Jin turned to Leam. “Katherine Savege?”

“Well acquainted with the lady?” Yale murmured. “Spent some time drinking rum with her rogue of a brother in the West Indies before Savege settled down to happily-ever-after, no doubt.”

“Something like that.” The sailor’s light eyes remained pensive. “Leam, she and her mother play cards often with the Earl of Chance, don’t they?”

“I believe so.”

“He is on our list.”

“List?”

“He’s a Scot,” Yale murmured.

“Whose list?” Leam insisted.

“The director’s, with the Admiralty’s input,” Jin replied. “A list of Scottish lords considered ripe for allying themselves with the French.”

Cheroot between thumb and forefinger, Yale lit a taper. “The full truth unfolds. The director wishes Leam to become cozy with these Scottish lords, no doubt.”

“Spies and traitors are the business of the Home Office, not the Falcon Club,” Leam said, hollowness settling into his gut. “But even if that weren’t the case, I no longer work for the crown,” he finished slowly, distinctly.

Jin’s clear regard never faltered. “Then what are you doing here?”

A younger Leam might have been tempted to say that fate had driven him to the feet of Kitty Savege. But he was no longer that foolish youth, no matter how her presence animated him to jealousy that burned like a branding iron.

Without awaiting a reply, Jin reached into his waistcoat pocket. “I’m off.”

Yale slanted him a grin. “Hello and good-bye. Why am I not surprised?”

“I have business to attend to before hauling out.” Jin dropped a folded paper onto the table.

“The director’s list?”

With only a nod, the shipmaster departed.

Leam drew in a slow breath. He headed for the door.

“Don’t you wish to see the other names on that list?” Yale asked.

“I wish to go home. I intend to do so tomorrow.” Nothing held him in England. Not a club or Highland rebels or traitorous lords or ships full of secret intelligence. Not even a woman. If an assassin wanted him, he could damned well follow him to Scotland.

In the drawing room after dinner Leam informed his hosts of his departure on the morrow.

“Si vite! ” Madame Roche tut-tutted. “But you have only now returned.”

“Will you be taking Mr. Yale with you?” Worthmore queried dryly.

“I could not leave here in less than a fortnight, sir,” the Welshman said. “The company is far too charming to tear oneself away so abruptly.” He smiled at his hostess. She tittered, and Leam saw in her a reflection of what Cornelia might have become, still beautiful, entirely obsequious.

“A’m expected at home wi’ ma family, maleddy.”

“What a fond papa you must be. And how sad that your dear wife could not see her son grow to manhood.” She grasped Leam’s hands. “We will miss you dreadfully.” The light, teasing simper, the sweet, golden sympathy—Cornelia would have been this, indeed. He should have seen it at the time.

Instead he had been a naïve, besotted fool. And a jealous one.

But the passion of jealousy was in his nature. He could not change that. He could only avoid situations in which he might become slave to it again.

The party broke up and Leam bid them all adieu. Kitty did not speak. Her cheeks were again bright, in her eyes hesitancy. Thoroughly unwelcome.

He went to his bedchamber, lifted the stopper from an overwrought crystal decanter, and poured a brandy. An hour later, drink untasted and fire guttering in the grate, he rose from the chair in which he’d sat motionless, drawn to the window. He parted the draperies.

Moonlight glimmered on fresh snow, the clear sky showing black and silvery. On the lawn, moving gracefully through the garden statuary toward a trio of ancient trees at the edge of the hill, cloak billowing behind her, an angel tread. An angel with wide gray eyes and sweet lips, a clever tongue, and a past of careless encounters with gentlemen Leam did not wish to count himself among, damnation.

He watched her lose herself among the boughs of willow and pine, and despite the warning in the pit of his stomach, could not halt himself from going after her.

Kitty’s feet sank into the soft snow, cold and wet but welcome. Anything to distract her.

She mustn’t allow herself to feel this way because he was departing tomorrow. He had already left Willows Hall once without notice, throwing her into the acutest kind of confusion that he could leave her like that without even saying good-bye. But even before he disappeared so suddenly, he had been playing least in sight at Willows Hall. He seemed to want nothing to do with her now.

That was for the best. She did not trust him. And now she knew, through his association with Jin, that Lord Blackwood was indeed involved in matters far beyond what it appeared.

Jin was no innocent. Not remotely. Handsome, wealthy, and without any morals that she had ever noticed except a fierce loyalty to her eldest brother, Jinan Seton was not a safe man. Alex did not know Jin from the gaming tables; he had not been born into a gentleman’s household. Now he sailed his ship at the behest of the crown as a commissioned privateer. But for over a decade on the ocean, he had been a pirate.

An old willow spread out before her, its boughs thickly tangled with the draping pine beside it. A half moon cast all into bluish silvery relief, picking out every shadow with precision. Kitty went beneath the boughs, the snow thinning on the ground and making way for a soft, soundless carpet of dried needles.

If the earl did business with Jin, she should be glad he was leaving. She couldn’t be. When he looked at her she saw both the steel and the heat of desire. She wanted to be desired that way. And the things he had said…

She removed her glove and pressed her palm into the rough bark, shivering beneath her woolen cloak. She mustn’t think it. Shortly she would return to London and take up her old life, too cowardly to alter the manner in which she had lived for years. Or perhaps she could wed an older man like Worthmore, or a man of lesser fortune, one who would take her despite all because of her dowry. Or if her mother married Lord Chamberlayne, she might live the rest of her days in her stepfather’s and brothers’ homes, moving back and forth between them because she lacked a family of her own.

