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Chapter One

Chichester, England

Thursday, August 1, 1667

Jason, you cannot mean to kill him.

Jason Chase stopped short and wrenched from the grasp his brother Ford had on his upper arm. By God, no. But I'll know why he did this and bring him to justice if it's the last thing I do. He shifted a glance over his shoulder toward the man in question. I can still see sweet little Mary lying still as death, and her mother's torn clothes and bruised face as she chanted Geoffrey Gothard's name, over and over. Trembling with rage, his hand came up to worry his narrow black mustache. My villagers. He met Ford's gaze with his own. My responsibility.

You've plastered the kingdom with broadsides. Ford's blue eyes looked puzzled, as though he were unsure how to take this new side of his oldest sibling. The reward will bring him in.

I'm bloody well satisfied to bring him in myself.

Jason turned and continued down East Street to where Chichester's vaulted Market Cross sat in the center of the Roman-walled town. The most elaborate structure in all of England…but the beauty of its intricate tracery was at odds with the evil that lurked inside.

An evil that Jason intended to deal with.

Scattered businessmen, exchanging mail and news beneath the dome, paused to glance his way. He recognized the Gothard brothers from the descriptions his villagers had given him: Geoffrey, tall and slim, with a stance that bordered on elegant; Walter, shorter and rawboned. Jason's footsteps echoed as he strode through the open arches, his own brother following quickly behind. In their wake, people seemed to stream from all four corners of town, hurrying to catch the show.

Walter Gothard scurried back like a frightened rabbit. With a click of his spurred heels, Jason came to a halt and drew an uneven breath. He pinned Geoffrey Gothard with a determined gaze. I'm taking you to the magistrate, he snapped out, surprising even himself at the commanding tone of his voice. For a fleeting moment Ford seemed dumbfounded, then he stepped away and motioned back the crowd.

Jason's hand went to the hilt of his sword. Now, Gothard.

The other man's gaze held hard and unwavering. My nearest and dearest enemy, he drawled. A line Jason recognized from Shakespeare. The man was not uneducated, then—indeed, his bearing was aristocratic, and his clothes, though rumpled from days of wear, were of good quality and cut.

Confusion churned with the anger in Jason's stomach. What mean you that I am your enemy?

Gothard's gaze roamed Jason from head to toe. The Marquess of Cainewood, are you not? The insolent words seemed to spew from the pale lips set into his squarish head.

I am. Jason's words were clipped, through gritted teeth. He wanted nothing more than to go home to his calm routine, back to his estate, his life. But he could think only of little golden-curled Mary following him around the village, begging him for a sweetmeat, her blue eyes dancing with mischief and radiating trust.

Blue eyes that might never open again.

And there stood the man who had battered her, shadowed by the pale limestone of the Gothic structure overhead.

I've done naught to draw your ire—we've never met. Jason squinted at the man in the shadows. Gothard and his brother were pale, with the type of skin that burned and peeled with any exposure to the sun—and it looked as though they'd seen much exposure of late. Stand down and consign yourself to my arrest.

The man's blue eyes went stony with resentment. Jason blinked. He seemed to know those eyes. Maybe they had crossed paths.

To the devil with you, Cainewood.

Jason squared his shoulders, reminding himself why he was here. For justice. Honor. The questions could wait—for now. He slowly counted to ten, focusing on the fat needle of a spire that topped the old Norman cathedral across the green. As responsibility weighed heavily on his mind, his hand tightened on the hilt of his sword.

Father would have expected this of him. To defend what was his, stand up for what was right—no matter the personal cost.

Deliberately he drew the rapier from its scabbard.

Damn you to bloody hell. Gothard pulled his own sword with a quick screak that snapped the expectant silence. We will settle this here and now.

Jason advanced a step closer, slowly circled the tip of his rapier, then sliced it hissing through the air in a swift move that brought a collective gasp from the crowd. The blade's thin shadow flickered across the paving stones. His free hand trembled at his side.

With a roar, Gothard lunged, and the first clash of steel on steel rang through the still summer air.

