Chapter 1

Off the Cornish Coast

April 1879

While the howling wind tore around him and the rain lashed at his upturned face, he staggered to the edge of the cliff, braced

himself against nature’s wrath, and hurled the empty whisky bottle into the blackened abyss that contained monstrous waves

thrashing against the rocky, sandy shore.

His harsh laughter was carried out to sea as his black greatcoat whipped around his calves, and he wondered why he’d even

bothered to wear it. The brutal rain had drenched him. The wind threatened to shove him right over the edge. But he stood

his ground.

And trembled.

Just as he’d trembled uncontrollably that fateful night when his world changed completely. There had been a storm then as

well, as harsh and unforgiving as the one he faced now on his tiny, secluded isle. Where he came to escape the horrific memories.

Only they refused to leave him in peace. They battered him as vehemently and with as much fury as the tempest that surrounded him. And if he couldn’t escape them, he could at least teach himself to ignore them, to send them into the darkest recesses of his mind where they might lose the power to plague him.

Consequently, he stood there stoically and refused to allow them victory, to force him into scurrying back to the residence

where a warm fire and another bottle of scotch waited. Where he could hide from the unfortunate truth that he’d gone mad.

Stark raving mad.

Oh, he did a bang-up job of giving the appearance of being the same as those who surrounded him. Moving among the ton , as he had in the before time, with a lackadaisical confidence, an easy smile, and a bold laugh. He flirted with the ladies,

danced with them, even charmed them. Many were hopeful of becoming wife to the Earl of Claybourne’s heir, of bearing him children.

None knew he was no longer worthy of inheriting his father’s title, of carrying his own courtesy one.

However, he thought his family was beginning to suspect the truth.

In a few days, he would see them and pretend that he was again as he’d once been.

They’d pretend as well. Pretend to believe him when he told them that he came to this island to study the stars. That he required

the isolation and solitude in order to devote himself to his new passion for the sky—since he’d abandoned his passion for

the railway.

As soon as the Season had concluded the pre vious August, while everyone else had departed for their country estates, he’d come here—where a small stone castle had withstood the rigors of time and, with diligent devotion and his own hands, had become once again inhabitable. He had no companionship, no one with whom to break the monotony. No one visited him without an invitation—and he issued no invitations.

And if there were nights when the loneliness devoured him, he would endure it. He would do whatever was required to protect

his secret. For the sake of his family. He would do nothing to bring his parents shame when it had taken so long for them

to be accepted by their peers. He would not undo all their efforts to belong by revealing the truth that he no longer did.

But of late, the loneliness was worse than ever. Insatiable. Strengthening. Like the tempest, until it possessed the power

to destroy all in its wake. To destroy him.

Yet what he yearned for most desperately at the moment was not within reach: the warmth of a woman’s soft body, the flowery

fragrance of a woman’s flesh, the gentle lullaby of a woman’s sighs, the sweet taste of a woman’s lips. Still, dropping his

head back and glaring at the black and fathomless star-hidden sky, he bellowed, “A woman! A woman! My kingdom for a woman!”

Lightning flashed with such brilliance, turning night into day, he had to avert his gaze, look away... look down.

And that was when he saw her .

Lying face down and motionless on the beach, bare arms outstretched as though she’d been reaching for salvation, but fallen short, waves ebbing and flowing around her, trying to lure her back into the dangerous depths. With naked legs clearly visible, appearing to be absent her frock, she was unmoving, her moonbeam hair—like tendrils of seaweed—spread Medusa-like over and around her. Had the Fates answered his cry? Or was his drunken and demented mind even more lost than he’d surmised, conjuring an apparition that appeared real enough to steal his breath?

Blackness swooped back in to conceal her. She’d been detectible for only a second, maybe two. Surely it had been a sea creature

of some sort, a dolphin or an infant whale, washed upon the shore, and he’d seen only what he wanted to see: a mermaid, a

siren, Neptune’s daughter. What he was suddenly desperate to find: someone to ease the wretched ache of loneliness that had

taken up residence in his soul.

