"How old is the house, Mrs. Bromley?"

"Ta hear him tell, they carved it outta the cliff out there. Built it outta the same rock around the time the Normans come, at least its roots go back that far-maybe farther, for all I know. It's changed over time, o'course. It started out as a keep, then over the years it become a monastery, an abbey, and a priory, amongst other things at different times. More rock was quarried as time went by, rooms was added, outbuildings and stables and stacked stone fences went up, until it come to be what it is now, and has been for the last two hundred years-Ravencliff Manor. Except for storm damage repairs, o' course."

"It must have a fascinating history if it's stood here since before the Norman Conquest," Sara said, trying to imagine.

"There's books in the library that'll tell ya a lot more than I ever could."

"I shall make it a point to avail myself," Sara replied.

"Yes, my lady. Now, there's plenty o' time before nuncheon for a lie-down," the housekeeper offered.

"Ya won't be disturbed. Nell will come ta fetch ya when 'tis time."

"Thank you, Mrs. Bromley. I think I shall," Sara said-but she wasn't planning on napping. Nicholas's comment about the tapestries had intrigued her. His use of the word "consoling" in particular piqued her interest, and she dismissed the housekeeper and made her way back to her bedchamber.

The storm was still flinging sheets of rain at the windows. Whipped by the wind, the cascading ripples obscured the view. It was just as well. All was dark and depressing. Somehow, Sara couldn't imagine what the place would be like in bright sunlight. The shadow-steeped manor seemed at home in dirty weather.

There was a fire in the hearth, throwing pulsating warmth at the drafts that seeped through the very walls where the tapestries hung. The tapestries shuddered, attracting her attention, and she took up a candle branch and began her inspection. The periods represented varied from medieval, to pastoral, to Renaissance. A common palette threaded through the lot-muted shades of green and cinnamon brown, sand, claret, burgundy, cream, and various shades of blue. The theme was the same: the hunt. Dogs and horses surrounded her, among them the works of Detti, Oudry, and Bernard Van Orley. Each was more magnificent than the rest, but the most magnificent of all hung beside the bed: a breathtaking rendering of Diana the Huntress with her noble hounds.

The candle branch trembled in Sara's hand. Was this strange man she'd married a saint or the Devil? He seemed so austere, and now this tender consolation. He had surrounded her with the animals she'd loved and lost. He'd assigned her that suite before she ever arrived. He'd known. What else did he know? Her eyes misted with tears; the tapestries blurred before them. She blinked her sorrow back and moved on to her sitting room, which was likewise deco-rated. An exquisite medieval piece depicting a unicorn hunt caught her eye, and she fingered the hounds worked at the bottom. All around the room unicorns and horses pranced, and dogs cavorted. The storm forgotten, Sara moved from wall to wall, and room to room of her spacious suite, drinking it all in to the last detail.

Chapter Three.

Sara couldn't wait for Nell to come and collect her for the noon meal so she could thank Nicholas for his thoughtful-ness, but the breakfast room was vacant when she reached it. Her husband didn't come down to dinner that evening, either, and she faced his absence with mixed emotions. On the one hand, she was anxious to use the tapestries as a means of easing the tension-the awkward strain mounting between them from the very first. Something in his voice, in his furtive glances had put her on her guard, made her wish she possessed more experience with men. It was almost as if those eyes said one thing and his lips another. The man seemed full of contradiction. On the other hand, she was glad of his absence in that it gave her more time to marshal courage enough to address the issues that had nagged her since she entered Ravencliff Manor. She hadn't fooled him. He knew she had questions. He was about as eager to answer them as she was to ask.

Mrs. Bromley wasn't able to tell her why Nicholas hadn't made an appearance at nuncheon or dinner, only that he often skipped meals, and that she shouldn't take it to heart.

Whatever the reason, Sara felt it was rude. He should have sent his apologies, and she had half a mind to march into his study and tell him so. That was where she presumed him to be, since she saw a sliver of candlelight showing under the study door when she came down to dinner.

