Chichester, England

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 learn why he did this and bring him to justice if it's the last thing I do."

"I've never seen you like this—"

"Because I've never seen anything like sweet little Mary lying still as death. Or 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. Carved from limestone, it was arguably 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 behind. In their wake, people seemed to stream from all four corners of town, rushing 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 furious gaze. "You'll come with me to the magistrate," he snapped out, surprising even himself at the commanding tone of his voice.

Gothard merely stared at him. 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 in an insolent tone.

A line Jason recognized from Shakespeare. The man wasn't 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. "Why should you call me your enemy?"

Gothard's gaze roamed Jason from head to toe. "The Marquess of Cainewood, are you not?"

"I am," Jason said 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-haired 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, shaded by the Gothic structure overhead.

"I've done nothing 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'll 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 men of his class, he'd been trained and spent countless hours in swordplay—but this was no game. And his opponent was skillful as well.

Two blades clanked with deadly intent in the shadow of the Market Cross.

---

Adam Leslie dipped his quill in the inkwell and carefully added "My" in front of "Dear Sister," frowned, then squeezed in "est" in the middle. My Dearest Sister. There now, surely Caithren wouldn't be miffed at his news after such an affectionate greeting.

Gazing up at the paneled walls of the Royal Arms, he flipped his straight dark blond hair—so like his sister's—over his shoulder. That he wouldn't be home soon shouldn't come as a surprise to her—it wasn't as though he'd spent more than a few weeks total at home these five years past. But it wouldn't hurt to be loving when he imparted the news…he did love her. And he knew that she loved him as well, even if he was rarely home.

Och, Scotland was boring. He was happy to leave the running of the Leslie lands to Cait and their father. He chuckled to himself, imagining Da's latest ineffective efforts to marry her off.

"Are you not finished yet, Leslie?"

He glanced over and smiled at his friends, the Earl of Balmforth and Viscount Grinstead. Dandies, they were, dressed in brightly colored satin festooned with jewels and looped ribbons. Though he kept himself decked out in similar style, he considered himself lucky they let him keep their company, untitled as he was—at least until his very healthy father died sometime in the distant future.

Da was naught but a minor baronet, so Adam wasn't entitled to call himself anything but Mister until he inherited.

"Leslie?"

"Almost done," Adam muttered, pushing back the voluminous lace at his cuffs before signing his name to the bottom of the letter. He sprinkled sand on the parchment to blot the ink, then brushed it off and folded the missive.

"An ale for my friend!" Balmforth called.

Adam nodded. This was thirsty work. Hell, any work was thirsty work.

He preferred not to work at all.

He flipped the letter over and scrawled Miss Caithren Leslie, Leslie by Insch, Scotland on the back. After dusting the address with sand as well, he rose and crossed the taproom to the innkeeper's desk, pinching the serving maid on her behind as she sauntered by with his tankard of ale.

She giggled.

"Have you any wax?" Adam dropped his letter on the scarred wooden counter and dug in his pouch for a few coins. "And you'll post this for me, aye?"

The innkeeper blinked his rheumy eyes. "Certainly, sir."

"Leslie, come along!" Grinstead shouted. "We're fair dying of thirst."

Laughing, Adam pressed his signet ring into the warm wax, then went to join his companions. He lifted his ale and leaned across the table. Their three pewter mugs met with a resounding clank.

"To freedom!" Grinstead said, shaking off some foam that had sloshed onto his hand.

"To freedom!" Adam echoed. "Till Hogmanay!"

Grinstead gasped. "You told her you'd be gone till the new year?"

"At the least." Adam swallowed a gulp and swiped one hand across his mouth before the froth dripped onto his expensive satin surcoat. "We've the week hunting in West Riding, then Lord Darnley's wedding in London come the end of the month. Wouldn't care to miss Guy Fawkes Day in the City. Then I might as well stay through the Christmas balls, aye?" The taproom's door banged open. "No sense in going home, then leaving again straightaway."

"No sense at all," Balmforth agreed, staring toward the entrance. "Will you look at what just walked in? Do you think she might be that MacCallum woman everyone's talking about?"

Their gazes swung to the tall lass and followed her progress as she sat herself at another table.

"Nary a chance." Adam contemplated the contents of his tankard for a moment, then tossed back the rest of the ale and signaled the serving wench for another. "Emerald MacCallum dresses like a man."

"She's carrying a knife," Balmforth argued in a loud whisper. "And she looks hard. Like the sort of woman who'd track outlaws with a price on their heads."

Grinstead let loose a loud guffaw. "You're in your cups, Balmforth. Emerald MacCallum carries a sword and a pistol."

"The MacCallum wench would kick your sorry arses." Adam tugged on the lacy white cravat at his neck. "And mine, too, I expect."

They all burst out laughing, until another bang of the door caught their attention.

An excited old-timer stood in the opening. "Duel at the Market Cross!"

---

As he and Gothard both fought for better footing, Jason hurried out of his midnight blue surcoat and tossed it to his brother, his gaze never leaving that of his foe. Gothard smirked as he lunged once again, barely giving Jason time to adjust.

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 and skittering down to the cobbled street, far from his reach.

