Prologue

December 1796

Windermere Castle

Julian laid his un-gloved hands on the windowsill. The moonlight spilling through the glass made the pale skin appear even whiter. Like the hands of an alabaster statue. Inhuman.

He frowned, remembering his brother’s words from days before, after his return from long months at sea.

“There are no such things as curses, Jule. I have traveled the world and I have seen a lot of strange things. But never have I seen an actual, real-life curse. Not once.”

Dark hair falling across a pale forehead. The aquiline nose that was common to the male line of the Barrington family. Bright blue eyes, alive with intelligence and humor. Julian could recall his brother’s face as he had spoken those words. Spoken to the terrified little boy who believed himself cursed, never to be able to touch another human being. Samuel had taken the gloves and pressed Julian’s bare hands to his cheeks. Nothing had happened. Julian had waited for the curse to strike Samuel down. Instead, his brother only smiled at him, that familiar roguish grin that always heralded adventure.

“Father told me that I was cursed,” Julian had said in a small, wondering voice, “why did he tell me that?”

Samuel had frowned, looking out of the window with a troubled expression.

“Father is… not a well man. You know that. He never has been for as long as I have known him. I think it preys on him, weighs him down. And it makes him think strange thoughts. You must not judge him for it, Jule. He does not mean it.”

Julian had not dared to walk about the halls of Windermere Castle without his gloves. The first victim of the curse, according to his father, had been Julian’s mother, who had died giving birth to him. Died from the first touch of her infant son’s hands.

There had been others.

Rather than risk the ire of his father, Julian had continued to wear the black, leather gloves that he had worn since he was a small child. But alone, here in his turret room, high above the castle and isolated from its other residents, none could be touched by him or by the curse.

Could Samuel have been correct? Was the curse no more than the rambling notions of an unsound mind? Julian wished he could believe it. But then he had touched his brother and nothing had befallen him.

A wail rising from somewhere below in the castle turned Julian’s insides to ice. He jumped from the window seat, indecisive. He was not permitted to leave his high tower room during the night.

But then the wail came again.

It was his father and it was the sound of a man being torn by grief. Julian’s heart pounded in his chest. Samuel, his older brother, the heir to the Dukedom of Windermere had defied the curse. Julian prayed that the curse had not taken its revenge.

Not wanting to know the source of that keening grief but unable to stay away, Julian crept to the door of his bedchamber. His father had left strict instructions that the door be locked and the servants followed these orders without question. But Samuel had scoffed, taking away the key when he left Julian hours before.

Feeling a sense of liberty, Julian turned the handle and opened the door. It creaked, frighteningly loud.

He peered out and down the benighted spiral stair that would lead him to the rest of the castle. He knew its steps well enough that he could traverse them with his eyes closed. The deep gloom of night was no bar to him.

With the nimbleness of a mountain goat, he skipped down the smooth, stone steps. Bare feet felt for the depressions in the middle of each step, worn over time. They stepped over the step whose mortar had worn away and which wobbled precariously when any weight was applied. Then he was standing on the long patterned rug that covered the floor of the hallway at the bottom of the staircase. It was a deep blue, but in the dark, it might as well have been black.

At his next step, his small foot struck something hard and cool, sending a small glass bottle skittering across the floor. Startled, he bent to pick it up, squinting at the faded label in the dim light. “Monk… monkey…shoo,” he tried to read. The rest had been smudged away, leaving the word incomplete. Confused, he frowned, wondering what it could mean. But then the wail came again, louder this time, and Julian quickly set the bottle down.

He scurried along the carpet to the end of the hallway where another, broader staircase led down further. He flitted along hallways, drawing nearer to the sound of the wailing. The haunting sound certainly was coming from his father.

Finally, he came to a halt. A long hallway stretched before him, seeming longer than it did by the light of day. Not that the light of day was ever allowed to intrude into the rooms and passageways of Theydon Mount Castle. Halfway along that hallway, Julian knew, was his brother’s room. The door was open and a cluster of servants stood around it. Their faces were creased with concern and anguish. Some of them held candles in holders, carefully shielding the light with their hands lest it spill into the room beyond.

Licking his lips, Julian crept along the hallway. He steered clear of the servants, sticking to the wall of the hallway until he stood opposite the doorway.

“My son! My only dear son!” Harold Barrington’s cracked and broken voice cried out.

