"It is a lucky thing for you that this is all a hoax, Thomas," he said, "or I would be hard pressed not to level you right now."

Thomas's brow lowered. "This is no hoax. It's perfectly real. Mark my words, you'll see-or hear, rather, because he isn't visible to anyone but maidens." He moved toward the door. "I must go speak with Bronwyn now. That is, Lady Bronwyn. She said something else about the curse, a detail, I can't quite recall, but I think perhaps- I don't know. I will see you at dinner, Cheriot," he said with quick nerves and disappeared through the door.

Tip stared at the opening. Thomas Sinclaire was an inconsiderate pup. And his ghost story was a Banbury tale.

But Bea believed him. Recalling her bright eyes and quickened breaths sent hot pressure into Tip's groin again. He hoped to Hades he had managed to keep the desire from his gaze. But the moment had surprised him. She surprised him.

If he were honest, she usually did. Each time he made the journey to Yorkshire to feast his senses upon her for a few days, she revealed something of herself he had never seen before. Another tantalizing hint.

It had happened like that the evening in Aldborough four years earlier.

He had gone to York on a whim, wanting to see her but not realizing quite how desperately. He arrived late at the assembly rooms to find her dancing, graceful ease in each step. But he already knew she danced well. He'd been to plenty of parties she attended in London, paying her his careless attentions for two years when he was on holiday from university.

On this night she sparkled in the crowded, overheated hall, a shining opal amongst quartz. As the patterns of the set took her about the room, she watched her partner and the other dancers. Eyes luminous, she sought their gazes, and when they met she smiled, her doe's eyes lingering with pleasure and gentle longing, her rose-hued lips curved in a reflection of enchantment.

Watching her, something had tightened in Tip's chest, something vital and alive. Already at three and twenty he'd tried to dampen that sort of feeling. He had seen the damage it could do to a man. But staring at Bea that night, he let it have rein.

Then she laughed-at her partner's witticism, perhaps-throwing her head back with full-throated delight, her lovely neck a column of warm cream, and Tip could not breathe. When the set ended, in a haze of bemusement he stepped forward. Her gaze met his, illuminated with dazzling joy, and Tip lost his heart.

He realized only later that night, when she refused his hand, that in point of fact he had lost his heart to her the moment he'd met her years earlier.

"You gaze at her with lust."

Tip started out of his memories. He'd had the very thought mere moments ago. But the voice that spoke did not come from within his head. Instead, it echoed through the chamber from no clear direction, low and gravelly, and peculiarly accented. Not altogether English.

Or, rather, not recently English.

He pivoted around slowly on his heels, studying the tapestries draped over the heavy walls, the ancient carved furniture. Nothing stirred in the empty chamber, no feet beneath the wall coverings, no figure crouched behind a table or chair.

Tip folded his arms.

"I beg your pardon?" he ventured. He may as well discover now if wanting Bea and not having her for so long had driven him to madness already. Talking to himself seemed a reasonable method of learning such a thing.

"You do so when she is not watching," the voice rumbled. "When none are watching."

A shiver passed across Tip's shoulders, but now he knew it was not his conscience speaking. The voice was too different from his, rougher and flat-toned.

"Except you, I presume?" he replied.

"You wish to bed her."

Tip couldn't blame the fellow for being observant, whoever he was. "Perhaps."

"Why have you not? Are you not man enough?"

Tip's neck bristled. "Who are you? Show yourself."

"I am Iversly. This is my home in which you sojourn."

Tip released a breath. No game-playing, after all. Just clear, simple bamboozling.

"I understood that this house belongs to Lady Bronwyn's father, Prescot. Why don't you come into the open where I can see you?"

"I stand before the tapestry that depicts a scene of hunting, by the north wall, near the window."

Tip's gaze shifted to the spot. There was nothing there, of course.

"You cannot see me," the voice continued, "because you are not a maiden."

