"So ye slipped yer chains," Henley mused. "They can throw ye back inta prison if ye ain't served yer full time. Must 'ave wanted ta come back fair bad."

"I have a marker to redeem," Drew growled. "You wouldn't want to hold one of my markers, old man." "No. Expect I wouldn't," Henley said. " 'Ard to believe an old fool knows 'ow to 'old 'is tongue, Carlowe, but I do." He stabbed the air with the stem of his pipe. "Just ye 'ope ye don't get what ye think ye want right now. Bad business, that. Rots a man's soul."

Drew managed a sneer. It was a good defense against his hollow feeling. "I haven't got a soul, old man. Remember that." He turned and stumbled down the hill, hardly knowing where he was. Everything had changed. Emily was dead.

He collected Darley from in front of the tavern and galloped back toward Ashland, anger churning in his belly. All those years he'd dreamed, not knowing she was dead. Not fair.

And now he'd have to find another way to exact his revenge on Melaphont. Because those years were Melaphont's fault.

So the first thing to do was to eject his beautiful squatter. He was going to be spending some time at Ashland while he evolved a new plan to take his revenge and carried it out. He had no desire to spend another sleepless night, or to lose any more blood.

3.

Unbelievable! Carlowe hadn't run away last night and now after Freya was sure she was rid of him, he was back, banging around the house, poking in every room. No one could get a good day's sleep with that going on. He hadn't come into the ruined wing yet. But she had to keep a wary ear out.

The sounds subsided. This day had been difficult in many ways. When she thought he had gone, she should have been glad. But she found herself thinking about what had happened last night between them. It had kept her in a state of semiarousal all day.

Boot heels sounded on the servants' stairs. Thank goodness for her vampire hearing.

Where was he going? Outside? She slipped over to the heavy draperies and pulled one out from the window just enough to see. The late afternoon light cut at her eyes and she squinted. She was very old, and could withstand some sunlight, but it certainly wasn't comfortable. Yes, there he was, in shirtsleeves and breeches, fists on his hips, looking up at the ruined wing, examining each set of windows. That was not good.

He started off at a run. Her window was the only one with draperies intact. Where could she go? This was ridiculous, on the run in her own house. She needed someplace she could darken to protect against the sunlight.

Footsteps thudded in the hall. He was counting doorways. No time to think! She called her power and imagined the room across the hall. The familiar moment of pain washed over her.

Drew pushed into the room. It was dark. Only the channel of light made by the open door revealed the features of the room. He didn't have to wonder whether it was hers. He could smell her marvelous scent and feel the electric energy hanging around him as if she had disappeared into thin air a moment ago. And actually, in view of her performance last night, that might just be what had happened.

He was being ridiculous.

He stared around the room. The furniture was still shrouded in Holland covers. But the bed was freshly made, the sheets crisp. Ashes stood in the fireplace. And there had definitely been a path where the dust had been disturbed in the carpets in the hall outside. There was no dust on the carpets here. And no leaks apparently. Someone could live here.

He pulled open the drawers of the highboy, and stood, transfixed. These were like no woman's underthings he had seen before. And he had seen his share. No chemises, no stockings. There were only filmy, lacy . . . somethings that would hardly cover anything. His loins tightened. He couldn't help but remember the sensuous feeling he had experienced last night when she had . . .

He strode to the wardrobe and swept open the doors. Dresses, if one could call them that, like she had worn last night, all sheer layers, and all white. A traveling cloak of black wool lined with white satin and edged with ermine, delicate slippers, and even little heeled, white leather boots. There could be no doubt to whom the room belonged.

But she wasn't here. How could he throw her out if he couldn't find her? Rage boiled up inside him, because he couldn't find his lovely trespa.s.ser, because Emily was dead and he was fourteen years too late to mourn and because all his dreams of getting back the eager and optimistic boy he had been by claiming her were dashed.

It was all Melaphont's fault. The b.a.s.t.a.r.d had taken Drew's innocence, his love, his very life from him. Drew pulled the clothes from the wardrobe and flung them around the room. He s.n.a.t.c.hed drawers from the highboy and dashed them against the bedposts until they splintered and strewed their contents across the carpet. He wanted to stop. But he couldn't.

He wanted destruction more. He pulled the pocket-knife from his breeches pocket, flipped it open, and slashed the pillows on the bed. Feathers floated everywhere, uncontrolled, just as he was. The coil of hatred in his belly controlled him. He threw himself on the mattress, stabbing it over and over until he was left gasping as feathers floated to the floor around him like drifting snow.

His shoulders sagged. How could he lose control like that? Emptiness ate at him. He turned and lay in the ruined bed, dry-eyed and exhausted. The room was dark, its heavy draperies totally shut out the light. The open door cast little light into the room any more as the windows in the hallway dimmed with sunset.

He felt the hum of energy at the edge of his consciousness.

He sat up. How long had she been here?

"You can come out now." Had she seen his reckless display? But no one emerged from the dressing room. He pushed off the bed and flung open the dressing room door, but there was no one there.

