The Seducer

Citation preview

Version - Uncorrected No Woman Could Many Him... He was one of London's most notorious rakes-a man so skilled at seduction that no woman had ever told him no... or led him to the altar. When Kerron Cashin is suddenly called to his country home, the local misses admire him from afar and stay well out of his scandalous path. But pretty Ellin Fayle ignores the warnings that surround Kerron, while offering him the enticement of her innocent passion, When her tantalizing kisses give way to seduction-and discovery-Kerron offers to take her hand in marriage. Until He Met Her... Ellin has been in love with Kerron sincere was a girl, and becoming the handsome nobleman's bride is a dream come true. But when he whisks her away from her Sheltered home to take her place in London society, she begins to wonder if a marriage begun in passion would ever become a union built from love...

KERRON'S HANDS SPANNED HER WAIST, PULLING HER TOWARD HIM. Before Ellin could accept the amazing fact that he'd actually touched her, he kissed her. The hunger she felt was a craving unlike any she had ever known, and it dissolved the barriers between them. Nevermore would he be the elusive Baron Garvain, standing on his lofty pedestal. Kerron Cashin, the man, had stepped down to take her in his arms, and he was showing her exactly what it meant to be a woman. His mouth, hot and insistent, sought to devour her very soul. Ellin opened herself to him, giving as joyously as she received. When the kiss ended she didn't know what to say or do, but Kerron's appreciative smile assured her that he liked what he saw. "A bold expression of my gratitude," he murmured. With breathless candor, she said, "I wish I might do more." Truly?" His fingers drifted lightly across her cheekbone. "I'll remember that, Ellin." Margaret Evans Porter THE SEDUCER AVON BOOKS NEW YORK Copyright (c) 1999 by Margaret Evans Porter Map by Denise Robinson/Granite Image Published by arrangement with the author Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 99-94453 ISBN: 0-380-80772-6 Acknowledgments Writing this book would not have been possible, or so enjoyable, if not for contributions

made by the following: On the Isle of Man, my friends the Nixons-Lisa, Dave, Mike, their dog, and assorted horses. Also John and Julia Garfield and family, and Roger Dickinson of the Centre for Manx Research and York University. Personnel at the Manx Reference Library, Douglas; the Manx Folk Museum, Cregneash; and the House of Manannan, Peel. Particular thanks to Colin Brown and others at Manx Experience. In England, Margot and Robert Pierson for friendship, good cheer, and cherished memories. Frances Coakley, for compiling such a wealth of eighteenth-century Manx history. Paul Harrison, Textiles and Dress Department, the Victoria and Albert Museum, for showing me so many block- and plate-printed linens dating from my period, and for his knowledge and his patience. Martin Durrant of the V & A Photo Library. The staff at the Museum of London and the Costume Museum, Bath. Others supported my efforts in a variety of ways. Fellow author Danelle Harmon who made me laugh and tried to keep me sane. Librarian Nancy Claris who tracked down so many obscure titles about linen-making. And graphics designer Denise Robinson created the perfect map of my island. Dear friend and fellow novelist Nancy Linda Richards-Akers, who shared my interest in Celtic cultures and history, followed the progress of this story and my research. Her untimely passing leaves me-and so many others-bereft of her insights, generosity, talent, vitality, and wit. My gratitude to James Fieser for the eighteenthcentury translations of Epictetus and Epicurus, which proved most useful. On the homefront, my beloved black-and-white "shadow" let me postpone playtime in order to write, and provided constant demonstrations of canine behavior. And most of all, thanks to Chris. Historical Note The Isle of Man, 32 miles long and 13 miles at its widest point, lies in the Irish Sea. It has been regarded as a strategically valuable possession by the indigenous Celtic peoples, their Scots and Irish cousins, and their later conquerors-Norse raiders and English noblemen who declared themselves Lords of Man. The last hereditary lord, the Duke of Athol, sold his title to King George III in 1765, in exchange for £65,000. This arrangement concluded a long and unsuccessful effort by the British government to eliminate the smuggling of contraband goods, which had previously supported many islanders. A favorite description comes from a traditional ballad my characters would certainly know, Coontey-Ghiare Jeh Elian Vannin (A Short Account of the Isle of Man):

Ehn Elian shoh, inychioe eck te folm loayr, Neem y chooid share son coontey feer y choyrt. Tee Elian veg ayns keayn Noo Yeorge ny lhie, S ga fee beg, fee costallagh dy mie. Ta cheer ny Albey er y twoaie fee soil, As Anglesey ta er y jiass fee lhie-t. Ta Lanachire chiar, As Nerin ayns ta nee cur-myner. Of this Island, of which I mean to speak, I'll do my best to give a true account. She is a small Isle in St. George's Sea, Though she is small, she is very precious. The country of the Scotch is to the north, And Anglesey's Isle lies on her south side. Lancashire lies on the east side of her, And Ireland on the west I do behold. For the reader's convenience and for clarification, at the back of the book I include a glossary of Manx words and phrases that frequently appear. Most are also translated in context. During the 1790s, the accepted spelling of Manx was "Manks"; as a modern author writing for present-day readers, I prefer the current spelling.