The vibrations shimmied up Jason's arm. Muscles tense, he twisted and parried, danced in to attack, then out of harm's way. His heart pounded; blood pumped furiously through his veins. Like most noblemen, he'd been taught well and spent countless hours in swordplay, but this was no game. And his opponent was trained as well.

Gothard was fleet, but Jason was faster. They scrambled down the steps, and the crowd scurried back. Gothard was cornered, but Jason was incensed. He edged Gothard back beneath the dome, skirting the circular stone bench that sat in its center as they battled their way to the other side of the octagonal structure. Gothard took sudden advantage, and Jason found himself retreating as their blades tangled, slid, and broke free with a metallic twang.

His arm ached to the very bone. Perspiration dripped slick from his forehead, stinging his eyes. But the other man's breath came ragged and labored.

All at once, a vicious swipe of Jason's sword sent Gothard's clanging to the stones, skittering down to the cobbled street, far from his reach.

Jason's teeth bit into his own lower lip. I came not to kill today, Gothard, but merely to see justice done. He sucked in air, smelled the other man's desperation. Are you ready to come peacefully?

Sweat beading on his sunburned brow, Gothard stepped back until his calves hit the round stone bench. Frantically he scanned the mass of people still pouring from the surrounding establishments. Three more men stumbled out of a taproom and crossed the dusty street to the dome, the bright rainbow colors of their clothing marking them aristocrats.

They wove through the crowd. Come along, Leslie! one of them yelled as they pushed their way to the front.

Gothard's eyes narrowed. In a flash of movement, one of his arms snaked toward the newcomers, the other down to the wide cuff of his boot, where the curved handle of a pistol peeked out.

Jason's jaw tensed; his knees locked. Time seemed to slow. His surroundings seemed impressed on his senses: the heated babble and musky scent of the excited onlookers, the cool dimness in the shaded dome, the bright green grass and streaky sunlight beyond. As Gothard stretched from his crouch, Jason rushed headlong, his sword arm rigid. Simultaneously, Gothard jerked one of the three men in front of him as a screen.

Jason tried to check his momentum, but his blade forged ahead, piercing satin and flesh with an ease that came as a shock to a man unused to killing. As long as he lived, he would never forget the astonished look in the man's hazel eyes.

The sword pulled free with a gruesome sucking sound that brought bile into Jason's throat. The man collapsed, his eyes going dull as his bright blood spurted in a grotesque fountain that soaked Jason's shirt and choked his nostrils with a salty, metallic stench.

Stunned, he watched the blood pump hard then slow to a trickle—a spreading red puddle seeping into the cracks between the stones. The dead man's face drained of color, to match the pristine white lace at his throat. Geoffrey Gothard raised his arm, cocked his flintlock, and pulled the trigger.

The explosion rocked the Market Cross, momentarily startling everyone into silence. I'll see you at the gates of hell, Gothard muttered into the void. He turned and pushed through the crowd, signaling his younger brother to follow.

Ford Chase rushed forward when his own brother, the thirty-two-year-old Marquess of Cainewood, clutched his chest and crumpled to the ground.

Chapter Two

Leslie, Scotland

Married? I dinna want to get married!

The last strains of the funeral bagpipes were still echoing in Caithren Leslie's ears when she found herself facing the family lawyer across her father's desk. As if it weren't enough she had to bury Da today, now this. Unbelievable. Have I misheard ye?

Lachlan MacLeod sighed and ran a hand through his grizzled hair. There is nothing wrong with your hearing, Miss Caithren. All of Leslie is Adam's…that is, unless you see fit to wed within the year. Then the larger portion that came through your mother will revert to you and your husband. In which case you will provide for your brother, of course. The minor lands that are entailed with the title are not sufficient to support a man.

At least not in the style to which Adam is accustomed, her cousin Cameron put in dryly.

God forbid my brother should put Leslie before pursuing his own pleasure, Cait said, pensively twirling one of her dark blonde braids. 'Tis been five years since he's been home for more than a visit. She closed her eyes momentarily, then focused on the lawyer. This cannot be.

It can be, Miss Caithren, I assure you. MacLeod's arthritic hands stacked the papers on the desk. While 'tis rare for a daughter to hold title, 'tis not unprecedented. 'Twill stand against a challenge.

