.” Her lips thinned. “You men are all alike, full of lies and deceit”.
Jamie cut her off with a string of creative curses garnered from ten years at sea. He strained and thrashed against the chains, but they didn’t give an inch.
“You will cease spewing such filth.”
“Want I should gag him?” Toby asked eagerly.
“Nay. We will remove ourselves from earshot”. Emmeline stood and glared down at him, her arms crossed over her chest. The gesture was robbed of its militancy by the way the plain brown cloth molded to her surprisingly generous breasts.
Jamie was in no mood to appreciate the sight. “I’ll take you with me, and Toby, too, if it would make you feel safer.” Lies and more lies. He couldn’t afford to have anyone witness his meeting with DeGrys. But he was desperate enough to promise anything to get away.
“As if I’d trust you.” Her lips curled. “You’ll find I’m not the gullible fool my sister was where men are concerned.”
“Nay, I’d say you’ve shriveled into a vengeful prune because no man would have you,” he snapped.
“I thank God I am not a target for every puffed-up male who fancies himself nature’s gift to women.” She marched out, head held high as a queen, the faithful Toby close on her heels.
“Damn you, let me out!” Jamie shouted at the top of his voice.
“Not till you confess,” Emmeline snapped. She punctuated the statement by slamming the door.
“But I’m innocent,” Jamie shouted.
“Men are born guilty” came the muted response.
“Come back here.” But beyond the door, all was quiet She’d left him here. Bloody left him here. Enraged, he tugged on the chains till the rusted cuffs bit into his wrist and ankles.
“Damn. Damn!” Seething with impotent rage, he closed his eyes. If he wasn’t there when DeGrys landed, months of planning, hundreds of pounds in bribes would be wasted. Worse, he might not get another chance to act.
All because of one puny woman’s misguided sense of justice. A niggle of respect for her boldness and loyalty Worked its way past his anger. Jamie shook it away and set his mind on the only course open to him.
Escape.
By fair means or foul, he had to get out of here.

“What do ye mean ye can only give me a pound for this.” Lily picked up the brooch and shook it in the old man’s face. “Tis solid silver, and my lady set great store by it.”
“The unicorn design is unique, I grant. But it has no gemstones, and the silver’s not of the best quality,” the pawnbroker insisted. “Mayhap it had sentimental meaning to her.”
Lily sighed glumly. “Aye, her sister, Mistress Emmeline, gave it to her. My lady sold off the pieces her husband had given her after he died…so as she could buy new gowñs and such and go to court to find another. Husband, that is.” She stared into the old man’s crafty eyes, trying to gauge his honesty.
The pawnbroker was licensed, she’d asked to see the parchment. Though the words made no sense, the seal was that of London’s mayor. And the broker was hardly skulking in an alleyway. He’d set up his table outside a fine inn a block from the tavern in which she’d found work serving at table. It was early evening, and there were few about to see her barter the trinkets she’d taken when she’d left Lady Celia’s house. Not that she felt guilty. ‘Twas her due. She’d been cast into the streets with no reference to help her get another post, and Lady Celia had owed her a quarter’s wages.
“Make up yer mind,” the pawnbroker grumbled.
Lily sighed. “I’ll take the pound ye offered for the plate, but I’ll keep the brooch.” Mayhap she’d find a way to return it to Mistress Emmeline. She carefully tucked it and the coins the broker gave her into the pouch behind her belt. The cutpurses weren’t getting what little she had.
Lily headed off in the direction of the tavern. She hadn’t eaten anything since last night and hoped the cook would give her a good price on whatever was left over from the—
“Lily?” inquired a deep voice.
She whirled and saw a man behind her. He wore a long, fur-trimmed cloak, the cowl pulled forward to obscure his face. “Wh-what?” She backed away, eyes darting about for an escape route.
“Easy. I mean you no harm.” He took a step toward her. The door of a nearby inn opened, sending a brief flood of yellow light over his face.
All she saw was the patch…a slash of black over his left eye. It was him. The dark pirate who’d been Lady Celia’s lover.
“Oh, God.” She’d known he’d find her. Sobbing, she put up a hand to ward him off. “What…what do ye want?”
“Only to make certain you are all right. You disappeared so abruptly, I feared you’d seen Celia’s killer and he’d found you.”
