Prologue

Brighton 1815

E nough of being trapped in his own guilt.

Aaron Christopher Linley Blackburn Greystoke sat in the dark, cramped space, being jostled against the unforgiving squabs as the coach navigated the rutted country roads. A hellish place he would have been content to never see again. The closer they drew to the manor, the more his guilt grew. The forbidding demon of his past, now cold and rotting in the ground, could not hold a candle to his new set of torments.

His brothers.

One he idolized. The heir. Couldn't blame Nathaniel for running off. After all, their detestable father was the one at fault. Castigating his eldest son at every instance, punishing him for nothing a ‘tall. Aaron had wanted to flee with his brother. But he'd been too young at the time.

Then there was Edmund. The second son. Aaron supposed he was fortunate; although, he felt nothing of the sort. The guilt of betraying his brother weighed heavy on his chest. The three of them had come to an understanding since Nathaniel's return, but Aaron was not sure Edmund had forgiven him. How could one forgive the brother who had pitted the older two against each other?

Aaron had thought he was helping his middle brother. At least, that was his intention. Contacting the eldest seemed his only option when he found Edmund at the bottom of a bottle. And about to sell their family estate right out from under them. Nathaniel was the oldest, the rightful heir. Still, Edmund had seen it as a betrayal. And Aaron was still paying for his misstep.

He recalled the night his father passed. He stood at the foot of the master bed, cringing with ever raspy breath as he waited for his father to die. His middle brother had sent for their eldest brother, letting him know their father did not have much longer in this world. Nathaniel had come home.

"He came, Edmund. You sent for Nathaniel, and he came."

"Do not mistake our brother's arrival for anything other than what it is."

"And what is that?"

"Do you think he would have returned if I had not told him our father was dying?"

Aaron knew Nathaniel would not have come. He hated their father. Being the oldest, he had received the brunt of their father's wrath. Father showed no mercy to any of his children. But sometimes Aaron wondered if father hated his oldest. What other reason could there be for a father to treat his son thus?

"Father was not kind."

"Nor was he a dullard. Father was, however, an important man in the aristocracy."

"Did that give him the right to be cruel?"

"Did Nathaniel have the right to run away from his entitlement?"

Aaron cursed under his breath. "Entitlement. Is that what you call being beaten within an inch of his life?"

"Father got carried away, but Nathaniel was strong. It was never that bad."

"How can you say that?" Aaron shouted. It was worse than Edmund made it out to be. Their eldest brother never backed away from their father's ire. He had saved Aaron from punishment more than once. If father had taken a stick to him, the way he had his older brother, Aaron would have whimpered and skulked away. But not Nathaniel. The more chastisement father dished out, the harder Nathaniel grew. He never cried out. He showed no emotion, other than hate.

Father knew it. He saw it. And meted more abuse.

"He survived. We all did. Let it go, Aaron. Father will not live out the night."

Let it go? How?

Aaron gazed upon the pale white face of his father. Not much more than a skeleton, lying on the bed linen. His chest barely moved with each struggling breath. Once, he had thought the man a monster. A giant of a man, who could do anything. He could not pity the creature lying there. Whatever that made him, he simply could not do it.

It had taken a good number of months to get over that night. Not because his father died, but because his father still controlled his sons from the grave. Nathaniel left—again. Aaron thought, this time, he would never come back. It hurt, a lot, for Nathaniel had been his idol. Aaron had hero-worshiped his eldest brother, was proud and wanted to be just like him. As time went on, Nathaniel's absence created an empty place in Aaron's soul.

The carriage hit a hole in the road, nearly unseating him. He braced himself, scooted back against the squabs and crossed his arms, thinking he was prepared for the next set of bumps. He was not running, not exactly. There would be no distance far enough to escape the set of circumstances he had gotten himself into.

Edmund's angry face blazed before him. In a haze of red, his brother had thundered accusations Aaron knew he'd deserved. He never meant to pit one brother against the other. All he had intended was for Nathaniel to come home and straighten out the mess Edmund had somehow created.

If it wasn't for those blasted megrims. Edmund was much too smart to allow himself to get caught in the clutches of a swindler. But he had. Aaron blamed himself for not noticing sooner that his brother was in trouble. It seemed reasonable that Edmund would take over running the estate since Nathaniel had rejected his inheritance. Edmund had always been the calm, rational brother, assessing a problem, then using his intellect to solve an issue, rather than using his fists. After Nathaniel took off, it'd come as no surprise when Edmund stepped into the role as if he had been born to the position, accepting the responsibilities without qualm. But then he became a recluse, hiding in his abode, never coming out in public. And when Aaron found another man accessing Greystoke Manor, their family home, he had confronted Edmund.

