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  “Naxos,” she whispered.

  The word curdled her stomach while a wild thought singed her brain. “The door,” Lucan had muttered, but another term for door was gate. Could he have been referring to the Gateway? She’d seen more than one reference in her research to the Imnada’s tales of a mythical passage between worlds. The shapechangers were said to have come through this portal to earth, their souls traveling back to the ancestral homeland at their deaths. Perhaps she needed to adjust her focus and start there.

  And what better time to start than now.

  She’d not find sleep again. Not now while her mind reeled with nightmare visions of amorphous shadow monsters and her heart ached for the bitter loss of a dream. If she went now, she’d have hours to herself with none to ask questions or wonder at her sudden scholarship. None to question the tears swimming in her eyes or the waxen pallor of her face. Mind made up, she dressed quickly, bundling her hair up in a loose bun, donning a heavy velvet dressing gown against the drafty halls of Sharrow House.

  A few sconces still flickered as she made her way downstairs. A musty breeze lifted the hairs at the back of her neck, whispered gibberish in her ears. Ignoring it, she hurried across the hall and pushed open the door to the library. Four walls of shelves stretched up to be lost amid the shadows hugging the ceiling. Thousands of books. A needle in a haystack.

  She pulled the first volume from the first shelf. Settled into a chair by the light of her candle. And opened to the first page.

  * * *

  Sebastian turned the key in the lock, securing the door to the tower behind him. Lucan’s fever had broken, his wounds knit closed, but he’d yet to wake. Suspicions and questions banged against Sebastian’s brain, twitching already taut muscles, shortening an already frayed temper. Keeping him awake when the rest of the house dreamt the night away. Sarah believed Christophe was involved; a theory he’d have discounted out of hand if not for her mention of a conversation about Sir Dromon Pryor. That he could not dismiss so easily. Not knowing the deadly truth about the Cornish baronet.

  First thing in the morning, he’d seek the prince out and question him personally. The man’s slippery demeanor grated on Sebastian and the way the conceited bastard stared at Sarah as if he owned her made him want to knock his teeth down his throat, but he’d gladly swallow his distaste to keep Sarah from attempting any more late-night snooping.

  He lifted his candle high as he made his way through the house toward his bedchamber. Sleep would come, but it would bring no relief. It never did. Dreams of Sarah would haunt him until he woke frustrated and impatient with the scent of her in his nose and the taste of her on his tongue. Cock hard. Temper short.

  A shadow peeled away from the far end of the corridor outside his room. A barefoot figure in a silken robe, hair cascading loose down her back, hand upon the latch. For one wild hopeful moment, he thought his dreams had come real and Sarah stood outside his door, but the moment passed, the woman turned, and he recognized Lady Melissa. She disappeared into his room, her steps silent, her purpose clear.

  Exhaustion and bitterness had him toying with the idea of surrendering to her machinations and ending his misery. After all, if love was not to guide his decision in matrimony, did it matter who he wed? Lady Melissa would gain her husband. His mother would gain her countess. His family duty would be done. He could finally lay aside his wild unreasonable fantasy of a life with Sarah for the calm, respectable boring future mapped out by centuries of Commins before him.

  He got as far as placing a hand upon the bedchamber latch before recoiling at the notion. There was such a thing as taking family responsibility too far. He might not have the freedom to marry the woman he loved, but he would at least marry a woman he could respect. He’d spend tonight on the couch in Duncallan’s study. Uncomfortable, but better a few hours of minor discomfort than a lifetime leg-shackled to Lady Melissa Bracken.

  Retracing his steps, he made it through the gallery and past an empty night nursery before he realized his error. She need only be found tomorrow morning in his room for the ensuing scandal to send him to the altar. He either needed to remove her, or . . . he paused outside the last door before the stairs, a wicked smile tipping his lips . . . he needed a credible alibi of his own.

  Sarah had called him a fool and perhaps he was. But once they were back among the chaos of London, she would go her way. He would go his. This might be his last opportunity to hold her in his arms, damn the future and family expectations.