“Nay. I…I didn’t see anything that night.”
“Really?” His single eye glittered in the shadows of his cowl, slithering over her like a snake’s.
She shivered, wondering how her gay, frivolous lady could have loved such a dark lord. Lily had never been this close to him before. He’d always come at night, mysterious and secretive as a wraith, and gone directly to Lady Celia’s chamber. Once or twice Lily had brought them refreshments, but always her lady had taken the tray at the door. She knew who he was, of course. Lord Jamie Harcourt. “Really, milord. I was in my room…sleeping.”
“You didn’t hear or see anything?”
Voices, arguing. They’d wakened her, alarmed her enough so she’d crept up the stairs to her lady’s chamber to investigate. She shook her head. “Nay.”
“Pity, if you had, you might have seen her killer.” The very silkiness of his voice raised her hackles.
Jesus, Mary and Joseph, had he done it? Had he been in London? In Lady Celia’s chamber, instead of out to sea? Lily was taking no chances. She had survived for years on her wits; she hoped they’d save her now. “I’m a sound sleeper.”
The lie stuck in her throat, clogged by the memory of what she’d seen when she’d crept up the stairs and peeked through the keyhole…her poor lady lying on the floor, sightless eyes staring at the ceiling. Lily had known Lady Celia was dead, but she’d started to go to her anyway. A sound had stopped her.
A rasping sob. The harsh breathing of someone else in that chamber. An instant later, a shadow had fallen across Lady Celia’s face. A man’s hand had reached out to touch her face.
Lily hadn’t waited to see anything more. She’d fled down the stairs and out the back door. Clad only in her shift, she’d cowered in the privy till dawn when the cook had came out and rousted her from her hiding place. Lily had been tempted to pack and run, but she’d been more afraid of being accused of the lady’s murder herself than that the murderer would guess she’d seen him. It seemed she’d made a tragic mistake.
“Why did you leave Celia’s?” Lord Jamie asked.
She itched to run, but he was too close. The street was empty except for a drunk snoring in the gutter. “To find work.”
“Of course. I’d not thought of that. Poor Ceila was fond of you, she’d be saddened to know you’d been forced to earn your way serving in a tavern.”
“Y-ye know where I work?”
The cowl bobbed as he nodded. “If you’ll come with me, I may be able to find something better for you on my estate. My sister has reached the age where she needs a good lady’s maid.”
Lily debated, caution warring with practicality. Maid to a wealthy young lady. If she was wrong about him, if he wasn’t the one, she’d be throwing away an opportunity to better herself.
“What is it? Why do you hesitate?” He took a step closer, and this time she didn’t flee. “You know, don’t you?” Before his question had scarcely registered, his hands flashed out from beneath the cloak and grabbed her shoulders.
“Please, milord, ye’re hurting me.” She tried to twist free, but his fingers sank into her flesh like talons.
“You saw me, didn’t you?” He gave her a little shake.
It jarred her brain, and the pieces fell horribly into place. “Oh, God! It was ye.”
“It was me.” He sounded sad. “I’m sorry, Lily. Celia’s death was a tragic accident. But yours…I’m sorry.”
“Wait. I didn’t see anything. I heard voices and came to the door. I saw she was dead, but not who’d done it. I didn’t know.”
“Then I am doubly sorry. But I couldn’t take the chance that you’d left Celia’s because you knew something and would eventually tell.” He spun on his heel, tripping over a pile of garbage as he carried her deeper into the stinking black alley.
She opened her mouth to scream, but it was too late even for that. He cut off the sound and her breath with a wide, icy hand.

Chapter Four (#ulink_f0ded545-853d-53ec-9ff3-937dcddce0b8)
“Why do ye not let me get rid of him for ye?” Toby asked as they trudged up the steps from the cellar.
“I do not want the death of an innocent man on my conscience,” Emmeline said indignantly.
Toby snorted. “So, he’s charmed ye into changing yer mind.”
“Nay, he has not.”
“Has not what?” Molly asked as they emerged into the small room at the back of the house that served as a kitchen.
“Made me change my mind about him.” But he’d shaken her resolve and a good deal more. To hide her confusion, Emmeline walked over and poked at the pottage simmering in a pot suspended over the fire. Behind her, she heard Toby bolt the trapdoor and slide the woven mat and worktable over it. “I do want him to pay for what he’s done,” she said, half to herself.