After the meal, she decided to do just that, but the study door was ajar, and the candles had been extinguished-recently, judging by the strong odor of smoke and tallow in the musty air. Gripping the doorknob she eased it open a little wider and peered inside. The fire in the hearth had died to glowing embers, casting just enough light to show her that the room was empty. Nicholas's Hessians stood beside the wing chair, and what looked like some of his clothing lay in a heap on the floor. The boots were caked with mud, and the clothing looked wet. Had he been out in the storm? What were his clothes doing here-had he left them for the servants to collect? Was he accustomed to changing in the study? Her breath caught. He could be coming back! Cold chills gripped her at the thought of being found there, and she repositioned the door just as she'd found it. Glancing up and down the corridor, she searched the shadows, but nothing moved, and she hurried toward the grand staircase and went straight to her suite.

Entering through the little foyer, she turned right, and opened the door to her bedchamber, where Nell had turned down the bed and was laying out her ecru silk nightgown and wrapper.

"Oh, la, my lady!" the abigail said. "Ya look like ya just seen a ghost!"

"Nothing of the kind," Sara responded. "I took the stairs too quickly after eating."

"If you say so, my lady."

"How long have you been in service here, Nell?" Sara asked.

"Long enough ta know the tales o' ghosts are true," said the maid, casting a furtive glance about the room.

"I haven't heard any such tales."

"You will. Just ask any o' the servants, they'll tell ya. There's strange goin's-on in this old house, my lady, you'll see."

Sara didn't dispute that for a minute, though she wasn't prepared to subscribe to ghosts. As far as she was concerned, the enigmatic Baron Nicholas Walraven was at the bottom of the "strange goings-on" at Ravencliff, and that was more frightening than ghosts.

It was still early, and she wasn't tired, but she did want to be alone to order her thoughts. That meant dismissing Nell. She let the maid help her change and brush out her shoulder-length hair before the vanity mirror in the dressing room, then bade her good night. Snuffing out the dressing room candles, she stepped back over the threshold into her bedchamber only to pull up short before Nero, sitting on his haunches in the middle of the Aubusson carpet, watching her, his eyes like mirrors glowing red in the firelight.

"Nero?" she breathed. "You frightened me. How did you get in here?" She took a cautious step closer, but the animal made no hostile move, and she ventured nearer still. "You shouldn't be here, you know, but I shan't tell." Squatting down to his level, she reached to stroke his shaggy black coat. "You're soaking wet!" she discovered. "Have you been out in the storm, too? So that's why the master's clothes were all wet. He was out looking for you, wasn't he? And you've escaped him. Well he mustn't find you here. He knows you visited me last night, and it's the first place he'll look." She surged to her feet and started toward the foyer. "Well, come on, then."

Nero hesitated, then stood and padded toward her. Sara gasped again, taking a good look at the animal -at the long, corded legs, and slender, barrel-chested body; at the way he held his head, and the way the strange eyes staring at her picked up the firelight. It was impossible to tell their true color.

"You do have wolf in you, don't you?" she murmured. "If I didn't know better..."

The door to the corridor was ajar. She could have sworn she'd closed it earlier. She opened it wider, but the animal stood his ground. He had a lean, hungry look about him. Whatever the conditions of his residence, Sara was certain he wasn't happy with them. He was obviously lonely, too, to seek her out-a total stranger-and she wondered when he'd had his last meal.

"Don't they feed you, Nero?" she said. She hadn't finished everything on her plate at dinner, and she wished now that she'd thought to ruck something into her serviette for him, since she'd been hoping he'd return. "I have nothing for you now," she said, "but the next time you visit me I shall... I promise. Now, you need to go back to the servants' quarters before someone catches you out. Go!" she charged, shooing him away with a hand gesture. But he stood his ground, staring up at her with those penetrating red-fire eyes.

What a soulful expression for a dog. Of course, he couldn't understand what she was saying, but she was certain he would respond to her tone. She knew how to gentle dogs, and horses, too, come to that, but this dog was... different. He seemed to understand every word.