  He lifted the latch to her room. A fire burned low in the grate and the drapes had been pulled against the cold. A figure upon the bed stood up, a lazy smile lighting his saturnine features as he took aim with Seb’s stolen flintlock. “Did you lose your way, my lord?”

  Sebastian’s stomach tightened, his hands curling to fists. “Where’s Miss Haye?”

  “That was my question for you. I found this in my room tonight.” Prince Christophe held out his hand to reveal the ornate jeweled bracelet Sebastian had last seen clamped around Sarah’s wrist as she played a hand of whist. “Lord Deane, you’ve come between me and my betrothed once too often. I think it’s time I make that work to my advantage.”

  5

  Sarah rubbed the sleep from her eyes and stretched the kinks from her spine. It was still dark, though the coming dawn brightened the library to a dusky gray. A pile of books sat by her feet. Enough information to choke a horse. Unfortunately not enough to answer any of the thousand questions pinging around her brain like gadflies. She’d found a few mentions of the mythical Gateway. In one volume she even found an artist’s interpretation of it, complete with carved arches of marble and pearl—lovely but not very helpful. So much for midnight inspiration.

  She’d better escape back to her bedchamber before the maids arrived to build the fires or Hester’s belowstairs gossip would be about her. She’d stretched the rumor mill to the breaking point with her disappearance last night. She dare not risk anyone growing too suspicious. It would take only one slip-up to bring her fragile aura of respectability crashing to the ground, rendering her decision worthless. By now the light filtering through the windows made candles unnecessary, and it was quick work to slip out of the library, scamper up the stairs, and hurry through the corridors back to her room with only a quick glance toward the locked doorway into the west tower.

  Safe within her bedchamber, she discarded her robe and shawl upon a chair. Curled beneath the quilts and closed her eyes. The sheets smelled of lavender, the blankets of cedar, but there was another scent underlying them both. A scent she knew all too well—the musky sweet odor of cinnamon and cloves.

  Christophe had been here.

  She swallowed back the first spurt of fear. Of course the room smelled of him. He’d visited her last night. But it wasn’t the room that smelled. It was her bed.

  She leapt to her feet, stomach flip-flopping. Had he discovered she’d snuck into his rooms and lain in wait hoping to ambush her with accusations? Or had he merely decided he’d waited for an answer to his marriage proposal long enough and it was time to convince her once and for all?

  Her gaze fell upon her dressing table. “Damn and blast,” she hissed through chattering teeth.

  Christophe’s bracelet lay gleaming in the new morning sun, though darkness seemed to flicker beneath every jeweled facet as if something living lurked within each perfect stone. Faces crumpled in terror . . . arms reaching out for her . . . darkness leaving no trace behind. The sight of the bracelet turned her stomach until she wanted to be sick. Temples throbbing, she doubled over, a hand pressed to her midriff, quick shallow pants staving off her nausea. Then she saw what had been placed within the circle of gold—a ring.

  A man’s simple gold band bearing a family coat of arms. She knew who it belonged to without picking it up. She knew what had happened without having to hear it spoken. The bile rose into her throat until she wretched, the
pain in her head firing down her neck into her spine.

  Christophe had Sebastian.

  * * *

  James Duncallan leaned against his desk, his expression like stone but for the worry in his eyes. “Signore Ventrella said the prince received an urgent summons from the Italian embassy in the middle of the night. He had to leave for London immediately.”

  “I was in the library all night. No messenger arrived from the embassy or anywhere else. Ventrella is lying.” Sarah paced, clutching Seb’s ring until it dug hard into her palm. A welcome sensation when the rest of her was completely numb.

  Duncallan sighed. “I agree, but what can I do? Thumbscrews and the rack until he confesses? As a member of Italy’s delegation, he has immunity. If he doesn’t want to talk, I can’t force him to.”

  “So you’ll just give up? Ventrella is our only hope of discovering where Christophe has taken Sebastian . . . and why?” She shut her mind against the nightmare images etched into her brain. Sebastian was alive. She would continue to believe that as long as she could. The alternative was unthinkable.