Yet she felt a qualm when she relived their ambush in that little glade: the swiftness with which Jamie had charged to the rescue when he’d thought she’d hurt her ankle, followed by a curse as he tripped over Toby’s rope, and the ground-shaking thud of his big body hitting the dirt…the rocks. One of them had gashed open his skull and rendered him senseless during the long journey home in her grandfather’s wagon. They’d stanched the bleeding, of course, and she’d stitched the wound after the three of them had wrestled his deadweight down the cellar steps, but—
“Ye’re certain he’s guilty?” Molly asked.
“Aye.” Calmer now, Emmeline turned to her servants. “Well, he’s surely the greatest rogue and womanizer ever born. Why, he reminds me of that little brown man we saw at the fair, the one who coaxed the snakes from a basket and held them in thrall with the power of his music. Lord Jamie’s magic is in his words. They flow smooth and free as warm oil, slipping around every question I ask. But when he said he was not in London the night Celia died, there was something in his eyes…his eye. I know he was lying. I know it. Is it so wrong to want him punished?”
“Of course not,” Toby and Molly said in unison. They’d been with her family forever and would support her no matter what.
“But he’s a tough one, make no mistake,” Toby added. “A man doesn’t lose an eye or get the kind of scars he bears on his body by being a coward.”
“Scars?” Emmeline said faintly.
“Aye. When I removed his clothes for ye, I saw someone had taken the hide from his back. ‘Twas years ago, but—”
“Oh, dear,” Emmeline murmured. She had no qualms about imprisoning him, but if he didn’t confess, would she have the stomach to apply physical pressure? “He’s anxious to be free and about important business in Cornwall. Mayhap if we just wait—”
“Mistress! Come quick!” Peter catapulted into the room, eyes agog. “’Tis Sir Cedric. He’s here. In your solar.”
“Father?” Emmeline gasped, forgetting she hadn’t called Cedric that since the day she’d discovered the truth about her parents’ marriage. Or non-marriage. “Why?” But she knew why. There was only one reason why Cedric came visiting. Money.
She found him seated in her chair before the hearth, swilling the expensive Burgundy from her only glass goblet. Swine! “How much do you want this time?” Emmeline demanded.
Cedric turned, the handsome features he’d passed along to Celia blurred by drink and hard living. “What a way to greet your father.” The sensual mouth that had cajoled her mother into trusting him now turned down in perpetual dissatisfaction.
“Why lie to ourselves, Cedric. Money, or your constant lack thereof, is the only reason you seek me out.”
“Tut-tut, my dear. Such cynicism is why you’ve reached the age of two and twenty and are unwed.”
“Is it?” She glared at him, seeing through the veneer of polish to the soft, weak core. The only reason he hadn’t wed her to someone was because he didn’t want to lose the profits from the shop, which would go to her new husband. The gross unfairness of the whole thing made her furious. Her mother had left the shop to her. She ran a successful business and was a member of the guild in her own right. But simply by virtue of the fact he was her father, Cedric had control over her life. If he received a lucrative offer, he could marry her to the worst dog in all Christendom and no one would say him nay.
Emmeline curled her hands into fists. Men! A pox on all of them. “Why have you come?”
“Actually, I have got myself in rather a fix.” Cedric sighed, an affectation that always preceded a particularly huge demand. His smooth, supple fingers lazily stroked the arm of the chair. Minstrel’s hands, capable of coaxing a tune from harp or trumpet, but he had wasted his talent.
Jamie’s palms were callused, the backs sprinkled with the same fair hair that swirled over his chest. The capable hands and taut muscles of a man who worked for a living. Or wanted to impress a woman when he undressed for her, a sly voice taunted.
”…could use the money, but what I really need is a place to stay,” Cedric was saying.
“Stay?” Emmeline gaped. “Here? Now?”
“Why not?” One sand brow rose. His bloodshot green eyes grew frankly speculative. “Never say you’ve got yourself a lover hid in the cellar and don’t want your dear father around.”
Emmeline knew him well. One hint he was onto the truth, and he’d pick at her like a dog on a bone. “Ha! As if I’d let a man into my house much less my life,” she snapped.
“Did Margaret and I set such a poor example of wedded life?”