"What am I to do with you?" she scolded. "You cannot stay here. One bark, one howl, and we are found out. Then I shall be called to task, and God alone knows what will happen to you."

Still Nero stood his ground, and Sara poked her head out into the corridor. Candle sconces dotted the walls, but only half were lit. She looked both ways. The hallway was deserted, and she pulled her wrapper close around her against the drafts, and stepped over the threshold.

"I suppose I could walk you down to the servants' quarters," she said. "It isn't that far. The door is doubtless closed, and you won't be able to get below stairs otherwise, will you? Is that what you're trying to say, Nero? What I want to know is how you got out. There must be another entrance. I don't suppose you'll show me, will you, boy?" The animal made no move to comply. He nuzzled her hand with his cold, wet nose, and followed her into the corridor.

"Yes, I love you, too, you poor wretched creature," she soothed, ruffling his shaggy coat. "Well, come on, then, we shall have to do this quickly."

Nero padded along beside her. His nails made no sound here the way they did in the downstairs hall, where there was no carpet. She could detect his step just the same. They had nearly reached the landing, when he bolted and streaked on ahead of her.

"Nero!" she cried out, as loud as she dared. There was a dreadful echo in the house, amplified by the storm, and voices carried. "Come back here!" Still the animal ran on toward the landing, and disappeared in the shadows.

Sara lost sight of him before she reached the staircase, and she hurried down to the first-floor landing, but the green baize door that led below was closed, as she knew it would be, and Nero was nowhere in sight. Why hadn't she brought a candle branch? The halls beyond the servants' quarters door were black as coal tar pitch. She ventured halfway down one, calling to Nero in hoarse whispers, but there was no sign of him, and she turned back when she nearly fell over a settle. It was no use; he was on his own. Why hadn't he waited for her-or answered her call? He seemed such an intelligent animal. She was so sure he understood her.

When she reached the green door, she tried the knob. It was locked. There was nothing she could do for Nero now even if she did find him. Unless one of the servants had let him in when he came down, he was abroad for the night, and she prayed Nicholas wouldn't find him.

There was nothing to be done but go back to her suite, and she started toward the landing, only to pull up short, her hand frozen to the newel post. Nicholas was descending from the third-floor stairwell barefoot, wearing a burgundy satin dressing gown. It gapped in front, exposing a patch of dark hair that diminished to a narrow line, like an arrow disappearing beneath the sash. As he rounded the bend, she glimpsed a well-turned thigh, and very nearly something more. He was naked underneath. Her breath caught in a strangled gasp, and her hand flew to her lips-but not in time to keep the sound from escaping.

He stopped three steps above her, and cinched his dressing gown in ruthlessly. His hair was tousled and wet, tumbled over his brow, and his eyes were hooded dark things that drove hers away. He didn't speak directly, and when she braved another look, she saw that he was taking her measure. She was standing beneath one of the sconces. Glancing down, she realized that her gown was transparent in the candlelight. He could see everything, and she tugged her wrapper closed in front with both hands.

"May I be of assistance to you, Sara?" he said, stepping down to the landing.

"N-no, thank you," she replied. "I was just going up." Did that sound as ridiculous to him as it did to her, considering her attire? He was so close. How he towered over her. His scent overwhelmed her, his own unique essence, freshened with the tang of sea salt, of the wind, and the rain. She was right; he had been outside, and he'd probably come down to collect the clothes he'd left behind earlier, not wanting to muddy the house.

"You oughtn't be down here unsupervised until you're familiar with the house," he said, stopping her in her tracks. "These corridors aren't used after the dining hall is cleared, and they're sparsely lit at this hour."

" 'Unsupervised''?" she said.

"Yes. I can't have you blundering into danger in the dark."

"I don't 'blunder/ my lord," she snapped. First behave, and now unsupervised? The man was certainly no study in diplomacy. "Your choice of words can sometimes be unfortunate, I'm finding out."