The showdown had not gone as he had expected. The altercation left him feeling helpless. So, he'd done the only thing he could, creating a quandary that laid him low.

The coach lurched, and the driver whistled to the team of horses. A footman opened the door and waited for Aaron to get out.

"Well, my good man. I see you have found us an inn."

The man muttered something, but Aaron was too deep in his musing to pay attention. He strode to the door, and as he was about to reach for the handle, the door opened. Another gent came out. Shouts of revelry and merriment echoed behind him. This carousing inn might be the perfect place to drink his maudlin thoughts away.

Few tables held occupants; most were empty. The rowdy bunch of drinking inhabitants took up two tables, seeming harmless enough. A man and woman sat at a corner table in the shadows, apparently sharing an evening meal. A single man sat at another, with his head propped up in his hands. And that was exactly what Aaron planned to do. Drink alone.

The wooden chair scraped the floor as he pulled it back. He dropped his hat onto the table's scarred surface, and then sat. A short man wiped his hands on his apron as he hurried over.

"Bring me ale, my good man."

"Yes, sir. Will ye be havin' supper this eve? My wife made a fine stew."

He had not eaten since his business with Anderson. He supposed he could spend the night here before heading home. It was a long ride north, and he was in no hurry to see his brother. Once again, a twinge pierced his chest. The way it did every time he thought of Edmund. Would the day ever come when thoughts of betrayal would not eat at his stomach? Perhaps if he were planning to drink himself stupid, he should have some sustenance in his belly.

He called to the man. "I will take your word for it. Bring the stew as well."

"Right away." The man went through a doorway where the most delicious smells were coming from. Yes, perhaps the food was a good idea.

Aaron guzzled the ale and ordered another. When the man brought the second ale, he also had a loaf of bread that apparently had just come from the oven. Aaron went to tear off a piece and nearly burned his fingers. He slathered butter, on the bread and his fingers, then moaned as the delicious bread melted in his mouth. "My word. Please give my compliments to your lady wife."

By the time he finished his stew, the boisterous men had gone. And he was back to thinking about his brothers, pondering what he had thoughtlessly brought about. Would his brother ever forgive him?

He had never meant for this to happen. His intention was to save his brother. Find out what plagued him. What else should he have done? Edmund would not listen. He had lost weight. He looked like the bloody devil. Aaron's worry convinced him he had to send word to Nathaniel.

Of course, Edmund saw it as treachery. Aaron had never meant to be disloyal. He had thought his brother was losing his mind and losing the family holdings as well. True, things had worked out. The three of them bonded together to get rid of the man threatening Edmund. Aaron supposed he understood Edmund's side of things. There was no other way to look at it. No matter the outcome, Aaron had gone behind Edmund's back. His brother would never forgive him. Aaron's soul was damned for hell.

If he had to dwell in this den of purgatory thriving inside his skull, he may as well drown the devils out.

He folded his linen, placed it next to his plate, and was about to call the innkeeper when the lonesome man at the next table got up, and chose to sit in the empty chair at Aaron's table. Before he could open his mouth, the man spoke.

"You got any kids?"

Lord, no.

"I am afraid not."

"Well, I do. A little girl as sweet as her mama."

Then why are you in this place instead of at home?

"She thinks I'm a good man." He sniffed.

Good God, the man is about to cry.

Most likely, the man was well into his cups. Aaron had noticed the poor sod sitting alone, but paid no attention to him after that.

"I need someone to talk to."

Aaron said the first thing that came to his mind. "Perhaps your wife?"

The older man waved his hand. "Naw. Hey, Radner. Bring me another, and one for me friend."

Aaron glanced at the glass in the man's hand.

Whisky.

No wonder the fellow was maudlin. Aaron gave a shrug. After all, had he not planned to do the same thing? He had no place to be, no one to report to, and he planned on spending the night at this inn. Having a drinking companion topped the thought of going back home.

An hour later, or three or four, Aaron had learned very little, and divulged a lot. How had he done most of the talking? Although he had learned the man's name. Colvin. Every time Aaron thought to call it a night, Colvin had sniffed and started to cry. Then he would order another drink. Now the fool was blubbering. Aaron had imprudently consumed his share of whisky and wanted to seek out his own bed.

"Come on, you ole' coot." The innkeeper was standing over Colvin. "You need to git home. My wife and me is goin' to bed."

"All right, all right. I'm a goin'." Colvin pushed out of his seat, and landed promptly on the floor.

"You want to spend the night?" the innkeeper asked.

"No, no. I've got to git home to Rebekah."