The words stabbed at Julian, second son of the Barrington family. He stamped firmly on the pain, knowing it to be his lot.

His birth had removed his mother from the world, and now… his touch had removed his brother.

The servants saw the nine-year-old boy, pale and ghostlike, standing near them. Without a word, they parted until Julian had a clear view of the room beyond.

Harold Barrington was thin and pale, his wraithlike pallor even more pronounced than his son. He was fully dressed, his phobia of daylight rendering him a creature of the night. His hair was white and hung to his shoulders. His fingers were the fleshless talons of a skeleton. His eyes were red-rimmed, emphasizing the colorless irises. Harold Barrington was the denizen of Barrow, long buried and hidden from the clean, bright light of the sun.

But it was the form over which Harold Barrington wept that captured Julian’s eye and held it.

Samuel Barrington lay atop his bedclothes, fully dressed and with wide-staring eyes. His face was contorted into a grimace of agony and there was no sign of breath from his lips. No movement of his chest, no blinking of his eyes.

Samuel Barrington, Julian’s elder brother, was dead.

Another man stood at Samuel’s bedside, also in his nightclothes. He had dark hair and a lean face with a hawk-like nose and deep-set eyes. Julian knew who he was, a friend of Samuel and a physician. That lean face was tight with grief and resolve. He was drawing a sheet up to cover Samuel’s face but Harold was resisting him.

“Your Grace… Samuel is gone. There is nothing more to be done but to give him some dignity,” murmured the doctor.

“To hell with your dignity, Hakesmere! To hell with it! He is my son!” Harold cried out.

“Was your son, Your Grace…” Doctor Hakesmere began tentatively.

“Get out!” Harold raged, “Begone from my house. You were my son’s friend, not mine!”

As he spoke, he pointed to the door, and that drew his eyes to Julian who had crept forward. Julian blinked back tears of disbelief and self-recrimination. Why could he not have resisted Samuel’s removal of his gloves? Why couldn’t he have run from his brother to keep him safe from his hideous curse? It was only when his father’s eyes fell upon him that Julian remembered that he was not wearing his gloves. They were in his garret room atop the windowsill.

“You!” Harold hissed, finger trembling.

Doctor Hakesmere looked towards the newcomer with a frown. When he saw Julian, a look of compassion stole across his face. He started around the bed towards Julian but Harold was faster. He leaped to his feet and strode towards Julian, still pointing.

“Where are your gloves, boy!” he demanded.

“Samuel took them off,” Julian whispered without thinking, “they are in my room.”

Harold stopped, mouth falling open and eyes blazing with malevolence.

“Samuel removed them? You touched him with your bare hands?”

“Your Grace, what is this nonsense about gloves…” Doctor Hakesmere began.

“It is the curse of the Barrington’s as embodied by the devil you see before you! It is due to him that my darling wife was taken from me. And now he has taken my son!”

Doctor Hakesmere directed a questioning look at Harold.

“I understood that your wife died in childbirth? One can hardly blame…”

Harold darted forward and seized Julian by the arms. His claw-like fingers pinched painfully and he propelled Julian from the room.

“He is dead because of you! The heir to Windermere, the son who would do so much honor to the Barrington name. The paragon of gentlemen. Dead! I have told you before. I have warned you! This is deliberate insubordination. Why did you do it?!”

“Your Grace! I must protest! This child…” Doctor Hakesmere followed Harold and Julian from the room but neither of the two surviving Barrington’s looked at him.

Julian found his full attention held by his father’s wide, staring eyes. Spittle had collected at the corners of his mouth and the whites of his eyes were visible all the way around. Julian felt the stone of the wall suddenly pressing into his back. Beside him was a window. His father reached for the metal latch and wrenched it open. Cold air immediately leached into the hallway, making the candle lights flicker. Harold’s mad eyes darted to the window, then back to Julian.

“I will be rid of you once and for all,” he breathed, and shoved Julian by the shoulder towards the cold black rectangle that let out into the night.

A maid suddenly cried out as the breeze made the flame of her candle waver, briefly touching her hand. She dropped it and the carpet immediately caught light. The sudden flare of light made Harold scream, throwing up both hands across his face. Doctor Hakesmere darted forward and seized Julian, hauling him away down the hallway.