Because she had seen to that herself with such purpose and dedication. With such an angry heart.

But now her heart no longer knew anger, and she wanted another sort of life.

A rustling of branches sounded behind her. She whirled about. He stood just within the fall of green and gray, all black beneath the moon, and white.

He came to her while her legs weakened and her breaths fled, until he stood before her. Without a word he parted her cloak and took her waist into his hands. She caught up her breath, gulping air and feeling his heat through his hands and in the space between them. His eyes were so dark, and as they had been at the inn, full of a longing she feared she had already fallen too far into.

Soundlessly, like a vision from a dream, he went to his knees before her. With his hands around her hips, he pressed his face against her waist and seemed to breathe deeply. Then his thumbs curved down the bones of her hips, and he followed them with his mouth.

She turned her head aside, unable to look. “What are you doing?”

“A hardly know.” He spoke low, hushed beneath the winter canopy.

“That is not very encouraging.”

“A’m making luve tae a fair lass.”

“You should not.”

“Aye.”

“You don’t understand,” that something was slipping away from her, the control she had held to so tightly since she vowed to wound a man. Now she knew where she had lied to herself. She had always hoped. Not for Lambert. For something more. Something she should not truly hope for because she had nursed revenge for so long by mimicking attachment, she did not deserve real attachment. She was ruined in her soul.

“Leam.” Her voice was a whisper, a plea or a denial, she knew not.

“Kitty, luve?” His hands cupped her buttocks, covering her in warmth amid the cold.

“Why wouldn’t you play Madame Roche’s game? Why wouldn’t you pretend for Emily’s sake?”

He lifted his face to her, starkly planed in the moonlight.

“Whit kind of a man ye must think me.” His whisper was rough. He slid his hands down the outside of her thighs, possessing with his touch. “How coud A?”

“Do you mean, how could you pretend such a thing with my friend when we had been lovers? But we weren’t any longer.”

At her back, he gripped the fabric of her gown into fists.

“For a day, for God sakes.”

“But—”

“Lass, nae all men are scoundrels.”

But she did not understand any longer what made a man a scoundrel. Was it a man who offered marriage because he must, or one who offered it as his final cruelty?

“Lord Poole offered for my hand.” Her words fell like snowflakes onto the soft, cold ground in the shelter of the boughs. “He had never offered before that night at the masquerade ball when I finally told him to leave me alone. That night three years ago, when you and I met.”

He rose to his feet. He touched her face and drew her gaze to his.

“Whit did ye tell him, lass?”

“I told him that if I had wanted marriage I could have had it before many times. That I had not been waiting for him.”

“Had ye?”

She couldn’t breathe. She wanted him to make this feeling in her breast real. She shook her head.

His warm hand curved around her face, beneath the fall of her hair.

“Leam?”

His gaze scanned her face, her cheeks, and brow. “Lass?”

“I think you should go away now, quickly, because if you remain I may cast myself at you again.”

He scooped her into his arms like a child, but his kiss was a man’s. Kitty surrounded his beautiful face with her hands, warming her chilled blood.

“Where can we go?” she uttered when he kissed her neck and she wrapped her arms about his shoulders, his hold so strong and secure. But he covered her mouth once more, his kiss ravenous now, seeking and making her hot so swiftly. She pressed against him and slipped her tongue into his mouth.

“Kitty.”

He went to his knees with her in his arms, cradling her on his lap and kissing her like he would consume her now. She shifted to feel his arousal beneath her behind, he groaned, and his hand sought her bodice. Without warning he shoved his palm beneath her gown and surrounded her breast. She gasped, the cold of his touch shivering through her.

“Forgie me,” he rasped, caressing her tight nipple and taking her lips with his, one at a time to tease.

“I will not.” She pushed herself into his touch, twisting her knee up, but her skirts impeded her.

“Than forgie me for this?” He pulled her garments down from her breast and set his mouth to the sensitive peak. His tongue stroked, dragging her into pleasure.

“Yes, I will.” She moaned, grasping his shoulders and trying to fit her throbbing center to his arousal through their clothing. Frustration drove her hands to his hips, then to her skirts, tugging as he sucked on her and the sweet need built. “But you mus—” She choked upon the pleasure. “You must continue doing that or I shall withdraw my forgiveness.”

He lifted his head, a smile of pure delight curving his dampened lips, moonlight glimmering in his eyes.

She shook her head. “Didn’t you just hear me?”

“Aye. But yer a beautiful woman, Kitty Savege, wi’ a tongue fit for laughter.” His voice was deliciously husky, the frigid air coalescing in misty veils between them. “Why dinna ye laugh mair aften?”

“Why don’t you mean it when you do?”

They stared at each other for a long moment, the dampness prickling her breast with cold. The boughs of the willow sparkled, moonlight dappling the carpet of soft dried leaves. Everything was soft brown and silver.

He drew her close and his voice came roughly at her ear. “‘I’ve had a dream, past the wit of man to say what dream it was.’”

“Shakespeare.” A smile of pure hopeful happiness crept onto her lips. “In A Midsummer Night’s Dream he also wrote, ‘Out of this wood do not desire to go.’”

“A made a vow tae behave as a gentleman wi’ ye, lass,” he said with glorious huskiness.

“Don’t.” She pressed her lips to his and wrapped her arms about his neck. He pulled her to him.