" 'Nicholas/ " he corrected her. "I'm sorry if my vocabulary offends you, but I've never been the sort to mince words. There are dangers in this old house. Loose boards, rusty nails"-he pointed at her bare feet-"heavy old furniture to stub those pretty toes on. Browse all you want in daylight, when you can see the pitfalls, but please, do not go knocking about after dark... unescorted, if the word better suits your sensibilities. We don't have a surgeon in residence, and the nearest one is on Bodmin Moor. Why are you down here?"

She'd been hoping he wouldn't ask that question. She would not betray Nero-never that, though it was all she could do to keep from calling her husband to account over the condition of the animal. Only wolves had such a spare look about them, not dogs. She'd seen pictures of such creatures in books in her father's library. Nero could have walked right off the pages.

"I... I couldn't sleep, and I came down to... to fetch a book from the library," she said, her reverie having prompted the excuse.

"Didn't Mrs. Bromley take you on a tour of the house? The library is in the south wing, next to the salon."

"Y-yes, she did. I must have lost my way, and I'd just given up. We toured so many rooms, and it all looks so different at night."

"Exactly my point," he said. "Can you find your way back to your rooms?"

"Of course," she snapped, beginning to climb, but his deep voice spun her around again.

"Sara, we need to talk," he said.

"Now?" she breathed, raking him from head to toe in wide-eyed astonishment.

"No, not now," he responded, his lips curled in the closest thing to a smile she'd seen yet, albeit an exasperated one. "It's clear to me that we need to expand our dialogue of last evening. We touched on the house rules, but what we need to establish... are the ground rules. I shan't be taking breakfast in the morning, but if you will join me after nuncheon in the study we can talk privately. I'd rather not have the servants privy to our conversation."

"You're sure you will be coming down to nuncheon tomorrow, Nicholas?" she said, recalling his rude absence at table all day.

"Ah! My apologies," he said. "What kept me from joining you at nuncheon and dinner today came up quite suddenly, and couldn't be avoided. That may happen from time to time. I should have sent my regrets. Please forgive my want of conduct. I shall try to be more chivalrous in future."

"After nuncheon, then... in the study," she agreed. "Good night, Nicholas."

"Good night, Sara."

He moved on then, but the deep, sensuous echo of his voice lived after him, tampering with her balance. So did the image of that lean, corded, lightly furred body half-exposed in the candlelight. How handsome he was, mussed by the gale, this strange man she'd married. His scent was still with her, all around her- in her. Breathing deeply, she drank her fill. Yes. She was attracted to this man, but he did not want her in that way. What he did want was still unclear. Maybe tomorrow, he would answer her questions. Maybe tomorrow, she would be brave enough to ask them. Right now, as she approached her suite, she prayed that she wouldn't find Nero crouching on his haunches in her foyer. Thank God, it was vacant.

Chapter Four.

Sara heard the howl again in the dead of night. It wrenched her from a sound sleep, and she went to the door, but there was no sign of Nero in the deserted hallway. Had she dreamed it? No. It was much too intense, so plaintive and sad it tugged at her heartstrings. She had bonded with the creature and, if anything were to happen to him, the heart he'd wrapped himself around would break all over again, just when it had begun to mend. Nero's unexpected presence in her life eased the loneliness in her strange situation: to be married to a husband who wasn't a husband, who showed not the slightest affection- who didn't even want to be touched. How could she bear to lose the dog's comforting presence now?

She did not mention Nero at nuncheon. The meal was passed for the most part in silence, though she didn't miss Nicholas's articulate eyes studying her from the opposite end of the table. There it was again -that look. She hadn't imagined it. There was something unspoken in those eyes-something veiled, though acute, as if he were struggling with some inner demon. That hypnotic stare seemed alarm-ingly soft and intense, seductive and cold all at once. How could that be? But it was. If only she could read it.

The storm had finally spent itself in the night. By dawn, the rain had stopped, and the wind had died to a sighing murmur. Though the sea rolling up the coast below still had a fearsome voice, it had ceased climbing the house's ancient curtain wall and flinging spindrift high into the air, clear to the carved stone ravens at the pinnacle. The sun was another matter. Dark brooding clouds still hung heavy on the horizon, adding to the gloomy mood of the day, and Sara watched Nicholas stir the fire to life in the study hearth in a vain attempt to chase off the dampness that permeated the old house. She noticed, too, that the wet clothes and muddy boots were gone.