“Best get you out of your father’s sight, young man, until he has calmed some,” Hakesmere said in a firm but gentle tone.

Julian allowed himself to be guided away but kept his arms firmly crossed and hands tucked under his arms. He would not risk any further deaths.

Eventually, he risked a glance over his shoulder. The servants were frantically trying to stamp out the fire while Harold Barrington, Duke of Windermere and father to Samuel and Julian, cowered against the wall, arms covering his head, trying to block out the agonizing light.

Then the doctor ushered him around a corner of the hallway and into a room. It was quiet and dark, the air cool. Julian was guided to a chaise longue where he sat staring at the oakwood floor.

“What happened to my brother?” Julian asked plaintively.

His voice wavered and tears blurred his vision. Fear gripped him. Fear that the doctor would confirm his father’s view. Would confirm the curse and condemn Julian to a lonely life.

“I do not know. He was struck down without warning. From the look on his face, I would say that it was a problem with his heart,” Hakesmere said. “Samuel and I traveled much of the world together and I have seen him defy death on more than one occasion. But we are all mortal and susceptible to disease.”

Julian shook his head. He had wanted the physician to tell him that Samuel had died of some natural cause. But he could not. The answer was clear to Julian. After all, his father was an expert on matters arcane and occult.

The library from which Julian was forbidden, but had sneaked into in the dead of night, was a place of dark books and relics. Harold Barrington knew of curses and he had warned Julian what would happen to anyone that Julian touched with his bare hands. He scrubbed the tears from his eyes, hardening his heart against the grief. Carefully, he stepped away from the doctor, who watched him with a face alive with concern. Julian shook his head.

“It is the curse.”

The doctor snorted. “There is no such thing, boy.”

Julian shook his head wordlessly, seeing the truth, even if this man of science could not. The answer was simple, clear to his immature mind. He was cursed. Tainted. And must be kept away from people. He turned and ran from the room.

Chapter One

Twenty Years Later

Theydon Mere

“This is foolish. I must be mad. Walking a lonely road at night. Whatever am I doing?”

Ester whispered the words under her breath, trying to alleviate the loneliness by talking to herself. She knew the risk she was taking.

The road was lonely and the moon, obscured by scudding clouds, rendered the landscape inky black.

So far from London and so close to the looming expanse of Epping Forest, there was always the possibility of highwaymen. Such men took advantage of the traffic on roads leading into and out of the capital with the proximity of dense woodland into which they could disappear.

Beneath her cloak, which hooded her and covered her dress down to the ground, she clutched at her leather satchel with both hands. With each step she took along the road, that bag threatened to clink, betraying its metallic contents.

This was the dowry that had been realized by her father for the marriage to the Earl of Handbridge that had seemed certain. Certain until a friend of Lord Kenneth Lowe of Handbridge had committed an act that left Ester’s reputation in tatters.

Her mind shied away from the memory of that night. Of Simon Thompson, Viscount Kingsley’s handsome smile morphing into a leer. His hands suddenly insistent, touching her in a way that only a husband should. The memory sent a shudder through her that had nothing to do with the wind that whispered under the hood of her cloak to stir her long, golden-red hair.

She pushed the memory away, striding along the road briskly, attempting to outdistance it. Only her sister knew that she was out of doors on this night. Helen was maintaining the illusion for their parent’s sake that Ester was in her room, suffering a touch of mal de tete. Her dearest Helen—and the reason Ester was walking this dark road, skirting the trackless forest. To protect her sister and ensure she could secure for herself a fine match, a husband who would do her honor. That would not happen if Viscount Kingsley made good on his threats.

Her fist tightened on the edges of her cloak. In a pocket she had sown inside the cloak, she carried a knife. It was a simple tool, acquired from an ironmonger in London, with a sharp point and equally dangerous edge. Its hilt was bound with leather and it had a guard of simple iron, to protect the hand of the wielder according to the ironmonger. He had been curious as to why a lady should wish to purchase such a brutally simple implement. It wasn’t a kitchen knife or a piece of cutlery. It was a dagger and it had one function. Ester did not know if she could use it for that purpose. But as Viscount Kingsley’s sneering face loomed in her mind, anger was sparked within her. It almost overwhelmed the fear. He had no right to her body and no right to her family’s wealth. Could she stab him on this lonely road? With even the moon blinded to the deed by the clouds.

