Leam slipped the knife from his sleeve.

The trough was roughly the size of a man’s prone body, half-filled and covered by several inches of new snow, with foot holes moving from it and a hoofmarks as well. He cast a glance at the scrubby trees flanking the Tern, sparse, gray with white sleeves, shifting forlornly in the wind. Nowhere to hide in there, but the tracks were lost in any case.

He slid the knife back into place. Bella nudged his arm. In thanks he ran his hand around her ears, but she bumped her long muzzle against his chin.

“What is it?”

She pawed at the edge of the depression. Leam pushed the snow aside, his breath frosting in damp clouds. Buried beneath was a brown clump of fabric. He shook it out. A man’s muffler made of fine cashmere.

Cashmere did not come cheap. If this was the man who pursued Leam he was not, it seemed, a hired sniper, unless he was exceptionally good at his trade and demanded much for his services. But the fellow had had plenty of opportunities to attack, if not in London, then on the road from Bristol and even this morning.

Beneath the muffler, tucked in the snow, were a handful of coins and a broken chain of thick gold links. The man had dropped them, apparently when he’d fallen, perhaps off his horse, or perhaps simply due to the driving wind and blinding snow. But he hadn’t come to the inn only a few yards away.

He plucked the objects out of the packed ice and pocketed them, then straightened and pushed through the snow to the stable door. Inside all was crisply cool and scented of straw and horse. Hermes went straight to the Welshman lying on his back across a bench, a bottle propped in one hand.

Passing the somnolent carriage horses and squat ass, Leam moved toward his horse’s stall.

“Knitting the ravelled sleeve of care?”

“I’ve no care. However, I do have whiskey.” Yale’s voice was heavy. “Care for a drop?”

“I am being followed.”

Yale squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose. “How do you know it isn’t I who is followed?”

“If one of your enemies determined to murder you, he would not be hesitating.” Leam dropped the muffler beside the bottle.

“S’truth.” Yale struggled to sit, setting the whiskey on the bench and taking up the garment. “But murder? Perhaps he is merely seeking information, like we were wont to do.” He lifted a black brow over a preternaturally clear eye. “Or p’raps it’s Lady Justice, chased us all the way from Dover Street to ferret out our purpose.”

“In a Shropshire snowstorm?”

“In a Bengalese monsoon?” He dropped the muffler. “That fellow we sought in Calcutta tracked you all the way through the jungle, if you recall.”

Leam shook his head, moving to his horse’s stall. “I’ve no idea why this one hasn’t come closer.

He’s within spitting distance yet he balks.”

Yale leaned back against the cold stable wall and swung the bottle once more to his lips. “Much as the lovely Lady Katherine?”

Leam would not oblige him with a reply. But it was a damned nuisance sometimes that the lad had the instincts of a real spy. Always watching.

“He is closer than I like given the circumstances.”

“P’raps you ought to simply wait for him behind a wall and shoot him when he appears. Works like a charm, you know.”

The big roan bumped its head into Leam’s chest. He ran his hand along its smooth face.

“Is that how it happened, Wyn? When you shot that girl?” Leam didn’t know the whole story of it; Yale had never shared it. But he knew well enough that his friend had not always drunk the way he did now. It had started after one assignment went terribly wrong.

The Welshman pushed up from the bench and hefted a saddle into his arms. On steady legs he moved to his horse’s stall. But this time Leam could see the drink in his eyes and the set of his mouth.

The soberer the lad grew, the more he laughed. For years they had gotten along famously together: Mr.

Wyn Yale, the drunk, and Lord Uilleam Blackwood, the man with a hole where his heart should be.

Yale unfixed the latch on a stall door and heaved the saddle and blanket to his black’s back. It was an elegant creature, beauty and strength in its Thoroughbred lines.

“Going for a ride, Wyn?” Leam spoke mildly. “It is unwise in this weather, of course.”

“When you call me by my Christian name, Leam, you intend to lecture me. I will save you the trouble. Ta-ta.” He tightened his mount’s girth and reached for the bridle.

“I could knock you down. You would sleep this one off.”

“You couldn’t, old man.”

“I haven’t bothered to in years, it is true. But I am tempted now.”

Yale slid the bit into the black’s mouth and dropped the reins over its neck. He drew the horse from the stall, its hooves clomping across straw-strewn wood.

“Are you trying to kill yourself, or the horse?”

The Welshman pushed the stable door open and mounted amid lazy swirls of snow blowing off the roof.

Leam followed. “Don’t be a fool, lad.”

“Save your lectures for your son, Blackwood. He’s still young enough to find some use in them.”

He spurred the horse into the snow. It stepped high, wary of the drifts, but the Welshman pushed it forward.

His son.

“You will ruin that animal’s legs, you idiot!” The wind grabbed Leam’s voice. Heedless, the black-clad man and black-coated horse disappeared around the corner of the stable.

He cursed and headed for the inn. He shook his coat and pushed through the entrance. Bella and Hermes came in behind and he shut the door—too forcefully. He tugged off his gloves and threw his coat onto a hook, bending to swipe his boots with a cloth, his head a wretched mash of anger.

Anger, he could feel in spades. Only anger, still after so long. His tenure with the Falcon Club had done nothing for that, nothing at all, although that had been the reason he’d joined five years earlier.

To cast off grief and guilt, and most of all fury, with purpose. To release his anger by keeping himself occupied.

All idiocy. He’d run away, accomplishing nothing but alienating himself for far too long from his home, the house in which his son lived.

His son.

He went into the parlor.