Prologue March, 1798 The sea churned ceaselessly, yet the groaning timbers held firm. Each succeeding wave struck the boat with greater force; cold rain poured down from the heavens, flattening his hair against his scalp, blurring his vision. With the constant moan of wind and water in his ears, Kerr could barely make out the captain's shouted comments, even though they stood side by side. Blowing hard. Damned hard. The captain bellowed, "We've got to bring down that staysail." Unwilling to stand idle while others labored, Kerr crossed the swaying deck to help. He grasped the rope he was given and tugged with all his strength, grimacing as the braided hemp scraped the blisters already burned into his palms. The younger, less experienced men let their panic show; their elders, wise in the ways of the sea, carried out their tasks with grave efficiency. Fishermen by trade, these Manxmen worked as smugglers in the spring months before the herring began to run, shifting contraband to and from the mainland. Theirs was a sturdy craft, eight tons and cutterrigged, her hold crammed with crates of Bohea tea, cakes of tobacco, and anker kegs of French brandy. The pointed bow rose higher and higher, then slammed down into an oncoming wave. Water poured over the gunwales. Kerr, struck by the chilling salt spray, fought to keep his balance. The sea was in great uproar and confusion.... He wasn't a religious man, far from it. He

couldn't pray. Neither did he follow the example of his hero Aeneas and plead with Neptune to calm the winds and waters. With habitual fatalism, and a stoicism that would impress those Greek and Roman philosophers he'd studied, he accepted that he would probably drown. And wouldn't the fisherfolk and crofter be amazed when his sodden corpse washed up on the beach at Port Mooar, with the wreckage? They would bear him away to Castle CashinNo, he corrected himself. His family no longer occupied their castle. His wake would be held at Dreeym Freoaie, the farmhouse on the heathery ridge. Afterward, they'd bury him at St. Maughold churchyard, among his ancestors. He'd get a decent funeral-there weren't many lords on the Isle of Man. Helping the men lower the flapping sail, he imagined the vicar's oration. "Baron Garvain was a godless sinner. Demanding, ill-tempered, a stranger to the gentler emotions that so enrich the lives of mortals. Considered by some to be clever, but beloved by none save his parents and sisters. He died as unwisely as he lived, swept from the deck of a smuggler's boat...." Bad enough, to perish in the middle of the Irish Sea, mere miles from home. Even worse to leave the world without making his mark. He no longer deserved his former reputation as a scholar. At one time he'd hoped to improve his family's precarious financial situation with marriage to a rich woman; that effort had ended with his disgrace. He found a scrap of comfort in the remembered words of Epictetus. What then would you wish to be doing when you are found by death? I for my part would wish to be doing something which belongs to a man, beneficent, suitable to the general interest, noble. Well, he'd come damned close. He had undertaken this perilous journey in pursuit of a worthy cause: a scheme that would have ensured his family's future and rescued his fellow islanders from poverty and ignorance. He burned with the desire to carry his project forward. How damnably, cruelly ironic that now, having realized his duty and his purpose in life, he found himself at the mercy of fate, of the gods, of whatever mysterious being was master of the streaming sky and brutal waves. A Manx lad, the youngest member of the crew, hurried over to him, face contorted by fear and desperation. "I need the boat hook, y hiarn." Kerr found it buried under a coiled rope and handed it over before rejoining the captain. "We're in deep water now, Lord Garvain." He was slow to realize that the man spoke literally rather than metaphorically. "If we can get all that canvas off the mast, and pay out the sea anchor, well be able to ride out this gale. The worst is past."

In defiance of his confident words, a bolt of lightning sliced the black, menacing sky. A violent surge of water heaved the vessel up again, and Kerr braced himself for the next fall. The winds threatened to whip the half-lowered sail from the mast. At the next onslaught of water, the captain stumbled and fell to his knees, losing his grip on the tiller. Kerr flung himself forward to seize it. He tugged with all his might, refusing to surrender all hope of survival. He would continue this battle with the elements as long as he had the strength for it, and the wits. Spare me, he called out to the remote and disinterested ruler of the universe. Let me make the most of this chance to prove to my parents, my sisters, that their great faith in me is justified. There's so much I need to do. His first prayer in years, and he hadn't any time to embellish it. His mind went completely blank as the boat, no longer buoyed by the waves, was pulled inexorably down. Chapter 1 Cha vel Jee cur ort errey ny smoo na foddee oo ymynrkey. God lays on you no greater burden than you can bear. MANX PROVERB The wake wasn't the first Ellin Fayle had attended. But no other had involved her so personally, or affected her so deeply. All her losses had come early in life, for she'd been born fatherless, and within a few months her mother had also died. Her pent-up sorrow found its outlet in service to the stunned and grieving Cashins. She'd covered the windows of their farmhouse and draped all mirrors and glassware with white cloths, as custom required. During the day she helped the servants prepare food and drink for those who came to Dreeym Freoaie at night. On this second evening of the farrar, they had once more gathered together to share treasured reminiscences of the departed-addressing each other in English, as befitted their status and refinement. Lord and Lady Ballacraine, parents of the deceased, were surrounded by kin. Clouds of smoke wafted from the gentlemen's long-stemmed clay pipes, and the scent of tobacco mingled with that of the turf burning in the chiollagh. The earl's tenant, Mr. Standish, was also present. He sat apart from the others, unacknowledged and doubtless unwelcome, the most disliked man in the parish and by far the wealthiest. He held a tankard of ale in his large fist, his red head cocked attentively as his one friend, the linen factor, addressed him in a low voice. Ellin felt out of place in this room, and selfconscious among the assembled company. She belonged outside, with the crofters and mill workers who came to pay their respects. She overheard Lady Ballacraine saying quietly,