His anger deserted him. He felt . . . helpless. He couldn't find the beautiful trespa.s.ser, though he was now sure she was somewhere in the house. The evening stretched ahead. His stomach rumbled and he realized he hadn't eaten since mid-morning. He stalked down to the kitchen. If she appeared later tonight, he wanted to have all his wits about him.

What was she going to do? Freya paced the stable. The horse looked at her with interest.

She'd used every way she knew to frighten her unwelcome houseguest last night, and he wasn't frightened enough to leave. He had just shown how deranged he was. When the draperies in the room across the hall proved too tattered to keep out the sunlight, she'd crept back to the dressing room and watched the destruction. She couldn't have anyone living in her house, let alone a madman. Why was he so angry? His actions wouldn't frighten away a real ghost, so he obviously didn't believe she was supernatural. She didn't want to hurt him. What other way was left to her? Reason, perhaps. But with a madman?

She had no other choice. She peered out the stable door. Lights flickered in the kitchen. He was probably getting dinner. She slid out into the evening. If she were going to try reason, she'd need to open the priest's hole where her father kept a copy of the deed.

She'd wait for him here, in his room. She laid the fragile roll of paper on the desk and began to pace impatiently. It was some minutes before she noticed the shreds of paper on the floor.

She paused, peering down. The envelope from last night. She could still see parts of the address. She picked up a corner. It had still had the letter inside it when he ripped it up.

Oh. That's why he was angry. His ladylove had rejected him. Well, that meant he wasn't precisely a madman, and her reasonable approach might actually work. It also meant he might be just as glad to leave this place.

She heard him coming up the hall. She didn't bother to transport herself out of his way this time. He threw open the door, holding his candelabra high. He seemed distracted. It was a moment before he saw her.

"You," he accused. "You have no right to be here, and don't tell me you're a ghost."

"Very well," she said. "I am not a ghost."

He looked satisfied. "I thought not. You must tell me sometime how you achieved your effects." His gaze swept over her and noticed the fragment of envelope in her hand. He strode forward and s.n.a.t.c.hed it from her. "Leave my things alone."

"I'm sorry your suit did not prosper, but you should not take it out on me."

The anger, the hurt in his eyes were palpable. "The lady has been dead for fourteen years.

So my suit was unlikely to prosper. Now get out of my house, whoever you are."

"Your house. This is my house." The insolence of the man!

His eyes narrowed. "I bought this house yesterday."

She practically gasped. "I beg pardon, but since I was not selling it, you could not have."

He went to the desk and opened his writing case. He noticed her scroll. "What's this?" he snapped, taking it up.

"Be careful, brute. It is very fragile." She took it, and carefully pulled the ribbon. The scroll unfurled a little. "It is the deed granting the property to my . . . ancestor." She'd almost said her father, and since it was made out in 1564 that would seem a lie.

"Let me see that," he barked. He set the candelabra down on the desk and Freya smoothed out the scroll. The spidery, ornate writing sloped across the parchment. The s's looked like f's and continued below the line. But it was clearly readable. His eyes darted back and forth across the lines, then lingered on the seal of the young queen.

"And you are a descendent of this Rubius Rozonczy?"

"Yes." If he ripped up the scroll before her eyes, she had no other proof. Her entire ploy depended on him having honor. A man with a scar like that across his cheek. Was she the one insane?

"How do I know that?"

"I have the deed." That didn't really prove her ident.i.ty, but then what could?

"There could have been an intervening sale that was quite legitimate."

"There was not." A thought occurred to her. "From whom did you buy it?"

He must have had the same thought she did, for his brow darkened. He could look quite fierce with those lowering golden brows and that scar that stood out so whitely against his cheek. "Bromley. He acted as agent for the owner."

"Isn't he Sir Melaphont's agent, too?"

He nodded and chewed his lip. "And Melaphont was the caretaker of the property while the owner was away in-"

"In the Carpathian Mountains," she finished for him. "Transylvania to be exact. Sir Melaphont probably needed money, and thought my family would never know of his perfidy."

"Bromley would have to have been in on it," he mused.

"I am sure he was well compensated."

Carlowe's face fell. His shoulders sagged, just as though the air had been let out of him, like one of those hot air balloons people were always careering about in these days.

"Melaphont wins again."

"Did you pay much money for this place?"

"It isn't the money," he said, his voice dull. "I've plenty of that."

"With my deed, and the receipt for the property, could not your law help you? I'm sure you could persuade Bromley to testify against him."

He combed his fingers through his hair. "That would take years."

"I suppose you could call him out," she offered. "Is that not what one does these days?"

Especially if one was a man interested in honor. And this one had honor. He hadn't de- stroyed her scroll. And he didn't seem to question her right to the place.

"That would draw a bit too much attention to myself." His mouth was wry.

Ahhhh. He had something to hide.

"Besides, that would be a quick death. Much too good for him." His eyes went harder than she had ever seen a human male's expression. Only her father could look more implacable.