Rebekah.

Must be his daughter. He had talked about his little girl all evening.

Aaron leaned down to help the man up. Colvin was limp as a wet noodle. It was all Aaron could do to keep Colvin from falling again.

"Maybe you better take the innkeeper up on his offer and stay here tonight."

"I can't. Gotta git home to my girl. She's all alone."

What kind of man left a child alone?

Aaron glanced to the innkeeper.

"Yep. She stays home by herself."

"What about the mother?"

"Died a few years back. He comes in here a lot since then, but I ain't never seen him this bad."

Hearing that did not speak well of the innkeeper either. Both men were dolts. Aaron decided he should escort the man home. If for no other reason than to make sure his little girl was all right.

"I will help you home, Colvin. Are you able to walk?"

"Why, sure," he cackled with glee.

"Do you know where you live?" he could not help asking. Just how drunk was Colvin?

"I can show ya. Come on." Colvin turned, and Aaron waited for him to fall again, which did not happen.

Perhaps the cool wind sobered Colvin up a bit. He seemed to get his second wind once they made it outside. Aaron stepped quick to keep up with the wiry man.

"Do you have a horse?"

"Naw. Couldn't feed it if'n I did."

"You walked to the inn?"

"Sure."

I suppose that was a dumb question.

"How far is your house?"

"Just up that hill, yonder."

Aaron tugged up the collar of his coat, and followed Colvin up the hill.

As he reached the rise, he spotted a small shack with a dull light filtering through a window. He supposed the wife had left a lamp lit for her husband. But—oh yes, the wife died. Colvin had said his little girl was alone. Aaron shook his head. He would find out soon enough.

As he neared the little house, he realized it was not as small as he first thought. Nor was the dwelling as close. The vast distance would account for the mistaken judgement in size. Colvin opened the door, not bothering to be quiet, and stomped inside. Aaron removed his hat and followed. The house was empty, but neat. Everything in its place. A sofa and two chairs were in the middle of the space. A stone hearth was on one wall with a healthy fire burning, as if someone had added logs recently.

Not a sign of a woman or a child. No sound came from anywhere in the house. To the right, a framed doorway showed another room was located in back. Next to it, a staircase rose to the upper floor. He supposed a bedroom was up there for Colvin, a second for his child. If anyone was awake, they had to hear the two of them come in.

"Is your family here?" he asked Colvin.

"Awww, she's in bed."

He supposed he meant the little girl. Colvin never said how old she was. "Are you sure?"

"‘Course, I'm sure. Now. Sit down and let's have a drink."

"No, thank you. I will be on my way."

The damned man began to cry, in all earnest.

"Good God, man. Do you want your daughter to wake up and see you like this?"

"Please. I need another man to talk to. I need advice."

In for a penny …

Aaron should have kicked his own arse, but he gave a nod and allowed himself to be hustled through the doorway, to a table in a modest kitchen. Colvin grabbed a bottle out of a cabinet, and then two glasses from another. Aaron glanced around the space as he waited. The man might not be an aristocrat, but he was no pauper either. Embroidered linen lie on the surface of a small table in front of a window. A woman was definitely in attendance, if the linen and cleanliness was anything to go by. Perhaps his daughter had not been alone. Perhaps another woman had taken care of the child.

Aaron was used to staff taking care of him. He had grown up with servants, and now he had his own staff to clean his house and cook his meals. And, of course, his aunt lived with him. She made sure his home was smart and trim, everything in its proper place. The floors clean enough that one could eat off them, if one so desired. So, he knew a thing or two about how a house should be kept. This one was no exception. Someone had taken the time to be tidy. Colvin was a lucky man.

But he was blubbering again.

Good God. Aaron would stay until the man passed out.

Hopefully it would be soon.

But as it turned out, Aaron was the one who could not keep his eyes open. He could not shake the cobwebs from his mind. He thought he was standing. Someone was leading him to a … bed? It could not be. Colvin was pickled. And for himself … he must be dreaming.

Then … what was happening?

And why could he not shake the fog he was floating in?

Rebekah tried to go back to sleep. Knowing that her father had brought a drinking crony home set her pulse to pounding. It was bad enough he went to the tavern. But this night he dared to bring home a drunkard with him.

How could he?

Her father had taken to drinking three years ago, right after her mother died. Rebekah had only been seventeen, at an age when a young woman needed her mother. At first, he'd hid the bottles from her. She had known of his newfound pastime, but never said a word. After all, she missed her mother, too. Then he took to drinking in town.

