The playing took on a frantic rhythm, drawing her forward. Eve hastened her stride, until she sprinted down the halls. With each step, the sound and fury of that playing soared to a crescendo pitch that blended agony with desperation, in a maelstrom of emotion that left her breathless.

Eve skidded to a stop outside the room from where the music came. She eyed the arched doorway with a lion-headed handle better suited to a dungeon. All the earliest warnings on her first days here came rushing back...of ghosts and curses and haunted souls roaming these halls. With tremulous fingers, she pressed the handle and peered inside the darkened quarters. She blinked, attempting to adjust to the dimly lit space...and then her gaze landed on him.

Lucas?

She froze, attempting to make sense of what her eyes saw. Surely she imagined him before her now. For the haunted man she saw daily did not leave his chambers. Only, there could be no imagining the long, midnight strands that shook under the fury of his movements.

Her heart froze and she gripped the edge of the doorway, breathless. The piano, long in need of tuning, did little to detract from the effortless command of those keys. A haunting melody soared as Lucas stroked the keys, coaxing each chord, each note, until they blended together in a heartbreaking symphony that brought her eyes closed. His song, one of agony and hopelessness, climbed upward, until her chest ached for peace from the torture played.

He played as a man whose heart had long ago been broken and whose soul sought strength. And a woman who well-knew the pain of those desperate yearnings, felt his storm-tossed melody go through her, reaching inside and—

The chords ended sharply, as Lucas spun around. Even with the distance between them, their gazes locked. Her own shock and panic were reflected in his.

She touched a hand to her heart to calm the frantically beating organ.

“What are you doing here?” Had he shouted that demand, it could not have contained more fury and power than that steely whisper.

Eve wetted her lips. I should leave. I should race off and pretend this meeting never occurred and pray he doesn’t sack me from my post for defying his orders. “You do leave your rooms,” she said, unable to keep the faint accusation from that statement.

Lucas flared his eyes, but said nothing.

Did his family know their son and brother escaped deep within the manor when the house slumbered? Did they know and were content to allow him his secrets? Or did they sleep and live, failing to see the true depths of how Lucas had been changed by life? Uninvited, Eve entered the parlor and pushed the door closed behind her. The hinges squeaked noisily and that sound jolted him into movement.

He surged out from behind the bench and the legs scraped along the hardwood floor. “You were instructed not to wander the halls past midnight.” Had his voice been sharp and furious, mayhap she would have yanked the door open and darted back to her rooms. A servant stealing about her employer’s home in nothing more than a wrapper and nightshift would be turned out of any respectable household.

Yet, there was a faint entreaty to his retort that urged her closer. “It is because you wander the halls during these hours,” she said softly, at last piecing together the reason for the peculiar orders she’d been issued. There were no ghosts here. Not of the otherworldly sorts. Rather, there was the ghost of a man who lived within this world, alone, determined to keep all out.

Lucas warily eyed her approach. He dipped his eyes. His hot gaze briefly lingered on her breasts and a wave of heat went through her. Never had she felt beautiful. Tall, plain, and brown-haired when blonde ringlets were in favor, she fit not at all with Society’s vision of beauty. Yet, with Lucas, with a single look, he showed her a feminine power she’d never believed herself capable of, and it was heady stuff, indeed.

Eve stopped on the opposite end of the bench. “You play beautifully,” she said when she trusted herself to speak. She promptly warmed at that pathetic compliment that did little to capture the depth of his mastery of that instrument.

“I was a French prisoner,” he said quietly.

She stilled. He’d been imprisoned by Boney’s forces. Oh, God, what had they done to him? Eve bit down hard on the inside of her lower lip, as pain filled her...and awe for him, this man who’d survived, despite the cruelties visited upon him. What hell must he have endured?

“I was kept in a small room that had nothing more than a bed,” he continued, as though he’d followed the path her unspoken questioning had wandered as he’d always done through her time here. “There was a table, chair, and a pianoforte.”

To give her restless fingers something to do, she trailed a hand along the top of the magnificent piece.

“There were times I hungered for that goddamned instrument more than I did food and water,” he murmured that last part, his gaze trained beyond her head.

Eve’s heart wrenched. “You are free now,” she said on an aching whisper, willing him to see that those chains had been broken. She gestured to the room. “This is your home. The only person imprisoning you now is you, Lucas.”

A bitter laugh escaped him as he came around her. “Are we ever truly free?” No, he was correct on that score. Her breath hitched, as he layered his front against her back, bringing their bodies flush. “What of you?” his deep voice rumbled in the quiet.

Her lashes fluttered as she leaned into him. The intoxicating sandalwood scent that clung to him flooded her senses. There was a strength and power to this man that wrought havoc on her; filling her with the desire to know all there was about him. “What of me?” she made herself ask. Gentlemen didn’t put intimate questions to servants. To those men, they were largely invisible. Or that is how it had been with the previous peers she’d served under—until Lucas.

He angled her around, forcing her gaze to his. “You are no servant,” he said with a sobering bluntness.

Eve opened her mouth to counter that accurate supposition, but the sharp challenge in his green eyes quelled those words. She wet her lips and his gaze fell to her mouth. He’d predicted as much the day she’d stepped inside his chambers. “It does not matter who I am,” she said flippantly. Of course it mattered. She was a hated Ormond. The family who’d betrayed him and his kin and there could be no forgiving those past transgressions. A viselike pressure squeezed about her lungs. For when he ultimately discovered that truth, he’d cut her from his life as easily as a bothersome, dangling thread. It doesn’t matter. He is nothing to me. She briefly closed her eyes. Liar. “I am a serv—”

“Do not.” He pressed his fingertips to her lips, silencing her. “You are more than that, to me.”