"I've been fortunate to have Ellin Fayle here, and will miss her when she returns to her family. Her grandmother's need is greater than ours, for she is blind and entirely dependent on the girl. But how I shall miss having her about the house. And her dog." Scadoo sat by the door, regarding Ellin with a familiar intensity. In a display of impatience, she danced about on her long black and white legs. Lowering her shiny black head, she wagged it and growled. Ellin hurried over to open the door. "Go-immee." The mongrel slipped through the gap. Ellin followed, drawn by the sound of music and conversation. The sedate wake within the house was a contrast to the livelier scene she found outside. Here, in the alley formed by the farm buildings, stood the crofters who occupied his lordship's barony lands, and many of the laborers from his linen mill. Above the clamor of voices, all speaking Manx Gaelic, she heard the fiddler's piercingly mournful tune. Earlier they had been singing, and they probably would again. Just now they quaffed the earl's ale and served themselves from great platters heaped with the oatcakes Ellin had made and the meat she'd carved. Uncle Henry had come over from Boayl Fea. She waded toward him through the throng, nodding to everyone who called out a greeting. "Did Aunt Marriot come, or have you left her in charge of the thie-oast?" "She's there, to wait on anyone who turns up wanting his drink. But it looks as if the whole parish is here, having it free," he told her. After receiving assurances that her grandmother and aunt were well, Ellin said, "I can't say when I shall be away home. Not before the funeral." "A sad day that will be." They were joined by Calybrid Teare, who slipped a bony arm around Ellin's waist. "Did you place sweet-scented flowers round the shrouded body?" "Yes. They've faded now." "Pick some fresh ones." "I mustn't be long away from the house, her ladyship might want me. Won't you do it, Calybrid? You've nothing to fear from the spirits and the witches and the little folk who roam at night." Her friend's wise, earth-brown eyes glowed, reflecting the light of torches and lanterns. "Of the two of us, you had the greater love for the absent soul. Don't be afraid, for you wear the trinkets I gave you as protection from those who might do you harm. And you can carry yn Ihus." Calybrid's black-garbed figure wandered over to Lady Ballacraine's well-tended herb plot, surrounded by a low stone wall. Ellin's faith in the pronouncements and practices of the ben-obbee was complete and unquestioning.

She accepted the sprig of vervain the charmer offered and called to Scadoo, in Manx. Together she and the dog wandered along a winding lane to the place where the wild crab stood. Dark though it was, Ellin could see bright flower heads in the thick grass that grew around the twisted trunk. After plucking as many as she could hold, she tied them together with a long blade of grass. She ran her finger along the branches of the tree, then snapped some off to take back with her. If she put them in the warm parlor, where candles constantly burned, the tight buds would blossom. While Scadoo trotted about, sniffing the wet turf, Ellin breathed in the air freshened by recent rains. The westerly breeze had shoved the lingering clouds out to sea, revealing a multitude of bright stars and a portion of the moon. Tomorrow, the third day of the Cashins' mourning and the eve of the funeral, would dawn clear. Too busy by day and so weary in the evening, she'd found no private time to grieve. Now, in this quiet, solitary place, the long-suppressed memories came crowding in upon her: acts of kindness, those many gifts generously bestowed and gratefully received, confidences exchanged. But Ellin hadn't laid bare all her secrets, for she'd never mentioned her love for Kerron Cashin, Baron Garvain. His image remained clear in her mind and always would: tall and long-limbed, with stormy gray eyes and unruly dark hair. Strong enough to work his father's fields, and so clever that he'd established a linen mill with buildings all along the glen and a great bleaching field near Port Cornaa. A dedicated scholar, his favorite pastime was translating Greek and Latin. Hot tears stung Ellin's eyes when she recalled his twin sister's fond praise of his brilliant mind. So many languages he knewnot only Manx and English, but French and Italian as well. The earl's son and heir had paid scant attention to Ellin, and their encounters had been infrequent and brief. From a distance, she had observed his bittersweet pride when he'd married off his younger sister Lavinia to an English lord and watched her sail away to start a new life. Ellin had shared his anguish as he'd witnessed the physical decline of his twin, Kitty, her transformation into a bedridden invalid. Yet she had been thankful when the Cashins had moved from their castle by the sea to the farm spread across the ridge, only a short distance from her uncle's tavern. Boayl Fea, conveniently, lay across the road from the earl's linen mill. Ellin had moved her spinning wheel to the front window, just so she could watch the young baron coming and going. Whenever he came into the taproom, she was there to wait on him. If he found her at work, he complimented the quality of her yarn. He'd granted every bold request to borrow