Her parents had been close. The three of them a team, so to speak. They had done everything together. Well, pretty much everything. Papa would help her mother cook sometimes. He often helped Rebekah with her reading while mother prepared supper. He even took her, Rebekah, with him hunting for food. She held the squirrels and rabbits by the neck while he stripped the hide from their little backs. Papa believed that his child should know the true facts of life. No timid girl for his offspring, which meant no rabbits for pets. Animals were for food. Nothing went to waste. Every part of the animal was used. And what they didn't need, her father traded. He did not believe in spoiling his daughter, but they had shared some tender moments. She remembered once, he had given her a strand of beads.

Nothing foolish, Mother. Every girl deserves a bit of sparkly. And this one is for you.

Rebekah recalled the flush on her mother's face, and the endearing smile her mother gave her father. The last few years had been heartbreaking to see the sadness in her father's eyes. So, if he took a bottle or two for comfort, or spent an evening in the tavern, who was she to complain?

Crash!

But she would not stand for him bringing home his drinking companions.

She tossed the coverlet to the side and slid her feet to the cold floor. She grabbed her socks first, then after slipping them on, she grabbed her robe. Papa's company would just have to see her at her worst.

She clomped down the wooden stairs very unladylike. Mother had taught her manners, but at the moment, Rebekah did not feel hospitable. She would not allow a drunkard to tear up her home.

"What ya doing down here, girl?"

"I've come to see that you and your friends don't smash everything in the house."

"What ya talking about? No friends. Now go back to bed."

She glanced about. No other—then she saw a man on the floor. Passed out.

"No friends? Who is that?" She pointed to the man on the floor.

"One friend. Now, mind yer pa. Go back to bed."

"What do you plan on doing with him?"

"Not for you to worry. Now go on." He came toward her, moving his hands in a shooing direction.

"Oh, Papa. Why did you bring him to our home?" She bent down on her knees, to check to see if the man was breathing. She smoothed the hair from his face—a very handsome face. His hair was not dirty, but smooth as silk.

"Go on with ya, girl. Stop that."

Rebekah noticed his clothes. A nobleman.

A nobleman? Here with her father?

She glared up at him. "Who is this man? What have you done?"

"Not a thing. I met him in the tavern. We had a few drinks."

She was beginning to wonder if perhaps the alcohol had turned her father's mind into mush. Good Lord. A gentleman. On her floor, in her kitchen.

"Papa. If I am not mistaken, this man is an aristocrat." She glanced down, taking in the limp figure on her floor. A tall man, if she had her guess. Well dressed. Leather Hessians. This man was no pauper. She really should not leave him lying on the floor, but she had to get her father to tell her the truth. "Did you hit him?"

"What? No."

"Then how did he get on our floor?"

"Now, wait a minute, Becky." Papa called her Becky when he wanted something. Rebekah, when he was scolding her.

"Just tell me. Who is he? What did you do?"

"I'm gettin' a mite tired of you accusin' there, girl. He's a gent, true. He fell. Had too much to drink."

"You should not bring your …" It was too late now. She heaved a sigh. "Why is he here?"

"Well … I couldna' leave him like this in the tavern. Radner was closing up. I couldna' let him throw the man out into the muck."

She crossed her arms, folding them under her breasts. A sign that she did not believe him, which did not go unnoticed by her father. He began to squirm.

"Well, ya see, uh … Dad blast it, girl. Let's get him off the floor."

She helped her father drag the man, carefully, over to the sofa, then heave him up. Which was not easy to do since he was of considerable size. She'd guessed correctly at his height. His legs dangled over the end of the sofa's arm.

"I'm plum tuckered out. I'm going to bed."

"Oh, no you don't. Tell me who he is."

"I can't think now, girl. Leave me be." Her father suddenly seemed more intoxicated than he had a moment ago. Most likely he was trying to put her off.

"Very well, then. Go. But do not think I will let you off so easily tomorrow morning. Friend or no. Foul head or no."

He waved a hand in her direction while heading in the opposite. He climbed the stairs, his boots clanging out every weary step.

"Now what am I to do with you," she asked the sleeping man, expecting no response. She supposed she should make him a bit more comfortable. However, there was nothing she could do about the length of the sofa. At least it was not as hard as the floor.

She glanced down taking in his awkward position. Bent at the hips, partly on his side, one leg twisted and the other bent at the knee where his boot hung down, nearly touching the floor. That had to be uncomfortable. By morning, he would have several kinks in his back and his neck, along with a pounding headache. She thought to straighten the leg, but was unsure how to go about it. Finally, she went to the end of the sofa, grabbed him by the boot and tugged.