He raised his lantern, but the light it provided was not enough to conquer the darkened abyss where she lay crumpled. The

low glow strictly adhered to its purpose of ensuring he knew where to place his foot when he took his next step.

Then lightning again defiantly zigged across the sky, and it was as though every speck of illumination in the heavens touched

her as he wanted to. She was no apparition but flesh and blood. How the hell had she ended up marooned on his shore?

She moved not at all. Had she drowned?

Pivoting, his greatcoat flaring out, he raced toward the path that would lead him down to her. Perhaps she’d been a passenger on a ship. In this storm, it would have been destroyed. He imagined her flailing about in the rough seas, desperate to reach land, her sodden clothing and hair dragging her down. The salty swells filling her mouth, her lungs, until she no longer had space for air. What a ghastly way to go.

He was far too familiar with ghastly ways to die.

Shoving back the gruesome thoughts that thrived among his horrid memories, he focused on her. The trail was muddy and slick.

Scrambling along it, he lost his footing time and again. But finally, he reached the narrow shore that the sea was striving

to capture.

Again, lightning flashed, serving as a beacon to direct him toward her. He rushed over, dropped to his knees beside the inert

form, and set down the lantern. Gently he rolled her over. She wore little more than a chemise and drawers. Placing his hand

on her ribs, he felt the movement of her drawing in air as well as her almost violent shivering.

Not dead, not dead. Thank God.

Slowly, gingerly, his fingers brushing lightly over her cold skin, he swept aside her hair to reveal her pale sand-dotted

face. “Miss? Madam?”

Nothing. No response. Not even a whisper of a stirring.

His curse rivaled the storm in its intensity. Using the lantern as his guide, with an impartiality he’d been forced to master on another night such as this, he swept one hand over her, searching for wounds, signs of bleeding. He could detect a few scratches and dark splotches that probably signaled the beginning of bruises. What concerned him the most, however, was that she was as frigid as a block of ice.

A small woman, she wasn’t going to survive much longer if he didn’t get her warm.

He shrugged out of his greatcoat and wrapped it around her as though she was a gift from the Fates who could easily break

if not handled with care. He feared that somewhere she was indeed broken, and he simply couldn’t determine where precisely

she might be hurt.

In spite of her drenched undergarments, he easily lifted her into his arms, her head lolling into the nook of his shoulder,

as if that part of him had been designed specifically for her. He would have preferred to have kept her positioned like that

so she might be a bit more comfortable, but he needed to be able to carry the lantern. Therefore, he maneuvered her until

she was draped over his shoulder, her backside resting beside his head.

Reaching down, he grabbed the lantern before shoving himself, with a great deal of effort, to his feet. Staggered, caught

his balance. Straightened further against the blinding onslaught of the storm.

The path he’d followed to get to her was slick with mud. However, in the opposite direction was another trail, rocky and firmer,

that led up to the residence. He would have steadier footing along that route, even if it was somewhat slippery. He wanted

to ensure he wouldn’t drop his precious cargo.

How she’d come to be in so few garments was a bit puzzling. Perhaps she’d sensed that the ship was not destined to reach land and had unburdened her self of anything that would have prevented her from doing the same. He couldn’t imagine a lady of quality being so bold or practical. Heaven forfend, they should be caught not properly attired—regardless of any precarious circumstances that required not being so. While something about her teased at the edge of his memory, he couldn’t recall meeting her at a ball or any other Societal affair. Which meant she was, in all likelihood, not a lady of the highest caliber.

Was she some man’s fancy piece, fallen from his yacht? Being engaged in a bit of naughtiness might explain her reduction in

clothing. But the mystery of her was for sorting another time.

It worried him that she was exceptionally quiet and inert, that his uneven and jarring movements over the rough terrain did

nothing to bring her out of her lethargic state. He’d seen people who hadn’t moved because of the sudden shock of the situation.

He’d known some to survive catastrophe only to succumb to death a few days later. Whether from disbelief, fright, or sorrow.

The mind, he was discovering, could be a powerful influence over the body. But he would do all in his power, limited though

it was, to ensure she didn’t die.

