Alarm tightened Clarissa's stomach as the very real danger of the storm finally sank in. She put an arm around Aunt Tilly. "I'm sure all will be well."

Aunt Tilly's lips moved in silent prayer. Clarissa opened the compartment inside the coach where they kept writing implements. She dug around, looking for the food or drink it occasionally contained, but found nothing. Not surprising; their shopping trip to town was only supposed to take a few hours. With a sigh, Clarissa closed the hatch and leaned back. The carriage followed a curve in the road and began climbing a steep incline.

Aunt Tilly let out a gasp. "We must be going to Wyckburg Castle! I'd rather freeze!"

The castle? Dizzying excitement swept over Clarissa. After all this time, would she really see the inside of the castle, or even steal a glimpse of the earl? She should have been frightened, she really should, but oh, going inside the castle at last!

She patted Aunt Tilly's arm. "Surely the driver wouldn't take us there if he thought we'd be in danger. And the storm is a more immediate threat."

Aunt Tilly prayed vocally, asking for protection from both the storm and the evil that awaited them in the castle.

A terrible groan splintered the air. The coach lurched sharply to the side, throwing them both out of their seats. Clarissa slammed against the side of the coach as it fell sideways. The carriage continued to roll, then tottered, groaning, before it rocked onto its other side, where it lay still. Outside, horses screamed and tack jangled. Then all fell silent except for the moaning wind. Next to Clarissa, Aunt Tilly lay in a motionless heap.

Taking a shaky breath, Clarissa pushed herself onto her knees. "Aunt Tilly?"

Her aunt's eyes fluttered open. "Clarissa? Are you hurt, dear?"

"No, I don't think so. You?"

"Just shaken, I think." But already a bruise was forming on Aunt Tilly's head. She tried to sit up, but let out a cry and crumpled. She lay, gasping, her lined face twisted in pain as she gripped her wrist with her other hand.

"Lie still, Aunt." Clarissa spread both carriage blankets over her aunt. Where was the coachman? Had he been injured? "I'm going for help." She fumbled with the door latch.

From outside the carriage came a voice. "Miss Fairchild?" A face appeared in the window above them. Though respectful to her, the coachman always appeared ominous with his teeth sharpened to points to aid him in whistling to the horses. "I have to get the team out of the weather!" he shouted over the wind. "We're about a mile from shelter. You can ride on one of the horses."

"My aunt is injured," Clarissa called up to him. "I won't leave her here alone." Not even with the lure of the castle singing to her like a siren's song. Would her trip to Wyckburg prove as treacherous as sirens were to sailors at sea?

The driver's head bobbed. "Stay inside. You'll be protected from the wind. I'll return with help."

"I understand. We'll be fine until then," she said confidently.

"Here's some light." He opened the door to hand down a carriage lamp. Snow blasted inside and bit into her cheeks like shards of gla.s.s.

Standing as much as possible in the cramped quarters, Clarissa took the lamp and offered him an encouraging smile. The coachman closed the door, shutting out snow. Outside, wind howled and rocked the carriage. Her teeth chattered, and her body shook.

"So cold," her aunt mumbled.

Clarissa removed her woolen cloak, lay next to Aunt Tilly, and laid the cloak over them both like a blanket. Cold crept in like icy fingers burrowing to her bones. Sleepiness drifted over her. She battled it back but never banished it, only driving it off for a moment before it returned. She drifted in a haze of gray. Wind screamed like ghosts demanding vengeance.

"It's going to be all right," she whispered, as much to herself as to her aunt. "We'll be rescued soon, and then we'll be safe and warm."

The carriage door flew open. A dark form appeared in the doorway above them. "Miss Fairchild? Can you stand?"

She ordered her limbs to move but could barely lift her head. The coachman spoke to someone outside her line of sight, then lowered himself into the carriage.

"Help is here." He slid his arms underneath her shoulders and knees, and lifted her. Standing, he raised her and transferred her to another pair of arms which cradled her against a hard chest.

"Good heavens," muttered a male voice.

Clarissa floated into darkness.

Chapter Two.

Christopher de Champs, Earl of Wyckburg, stared at the young woman in his arms. His breath left him as quickly as his wits. To say she was beautiful would have been a tragic understatement. For the first time in three years, his dormant heart awoke and took a good look.

No. He wouldn't make that mistake again. He wouldn't condemn another woman. Too many former Countess Wyckburgs filled the family crypt, his own sweet wife among them.