Lady Katherine stood by a window. The pane was open and the cold air blowing in rippled the delicate fabric of her skirt. But she did not seem to note it. Her wide gaze rested on him, strangely questioning once more.

His anger slid away, heat of an entirely different kind replacing it, low and insistent again. By God, those thundercloud eyes could bewitch a man.

“An ye wish, lass, A’ll saddle ma horse an search the road behind,” he heard himself say.

“For our servants?”

“Aye.”

“You would do that when you have just told Mr. Yale he oughtn’t to ride?”

“Aye.” That, and quite a bit more he began to fear with a sick twist in his stomach. He wanted to please her and see those thunderclouds glimmer with desire as they had in her bedchamber. “An ye wish.”

She remained silent a moment, slender and poised like a portrait, but shimmering with muted life in the gown that caressed her curves as his hands might. There was every newness about her, yet every familiarity, as there had been for the briefest moment that night three years ago. His heart beat a frantic pace.

A tiny crease appeared between her brows. “I would not have you put yourself at risk.”

He nodded. “Nae tae worry, lass. Thay’ll hae found shelter.”

“I hope so.”

“A ken ye dae.”

Her frown deepened. “Do you know?” Then the corner of her lips twitched, her winged brows quirking. “That is what you said, isn’t it?”

She was ice and fire at once, diamonds and feather down, soft heat bubbling forth through a cool veneer.

“Aye.” Leam backed toward the door. Distance was safest. Imagining she would shy from his blatant barbarity, he had redoubled his incivility earlier, boorishly commenting on her gown. The ploy had rewarded him only with the sensation of her skin marked upon his hand and the sweet, humid heat of her breath upon his lips.

But this honest conversation was going no better.

Distance. Sanity. Alvamoor, where his son awaited him to celebrate Christmas. His son. Nearly six now, his appearance no doubt altered since the previous year, as always with the swiftly growing young. But Leam knew the boy’s face well. Better than his own.

Without bidding the lady adieu, he grabbed his coat and gloves and retreated once more into the wild out-of-doors. The cold without could not touch a man with a soul of bleak barbarism like his.

Chapter 5

Kitty folded linens. She had not performed such a domestic task in an age. Permanently residing with her mother in her brother’s town house, she left the housekeeping to Alex’s capable London staff.

But Mrs. Milch had complained again of the lack of the serving girl, and Kitty’s brain was good for nothing more taxing this afternoon.

By the stable Lord Blackwood had spoken perfect English to Mr. Yale. Nary a hint of brogue or tumbling roll had marred the cadence of his deep voice speaking clearly and smoothly the king’s own English. Better than the king’s.

She’d heard it by accident. She had opened the window to release from the parlor a cloud of smoke a hard wind had sent down the chimney. But she had tarried there in the frigid air to spy on him. She would deny it to herself if she could, but she had no wits to now.

Perhaps he had been putting on airs to tease Mr. Yale, like an actor employing a false voice to mimic another. But he’d sounded like a gentleman. Quite nicely. So nicely that Kitty was barely able to find words when he had stormed through the door.

But why would he feign otherwise? And what sort of renowned flirt backed away from a woman so obviously wishing to be kissed, on such slight discouragement?

An honorable one. An honorable one who teased a lady about the suitability of her gown?

Kitty released a tight breath.

“Two horsemen have come into the yard, Mr. Yale and a stranger with a portmanteau.” Book in one hand, Emily peered out the window. “Mrs. Milch, I believe you are to have another lodger.”

“It’ll be mutton sausage for him too.” Mrs. Milch stacked Kitty’s linens and headed toward the kitchen.

The innkeeper met the gentlemen at the door.

“Welcome back, sir,” he said to Mr. Yale. “I see you’ve found another lost traveler.”

“Yes, indeed!” The newcomer gave the room an open smile that creased his attractive face into an attitude suggesting sheer pleasure at being stranded. His gaze met Kitty’s and his blue eyes brightened. He drew off his hat, revealing close-cropped gold curls and fashionably long sideburns.

“Ma’am.” He bowed, then to Emily. “What good fortune to find such company upon such a road. I should not have dreamed this luck.”

“Where have you come from, sir?” Emily asked.

He offered another charming smile. “Cheshire, ma’am.”

“I meant just now.” She turned to his companion, who was removing his coat and hat. “Mr. Yale, where did you find him?”

“At the pub.” He moved toward the hearth and held forward his palms.

“I’m afraid I had a nasty time of it last night,” the gentleman said with a light air of regret. “Stuck upon the road, the most frightful winds howling, my horse terrified. I found this village when I was nearly dead with cold, but I’d no idea of an inn until this good gentleman informed me of it minutes ago.” His regard shifted to the stair, and his brows lifted. “Ah, your party grows augustly.” He bowed.

“My lord, it is an honor.”

“An who might ye be?” The deep voice shivered through Kitty. She had to look. She could not in point of fact prevent herself from doing so. He was far too handsome, far too unnerving, and far too confusing. She wanted to look without ceasing.

“Cox, sir. David Cox.” The newcomer affected a martial snap of his heels. “A Lloyd’s man.

Shipping insurance of late, but before that Wellesley’s army. Fact, I am already acquainted with you of a sort, if I may be so bold. I knew your brother, James, back in the dragoons. He was a bruising rider, a favorite amongst his men. You have quite the look of him, and he always carried a cameo portrait of each of his siblings, just as I do of my … dear sister.” His brow lowered handsomely. “My condolences, sir. I understand you were quite close.”