Finally, the soft, welcoming glow from the windows of his ancestors’ fortification came into view. According to family legend, ages ago, this isle had served as the first defense against any invaders. Later, a lookout spot so smugglers—who used the coves and caves on the distant shore—could be warned with torches lit on high when trouble was arriving via ships. Not everything in which his forebears had engaged had fallen within the boundaries of the law. His family’s estate edged up against the sea in Cornwall, a few miles across the water from this narrow strip of land that his ancestors had long ago claimed. On a clear night, he could see a faint glow from their far-off manor that occupied the top of a rise. On a moonless night, when smugglers usually dealt with their contraband, they would have easily seen flames flickering from lighted torches atop the walls of a walkway that stretched between the towers of his present dwelling.

He knew that to be true, because it was how he communicated with his family. But not tonight. Tonight, the storm would not

allow unprotected torches to remain alight. Not that he would have summoned his family to traverse the dangerous swells that

the tempest had roused from slumber.

He rushed up the dwelling’s steps, hung the lantern on a peg beside the door, grabbed the latch, and shoved open the heavy

oak. He stepped into the warmth of a large living area. So much bloody wonderful warmth provided by the fire on the hearth.

He’d left lamps burning in this room, his bedchamber, and at the bottom as well as the top of the stairs. He’d known before

the night was done, with his belly filled with booze, he’d be in no state to light them.

He shifted his burden until she was settled in his arms. She emitted the tiniest soft mewling that he could have sworn burrowed its way through the layers of his armor to settle within his chest. It felt as though his heart had released an erratic beat to accommodate the unexpected arrival. He wouldn’t soften toward her, wouldn’t soften at all, because anything that was not rock-hard could break. Even steel and iron could shatter with enough force. The only way to protect a heart was not to have one at all.

He turned for the stairs and his lower back protested. It plagued him since that fateful night when his world—when he—had

changed. He ignored the pain as he did most of the reminders that his life was no longer as it had once been. He started up

the steps. The woman made another whimpering sound.

“It’s all right,” he murmured. “You’re safe now.”

“Bawl... une,” she muttered. “Lost.”

Christ, she’d been traveling with someone. He’d known there would probably be others but had dearly hoped none had been close

to her. He couldn’t quite make out the name, not that it mattered. All that mattered was that she didn’t succumb to the horrors

she’d endured before washing ashore.

“We will find them,” he tried to reassure her. He didn’t need sorrow weighing her down. He often wondered how many people

involved in catastrophes died from the heartbreak of losing someone rather than any physical wounds sustained. “Any and all

of your companions.”

“No... one... else,” she mumbled.

“You were alone?”

Silence greeted him. Did she know what she was saying? Had she been the only one to fall over the side in the rough seas? Yet he’d seen no evidence of anyone else or of a ship torn apart by nature’s wrath. No masts, no sails, no splinters of wood. No barrels, no cargo.

He didn’t want to contemplate that perhaps she’d been tossed over the side, that someone had deliberately attempted to do

away with her. He couldn’t discount the possibility. He’d grown up on the tales of how murder had played a role in bringing

his parents together.

Finally, he reached the top of the stairs and turned into the only bedchamber with a bed. He’d not bothered to replace the

rotting, decaying furniture he’d tossed out from the other three bedchambers, because he’d anticipated never having guests.

Gently, he maneuvered his coat from her person, allowing it to hit the floor, before he lowered the soaked woman to a settee

near the fire. Quickly he added additional logs to set the flames to roaring rather than being lazy as he preferred. Then

he dragged a blanket from the bed and draped it over her, tucking it in around her.

While drawing his shirt over his head, he dashed over to a small cupboard and snatched two thick towels from a shelf, running

one of the linens rapidly over his drenched hair and torso as he made his way back to his guest, grateful for the heat of

the fire.

The woman was shivering with more force, her teeth clattering louder. He wanted to wrap her in his embrace so the warmth of

his skin could ease away her chill. Wanted to do all within his power to ensure she didn’t die. She couldn’t die on him. Not

another to burden his conscience.

But first he had to get her dry. He knelt beside the settee, uncovered one of her arms, and began to briskly rub a towel along its length, all the while studying what was visible of her, searching for other injuries. A lump marred her forehead, scratches and bruises her face. “Miss? Miss?”