“Wedded, ha! ’Tis called bigamy, and you are lucky Mama was too ashamed to report you to the church.”
He flushed and dragged the lank blond hair away from his face. “I was happy with Maggie as I never could be with the wife my father foisted on me.” He glanced sidelong at Emmeline. “Your mother gave me love and children. We were happy here.”
“Until she found out how you’d betrayed her.”
“I loved her,” Cedric whined.
“You used her.” Margaret Spencer, plain only daughter of a wealthy spice merchant with lofty aspirations. He’d been thrilled to wed his daughter to the son of a noble family. But Cedric’s title had been as false as the rest of his story. Emmeline had been twelve and Celia ten when the truth came out. They were bastards, daughters of a glib-tongued rogue with a wife in London. He’d run through his wife’s money and been cast out of the Golden Wait for stealing their instruments and selling them. “All you ever wanted was the money from the shop to augment what you earned when you played in Grandfather’s Wait.”
“He never paid me what I was worth.”
“So you stole their instruments and sold them…except for the lute, which you gave me as a gift”. Alford had found out, of course, and ordered Cedric to leave London or face arrest. Cedric’s wife, Olivia, had decided to follow him to Derry and discovered his guilty secret. “Your lies ruined our lives.”
“I did not mean to. I loved your mother. I would have married her if I could have shed Olivia.”
“Liar. You did not care one whit for our pain and shame so long as you had what you wanted. You cheated us all, Cedric.” Tears welled, blurring her vision. She turned away to pour herself a cup of wine, unwilling to let him know his betrayal still had the power to hurt her.
“Celia forgave me. I went to see her in London, and she—”
“Don’t you speak to me of her,” she said, rounding on him. “If you hadn’t filled her head full of tales of the splendor of court life, she never would have eloped with Roger de Vienne.”
“Roger made her laugh. He helped her escape from the dull—”
“He was a scoundrel. If he hadn’t taken her to London, she never would have gotten herself killed by James Harcourt”.
“Celia hated being stuck in this dreary town as much as I—what’s that? I thought Harcourt had been cleared of her murder.”
Drat her hasty tongue. “So I heard.”
“Pity, I’d like to see her murderer caught.”
“But not enough to bestir yourself to pursue the matter?”
“Lord Jamie has an alibi.”
“Hmm. So I’ve been told.”
“You are up to something. I know that mulish look of yours.”
“What could I, a poor apothecary, do against such a man?”
“That has not kept you from tackling lost causes in the past”. He stared at her intently, then settled back in the chair, stretching his feet toward the fire. “But this is beyond even your stubbornness.” There were holes in the heels of his hose but he looked about as movable as a rock.
She couldn’t afford to let him stay. “How much do you need?”
Cedric pursed his lips, but she saw the triumph edging them. “Ten pounds would see me out of debt.”
“Ten! What did you buy, half of London?”
“Nay. ‘Twas a scheme gone bad, naught more.”
“You have more schemes than a dog has fleas, and they always go bad. I don’t have much, but I’ll give you some of the precious spices, saffron and cinnamon, which you can sell in London.”
The crafty old devil shook his head. “I could not take your trade goods. I’ll just bide here till you have the coin.”
“I don’t have that much profit in a year.”
“I don’t mind rusticating a bit. London has grown tedious.”
Dangerous, more like. But naught short of a fire would drive him away. “I’ll tell Molly you’re staying, but I’ll not give up my bed. You can sleep in the workroom with Peter.”
“A pallet here in the solar would be warmer.”
“I’m certain it would be, but I’ll not spend my nights listening to you snore.” Her chamber adjoined the solar. If he slept there he’d see her coming and going from the storeroom.
“Very well.” Having gotten most of what he wanted, and doubtless smelling secrets in the air, Cedric smiled. It was the same, unabashedly roguish grin that Jamie Harcourt had worn when he attempted to seduce her.
Damn both men, Emmeline thought as she stamped off to inform her cohorts in crime that fate had added a new wrinkle to her own already precarious scheme.
The candle had long since gutted when Jamie heard the key scrape in the lock. As the door eased open, he closed his eye against the blinding flood of light and breathed a silent prayer of thanks. Lying alone in the dark with naught but pain and the prospect of his failed plans for company had been a humbling experience. He’d been afraid they’d leave him here to die.