his books, so she might read aloud to her blind grandmother. Once, when she'd returned his handwritten translation of the Aeneid, he'd spent more than an hour answering her questions about passages she hadn't understood. Another time, he'd interrupted his archery practice and shared with her his favorite quotes from Epictetus and Marcus Aurelius and other wise men. But then he'd decided to leave the isle and join Lady Lavinia and her husband in Italy. Ellin had been glad for him, despite her overwhelming and wholly unjustified sense of abandonment. Better that he had gone away, she'd told herself, knowing that her affection for a man of noble birth and upbringing could only result in heartache. A girl of her humble background could count herself fortunate to marry a fisherman or linen weaver, possibly a soldier. Lord Garvain, nobly born and destined for greatness, was too far above her touch. And tonight, in the aftermath of the great tragedy, she regretted more than ever that he'd wandered so far from her, and the others who loved him. [break] No darkness in the world compared to the hellblack night that cloaked his island. No light was visible in any direction, for the lowland crofts and upland farmsteads lay tucked into the folds of the landscape, hidden in their glens or shielded by hills. His horse continually blundered into thickets of gorse and great clumps of heather. But after the many dangers he'd endured during the past twenty-four hours, he couldn't complain. Much. His incoherent prayers had been answered: he'd survived the cruel seas; the smuggler's vessel had reached its port. And now he could make good his vow. So much to accomplish-the task he'd come home to perform was immense and daunting. Kitty would help him. Her letters had revealed her enthusiasm for his secret project; her dedication matched his own. With her support and understanding, he could prevail over any obstacles, however formidable. Success, he hoped, would blot out the many frustrations that had dogged him during the years he'd spent off this island, and that wretched scandal. Reasonably certain he'd found the right lane, he prodded his horse with his heels. Narrower and less steep than the church road, it was pitted with puddles and clogged with mud. A hare sprang out from the hedge, startling his skittish mount. After a few tentative forward steps, the horse shied again-at the dog surging from the undergrowth in pursuit. "Walk on," he said crossly. But the reluctant animal had turned to stone beneath him, ears pinned back in terror and alert to other sounds coming from thick tangles of branches and ivy. Awfully late for rabbitting, thought Kerr.

"Iurinagh," he cursed the hellish beast, which still would not budge. Odd, with his return to native soil his facility for swearing in Manx was restored. He continued to relieve his frustration by reciting all the most vicious words he could rememberand regretted it the instant a young girl crawled out of the bushes. She stared back at him in wide-eyed disbelief, her shadowy face expressing surprise and alarm. "Lord Garvain!" she gasped. "Where have you come from?" "London. Whitehaven. And Ramsey port, where I hired this stubborn, useless devil." She came forward to lay her hand on his horse's neck. Kerr felt the sudden easing of its stiffened stance as the tensed muscles relaxed. Moving nearer, the girl reached up to touch his leather riding boot, and even dared to poke his leg. Amused, he said, "I'm no apparition, if that's what you fear. I know you," he realized. "From the tavern." To further convince her that he was human flesh rather than ghostly spirit, he dismounted. She was shorter than he, by many inches. Gold rings dangled from her earlobes and a bead necklace circled her slender throat. Her pretty elfin face he remembered, and her long brown braid, but not her name. "You're my sister's little friend who likes to read." "How did you get here so soon?" "Soon?" Kerr gave a strangled laugh. "If only you knew! I've spent two days trying to get across the Irish Sea, in a smuggler's boat. Last night's storm blew us off course, and we nearly foundered." "You've not heard, then." "Heard what?" With a shake of her head, she answered, "The news should come from one of your own people. Yet you need to know why so many people are at Dreeym Freoaie. You'll be joining a wake." That dreaded word stilled his heart. Apprehension sharpened his voice. "Whose? Father, or Mother, or-" He drew in a harsh, quick breath. "Kitty." The girl's sorrowful face gave him the answer. "When?" "Yesterday. Between midnight and the dawn. Her heart failed her while she slept." Great tears spilled down her cheeks. His hands, bruised and stiff from his labor on the smuggling boat, curled around her thin shoulders. He was desperate to hold onto a living thing, for a part of him had suddenly died. Her disclosure had cleaved him in two. These last difficult days of his homeward journey had seemed the longest, he'd been so impatient to see Kitty again, to tell her what he'd done. And not done. And intended to do. He couldn't even imagine a world without Kitty in it. In childhood their father had called her Drean,

the wren, and he'd been Shirragh, the falcon. Despite their different natures, twinship had bound them together. So many times he'd known her thoughts before she could utter them, and she'd read his mind just as easily. His fingers clenched in a spasm of anguish and anger, digging into the girl's flesh. When she raised her tearful face, he saw that it mirrored a part of what he was feeling. Pulling her close, he murmured into her silky hair, "My veen-my dear." Her body, warm and soft and vital, felt so womanly and comforting. How often, he wondered, had he sought relief from care in a female's arms? And now one had turned to him, seeking consolation. Once more he struggled to recall her name, but his brain was numbed by what she'd told him. "My sister is at peace. She wouldn't want you weeping, not for her." "So says Vicar Cubbon, and Dr. Christian, too. But Lady Kitty was my only real friend." Stepping away from him, she brushed her knuckles against each wet cheek. Without her, his arms felt too empty. Involuntarily he moved toward her, realized it, and stopped himself. Looking down at her, he asked, "Can you manage a horse as big and stupid as this one?" "Yes, my lord." Such a difference in the way the Manx and the English addressed a nobleman. The islanders, so independent of spirit, were respectful of his title but unawed by it, whereas the people he'd met in England inevitably responded with a self-effacing obsequiousness that had been more annoying than gratifying. "Ride ahead of me and tell my parents I'm coming. I'll walk to the house." He needed a few minutes alone to prepare himself for the unexpected ordeal he would have to endure. Mourners, sympathy-a funeral. Kerr lifted her onto his saddle. Despite her lack of inches and her body's lightness, she was far from fragile. He'd grown so accustomed to the helplessness of the typical English miss that he was startled by this girl's competence with the reins. When he shorterned the stirrup leathers for her, he noticed that her feet were not only tiny, but surprisingly well shod. Instead of carranes, the rawhide sandals worn by the peasantry, she wore proper shoes of black leather. She sat astride, her black wool skirt bunched up, exposing a linen petticoat with a band of decorative whitework at the hem. Its repeated motif was the three-legged emblem displayed on the Manx flag and carved into the weathered stone of the island's ancient and historic monuments. Kitty's handiwork. Running his fingers across the distinctive design, he said, "My sister made this trimming for you. She embroidered all my handkerchiefs the same way," he confided, giving her a half-smile. "Even the bor-