Ahead, a brief appearance of that silent witness illuminated a body of water. It was a lake, bounded by the road on one side and the dark mass of Epping Forest on the other. The road was elevated above the water, looking down a gentle slope to a fringe of weeping willows that draped their long fingers into the mirrored surface.

Ester’s breath came quicker now, her pulse increasing. She was close now. Somewhere down there was a jetty and an old boathouse, long abandoned and neglected. She kept walking, searching the dark shoreline for the spot of the rendezvous. A chill ran down her spine. Perhaps she was at the wrong place. Perhaps the directions, given to her in Viscount Kingsley’s letter, had been misinterpreted. She could spend all night searching for the boathouse and he would think that she had refused his demands. What then for Helen and the rest of her family? What then when Viscount Kingsley spread the news of the scandal?

There was some relief when she saw the dark, square shape of a building a few hundred yards ahead. A long structure stretched out from it into the water, the jetty. And at the end of that jetty, the unmistakable shape of a man.

Ester swallowed, forcing herself to continue walking. Clouds veiled the moon once more and the man was swallowed up by the greater darkness of the lake before him. Her steps sounded loud to her, surely loud enough to carry to that silent sentinel. Would it be Kingsley himself? Or an underling there to carry out his master’s orders.

Finally, she reached a set of stone steps that had been set into the earth bank. She began to descend, the boathouse now directly opposite her. When she reached the bottom, she almost screamed when a figure stepped out from around the corner of the building. Her hands tightened on the dagger in its secret pocket and she came to a halt.

“You would be Miss Ester Fairchild?” said the man in a cultured voice.

Cultured, but not the voice of the Viscount Kingsley. That voice she would never forget. It haunted her nightmares.

“Yes, who are you?” she said.

“My name is not important. I am here on the orders of his lordship, the Viscount of Kingsley,” the man stated, coldly.

An underling then.

“And there, I trust you hide the promissory note for your father’s bank?” the man asked, pointing to her hands.

Ester clutched the satchel of coins tighter. That money had been taken out by her father from his bank in Chester to be paid as her dowry. When Kenneth had terminated their engagement, the money had remained in her father’s study. Long ago, he had entrusted the combination to his formidable, cast iron safe to Ester, his eldest daughter and most trusted confidante. Ester blinked back tears as she remembered the look in his eyes as he had locked that money away again. He did not blame her, not openly, but his eyes were damning. Even if he believed that she had not willingly compromised herself with the Viscount Kingsley.

“No,” she said, quietly.

“No?” the man queried.

He shifted, then took a couple of steps closer to her. Close enough to smell the brandy on his breath. He had clearly imbibed as he had waited for her, reinforcing himself against the winter cold.

“I have an amount in coins. Guineas,” Ester began, “it is all I could get.”

“You were told to bring a note, signed by your father, that would be accepted at his bank in the city,” the man muttered harshly.

“I…I…” Ester stammered.

“My master told me that you would prevaricate and attempt to wriggle off the hook. The transaction is simple. You must pay.”

He took a threatening step toward her and Ester backed away. In a flash of moonlight, she saw his face. There was a smile on it, cruel and thin.

He took another deliberate step forward. Revulsion and fear flooded her. The lap of the water against the shore faded, as did the cold wind that ruffled its surface.

Instead, she was in the long gallery of Kendrick Priory, ancestral home of the Fairchild family. The soft, golden light of candles was reflected from fine pieces of silver and bronze that stood on pedestals along the hallway. Long, burgundy drapes covered the windows and a carpet of red and gold softened the sound of footfalls. It softened the sound of Viscount Kingsley’s footfalls. She felt, once again, the hand upon her bare shoulder, turning her. Saw his leer and then his lips. Felt those lips fastening upon her throat, biting, tongue licking her skin. She screamed, shrinking away but held fast by cruel hands. She lashed out but her blows were ineffectual. She was pushed up against a wall, dislodging a painting that hung there so that it crashed to the ground. Kingsley laughed and struck her across the face with an open hand, knocking her to the floor.

Ester found herself screaming at the night, the dagger that she had drawn knocked from her hand, and a blow from an open hand knocking her to the ground. The emissary of the Viscount Kingsley stood over her, hand raised. Her anger flowed out of her, replaced by shame.