  “I didn’t say I was giving up.” Weariness grayed Duncallan’s rugged features and slumped his broad shoulders. She understood his fear and his frustration. A mysterious stranger injured and in hiding under his roof. The Earl of Deane gone missing. And a houseful of oblivious guests—at least for now. The walls closed in on James from every side. No wonder he looked like hell. “I’ve sent word to certain friends I can trust. A search of the area has already begun. If Seb’s been taken south or toward London, he’ll be easy enough to trace.”

  “And if they’ve headed north or up onto the moors?”

  James’s expression gave nothing away, but Sarah sensed his uncertainty. “In this weather, they could disappear without a trace. There are a million places they could go to ground.”

  She stared out on the snowy gray and white landscape. Praying to see Sebastian come striding out of the woods, his greatcoat flapping behind him, his hair ruffled by the wind. He would laugh at her worry, wipe her tears, and kiss her as if he never wanted to let her go. A silly dream. The park remained empty but for a gardener sweeping the walks, and even if Seb appeared hale and hearty with naught to show for his capture, there would be no embrace, no endearments, and no happy-ever-after. It wasn’t right and it wasn’t fair, but life seldom cared about such niceties as justice or destiny, and she’d gladly trade a life with Sebastian for Sebastian’s life—period.

  She closed her eyes briefly as she composed herself then turned back to James. “I know about the wounded shifter you’re hiding in the tower. Now Sebastian has vanished without a trace. The two events must be related.”

  Duncallan went rigid, his stony expression turning apoplectic. “How the hell did you find out about Lucan?”

  “It doesn’t matter and I promise not to tell anyone, but why? Why is it so dangerous having him here? What’s really going on?”

  Duncallan rubbed his hands over his face, sighed again as if reaching a difficult decision. “The Imnada are dying out, Sarah. Some, in their struggle to survive, have come out of hiding to forge a peace with the Other. But it’s not been easy. There are too many within the shifter clans who fear change. They fight the idea of any détente with the Fey-bloods. I can’t blame them for their suspicions. The Other almost eradicated the Imnada, but it’s time for them . . . and us . . . to look to the future and put old hatreds behind. If he joins us, Lucan would be a powerful ally.”

  “What does this have to do with Prince Christophe? What does he care about Seb or this group of yours?”

  “I don’t know, but if he’s had dealings with Sir Dromon Pryor, it can’t be good. The head of the Ossine has enforcers scouring the countryside from Dover to the wilds of Ireland for any hint of conspiracy.”

  “Sebastian knew all this and didn’t say. He lied to me.”

  “To keep you safe. These enforcers don’t squirm at killing anyone who poses a potential threat to them. Women, children, it doesn’t matter so long as the Imnada remain protected and under Sir Dromon’s control.”

  “That still doesn’t explain what the Naxos are and what their connection is to Christophe or Lucan. He said it over and over. ‘Naxos . . . the door . . . they are here.’ We find out who they are, I’d wager we find the answers to all our questions.”

  “Sebastian would tell you it’s too dangerous.”

  “Sebastian is the reason I’m willing to risk the danger.”

  Heart thundering, she turned to go when James’s voice stopped her. “He’s never looked twice at the women his mother constantly throws at him, but he can’t take his eyes off you, Sarah. I wondered about that.” She waited for his denunciation . . . or his laughter. Neither came. Instead, he offered her a solemn nod. “I don’t care what anyone might say. You’d make Sebastian a good wife.”

  She glanced over her shoulder as she tightened her hand upon the latch. “I could make him the very best of wives, but it’s a countess he needs, and that I will never be.”

  “But you love him.”

  She smiled, though her skin felt tight across her bones and her eyes burned. “Exactly.”

  * * *

  Sarah withdrew to the library as the day dragged on with no news. Every hour gone landed like a punch to her stomach. Every shuttered look from Katherine when she passed along James’s reports made her impatient to mount her own search. She hated waiting. Despised inaction.