Nay, 'twas not what I meant. Caithren stared at her father's desktop. It had always been littered with papers, reflecting the goings-ons at busy Leslie. Now it was neat. Too neat. Her heart ached at the sight. Da told me that if Adam didn't mend his ways, one day Leslie would be mine. That part is not surprising. She looked toward Cameron for strength, feeling a bit better when their hazel eyes met. He'd always been there to lean on. 'Tis the marriage requirement I cannot ken.

Taking her by the shoulders, Cam gently pushed her across the flagstone floor and into a brown leather chair. He perched himself on the arm and looked toward the lawyer expectantly. Mayhap if ye read that wee portion of the will again. I…I dinna think Cait quite heard it.

MacLeod shuffled pages, then cleared his throat. I am sorely sorry for this requirement, daughter, but it is my hope that you will grow to understand my position. As you're twenty-one already— The lawyer paused and tugged at one pendulous earlobe. He wrote this last year, you understand, before he—

Aye, while I was naught but a bairn. Caithren crossed her arms and legs. Beneath her unadorned black skirts, the leg on top swung wildly up and down as she talked. Now, having attained the advanced age of twenty-two, I imagine I'm a confirmed spinster—

As you're twenty-one already, MacLeod rushed to continue, I find myself concerned for your future. In addition, I promised dear Maisie on her deathbed that I would see you safely wed. Since you're hearing these words, it is apparent I lived not long enough to do so. Caithren, my love, you cannot but admit to a certain streak of stubbornness and independence, and bearing such, have left me no other avenue to make certain your dear mother's wishes are granted. I know you will do right by your mother, myself, and your own life, rather than see Leslie fall into your brother's incompetent hands. Please forgive me my duplicity and know 'tis for your own good.

Silence enveloped the small study, the pitter-patter of the rain unnaturally loud against the window. Caithren stared up at the timber-beamed ceiling.

Cameron's hand brushed her arm. 'Tis sorry I am for ye, sweet. This is a hard day for ye, I know.

Da suffered. 'Tis a blessing he is gone. Did everyone not tell me that today? But despite having decided she was done crying, her throat seemed to close painfully, and something in her eyes was blurring her vision.

She blinked hard. I have no intention of marrying.

Cameron rose to stand before her. He wiped his palms against the dark blue and green Leslie kilt he had dressed in for the funeral. Never? His eyes skeptical, he ran a hand back through his straight, wheaten hair.

Ever, Cait assured him. She tightened her arms around her laced bodice, hugging herself.

But—but so many have courted ye, Cam sputtered. Surely there must be one man… He blinked, then focused. Duncan. Mayhap ye would consider Duncan? He has land of his own, and the village maidens are forever titterin' over his good looks—

He's a fool. When Caithren stood, Cam stepped back in self-defense. He'd be no better for Leslie than Adam. And he'd never let me have a hand in running things, or ye, for that matter.

Cameron blinked. James, then. James is no fool.

Aye, you've the right of it there. But James is not one for the land. He has his nose in a book all the day. He'd be no better than Adam, either.

Cam walked to the window and gazed out at the pouring rain. Surely there must be someone. His voice bounced muffled off the uneven glass. What sort of life would ye live, then? Your folks were so happy…d'ye not want as much for yourself?

She joined him there, watched familiar gray clouds glide slowly over the green rolling hills where her family had lived for generations. Beyond a stone wall, the ponies that she and Cameron were breeding fed in a nearby field, swishing their long tails. Tenant farmers worked in the distance—people she knew as well as her own family.

She'd lived her entire life in this fortified house that looked like a wee, turreted castle. Da had built it for her mother—he'd always treated Mam like a queen. Love owercomes the reasons o' mind, Mam used to murmur when she walked up the path to her home; the heart always rules the head. But she'd said it with a laugh and a blush of pleasure. Aye, Mam had been loved.

But she'd still been the property of a man.

For all Da loved her, Mam had nothing to call her own. I want to be independent, free to run Leslie—with ye, the way we've been doing it since Da fell ill. Together. Any husband of mine would inherit my property upon marriage, and no man would allow ye an equal partnership. One of her fingers traced the crooked line of a raindrop as it trailed down the pane. We would never realize our grand plans. Even my own dear father plotted to manipulate me from the grave. All men are the same.