Defeat once again.

Kingsley had defeated her, only prevented from fulfilling his desires by the arrival of others, drawn by the commotion. By then, Kingsley had hauled her to her feet by the shoulders and pressed her against the wall. To them, the scene had been that of a respected gentleman enjoying a dalliance with a female of less respectable virtue. To them, she had been the one expected to feel shame. They had not seen him strike her.

She cowered against the boathouse as the man tore her cloak wide and seized the satchel. His hands lingered, finding her arms for a moment before he tore the bag away. Then he was looking down at her, breathing hard.

“My master will be angry that you have defied him. I will have to endure that anger. I will be blamed. I should have compensation,” he grated.

Ester heard the satchel drop to the floor. She had covered her face with her hands, fearing another blow. Now she looked up between her fingers and saw him step closer, unbuttoning the long overcoat he wore, then tossing it aside. He gave an exaggerated shiver.

“It is a cold night… is it not? No matter. You shall warm me up. And no one will ever know…”

Then, a sound reached them both on the wind. The thud of hooves on the hard-packed earth of the road. The man looked back over his shoulder and growled in his throat. Then he grabbed the overcoat and satchel, and ran.

Ester remained where she was, wishing for the ground to open beneath her and swallow her. The memory of the assault that had driven her family out of their ancestral Cheshire home had overwhelmed her. The knife had come to her hand and she had struck out with it blindly. And been easily disarmed before being beaten to the ground. Her brave fight had lasted a heartbeat and had been defeated with contempt. Just as Kingsley had once broken her resistance without effort.

She felt worthless, shamed, degraded. The rider had probably been a highwayman. Her earlier fear was gone. Such a rogue would doubtless take the opportunity to defile her if he saw her there but she could not summon the will to move. The idea terrified her, but an exhaustion now flooded her.

How long had it been since the event that had turned her world upside down? Six months? Nine? Since her family had been forced to leave Cheshire to escape the accusing stares and malicious gossip. Since they had been forced to rent a house here on the outskirts of London from a gentleman of this county, leaving their home empty. All to escape the scandal. In all that time, she had blamed herself, had gone over and over her actions. Why had she chosen to leave the ballroom and walk alone? Had she given Kingsley any indication, as they had danced earlier in the evening, that she was receptive to his lust? Was anything of what the gossips now said, true? She could not admit to her father that Kingsley now wanted money in exchange for his silence. In exchange for not poisoning the well of the London ton against her family. Against Helen, who at the tender age of nineteen, had hoped for her debut and hoped for a husband.

That secret was an intolerable burden. Its weight was pressing her into the damp soil beneath her. She could not bear it any longer.

With supreme effort, she got to her feet.

She followed the line of the boathouse, turning the corner that Kingsley’s lackey had emerged from, and felt the boards of the jetty beneath her feet. The sound of the hooves had stopped but she was barely aware of it.

She walked faster now, until she was running, holding her skirts up.

Then the jetty was ending and she was leaping out from the edge, as far into the dark mere as she could propel herself. The cold embrace of the water welcomed her. Cold seized her. Darkness enveloped her.

Chapter Two

“You know this road better than I do, old friend. You’ve come this way since you were first old enough to carry me on your back, and I, old enough to ride.”

Julian allowed his chestnut stallion, Rufus, to trot at his own pace. He kept up a low, whispered, one-way conversation with the animal as they went.

The night was dark, but Rufus knew the Chigwell road as well as his own stable. Master and mount had indeed ridden this way almost every night since Rufus was old enough to carry Julian on his back.

The cold wind ruffled Julian’s long, black hair, tossing it out behind him like a mane. He lifted his face to its cold touch, closing his eyes for a moment. In the greater darkness of his sudden blindness, he could hear the distant call of an owl, the yip of a fox, and the soft splash of an otter slipping into the water of the mere to his left.

He smiled.

There was no judgment in nature. No staring and whispered conversations as he passed. No hurtful monikers behind his back. He knew that the people of Theydon village called him the Phantom and, in some cases, the Ghoul. Julian smiled mirthlessly. Perhaps the nicknames were apposite.

He unconsciously flexed his gloved hands against the reins.

Those hands would make a ghost of any person he touched. Of any living thing. He would not inflict that on any person, though he loved plants and animals more than people anyway. He had never had the courage to test the efficacy of the curse against other living things. Neither the courage nor the stomach.