Tip couldn't help chuckling. "Not remotely."

"Why do you seek to conceal your desire for her?" The ghost returned to his former theme. "Why have you not taken her to wed?"

"Who?"

"Ach! You are a fool." The voice rang with contempt.

"And you are a villain, or so I am told."

"Insult me in my home again, lad, and I will show you my displeasure."

"I daresay. But how, I wonder." Tip moved toward the tapestry. Chill air cut across the chamber despite the thick fire in the hearth nearby. "Do you throw objects, or are your methods more subtle? A loose board in the floor of a high battlement? A rusted nail in my wardrobe? I understand that ghosts get up to those sorts of tricks. Are you one of them?"

The voice grumbled wordlessly. Tip lifted a brow, straining to catch the direction from which the sound came, but he could not discern it.

"Ah, so you have no true corporeal powers, then," he said. "I understand that is the way of most specters. Even ill-tempered ones." He made a slow perusal of the chamber again, then looked to the tapestry, leisurely studying the hunting scene picked out in vibrant blues, reds, greens, and golds. A pack of dogs were bringing a young stag to the ground, leaping onto its long back, biting its flesh, drawing blood. The hunters, upon decorated steeds with bows at the ready and arrows nocked, closed in. "You know," he said, "I am not at all certain you have the right to call me lad. Your voice sounds too young. How old are you?"

"Five and thirty years I lived as a human. Since then centuries have passed, and now I am nearly as old as these mountains." He sounded weary. Given the circumstances, Tip didn't much sympathize.

"I doubt that. In which century were you born?" The more questions he asked, the more likely the fellow would slip up.

"I fought for King Harry when the blood of French princes and mercenary scum mingled upon the soaked fields of Agincourt."

"Ah, that long ago," Tip murmured. He would unmask this humbug soon enough.

"The girl is beautiful." The voice dipped deep.

Tip paused before responding. "You speak of your intended, I suspect."

"No."

Tip's spine stiffened. This went too far.

"My lord," he said firmly, "afford me the pleasure, if you will, of refraining from commentary on Miss Sinclaire. She is not your business."

"She is a maiden."

"Which should not merit your interest. Haven't you already chosen your bride, or am I mistaken?"

Silence greeted him.

"The curse stipulates a Welsh bride," the voice finally said, hollower than before.

Tip shrugged. "Well there you have it. Lady Bronwyn it must be, or none."

"The Sinclaire woman's veins run with Welsh blood. A drop only is needed to fulfill the curse."

Tip stilled. "How would you know of her ancestry?" Perhaps he had associates outside the castle gathering information. Thomas had been here for longer than a fortnight, more than enough time for clever thieves to run down the letter he had sent to Bea or even to investigate him. The bamboozler would be a fool to make an assertion that would be easily denied by the lady herself, after all.

"I do not know it," the ghost said. "I sense it."

"Ah." The ruffian would suffer for this. Whoever he was, and his confederates, Tip would make them pay.

"But the black-haired girl came here first, so she it must be," the voice continued with peculiar heaviness. "Soon she will be my bride, whether she wishes it or not."

"You know," Tip strolled toward the center of the chamber, "in this century we do not force women to the altar."

"Neither did we in my era. But this time there will be no altar, nor priest. Only a marriage bed, then death. Blessed, peaceful death."

Tip's blood ran cold. Lady Bronwyn seemed a flighty, careless girl, but she didn't deserve this cruel fraud.

"Oh good, my lord, I hoped to speak with you before-" Bea's voice slid to a halt behind him.

Tip turned to the doorway, masking his emotions before her as always. But the back of his neck prickled. Her lovely, wide gaze was fixed on the lower portion of the hunt tapestry. She curtsied toward the tapestry and turned to Tip.

"Lord Cheriot, will you be so kind as to introduce me?"

CHAPTER FOUR.

"As you see, Bea, I am alone, except for your lovely self, of course."