ders of my neckcloths. She wanted people to know me for a Manxman, wherever I might go." "We used to sit and sew together. And often I read to her while she sketched." Her pink lower lip trembled, and she squeezed her eyes shut as though holding back a fresh flood of tears. "If my Scadoo comes looking for me, will you lead her to Dreeym Freoaie?" "That was your dog who flushed the hare? She chased it off into the fields." "I wish you'd called her back! There's a witch who disguises herself as a mwaagh and roams the countryside at night. Calybrid Teare says she's far too sly to let herself get caught, but she'll do you harm if you meet her. To keep safe, you must carry yn Ihus. I've got some here." Marveling at the superstitious nature of his fellow islanders, he accepted her gift of wilted leaves-vervain, the herb revered by the Manx for its magical properties. When she rode off down the lane, he quickly disposed of it. No evil spirit, he thought grimly, would dare to trouble him this night. Why hadn't he returned earlier? Why had he ever left? Nothing had turned out as he'd expected; not one of his ambitions had been satisfied. Kitty, the only person capable of assisting and inspiring him, was gone. As a result, his future promised to be even bleaker than his past. The girl's dog ambled out of the meadow, tongue lolling as she panted. Though her lean body was mostly black, she had a snowy neck ruff and belly, and long white stockings. With her pointed muzzle and plumy tail, she most resembled a herding collie, but her floppy ears and barrel chest belonged to a different breed. "Scadoo," he greeted her, as she sniffed at his legs. Shadow. Tail upcurved and ears cocked, she darted off in the opposite direction, back to the place where her mistress had emerged from the hedge. Her concern over their separation was palpable. Kerr repeatedly called her back, to no avail. Ignoring him, she struck out across the meadow on her own, forcing him to go after her. He did, keeping to the footpath that led directly to the farmhouse at the top of the heathery ridge. The dog paused near a spreading crab-apple, nose to the grass as she searched out the girl's lingering scent. While Kerr retrieved the nosegay lying on the grass and a braided garland of branches, his indifferent companion took off once more, bounding up the hillside well ahead of him. [break] Lord Garvain's unexpected homecoming was a surprise and a relief to his family. Lady Ballacraine tenderly washed and dressed her son's injured hands, while Lord Ballacraine elicited the tale of his adventurous sea crossing. He seemed reluctant to share the details, and Ellin,

holding the basin of water, guessed it had been far more hazardous than he was willing to admit. "After the storm subsided," he concluded wearily, "we hoisted the canvas again and sailed before the wind to make up lost time. Even so, we were a full day getting to Ramsey." Vicar Cubbon offered up a prayer of thanks for the traveler's safe return, then Edward Corkhill, the parish clerk, led the mourners in singing a psalm. The visitors began to disperse, sensing that the family would prefer privacy. Ellin made a swift circuit of the room, collecting the empty plates and tankards. She cast a surreptitious glance towards the chiollagh and saw the young lord seated on a bench near the fire, elbows on his knees and head in his bandaged hands. It was all she could do to keep from going over to him, smoothing his hair and murmuring soft, soothing words as he'd done for her when she'd wept. Lady Ballacraine took his arm, and drew him to his feet. "Go to bed now, Kerron, you need your rest." "Must sit up with her," he mumbled. "Through the night. Can't leave her all alone." "Ellin offered to do it." "Who?" The blood receded from Ellin's cheeks. In her distress, she very nearly dropped the plates. He was staring at her, his gray eyes somewhat brighter. "Ellin," he repeated. She forced herself to respond to his smile, hiding her pain. This man she had prayed for daily and dreamed of nightly for more than three years, the dark and handsome lord of her heart, hadn't even remembered her name. Chapter 2 Loss is nothing else than change. MARCUS AURELIUS

Shortly before dawn, Lord Garvain curtailed Ellin's night vigil. Thanking her, and absently patting her shoulder, he sent her up to her attic room. And a few hours later, upon waking, it was his voice that she first heard. It lured her from the warmth of the bed she shared with Scadoo. Crawling out from under her heavy quilt, she rushed over to the small-paned window overlooking the straid of farm buildings. The baron stood below, dark head bowed as he buckled a harness onto a sturdy Manx pony, speaking to his father in low, urgent tones. When he finished, he stowed some implements in the wooden cart-a sharp-edged spade, a shovel. This confused her, for turf cutting would not begin for many more weeks. Then, with a pang, she realized that he would use them to dig his sister's grave.