A sound came from his mouth, making her freeze. When she heard no more, her shoulders relaxed. Next, she thought to relieve him of his boots. The darn things were heavy. She pulled and tugged, and huffed and puffed, and finally got one off. She had second thoughts of tackling the other one. Well, she could not leave the man like this. So, for a second time, she pulled and tugged. The second one came off no easier than the first. She wiped her forehead with the back of her arm. My goodness, what a chore. She gathered the footwear and placed them out of the way, by the hearth.

When she leaned over to collect a blanket from the back of the sofa, his arm moved. His hand brushed her thigh.

A jolt of electricity shot through her body. She caught her breath. Suddenly, she found herself lying on top of him.

"Mmmm …"

Oh my. His lips vibrated against her throat. She should scream. She couldn't breathe. Nor could she move. He was hot. So hot. His hands heated everywhere he touched. Right now, they molded her back, pressed her into his muscled chest. Glory of all glories, he felt divine.

She dared a peek at his face. His eyes were heavy lidded, with barely an opening for hm to look through. Was he looking at her? Or was he still asleep?

His hand squeezed her buttock. She stiffened in shock. A corner of his mouth lifted in a slight smile.

Should she call out? Maybe if she remained immobile, he would—

Perhaps not.

She pulled back, his arms tightly locked about her. The man took liberties. She jerked from his embrace, causing him to roll to the floor.

She placed her hands on her hips as she stared down at him. The man must be completely foxed, since he did not wake. Well, he could just stay there. It would serve the bounder right.

Drat.

Even if the floor was clean, he would not be comfortable. She could not leave him on the hard floor without at least a blanket.

He mumbled something. When she turned, his hand slid up her calf.

Good Lord.

She bent down to brush his hand away. He grabbed her arm.

"Where do you think you're running off to?"

Dropping the blanket, she used both hands to right herself, but the blasted devil had more arms than an octopus. Suddenly, she was on the floor with him.

His eyes were closed, again. She screwed up her face trying to judge if he was play-acting. He mumbled again. Now was her chance to rise, but instead, she leaned closer to hear his slurred words. She felt the heat of his breath as he kissed her cheek. She froze. Not at all unpleasant, but she should not—

One hand brushed her hair, another cupped her cheek. Then he placed both hands, one on each side of her head and whispered. While she was trying to make out his words, he kissed her on the lips. She opened her mouth in shock. And he inserted his tongue.

Fire shot from her belly to her toes. She had been kissed before, but never like this. The physical contact was so intimate … The man's tongue … uh, his tongue … ummm

She forgot what she was … oh my …

Goose bumps broke out over her skin. He was sinfully delicious.

She did not know what was more shocking. The fact that the man had her locked in his iron grip, or that she liked being there. Her stomach felt funny, and her head giddy, as if she was the one who had been drinking. All her nerve endings were tingling.

His fingers continued their sensual assault, over her shoulders and around one side to … She gasped. His fingers lightly brushed the side of her breast. Then his full hand cupped her.

Glory be, this was intoxicating. The caress so glorious, she nearly moaned. She caught the sound just before it escaped, fearing she might wake him. Was he truly asleep? Could a man do such things and not be awake?

Nonsense. Besides, she didn't want to find out. At the moment, she was lost in the sensations rolling through her body. And what wonderful sensations they were. As long as she pretended he slept, she could explore these new feelings without guilt.

One hand molded her back, pressing her into his chest. The other kneaded her breast, caressing the round globe as if he were cuddling a precious object. Perhaps measuring the depth and breadth to his memory.

It was mindboggling. Thrilling. He took her mouth in another kiss, slower than the first. She wondered if he felt the same tingling awareness as she. Then she was melting. Her body like goo, flowing over him in waves of heat. A hot mess of nerves and responses. An automatic reaction to every scorching touch, each sizzling caress, his sweltering heat roasting her, burning her to mindless passion.

She clutched him, not wanting to let go. Her body had a mind of its own, taking over her thoughts and actions. More. She wanted more.

He rolled, flipping their positions. His welcome weight sank over her, covering her like a warm blanket. His touch was bliss. He slowly peeled her gown from her shoulders, placing his searing lips on her skin. Hot. She was so hot. Her mind in a fog, she helped him remove her robe and gown. His eyes gleamed with appreciation. As long as he looked at her like that, she would follow him into the unknown.

He leaned down with a moan. "Beautiful." His low voice sent goosebumps over her skin; his fingers sending her into a pool of submission.

His mouth smoothed over her bare flesh, igniting flames of hunger for whatever he might give her. Whatever he might want from her.

She drowned in sensation, too far gone to care.

"I want you," he murmured.

If this was damnation … let the fires begin.