He patted Rufus’ neck and the horse tossed its head, giving a soft snort which Julian knew was a sound of pleasure. Rufus was used to his master’s nocturnal wakefulness and always appeared restive and frolicsome in his stall while Julian’s other beasts were lowering their heads to sleep. He smiled, a thin smile that lacked the depth of true happiness. Life was lonely and dark for a man who shunned society and preferred the disguise of the night. The sun was stark and revealing. Better to be a phantom in the night.

A shriek opened his eyes.

He frowned.

It had been a female sound, and it came from ahead, its origin swamped by shadow. Halting Rufus, he waited for a moment, closing his eyes once more.

Another scream and the unmistakable sound of a blow being struck. A man’s grunt and the sound of a body falling.

These roads were stiff with brigands and highwaymen. Julian carried a brace of loaded pistols, secured to Rufus’ saddle strap for just such an eventuality. Digging in his heels, he urged Rufus forward, trusting the horse’s experience to avoid pitfalls. Fifty yards ahead was the old boathouse. The sound had come from there. Julian urged more speed from Rufus, knowing that the road between here and there was flat and even. When a man appeared at the side of the road, climbing the embankment up from the boathouse, he almost ended up beneath Rufus’ hooves.

The stallion was well-trained enough not to rear as the sudden danger presented itself. Instead, he turned without bidding by Julian, and presented a hefty shoulder to the potential threat. Julian heard a man cry out, and the twin sounds of a body rolling down the short embankment and the unexpected noise of clinking metal. Spilling coin, perhaps? Convinced that he had just interrupted a highwayman about his work, Julian reached down to draw a pistol, cocking it, and turned Rufus so that there was an uninterrupted field of fire down to where the man had rolled.

“I am armed and ready to fire!” he called into the night, “surrender!”

Running footsteps came from below, heading along the lakeshore. Julian’s sharp, dark-accustomed eyes made out the shape of a man, running hard along the shoreline. He didn’t bother firing but instead looked around, turning Rufus slowly in case the robber had any confederates nearby.

There was no other sound.

Keeping the pistol cocked, Julian relaxed. He swung from the saddle in a swift, easy motion and began to lead Rufus down the slope by the reins. Before long, his boot hit something hard, producing a metallic clink.

Relinquishing the reins, Julian reached down and found the straps of a leather satchel. Reaching one gloved hand inside, he found it to be full of coins, as expected. Julian slung the bag over his shoulder. It would have to be presented to the nearest magistrate or justice of the peace to be returned to its rightful owner or owners. That was not his business, however. Crammond could take care of it.

Another sound reached him, bringing the pistol up into readiness once more. A break in the clouds provided brief illumination. Julian saw another figure moving along the side of the boathouse, some twenty yards away. It moved unsteadily but not stealthily, turned the corner, and began walking along the old jetty. He heard footsteps on the wooden walkway clearly. Perhaps a hidden ally of the robber was making their way to a boat.

Julian was about to call out to the figure when a gust of wind disturbed the hood of the cloak the figure wore. In a shaft of moonlight, he saw long, curling locks and a pale face in profile. It was a woman. Suddenly, she was running. The last few yards of the jetty were swallowed by quick strides before she launched herself into the water.

Julian stood for a moment in shocked disbelief. A woman in cloak and dress would not last long in deep water, even at the warmest time of year. Her garments would become sodden and would drag her to the bottom in short order. But this was late January and the water several degrees colder than the air, which itself was cold enough to raise a shiver. The shock of such frigid water would steal the breath from her lungs.

Julian dropped the pistol and grabbed Rufus’ reins. Knowing that time was of the essence, he put one foot in the stirrup and urged Rufus forward, aware the horse could cover the required distance faster than Julian could run. He clung precariously as Rufus leaped across the ground to the boathouse.

As it loomed over him, Julian dove clear. Rickety wood clattered beneath his boots as he sprinted along the jetty, discarding his overcoat as he ran, followed by his coat and vest. Ahead was a spreading circle of ripples where the woman had entered the water and disappeared. The bottom of the lake was an underwater cliff edge, dropping away steeply. It was the reason the boathouse had been built in that location long ago, providing pleasure boating to the lords of Theydon Mount.