Scadoo leaped down, and padded across the floorboards to nuzzle her knee. "Ta, you'll get your breakfast," said Ellin, fondly rubbing the white-smudged nose. Her custom was to scramble into her clothes and swiftly rebraid her long hair. But the certainty of encountering his lordship prompted her to dress with greater care. Rather than the unflattering black gown she'd worn for the farrar, she selected a somber but better-fitting brown one. Finishing her plait, she pulled on a pair of dark stockings and slipped her feet into her good shoes instead of the cowhide carranes she preferred when working. Lord Garvain's unexpected arrival was welcome but unsettling. Last night she'd seen him and talked with him-and touched him! Under any other circumstances she would have rejoiced, but this was a house of mourning. Why had he come back, she wondered, as she peered into a hallway mirror. Was this a return, or merely a visit? This morning began as all others since she'd come to Dreeym Freoaie. She begged some scraps from Joney and fed them to Scadoo. While assisting the older woman with the usual cooking and cleaning tasks, she was told that she oughtn't to be performing servants' work. "I'm doing naught here or for her ladyship that I've not done for my Aunt Marriot every day of my life," she replied, placing a pan of oatcakes in the baking oven. "Our young lord was away to the church before I could feed him," said Joney. "He'll be wanting something to fill him by now. Would you carry a few oatcakes and a potato to him?" "Ta," Ellin replied eagerly. When the cakes left the oven and were cool enough, she packed them into one of the canvas seed bags the sowers carried into the fields. Hanging its strap over her shoulder, she set out for Kirk Maughold. Scadoo, delighted by the excursion, shot across the freshly plowed ground where the earl's flax crop would be planted. The sun was up, and a refreshing breeze swept down from the heights of North Barrule and Snaefell. Ellin took great comfort in the beauty and promise of this new day. Pausing, she hoisted her brown skirts to her knees and retied the cord at her waist, the better to climb verdant, sheep-grazed hills and splash through stony fords. She continued her purposeful march, admiring the sea view as she went. Disputes over rights of way were common in Maughold parish, but these landholders permitted Ellin to roam at will, an indulgence she never took for granted. As always, she was careful to leave gates as she found them, and kept Scadoo close, lest she trouble the sheep and cattle in their path. The chief landmarks along the coast were the great castle planted on the island's ragged edge,

and the bold and rocky headland rising just beyond it. Those gray stone battlements and towers, more imposing than beautiful, represented to Ellin the lost power and prominence of the Cashins. For the past four years the disreputable Finlo Standish had occupied the hereditary seat of the Earls of Ballacraine. Ellin never came to the village without remembering the man commemorated by its name. His life of piety and austerity resulted in his being made a bishop, one so renowned and respected that Ireland's Saint Bridget came to Man to receive the veil from his holy hand. This great event, and others in his life, were carved onto the sandstone cross on the village green, one of the oldest and most venerated of Manx monuments. The simple church bearing Maughold's name had a lofty spire with a bell, and was surrounded by the largest burial ground in the isle. Ellin paused at the boundary wall to let down her skirts, then opened the gate. Scadoo loped past substantial Celtic crosses and smaller headstones carved from slate. Vicar Cubbon's sheep mowed the grass near one of the keeils, rocky remnants of the earliest chapel site. The Cashins' shaggy cart pony was cropping the tender grass in the shade of the church's west wall. Lord Garvain stood in the long, deep trench he'd carved out of the earth. Dirt clung to his shirt front, and his knees were caked with mud. "I've brought food," Ellin told him. He looked weary, and so sad. "Could you not get anyone to help you?" "There's only me. Father is too overcome by grief." "You've got uncles, cousins." "Quayles, every one of them. My sister was born a Cashin." He climbed out of the pit and carried the save to the stone wall. She went to join him, but was distracted when her shoe struck a hard object on the ground. Picking it up, she discovered it was long and pointed, covered with dirt, and pocked by rust. "A dagger," he told her. "Look in my coat pocket, you'll find another relic. You may keep both." She reached for his discarded garment and located a small round disc with a curious emblem carved into it. "Bronze, I suspect. Probably belonged to a Norseman." "The Vikings were here a long time ago, weren't they?" "Many hundreds of years," he confirmed. "They conquered the island's native Celts, intermarried with them, and eventually converted to the Christian religion. They were willing to be buried by church rite, but didn't leave anything to chance. The chap whose grave I disturbed was pagan enough to want his weapon and a portion of his earthly treasure in the next life."