Not all men, Cait. When she turned to him, Cam's eyes held a challenge.

Mayhap not all, she conceded. Not ye. Turning back to the window, she traced another raindrop…two…three.

Then hope leapt in her breast as it occurred to her. Ye! She whirled to face him. I shall marry ye. Leslie should be yours in any case—how many times have I said it?

Cameron stared, incredulous. Me? Are ye daft? We're kin.

First cousins. The kirk would never allow it. MacLeod's voice came stern across the room. Caithren had forgotten all about him.

Cam was still sputtering beside her. Besides, I…I love ye, but not that way. More like a sister.

I kent as much. She paused for a breath. And my love for ye is much the same. I never expected to wed at all, much less for romantic love. She felt a lump rise in her throat as her excitement gave way to defeat. 'Tis hopeless.

Her fingers went absently to play with her laces, and she wandered back to MacLeod, tears swimming in her eyes. Is there no other way? Must I wed or see it all go to Adam?

Well… The family lawyer met her gaze, then looked away.

Aye? What are ye thinking? Slapping her palms onto the desk, she leaned toward him. You've an idea, d'ye not?

MacLeod glanced heavenward. May your father forgive me for circumventing his plans. He took a deep breath and straightened his fine wool doublet. If you could convince your brother to sign over his rights—

Caithren's heart galloped in her chest. 'Twould work? Such a paper would be legally binding?

I cannot see why not. 'Twould not be signed under duress…who would there be to challenge? I assume, in exchange for a fair allowance for his keeping, that Adam would jump at the chance to relinquish his responsibilities. If I know your brother at all—

Aye, ye do, Cameron said in wry confirmation. He walked over to Cait. Though he would still have the title. Sir Adam Leslie, Baronet. Not that he deserves it.

I care not about that. Caithren turned around to think. I must go to Adam. She spun back to her cousin. My letters never seem to reach him, and he may be off to India soon.

India? Cameron frowned. Do you know where he is now?

A letter came just yesterday. She hurried to the desk and pulled out a sheet of parchment. He mailed it the first of August, from Chichester. She scanned the single page. He said he was in the company of two friends on their way to West Riding near Pontefract, where Lord Scarborough had invited them hunting. Then to London for Lord Darnley's wedding on the thirtieth. And he hopes to make it home for Hogmanay, but there is talk of a voyage to India. She looked up. He should still be at Scarborough's. Pontefract is about halfway to London, is it not? Not so far.

I will go.

Nay, Cam. I must ask this of Adam myself.

Ye dinna trust me to ask him to sign a piece of paper?

Caithren winced at the hurt look that crossed her cousin's face. 'Twould not be the same request, coming from ye. Setting the letter aside, she put a hand on his arm. I do love him, ye ken, but I also see him for what he is.

Cam's hand covered hers and squeezed. Then I'll accompany ye, Cai—

She pulled away. Nay, 'tis here ye are needed. The harvest approaches. She held up a hand to stem his next protest. Ye may see me to Edinburgh and put me on the public coach, but then 'tis back to Leslie where ye belong. I can deal with Adam. A wee tingle of fear was fluttering in her stomach, but she ignored it. We can hire a chaperone in Edinburgh. Ye may choose her personally, if it will make ye feel better.

When Cam's shoulders slumped, she sensed her victory. He took her chin in one hand and tilted her face up. There is no arguing with ye, is there, sweet Cait?

Nay, and there never was. She went up on her toes to kiss him on the cheek. I'm thinking 'tis about time ye learnt it, cousin.

He gave a wry shake of his head, followed by a speculative smile. D'ye ken, I reckon ye may be right.

Aye?

There may be no man willing to take ye to bride, ye stubborn lass.

Be off with ye! She swatted at him playfully. Ye know what Mam used to say.

I cannot wait to hear this one.

Ha freens and ha life.

Good friends make a full life, Cameron murmured.

She locked her gaze on his. All she had left to love were Cameron and Leslie. She would not lose either. You're a fine friend, Cam. The best. Leslie will fare well in our hands.

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