Jamie opened his eye. The fact that they’d left the patch on his left one gave him a measure of comfort. He hated exposing the worst of his scars to others. Especially Emma, for some reason. “I thought you’d decided to starve me to death.”
Toby ducked into the cell, a tray in his hands, a chamber pot dangling from one stubby finger. “Serve ye right if she did. Us waiting on the murdering scum like he was royalty.”
“That’s enough, Toby.” Emmeline followed him in, carrying linens and a candle. “Set the things there.” She jerked her chin toward a table in the corner. Above it hung shelving loaded with crocks. Jamie had tried and failed to reach it, thinking to break a pot and fashion a weapon. “Then go out and lock the door.”
‘I’m not leaving ye in here alone with him.” Emmeline sighed, and Jamie noted with grim glee the lines of fatigue bracketing her mouth. “He’s chained to the wall and cannot hurt me. I need you to stand lookout”. For whom? They’d not done that before. Was there someone about? Customers in the shop, mayhap? Jamie’s dulled hopes flared, but he kept his expression bland as he watched Toby go.
When the door closed, Emmeline moved in, stopping short of Jamie’s feet. Her gaze went to the linen wrapped around his head. The candlelight picked out the green flecks in her hazel eyes, making them glow like gemstones. “There’s blood on the bandage. I warned you not to move about or you’d reopen the wound.” “What did you hit me with, a sword?” “You cracked your head on a rock when you fell.” “Tripped…over a rope, I think, coming to your aid.” Her gaze dropped. “I do not normally resort to trickery.”
“Really? Your cry of pain sounded authentic,” he taunted.
She flushed, her expression remorseful. “I had to—” “So, you believe the end justifies the means?” “Only in this case.” She set the candle down and knelt to rummage through her supplies for a roll of linen and a small knife. “I’m going to cut away the old bandage. If you attempt to take the knife, I’ll stick it in you. Is that clear?”
“Very. Never argue with a wench wielding a blade. If you think I’m guilty, why did you not kill me in that glade?”
“I want justice.”
“Ah, a kidnapper with scruples.”
Her brows jammed together. “If you do not stop trying to bait me, I may be forced to bend my morals.”
“And cheat yourself of torturing me?”
“I am not torturing you.”
“What else would you call leaving an injured man in this dank cellar with a host of hungry rats?”
“Rats!” She pulled her skirts close and gazed into the shadows. “I don’t believe you.” An obliging vermin chose that moment to streak toward the table, likely drawn by the smell of his supper. Emmeline shrieked, leapt up and shooed it away.
“If you rattle your chains at them, it keeps them at bay.”
Emmeline looked disconcerted as she set the food down at his right side. “I’m sorry, I didn’t…” She blinked and glared at him. “Why am I apologizing to you?”
“Mayhap because you realize you are wrong to hold me here like this. Sir Thomas has already cleared me of the charges.”
“He no more believes in your innocence than I do.”
“Is he in this with you?” When she shook her head, his temper boiled over. “Idiot woman. What do you hope to prove by this? Don’t you realize that a confession obtained under such conditions would carry no weight with the courts?”
“It will.” Her face was so close to his he noticed the freckles on her nose. They made her look younger, more vulnerable. “When your sailors hear you have been arrested and are unable to coerce them, they will tell the truth, too. They’ll tell Sir Thomas you weren’t aboard your ship that night.”
How could she know that? Jamie groaned inwardly. Damn. Most of his men had been with him for years; they’d lie for him till the bitter end. But all it would take is one mistake to bring this whole scheme down. “I have no time for this,” he snapped. “Look, I have vital business elsewhere. I’ll do anything you say, if you’ll let—”
“Will you confess?”
“To a crime I didn’t commit? Certainly not.”
“Why? If such a confession is worthless, why not admit—”
“I may be many things, mistress, but I am not a coldblooded murderer of women, and naught will get me to say so.”
“Then I guess you are stuck here.” She uncorked a flask and dabbed a vile-smelling potion on his wound. It burned like fire.
Jamie yelped and flinched away, setting his chains to rattling. “You will rue the day you did this,” he said through his clenched teeth. Though he’d left a trail of broken hearts behind him, he’d never consciously harmed a woman before. But he’d make an exception for this one.