She stared down at the ornament, fascinated by its antiquity. Did it possess magic, she wondered, was it valuable? She must ask Calybrid Teare. "Gur a mie ayd," she thanked him. He was somber, unsmiling. In the past, when he'd lent her his books, good humor had lightened his gray eyes and a smile had softened his sharpfeatured face. Nothing she could say or do would relieve his pain, and her helplessness made her own heart ache the more. Glancing at the object in her palm, she said, "Perhaps Maughold himself presided at the Norseman's funeral." "They probably had much in common. Wasn't he some sort of marauder, before giving himself up to religion?" "An Irish robber chieftan. After he repented his crimes, Saint Patrick imposed a most rigorous penance-his body was bound up in a heavy chain with a lock on it. Patrick tossed the key into the sea and told Maughold not to remove the chain until it was found. Then he placed Maughold in a little leather boat and cast him out upon the waves. The current was so strong, it brought him to these shores in a single day." "And the islanders rescued him and took him to their bishop," he interjected, "who talked him into becoming a priest. But I can't remember how he got free of that damned chain." Smiling, she said, "That's the best part of the story. On the night before Maughold was to take holy orders, he and the bishop were praying in the chapel. And the bishop's cook ran in, crying, 'Behold what I found inside the belly of a fish!' It was the same key that Patrick had thrown into the sea, and it opened the lock." "Convenient. Though not for that gutted fish." He broke a small piece from an oatcake and flung it to her attentive Scadoo. "Who saddled you with this mongrel?" "Mr. Whaley, the Irishman. He has a black retriever bitch whose litter was fathered by a shepherd's collie. I asked if I might buy a pup and a few days later he brought Scadoo to the thie-oast. But he wouldn't take any money." "He didn't need it-he's as rich as he is eccentric." Lord Garvain chewed and swallowed. "Ta, his wife has plenty of money." "Fortunate fellow." He tossed another morsel to her pet. "Mrs. Whaley would have lost her inheritance if she didn't live on Irish soil. So her husband filled up all his ships with dirt from Ireland and used it for the foundation of the mansion he's building for her on Douglas Head. He asked Calybrid Teare's advice, and did exactly what she told him to." "The witch of Glion Cornaa?" "A buitch does evil deeds, but a ben-obbee does only good." It was an important distinction. "Calybrid is a charmer, a healer."

Looking up, he said wryly, "I don't share your belief in her magical cures. Some wounds can never be healed." She'd tried to distract him with her chatter about Saint Maughold and the Whaleys, and hadn't succeeded. "Remember what you said last night, that Lady Kitty wouldn't want me to be mournful? It's even more true of you." Wretched and exhausted and short of temper, Kerr wanted to forget the needy way he'd clung to her after she'd told him about his latest loss. Because now she believed, quite wrongly, that he was in need of sympathy. And he couldn't help resenting her, for she had shared his twin's last years, which he'd spent pleasure-seeking in Italy and angling for a London heiress. "Do you think to comfort me, Ellin Fayle?" he responded harshly. "Can't be done. When you've lived a while longer, suffered some losses yourself, then I'll let you commiserate." Her face contorted as though he'd struck her, and she regarded him in stunned silence. He fancied he read reproach in her dog's soulful brown eyes. Kerr regretted those hasty wounding words. "I'm sorry," he muttered. He had to admire her graciousness when, after his apology, she said softly, "You must be thirsty. I'll fetch water from the village pump." Little Ellin was as harmless and eager to please as her dog, thought Kerr, watching the pair of them weave through the uneven rows of headstones. He was not in a companionable mood-far from it. But the comely, friendly girl had done him a kindness in bringing food and fetching water; she didn't deserve to be ill treated. He examined his hands, still stiff and aching. Shoveling had raised fresh blisters. "You should've left your bandages on," said Ellin, when she presented a dripping firkin. After several refreshing gulps of cold water, he wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "Thank you," he said, adding a smile to make amends for his earlier brusqueness. Her face had grown even prettier during the years he'd been away. His appreciative gaze lingered on the sparkling green eyes, creamy cheeks, and expressive mouth. The gown of coarse linseywoolsey was snug across her bust and at her waist, sheathing a sweetly formed figure. He was not, he discovered with a fresh burst of annoyance, immune to her attractions. Her blossoming was a reminder of the many risks of an impetuous entanglement with a beguiling female. Thus far in his relations with the fair sex, he had proved his inability to master the lessons of the past. He had resolved to avoid repeating his mistakes and to keep out of trouble. So when Ellin sat down beside him, he got up and reached for his shovel. Then he lowered himself into the gaping pit and resumed his labor. All

the while, he reviewed the various caresses and blows fate had bestowed during his long absence from home. He'd spent two glorious years with Garrick and Lavinia in their Venetian palazzo. On regular forays to Rome and Florence and Naples, he had grown familiar with the many wonders created by the emperors, and visited churches and cathedrals-but not only to admire their paintings and statuary. He'd swiftly become enamored of Mediterranean women, whose warmth and exuberance during bedsport was utterly delightful. His extended stay in Bologna, for centuries a seat of learning, renewed his desire to devote his life to study after he returned to England. When the Armitages left Italy, Kerr accompanied them. They settled at Monkwood, their Suffolk estate. He sat his examination at nearby Cambridge, and matriculated at King's College-where he suffered a rude awakening. The scholarly environment he'd revered so long had not been welcoming; in fact, it had rejected him. Maturity was no asset. Independent scholarship hadn't prepared him for the parochial system. His only enjoyment had been the common extracurricular activities of wenching and gaming. When it became apparent that a man so irreligious as himself was unlikely ever to receive a fellowship, he was forced to accept the impracticality of his lifelong dream. "Still fond of reading, are you?" he inquired of his silent observer. Her brown head bobbed. "Would you care to have my books? I've renounced my classical studies." "Why?" "I won't have much time for pleasure reading, now that I'll be managing Father's linen mill." "You mustn't give up your books!" The depth of her distress amazed him. "I mustn't?" Who was she to object? "You'll starve your soul." Glowering up at her, Kerr snapped, "I don't give a damn for your opinion, Ellin Fayle." Uncowed by his wrath, she responded calmly, "It's true, and you know it. That's what makes you cross. Lady Kitty would have said exactly what I did." He wanted to dispute that observation, but it was impossible. "My sister would understand-she knew me far better than you ever shall. Why don't you go pick some flowers or play with your dog, and leave me to finish my work in peace and quiet?" She bounded up from the wall. Seizing the empty sack, she fled the churchyard at a run. Her dog dashed after her. Damn, damn, damn. Ellin Fayle's clear and simply stated perceptions irked him. But she'd been a pet of Kitty's, and as such, deserved kindness from him. She couldn't