That was when the Earls of Theydon had ruled over these lands. That title was now defunct and the estate shrunken by death duties and taxes. Only the castle, hidden in the depths of Epping Forest, remained. Theydon Mount, now the property of the Barrington family as represented by Julian. A home many miles from the home he had inherited and could not bring himself to live in.

He didn’t stop to remove his boots but leaped from the edge of the jetty, hands outstretched and feet together. He hit the water like an arrow, scything through the icy blackness towards the spot where he had last seen the ripples.

Opening his eyes did little, the water was inky.

Instead, he quested outward with his fingers, stretching and reaching all around. But the gloves were an impedance, they hampered his ability to feel anything in the water. Impatiently, he stripped them away with his teeth, holding them clenched between them. It was dangerous, but the woman would die anyway if he could not find her. When his lungs felt about to burst, something brushed his fingertips, hair, or fabric. Julian kicked directly upward and broke the surface, sucking in a lungful of air and then upturning himself and diving downwards. In the darkness, the distance seemed to stretch until he wondered if he were about to reach the bottom. Then, something curled around his fingers again. Hair, unmistakably.

Julian reacted instantly, clenching his fingers around the hair and, once again, kicking for the surface. The woman did not seem to be supporting herself or helping him. She was a dead weight. Julian broke the surface and hauled with both hands on the thick hair. When the woman’s head joined him in the air, he began to kick for the shore. The gloves had slipped from his teeth in the swim up from the depths but he could not waste time looking for them. The woman was unconscious, not coughing or struggling. Not breathing.

He swam past the rotting piles of the jetty until his boots kicked against the shale of the lake bottom in the shallows. Still holding her by the hair, Julian hauled the woman up onto the shore, clear of the lapping water.

Then he fell to his knees beside her and put his ear to her mouth.

Nothing.

Next, he listened for a heartbeat.

Nothing.

He had pressed his hands against her chest before realizing what he was doing, pressing down hard to expel the water that he knew must be choking her lungs. It fountained from her mouth aided by her.

He needed to inject air into her, give her body something to work with. He pinched her nose, then pressed his lips to hers while pulling her mouth open by the chin. Then he blew into her as hard as he could. Another compression of the chest. Another breath into her lungs. Julian was not thinking of the touch of his bare, lethal hands against her pale, cold face. Or against the soft suppleness of her chest. He thought only of the need to revive her. She was clearly a victim of a robber, though what she had been doing out here, alone, he could not fathom. Alone and with a bag of coins. Unless she was an associate of the highwayman, a lure for unsuspecting riders.

Coughing.

Julian sat back as the woman’s eyes opened and she began to cough. Her long hair would reach almost to her waist, he supposed. In the harsh whiteness of the occasional moonlight, he could not tell its color. It looked dark. Which made her skin almost luminescent. She was slender and tall, judging by the length of her body, with a button nose and a well-proportioned face. A beautiful face in fact. Astonishingly beautiful.

Julian felt a pang of regret. A stab of unrequited desire. A woman as beautiful as this was meant for other men. For husbands who would be able to touch and caress her. He could not.

Then the enormity of what he had done struck him. He raised his hands to his face, seeing their nakedness for the first time. The woman was struggling to sit up now, seeing him for the first time too. She was weak but was trying to push herself away from him, feet scrambling at the ground in her urgency. He raised his hands placatingly.

“You have nothing to fear from me. I am the… I am  Julian,” he stopped himself from using his title, the Duke of Windermere. Too many in these parts knew that name and feared it. “I heard you enter the water and went in after you.”

“Julian?” the woman said in the accent of the north, “there was another man…”

“A highwayman I assume. I drove him off. He is probably still running.”

The woman put a hand to her face as though it pained her. Julian wondered if she had been struck.

“A satchel…my dowry…I was to…” the woman began.

Julian saw the faint rising up to claim her. Her words faltered and her eyes rolled up in her head.

Without thinking, he darted forward on hands and knees to catch her. Her head lolled back against his arm. Her body was soft but icy cold. For a moment, he wanted nothing more than to hold her to him. The feel of a female body was one he had not experienced before. How could he when touching another person was prohibited?

“I saved you, but have condemned you with my own thoughtlessness,” he whispered, “…forgive me, my beautiful lady.”

Keep an eye out for the full release on the 29th of October!