"But I will have my revenge on him, for everything he's done. I'll find a way." His eyes took on a gleam. "Perhaps I could take a page from your book and haunt him. Bedlam would be a fitting end for him." He glanced up at her. "I suppose I owe you an apology for ripping up your room."

She shrugged. "You thought it was your room, and I an intruder."

He nodded then sucked in a resolute breath. "I shall relocate to the tavern immediately."

All she had wanted was to have him out of her house, and now when he was going, she found she did not want him to leave at all. There was a familiar full feeling of arousal in her woman's parts. That was almost expected. But it wasn't her physical attraction to him that filled her with regret. Something about this man was incredibly appealing. He was a mystery, hard with his need for revenge, tentative in his feeling for his dead love, honorable, damaged in some complex way that went deeper than the scars on his back.

This was not in her plan. She was resolved to have no contact with the world, no painful engagement with anyone, until she knew who she was and what she wanted.

"Don't go tonight," she found herself saying. It was almost shocking. But she realized that what she wanted was to know this man better. "It's getting late. In fact, you might as well stay here while you plan your revenge. I promise not to bother you. I sleep during the day."

He looked doubtful.

"The tavern is noisy, I'll wager. The curious will poke you with questions."

He pressed his lips together and she knew she had him. "Very well," he said, his voice tight. Was he thinking of last night, dreading that it might happen again, or that it might not? Because that was what she was doing-dreading both possibilities at once. She was insane for allowing temptation inside her very doors. Or maybe she was mad to refuse temptation.

She smiled. It was the first time she'd smiled in . . . in a year. It made her mouth feel strange. "I'll get fresh sheets and make up another room for myself."

"You'll need some help," he growled to her surprise and opened the door for her.

Freya chose a bedroom down the hall from his with red brocade draperies that would hold out the sunlight nicely. They had stripped the Holland covers off the furniture, and were making up the bed. They said nothing, perhaps because this feeling of electric attraction between them was almost stifling in its intensity. Could she be thinking of having s.e.x with a man who had lost his love today? But she was. Imagining him naked, aroused, plunging inside her, consumed her thoughts. How could all the restraint she had managed in the last year be cast aside so . . . easily? She was shameless. Despicable. Worse, he might be giving way to imagination, too. The smoldering looks he was sending her from across the bed were not something she could mistake. To take her mind off her very vivid imaginings and to remind him why he should not be interested in having s.e.x with her, she said, "I did not say I was sorry for your loss earlier. I am." That would dampen things.

He froze in the middle of putting a pillow into its case. "Ahhhh. Yes. Thank you." He shook the pillow down into place and threw it on the bed. Then he paused. "You know, I was nineteen and she seventeen when we shared a few kisses and told each other how much in love we were. But are you at that age? In love? I mean"-here he turned to face her-"what does one that young know of love? I still don't know what love is. But I'm not sure that was it. Perhaps I was in love with the idea of being in love with her. That idea kept me alive when her father had me charged with horse stealing. He pa.s.sed sentence himself, supervised the lashing and condemned me to be transported to the prison colony at New South Wales."

That was how he had gotten those horrible scars. No wonder he hated Sir Melaphont.

"There was no ship available, since so many criminals were being transported. So I was sent to a prison hulk in Portsmouth." He must have seen her look of puzzlement. "They pack six hundred prisoners on a dismasted ship and float it in the harbor. Foul conditions. I nearly died of fever there, while my back healed."

"How could Sir Melaphont do such a thing?"

"Because he is a magistrate, and I was a b.a.s.t.a.r.d groom in his stables who dared to love his daughter."

"But you did not stay transported, and you do not talk or dress like a groom."

"The transport ship foundered in a storm. I made it to an island." He pulled the sheets up and tucked in the blanket as he talked. "I was rescued by free traders of the sea."

"Pirates?" She'd only read about pirates. What a romantic life he had lived.

"Yes. And they took me on. I was a strong lad. I learned the sea." They pulled up the brocaded coverlet together. "Did you know that pirates elect their captain?"

"You were a pirate captain." She believed it. It gave him that very dangerous feeling.

"I prefer to say I made my fortune in shipping." He smiled a very attractive smile-almost a boyish grin. It was the first time she had seen it, and it was . . . dazzling. "We did well. I sold out. I'd learned mathematics in order to navigate, so I knew I was not stupid. I hired tutors to teach me the skills of a gentleman. Much easier than mathematics. Voila, Drew Carlowe."

He called himself Drew. Lovely.He stood, surveying his work, but she knew from the way he frowned that he wasn't seeing the bed. "I may have cared for Emily only for the revenge winning her would have wreaked on her father. Not something to be proud of. I would have made her a d.a.m.nable husband if that was the reason I wanted to marry her." He sighed. "I'd make a d.a.m.nable husband to any woman, I suspect."

"Some women don't want husbands," she whispered.

He looked up and his eyes were alight. Now she'd done it. They raked her body. "Why do you wear clothes like that?"

What did he mean? "I've always worn clothes like this."

He came round to her side of the bed. He was stalking her, almost like the pictures she had seen of panthers, all powerful grace, deadly. "Those clothes say you know of sensual things.