  She leaned back against the couch and closed her eyes, her fingers closing once more around Seb’s signet ring, turning it over and over in her hand.

  “Pardon me.”

  Sarah lifted her head and opened her eyes. Lady Melissa stood just inside the door, her perky face alight, nose all but twitching.

  “Have you seen Lord Deane? I’ve been scouring the house for him, but no one seems to know where he’s run off to, not even his valet. Or if he did, he wouldn’t say, rude man.”

  “I haven’t seen His Lordship since last night.”

  Lady Melissa’s lips drew down in a girlish pout. “I think he’s avoiding me. He should know I forgive him for yesterday, the silly goose. Mother says that’s how men behave and it’s up to us women to accept their foibles and care for them anyway.”

  Sarah stretched her tired limbs as she closed the book she’d been attempting to read. “And a title does make a woman accepting of so much, doesn’t it?”

  “Exactly. I knew you’d understand, being a woman of . . . experience.” Lady Melissa sat down, folding her legs beneath her, head tilted as she studied Sarah as one might an animal in a menagerie. “I’ve never spoken with an actress before,” she said in a breathy whisper of delight. “Mother was shocked when she found out cousin James invited you. She threatened to turn the coach around and drive straight home, though I begged her to relent. There’s so little to do this time of year.”

  Sarah swallowed her annoyance and offered her most charming smile. “I’m glad she came to her senses. I’d hate to be the cause of a rift between family.”

  Lady Melissa shrugged. “Mother decided it was better to remain as a moderating influence than to make the long trek back the way we’d come.” Her gaze narrowed and she leaned close. “What’s that you’ve got there, Miss Haye? Is that a man’s ring? It must be. It’s far too large for your skinny fingers.”

  Sarah closed her fingers around the ring, unwilling to hand it over. It had become a talisman. Squeeze it hard enough she would feel Seb, she would know he was safe. “It’s nothing.”

  But the irritating young woman was like a terrier with a rat. “That’s Lord Deane’s ring. I remember it quite clearly from yesterday. What are you doing with . . .” Her head jerked up, the pouty lips thinning to a dangerous line, all traces of her earlier amity wiped away. “He spent the night with you, didn’t he? You weren’t able to snag your precious prince so you decided to t
rap His Lordship instead?”

  “As far as I can tell, you’re the only woman here looking to snabble a husband by fair means or foul,” Sarah snapped before forcing a calm she did not feel. It would do James no good to have his family breathing down his neck about his ill-considered guest. He already had more on his plate than he could handle.

  “Don’t bother denying it, Miss Haye. I hardly think Deane would have spent the night with Miss Staunton and her wandering eye or old Lady Bruce who’s seventy if she’s a day.” Lady Melissa crossed her arms over her chest. “It had to be you.”

  “And what makes you so sure he wasn’t in his bed alo—” Sarah’s brows rose in sudden understanding, and her lips pulled back in an icy smile that usually had lesser actresses scurrying for their dressing rooms and theater management ducking for cover. “Your ambush backfired, did it?” she said in a dangerously silken voice. “How awfully careless of you. Was this new little ploy arranged by your mother, too, or did you come up with it all by your conniving self?”

  Lady Melissa’s shrewish expression hardened, her nose tipped in the air. “Mother was right about you. You might pretend to gentility but you’re no better than a whore. Deane might bed you, but you can bury any hope you might be entertaining that he’ll take you to wife. He’d rather die than enter a room with a fallen woman on his arm. He’d be a laughingstock.”

  Of course! Why hadn’t she thought of it before? Sarah leapt to her feet, excitement blazing through her. “What a clever puss you are, my lady! You’ve just given me the answer I was searching for. Now, I must be off, but be sure to tell your mother she’s absolutely right.” Her gaze narrowed with frosty contempt, her voice dripping with disdain until Lady Melissa visibly shrank. “I’m not a high-flown lady nor ever will be, but who’s really the whore? The woman who offers herself out of love? Or the one who sells her maidenhead for a countess’s coronet?”

  * * *