"You needn't look so grim," he said, surging to his full height after the chore. "You have nothing to fear from me, Sara. This isn't the Inquisition, you know. I'm in hopes that when we leave this room today, we shall have a better understanding of each other, nothing more."

"I'm not afraid of you, Nicholas," she said. It was half-truth. She was very afraid of her attraction to this man, because it wasn't returned. "You've been most generous, and you've saved me from a nightmarish existence, for which I am exceedingly grateful. It's just that your motives are... unclear."

"My motives are suspect, you mean."

"If you prefer."

"I see. You have questions. Let us begin with those then, shall we?" He took his seat on the edge of the desk as he had during their first interview. Chairs were wasted on this man.

Sara folded her hands in her lap, trying not to wrinkle the blue dimity frock she'd chosen for the occasion. She'd been hoping he would be the one to begin. This was going to be difficult.

"Very well," she said. "Forgive me, but you do not look the sort of man who has to choose a bride from the debtors' prison. With so many lovely young ladies in the offing this Season, why me?"

"I am not interested in empty-headed debutantes, who parade themselves in Town as bait for husbands. They may as well be on the block at Tattersall's."

"Or could it be that you thought someone liberated from the Fleet would bow and scrape to your every whim?"

"That is insulting, not only to me, but to yourself."

"What, then? You must admit that at best all this is bizarre."

He hesitated. "All right," he said. "If I am to be completely truthful, I will admit that you are partly right. I did hope that someone in my debt might be more inclined to put up with my... idiosyncrasies, but I shan't let that damn me. I told you what I was looking for in a wife. That I found her in the Fleet and not at Almack's matters not. I have found her-end of issue. I assume there's more?"

"Yes," Sara said, with as much confidence as she could muster. "I find it hard to accept that you do not want an heir." She had come this far-too far to stop now. "A handsome, prosperous aristocrat such as yourself, a man with property and wealth to leave after him, surely needs someone to leave it to."

Again he hesitated. "My reasons are... private, Sara," he said.

"But we are married, Nicholas."

"Married people do keep some things to themselves, and this is not your usual marriage. You need to accept that."

"I can accept anything I can understand," she sallied, "and I do not understand this! It is beyond my comprehension. Will you allow me to be blunt?"

He ground out a low chuckle. There was no humor in it. "I'm sure you will be, whether I 'allow' you or not."

"It is unfortunate that you force me to take the initiative in this conversation. It offends me and I shan't forgive you for it, I'm sure, when you could so easily spare me. You asked for my questions, my lord-"

"Indeed, I did," he flashed, "but I made no promise to answer them. Don't let that deter you, however. Speak your mind."

"All right, since you insist. Do you... prefer the company of men?" she blurted. There! It was out. Maybe the key to conversing with this man was to let anger mouth the words.

He did laugh, then-rich, deep, throaty laughter that resonated through her body like the shuddering vibration of a snare drum, right down to her toes. It was the first time she'd seen him laugh, and it thrilled her, despite the sarcasm.

"If it were only that simple," he said on the wane of it. "No, Sara," he said. "I do not 'prefer the company of men.'"

"What then? It isn't just the matter of an heir. You have no interest in... in sharing your bed with-"

"I haven't said I have no interest," he interrupted her. "I said it shan't be part of our arrangement."

"Don't mince words with me, Nicholas. The result is the same. Am I unsatisfactory in some way? Am I not what you expected? Is my hair too long, considering the current fashion? Do you have a mistress? What? For pity sake, it's only natural that I would be curious about such things. I need to be clear upon what to expect from this union. I am amazed that you haven't explained yourself without my having to embarrass myself by dragging it out of you like this."

He slid off the desk with a sinuous motion more animal than human, and took a step nearer. That strange look had come again into his eyes. For a moment, she was certain he was going to take hold of her, and she leaped from the chair and put it between them.