He tore his gaze off the woman in his arms and carried her to the waiting coach where he promptly bundled her into a blanket. He pulled off her half boots and rubbed her feet to restore the circulation before he placed her feet atop a rag-wrapped brick. He put another brick against her back. She mumbled, pushing at the hot bricks. After ensuring they weren't burning her, he wrapped her again, holding her against the sources of warmth.

His gaze drifted to her face-lovely, delicate features and full lips, framed by a dark green hood. A light dusting of freckles over her nose and cheekbones revealed her propensity to spend time outdoors without a bonnet. Judging by her fine clothing and smooth hands, she was a well-bred lady of quality. Because he never attended society functions, he had no idea as to her ident.i.ty.

One of his footmen, Hobbs, arrived with an older woman about half his size. A bruise spread over her wrinkled forehead. They bundled her in warmth, and Hobbs cradled the old woman as if she were his own grandmother.

The strangers' coachman stuck his head inside the carriage. Icicles clung to his beard, and his lips were purple. "All set?" the driver asked through chattering teeth.

Christopher motioned. "You get in too. You've been out in that weather too long."

"'Twouldn't be right, milord."

"Get in, man, before you freeze to death. This weather leaves no room for propriety."

The driver climbed in, his shaking hands struggling with the door. Once they were seated, the coach lurched forward. With one arm holding the unconscious young lady, Christopher reached into a compartment and withdrew a flask wrapped in cloths to keep it warm.

He handed the flask to the coachman. "Mulled wine. Drink up."

"Thankee kindly." He drank deeply and pa.s.sed the flask back.

"Where were you headed?" Christopher asked.

"Birchwood Manor, the Fairchild place down the road."

Christopher choked. "Fairchild?"

"Yes milord. Storm didn't look that close when we left town, or I wouldn't've risked it."

Fairchild. The woman in Christopher's arms descended from the very witch who had cursed his family generations ago. Though tempted to open the carriage door and throw out the witch's sp.a.w.n-or run a blade through her-he gritted his teeth and remained still. As his gaze strayed back to the unconscious young woman, all thoughts of revenge faded to impotent wishes. He couldn't very well condemn a lady for a crime her ancestor committed. Besides, no one believed in witches anymore. He hardly believed in them himself. He was an educated, enlightened man, but five generations of family history, not to mention his personal loss, left no room for doubt.

As he looked into the young woman's angelic face, thoughts of retribution melted like snowflakes on a flame. Besides, Christopher was no murderer, and seeking revenge wouldn't bring back his wife. No, he'd keep his distance and rid himself of the chit as quickly as the storm allowed.

"My thanks for your aid, milord," the driver said. "We wouldn't have lasted long in that weather."

Christopher nodded numbly. The woman in his arms mumbled, her eyes fluttering but not quite opening. Christopher pressed the flask to her mouth and ordered her to drink. She swallowed and coughed, her eyes still fluttering. Twisting against him, she pushed back her hood, displaying a halo of abundant auburn hair.

He might have known. A redheaded witch like her Irish ancestor. It was just his luck that his foe would fall into his hands, leaving him with the dilemma of what to do with her.

As the coach rolled to a stop, Christopher gathered up the unconscious woman and hurried inside, followed by Hobbs carrying the old woman, and the coachman following.

Christopher thrust his bundle at the nearest footman. "Take them to whatever room Mrs. March prepared for our... guests." Guests. He almost snorted. There hadn't been guests in the castle for years. His housekeeper was probably having an apoplexy. "And see to their coachman."

A footman motioned to the coachman, who stood holding his hat awkwardly, and they left together. After discarding his snow-covered overcoat and hat, Christopher stalked to his study. Pouring himself a cup of mulled wine, he sipped the hot liquid and stared into the fire.

The door burst open, and his sixteen-year-old brother-in-law charged in. "Is it true?" Henry asked urgently, his eyes wide. "She's a Fairchild?"

"So their coachman says."

"And with red hair, too, just like the witch..." Henry trailed off then fixed a piercing gaze on Christopher. "Are you going to kill her?"

Christopher choked. "Henry!"

"Well?"

"One doesn't go about murdering hapless young women in their sleep without bringing the law down upon one's head. Not to mention, I have no stomach for it."

"Your enemy has been delivered into your hands. This is your chance to break the curse."

"I have no way of knowing if killing the ancestor of the witch will lift the curse. And as I said, I've no stomach for murdering anyone, especially not a woman."

"If she were a man, you could challenge him to a duel."

"When did you become so bloodthirsty?"

"The moment I saw that red hair and heard the name Fairchild. You and your family have been dealt a sore injustice. As have I." The lad clamped his mouth shut and blinked rapidly.

Christopher sank into an armchair near the fire. "Indeed."