To me. Oh, God. A dangerous yearning sprang to life in her heart; for all that could never be with this man. “You've known me but a handful of weeks,” she said around a powerful swell of emotion clogging her throat.

“Yes,” he concurred. “And yet, after those short weeks you know more about the man I now am than even my own family, who I’ve known the whole of my life.”

A bond was shared between them that only those who’d witnessed the hell upon those battlefields could understand. A connection that bound them.

He slowly lowered his head, giving her time to draw back. Her lips ached to know his kiss once more. He needn’t know the truth. I can remain here or go elsewhere with him never the wiser... Eve curled her hands, that hungering a palpable force within. For ultimately, she could not lie to him. “I am no widow,” she whispered and their breaths melded as one.

Lucas froze. Her family had wrought enough pain upon him and his kin. He cocked his head at such an endearing, boyish angle that her heart ached. This is who he would have been prior to his captivity. Prior to Talavera.

Unable to meet his piercing gaze, she slipped away from him and retreated over to the fireplace mantel. The gladius gleamed bright, mocking her with its very presence.

“What?” His question rumbled in the quiet of the room.

Never had she hated her father more than she did in this moment. For if life had moved differently and he’d been an honorable captain upon the fields of Europe, she would be more than a servant. She would be a woman worthy of a man like Lucas Rayne. A man who didn’t see rank or gender as marks upon her character, but rather a person. There is still my surname, which would have always divided us. “My father was a...” She curled her toes into the soles of her boots. “Commanding officer in Spain. At Talavera.” That admission emerged faint to her own ears. Mayhap he’d not heard. Mayhap he’d not known

“At Talavera?” he repeated slowly, his voice the same hollow it had been a fortnight earlier.

Pain ravaged her insides and she forced her gaze to his once more. “He turned over the battlefield plans to the French.” Her heart ached. “He was hanged as a traitor.”

That admission hung heavy, sucking the life from the room.

Invariably, it was there in Lucas’ eyes. As it always was when her connection to that famed traitor was discovered. Only this time it gutted her in ways it never had before. Shock. Denial. Disgust.

It was both deserved and too much, because of it.

“Your father was a traitor,” he said bluntly. Her stomach lurched at having him repeat the truth aloud.

 “I will leave,” she said quietly, making for the door.

***

When Lucas’ brother-in-law, the powerful Duke of Devlin, had seen him traded over to the hands of English forces, Lucas  existed in a haze. Details had swirled about his capture: the gunshot that had pierced his side and knocked him from his horse at Talavera. The Frenchmen who’d dragged him from the fields and who’d ultimately sold him for a small fortune. But from there, he’d retreated. And so, he’d never known there had been a traitor who’d sold the plans at Talavera. Nor had his family shared as much with him.

Then, he’d carefully snipped them out of the fabric that was his existence.

Now, he stood before Eve, daughter of a traitor. A man whose crimes had seen many British killed on that bloody field in Spain, and others, such as Lucas, dragged away as a prisoner of the French. With her revelation, she’d offered him everything he’d asked of her since she’d arrived—her resignation.

No longer. Now, the possibility of her leaving filled him with a greater terror than his days at the hands of the French. She was the only person who had treated him again as a man. She’d boldly challenged him at every turn. A woman who’d seen more than the caged monster he’d become, to the man he’d once been. And she expected he should hate her for her birthright. Mayhap a fortnight earlier, before knowing her, he would have. For he’d subsisted more than two years on hatred alone. He’d allowed it to consume him, feed him, and shape him into an emotionless bastard, who kept even his family out. That isolation was easier than the pity.

Until Eve had stepped into his life and thrown his well-ordered world upside down.

How many people had so judged her for crimes that belonged to another? Disappointment filled him at that low-opinion she had of him. The uncertainty in her eyes gutted him. “Do you think I’m a man who’d hold you responsible for the crimes of your father?” he quietly asked, unable to keep the hurt from creeping into those handful of words.

Her lips parted and she fisted the fabric of her wrapper, her knuckles white under the force of her grip. “Everyone  before you has judged me.” How matter of fact she was. Lucas silently damned every bastard before who’d quashed her sense of self-worth. “Why should you not?” she countered, her voice threadbare.

At that hint of frailty from this undaunted woman, his stomach muscles knotted. “Did you turn the English plans over to the enemy?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

Eve flared her eyes and shook her head frantically. “No,” the denial emerged, as though ripped from her lungs.

A woman of her resiliency and courage could never act in cowardice or with self-serving motives. “No,” he repeated. “You were the woman taking care of fallen soldiers in the fields after battle. The woman haunted by those same sights and sounds of war.”

A tortured sound spilled from her lips. “But had I paid attention to what he was doing and who he was meeting, I would have known.” So much guilt she carried.

“No,” he said quietly, that calm utterance breaking across her trembling voice. “You would not have.” Lucas took her by the shoulders and she stiffened, momentarily resisting his touch. He drew her back against his chest and some of the tension seeped from her frame as she leaned into him. The hint of lilac and lemons that clung to her skin wafted about with a cleansing purity. How right Eve felt in his arms, as though she belonged there. As though she’d always been meant to be here. He briefly rested his chin atop her brown, silken tresses and rubbed. “You could never have known to look for that evil, because you yourself were never capable of it.”