“Did you say something similar to Celia?” she asked.
Jamie swore vilely, but took no pleasure in her shocked gasp. He wanted more. He wanted her to pay for ambushing him and endangering his plans. But most of all, for making him want her, then deceiving him. “I never harmed your sister. Nor any other woman. I like women, and they like me.”
She snorted in disgust. “I despise you.” Fire bloomed in her cheeks, transforming her face, making it glow from within. Untapped passion trapped in a nun’s icy reserve.
The impact of her unconscious appeal caught Jamie like a mailed fist to the gut. The desire had blazed between them from the first. He’d admitted as much to her, and she’d used it to entrap him. No one used him.
Jamie struck with the swiftness that made him an excellent swordsman. Chains rattling, he snagged her around the waist and dragged her across his body. The impact caused the air to whoosh from her lungs and sent pain jarring through his head. He was too angry to care. There was enough play in the chain for him to roll over, trapping her beneath him. He had a moment to savor her panicky expression before she opened her mouth to scream.
“Nay.” He sealed her mouth shut with his own. Her silent cry vibrated against his lips, sent a shudder through his body.
Triumph. He might be chained, but she was powerless in the grip of his superior strength. His to do with as he would. He took ruthless advantage of her weakness. Driven by endless hours of impotent rage and savage frustration, he seared her flesh with his, determined to lesson her.
She whimpered. The tiny sound, more felt than heard, slipped past his fury to touch on his worst fear. That one day, if he wasn’t careful, the dark side of his nature would break the leash of his iron will. Nay, he wouldn’t let it. Digging deep, he found the patience to gentle his hold on her and set his mouth to apologize. In that instant, everything changed. The kiss intended to punish took on a life of its own.
Her cry of distress became a soft sigh, her hands ceased to claw at his arms. Beneath the persuasive pressure of his mouth, hers turned pliant. He’d been right to judge her inexperienced, but her untutored responses sent a shaft of lust arrowing down to his groin. How-easy it would be to forget his anger and lose himself in her.
Lifting his head, he stared into her flushed face. Passion transformed her, heightened her beauty. Her lips were wet, swollen, her pupils dilated and dazed. A feeling of intense male satisfaction filled him. “Emma, unchain me.”
“Wh-what?” She blinked, passion fading, awareness returning. With a gasp of outrage, she began to thrash.
“Damn. Hold still…argh,” he cried when a blow caught him in the ribs. He loosened his grip, setting her free.
Emmeline scrambled from under him and huddled in the corner, struggling to gather her scattered wits. How could she have let him kiss her? She should have screamed the moment he’d grabbed her, instead she’d…she’d…
Nay. Don’t think of it. Nearly sobbing with reaction, she scrubbed a hand across her lips, but the taste of him lingered. She had to get away, had to wash the feel of him from her skin. Legs trembling, she got to her feet, walked to the door and called for Toby to let her out. The moment the door opened, she brushed past her startled servant and bolted for the stairs. “See he’s locked in,” she called in a voice she didn’t recognize.
As the door clanked shut again, Jamie sighed and lowered his head to the floor. Damn. How had he lost control of the situation? He had her in his grasp. He could have put his hands around her slender throat and threatened to strangle her if she didn’t release him. Instead, he’d…
He’d kissed her and lost himself totally.
Damn. That hadn’t happened to him…ever. He’d been with more women than he could count, most of them more beautiful than Mistress Emmeline Spencer, and kept his wits intact. Why her? Because she was different. He’d sensed it the moment they met, and every exchange between them since had strengthened the notion.
Forcing his eyes open, he tried to plan his next move. His eyes caught the dull glint of metal on the floor. The knife. In her haste to leave, Emmeline had dropped it. Mayhap he hadn’t blundered so badly after all, Jamie thought as he retrieved the weapon. Not large enough to kill, but just the right size to pick the locks on his shackles.
Jamie levered himself into a sitting position and was immediately swamped by dizziness. As he sagged against the wall the press of cold stone against his bare back had the rousing effect of a lash. He didn’t have much time. Convincing Mistress Emmeline of his innocence was a lost cause. Nor could he count on the slim hope of rescue. Harry would worry when he didn’t arrive as expected at the Hound and Stag and send word to the ship. But they’d never think to look for him so far from London.

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