"I don't suppose my killing her would lift the curse, but it would serve justice."

Alarmed, Christopher leaped to his feet and went to him. Placing his hands on the boy's shoulders, he peered into Henry's eyes and waited until their gazes met. Solemnly, Christopher said, "Henry, that girl upstairs did not kill your sister. You cannot even think of harming her. What you are suggesting is morally wrong."

Tears filled Henry's eyes. "It's not fair. Jane didn't hurt any of them. And she died such an unnatural death."

"You're right; it isn't fair." Christopher stared unseeing at the dark window, reliving every labored breath his beloved wife took before her last. He curled his hand into a fist. "Promise me you won't hurt the Fairchild girl."

Silence.

"Henry."

The young man heaved a sigh. "I promise I won't hurt her."

Satisfied, Christopher sat once again and stared into the fire, his thoughts consumed by the beautiful, fiery-haired enemy upstairs.

Chapter Three.

Dressed in the clothing she'd worn yesterday, including her cloak, Clarissa stood by the crackling fire in an unfamiliar bedroom. Though sore all over, she didn't seem to have suffered injury from the accident or the cold. Besides, she was inside the castle at last. No injury could keep her from exploring.

The room smelled closed in as if from disuse, but it had been recently cleaned-a bit hurriedly, judging from the dust in the corners. The lavish furnishings might have been found in any great house. Nothing in the room gave any clues as to the secrets of the castle and its inhabitants. Disappointing, really.

Outside, the snowstorm rattled the windows. She sighed. It was the first day of Christmas. If she didn't get home, she'd miss the festivities. She'd never been away from her family on Christmas. Homesickness arose briefly. And yet, at last, she'd been handed a coveted chance to investigate Wyckburg Castle. Since she couldn't control the weather, she may as well explore the inspiration of her most vivid fantasies.

She'd found a washbasin to aid in washing her face, a hairbrush to tame her unruly hair and twist it into a simple chignon, and a clean toothbrush, but of course had no change of clothing. She longed to venture out in search of breakfast, but first, she ought to find her aunt and learn whether she was well. Then she'd explore the castle. Perhaps she'd even meet the terrible Lord Wyckburg. Excitement thrilled her at the thought. As she moved toward the door, wind howled outside, and a cold draft blew across the room like the icy touch of a phantom.

The door opened, and she jumped. A plump woman with gray-streaked hair entered, carrying a tray of covered dishes. As the woman's gaze flicked over Clarissa, she wrinkled her nose as if she smelled something unpleasant. She set the tray on the small table by the hearth.

"Breakfast." She spoke in a flat tone, not entirely rude, but without any friendliness.

"Thank you, but my aunt... I'm concerned for her well-being. She was injured."

"She is your aunt, then, and not your mother or grandmother?"

Taken aback at the inquisitiveness of the servant, Clarissa summoned a smile. "She's my great aunt-my mother's aunt on her mother's side."

"I see. She's resting in the next room."

"I'll check on her before I eat, then."

The woman paused a moment. "This way." She led her to the room next door.

Inside, Clarissa found her aunt sitting in bed propped up by pillows. "How do you feel, Aunt?"

"Well enough, child. My head hurts, and my arm, but nothing seems to be broken." Aunt Tilly held up her hand and wiggled her fingers. "It hurts to put weight on it, but I'm certain it's just a sprain."

Clarissa kissed her aunt's cheek, resisting the urge to smile at the pieces of hair sticking up at odd angles from Aunt Tilly's head, making her look as if she'd suffered a fright. "I feared you were truly injured."

"Just shaken, it appears." She patted Clarissa's cheek. "You, dear?"

"A bit sore all over, but I'm well enough." Turning back to the servant, who eyed the entire exchange more boldly than a servant ought to, Clarissa said, "I'd like to thank those who came to our aid yesterday."

All she remembered was a strong, gentle pair of arms. Surely they couldn't belong to the frightening recluse who'd murdered his wife.

"Lord Wyckburg is a very busy man. However, I will convey your grat.i.tude." The woman turned and left, leaving Clarissa to stare after her.

"Impertinent," Aunt Tilly sniffed. "No way for a servant to treat a lady."

Clarissa smoothed the counterpane on the bed, fingering the rich fabric. Surely there must be some way to meet the mysterious, murderous earl... or at least see him.

"Perhaps I ought to arise and find the necessary." Aunt Tilly's gazed darted around as if she expected to see a murderer appear. "Your parents will have servants searching for us as soon as the weather improves. The last time it snowed this much, the roads were impa.s.sable for three days. They had to dig out the mail coach."