She didn’t respond except to shiver more violently.

Working diligently, he moved to the other arm and then to her legs, striving to ensure her modesty so as not to alarm her

should she awaken. But soon modesty be damned. He had to get her out of the wet clothing. He would do it impersonally, paying

no attention to what he was uncovering.

He’d do as he’d done once before and focus on the task, not the person. It would make it less painful if his efforts failed.

He fought not to recall a time when he hadn’t been such a pessimist, when he hadn’t realized how innocent he’d been. How foolish.

How naive. How childish. Before he’d discovered how cruel life could be.

He wouldn’t even consider that he’d find corpses, that anyone on board hadn’t safely escaped the thrashing water. He pushed

back the memories of others he’d been unable to help. Most had perished before he got to them, but some had died in his arms,

calling out for their mothers. They haunted him still.

It had been far too long since he’d divested a woman of her clothing. His fingers fumbled with the buttons, ribbons, and laces as he fought not to notice the hint of warmth striving to burst through the chill of her skin, like a seedling emerging through the soil come spring. He tried to prevent his knuckles from making contact with her flesh, but it was an impossible task when her clothing was plastered against her as though it were desperately searching for whatever solace she could provide.

He needed to tend to her quickly so he could search the shore for others. Her companions, friends, family. Anyone for whom

she might have a care. Even a husband. Although she wore no ring, so perhaps a suitor.

But why were any of them out on the water when there had been signs of a storm brewing?

Finally, finally, he managed to drag off what remained of her clothing. He ordered himself to forget the lovely bits he’d

been forced to view because doing so had been the only way to remove what needed to be removed. Gathering up her tangled strands

of hair, he draped them over the arm of the settee to prevent the wetness from touching her and making her uncomfortable.

Then he grabbed another blanket and replaced the damp one, gently tucking the dry one in around her.

Although her skin was still cold to the touch, she was shivering less. Clumps of sand clung to her face. He considered leaving

her to deal with the granules later, but imagined her rubbing them into her eyes, the damage they might cause. Having spotted

no one near her, he’d have to circle the island, might be gone for hours. He dared not leave her until he knew she wouldn’t

need him, that she was out of danger.

He went to the wash bowl, dipped a cloth into the cool water, and then squeezed out the excess. Returning to her side, he knelt on the floor and tenderly began to wipe away the grit, careful to keep his touch light so as not to scratch her. She had finely arched brows. He was fairly certain the cut at the edge of one was going to leave a minute scar. He wondered if she was vain enough to be bothered by a marring of her skin.

Her lashes were long, thick, golden. Her cheekbones high and sharp. A lump on her cheek was going to cause her some discomfort.

As would her nose, swollen and bloody, a gash going down one side of it. Fortunately, it was no longer bleeding. And he realized

much of what he was wiping away was blood. Her chin reminded him of the bottom of a heart his sister often drew on her correspondence.

Not quite pointed, but fanciful all the same. It was her mouth, however, that drew him.

A wide and crimson cut marred one corner of her lower lip, causing a bit of swelling, but even without that puffiness, there

was a plumpness to her lips that he suspected would provide a man with a great deal of pleasure if he were to indulge in tasting

her.

Removing most of the sand revealed that she’d been badly battered by the sea.

Leaning back slightly, he took in the whole of her features—and he felt a kick to the gut. He was struck once again with the

familiarity of her. He was fairly certain he had seen her before, but the circumstances remained a mystery. Something about

her seemed off, but he couldn’t quite determine what aspect of her didn’t appear to be particularly right.

He tried to envision her without the bruising, scrapes, swelling—

Her hair was the incorrect shade, but if it were black—

He shoved himself to his feet to take in all of her. By God, he knew her.

Not that they’d ever been properly introduced because nothing about her was proper. But on a few occasions, he’d seen her,

studied her. Had even lusted after her—like half the men of his acquaintance.

He came close to bursting with ribald laughter. He’d cried out for a woman and fate had seen fit to deliver to his shore London’s

most infamous courtesan.