Jason's teeth bit into his own lower lip. "I didn't come to kill today, Gothard. I merely want 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.

Their leader wove through the crowd, clearing a path for his two companions. "Come along, Grinstead!" he 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 appeared 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 rose from his crouch, Jason rushed headlong, his sword arm rigid.

Gothard jerked one of the men in front of him as a shield. 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 that seeped into the cracks between the stones. The dead man's face drained of color, to match the 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. Then 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.

---

Leslie, Scotland

"Married? I haven't any plans 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 though it weren't enough she had to bury Da today, now this. Unbelievable. "Have I misheard you?"

Lachlan MacLeod sighed and ran a hand through his grizzled hair. "There's nothing wrong with your hearing, Miss Leslie. 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'll provide for your brother, of course. The minor lands entailed with the baronetcy aren't sufficient to support a man."

"At least not in the style to which Adam is accustomed," Cait's 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-blond plaits. "It's been five years since he's been home for more than a visit." She closed her eyes momentarily, then focused on the lawyer. "Crivvens, this cannot be."

"It can be, Miss Leslie, I assure you." MacLeod's arthritic hands stacked the papers on the desk. "While it's rare for a daughter to hold title, it isn't unprecedented. Your father's wishes will stand against a challenge."

"Nay, that wasn't 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 isn't surprising." She looked toward Cameron for strength, feeling a bit better when their hazel eyes met. He'd always been there to lean on. "It's the marriage requirement that makes no sense."

Taking her by the shoulders, Cam gently pushed her across the flagstone floor and into a brown leather chair. He perched his tall form on the arm and looked toward the lawyer expectantly. "Maybe if you read that wee portion of the will again. I don't think Cait quite heard it."

MacLeod shuffled pages, then cleared his throat. "'I am sorely sorry for this requirement, dear daughter, but it is my hope that you will grow to understand my position. As you're twenty-one already—'" The lawyer broke off 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's apparent I failed to live 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'll 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 it's 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. "It's sorry I am for you, sweet. This is a hard day for you, I know."

"Da suffered. It's a blessing he's gone. Didn't everyone 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."

Rising to tower over her, Cameron wiped his palms against the dark blue and green Leslie kilt he'd worn for the funeral. "Never?"

"Ever." Cait tightened her arms around her laced bodice, hugging herself.

"But—but so many have courted you," Cam sputtered, running a hand back through his straight, wheaten hair. "Surely there must be one man…" He blinked, then focused. "Duncan. Maybe you'd consider Duncan? He has land of his own, and the village maidens are forever tittering 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 you, for that matter."

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

"Aye, you've the right of it there. But James isn't one for the land. He keeps 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 you live, then? Your folks were so happy…don't you want as much for yourself?"

She joined him there and watched familiar gray clouds glide slowly over the green rolling hills where her family had lived for generations. Beyond a stone wall, the ponies 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 kin.

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 you, Cam, 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 you an equal partnership." One of her fingers traced the crooked line of a raindrop as it trailed down the pane. "We'd 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.

"Maybe not all," she conceded. "Not you." Turning back to the window, she traced another raindrop…two…three.

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

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

"First cousins." MacLeod's voice came stern across the room. Caithren had forgotten all about him. "I've heard it said that such inbreeding can result in diseased children."

"Inbreeding?" Cam was still sputtering beside her. "Cait, I…I love you, but not that way. More like a sister."

"I knew as much." She paused for a breath. "And my love for you 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. "It's hopeless."

Her fingers went absently to play with her laces as 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 you thinking?" Slapping her palms onto the desk, she leaned toward him. "You've an idea, don't you?"

MacLeod glanced heavenward. "May your father forgive me for circumventing his plans." He straightened his fine wool doublet. "If you could persuade your brother to sign over his rights—"

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

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

"Aye, you do," Cameron said in wry confirmation. He walked closer to Cait. "And he'd still have the title. Sir Adam Leslie, Baronet. Not that he deserves it."

"I don't care about that, but it's all he cares about, which is why this should work." 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's talk of a voyage to India." She looked up. "He should still be at Scarborough's. Pontefract is about halfway to London, isn't? Not so far."

"I'll go."

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

"You don't trust me to ask him to sign a piece of paper?"

Caithren winced at the hurt look on her cousin's face. "It wouldn't be the same request, coming from you." Setting the letter aside, she put a hand on his arm. "I do love him, you know, but I also see him for what he is."

Cam's hand covered hers and squeezed. "Then I'll accompany you—"

"Nay, it's here you're needed. The harvest approaches." She raised a palm to stem his next protest. "You may see me to Edinburgh and put me on the public coach, but then it's back to Leslie where you belong. I can deal with Adam."

"I don't like to think of you traveling alone."

The thought of a solo journey did make a wee tingle of fear flutter in her stomach. But she pushed it away. "We can hire a chaperone in Edinburgh. You may choose her personally, if that will make you feel better."

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

"Nay, and there never was." She rose to her toes to kiss him on the cheek. "I'm thinking it's about time you learnt it, cousin."

He gave a wry shake of his head, followed by a speculative smile. "Do you know, I reckon you may be right."

"Aye?"

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

"Crivvens! Be off with you!" She swatted at him playfully. "You 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."

---