"Given the circumstances, my lord, this is not really the best time to tease." Bea moved forward, glancing again at the gentleman by the wall. In the flickering firelight and candles he seemed all dark angles. He was tall, nearly of a height with Tip although thicker-bodied, and dramatically dark, from the slash of black hair crossing his brow and shadow of a beard upon his jaw to his ebony eyes. All about him hung an air of cold gloom. And there was something strange about him, something oddly insubstantial. In comparison, Tip's masculine vibrancy and warmth was like a breath of life. Then again, being with him always made Bea feel alive.

"Please," she said quietly to him. "Introduce me."

His eyes took on a guarded look. "I assure you, I would do so if there were another person present in the chamber with us."

"He cannot see me. Only maidens can see me." The gentleman's voice sounded across the broad chamber, both deep and thin at once, like a hard winter wind, present one instant with powerful force, vanished the next.

A shiver slithered up Bea's spine. Her gaze slid to Tip's. His emerald eyes seemed bright.

"Of course he can see you," she said to the gentleman. "You are standing less than four yards away. Who are you, sir?"

"Iversly." He bowed. "Enchanted, my lady."

Bea blinked in surprise. She had imagined Lord Iversly an invention of Lady Bronwyn's imagination, created to bring Thomas to heel. It was frankly something of a relief to see that he was a real man, although not at all the sort of fellow with whom she wanted her brother to compete. He had a harsh, muscular look about him, and was at least a decade older than Thomas.

"I am pleased to make your acquaintance, my lord. I am only Miss Sinclaire, however."

"But you are of royal stock," he replied. "One of your English forebears bedded a Welsh princess and begat a child upon her."

"Why, that is perfectly correct." She nodded. "It happened a very long time ago, and of course it was not quite that unseemly. They were married. But how do you come to know about that?"

Tip had gone entirely immobile beside her, his lips a white line. Bea's stomach did a somersault.

Lord Iversly replied, "I can smell it on you." The fire in the grate seemed to recede, the very mists outside invading the chamber as though attracted by his words.

Tip's brow lowered. "Beg the lady's pardon for that."

"Why must I beg her pardon for speaking the truth? My senses are uncommonly acute-those I have remaining, of course."

"Those you have remaining?" Bea asked Lord Iversly, but she couldn't take her eyes off Tip. He seemed to be avoiding looking directly at their host. That was not at all like him.

"Smell, sight, hearing," Lord Iversly replied. "Alas, I forfeited taste and touch when I perished, or this immortality would be a great deal more interesting, no doubt." He pushed away from the wall and moved with careful steps to a candelabrum. Lifting his hand, he passed it slowly through a flame, holding his palm in the fire for a long interval then presenting it for her inspection. "You see?"

His skin was unmarked.

Bea's breath petered out. She turned to Tip. His face was taut, his cheeks pale as he stared unfocused across the chamber.

"Can you see him, Bea?" he said.

"Yes, of course," she said, somewhat shaken by his intensity and Lord Iversly's trick.

Tip took a quick, hard breath and turned to her. "I cannot."

"Because you are not a maiden." Iversly's voice mocked, the sound hollow and seeming to come from everywhere now.

Bea stepped back.

"Oh, no," Lady Bronwyn's voice wavered at the door, "he is here."

"Drawn by beauty, as always, my lady," Lord Iversly replied, a wicked glint in his black eyes.

"How charming," Aunt Julia said. "A ghost who knows the value of flattery."

Bea turned to the door. Her great-aunts entered, but Lady Bronwyn hesitated, Thomas hovering behind.

"Aunt Julia," Bea said, pushing back her shoulders, "Lord Iversly is not a ghost, after all, as you can see."

"I cannot see anything of the kind," Lady Marstowe said sharply. "Lord Iversly, show yourself this instant and cease this foolish charade."

Iversly's face grew, if possible, more shadowed. Bea's heart raced, her hands abruptly clammy.