help being young, he argued with himself, and so untouched by the cruelties of life. She'd never possessed any wealth to lose. As an only child, how could she possibly understand the agony of burying a beloved sister? Or the desperate loneliness that resulted when the close bond of twinship was severed? He sliced the soil with his shovel, lips pressed together and jaw clenched. He shouldn't disillusion that lighthearted child by demonstrating what happened to a man whose optimistic dreams had all shattered or faded. Finding his progress at Cambridge blocked, he had made up his mind to pursue matrimony. Lavinia, the family beauty, had married advantageously, although unconventionally. Her Garrick's love and devotion, his fortune, and their delightful daughter and infant son were splendid consolation for becoming a social outcast. Living with them, Kerr had occasionally felt the tug of something very like envy. So he had embarked upon a search for a monied bride. His title, obscure though it was, served as his entree to London's high society. His exotic background and dark looks attracted one extremely eligible heiress, Lady Felicity Walsingham. Her parents, possibly guessing his ulterior purpose, warned their infatuated darling to beware the Manx lord, increasing her determination to have him. Kerr was receptive to her flirtatious smiles, and tempted by her dowry and future inheritance. But a proper courtship, he soon learned, was a wearisome business. Bored by the idle chatter of a sheltered young aristocrat, thwarted by her virginity, weary of her circle of friends, he sought other companions-lovely creatures highly skilled in the arts of pleasing a man, whose price was significantly less than a marriage ring. The lost joys of intellectual attainment were rapidly eclipsed by the heady, sensual delights he discovered in the arms of actresses, opera dancers, and courtesans. A malicious rival-who visited the same brothels and bagnios that Kerr frequented-took it upon himself to inform Lady Felicity about her favorite suitor's amatory adventures. Liberally embellishing the facts, he convinced the Walsinghams and everyone else who would listen that Baron Garvain was not only a rogue and a libertine, but one whose lusts were insatiable. Felicity, enraged by Kerr's infidelities, hastily married Ralph Turnbull, his detractor. Within a mere six weeks, the bridegroom was crowing that he would become a father in the New Year. Truths and falsehoods about Kerr were repeated so frequently that they took on the luster of truth. His sudden and undeserved notoriety added to the marks against him already: his lack of fortune, his great-grandfather's purchase of an earldom with profits from an intricate and lucrative smuggling

network, and his sister's involvement in scandal four years previously. Family history and reputed profligacy combined to place him beyond redemption. He'd brought home no academic degree, no bride, no fortune. The destruction of his good name had intensified his innate cynicism. Now, the tragedy of losing his twin had thrown him into a black hole of despair. What was left of his heart ached like hell. And that, he reflected, scooping away another shovelful of Manx soil, was why he could hardly bear to look into Ellin Fayle's adoring eyes. * * * Calybrid Teare, answering a tentative knock upon her door, discovered a woeful Ellin standing beneath the rose canes arching over the entrance to her thatched cottage. "What's the matter?" she asked in surprise, for this girl was the most sunny-natured creature in the parish. "I've been at the church," Ellin answered. "I took the young lord some food." "Did he not like it?" "He doesn't like me." This plaintive reply further disturbed Calybrid. "Come in, both of you, and you can tell me everything while I finish my work." The girl and her four-legged shadow accompanied her to the workroom at the back of the house, which served as her dispensary. Ellin placed a stool at the small worktable covered with dried plant stalks. Her dog curled up underneath. "Can I help you?" she asked. "Ta. Strip these leaves and put them here," Calybrid instructed, handing over a wooden bowl. In a voice of mystification, Ellin described his lordship's unfriendly behavior. "It's bad enough, his not noticing how much older I am than when he left. But what's worse, he's not himself. I wish I knew what has changed him." "Losing his sister." Calybrid reached for a sprig and deftly shredded it. "Not only that," Ellin insisted. "He must have left England for a reason. And he's got no one to confide in now." She studied the plant in her hand. "What is this?" "Scabious, for blue dye. Without it, the earl's weavers couldn't make checked linen." "Lord Garvain is to manage the mill. He'll be working so near Boayl Fea, I'll see him almost every day." Calybrid reached out to take one of the girl's busy little hands. "Ennoil-for you are my beloved-when you were a newborn bab I vowed to your mother that I would protect you from all harm. You are the child of my heart, and whatever will bring you happiness, I shall make sure that you have it. Your barran is handsome and titled, and I understand your affection for him. But I also

worry." Sparks glinted in the girl's green eyes when she said fervently, "I'd care for him if he were a farmer or a fisherman. He's as generous and good as his sister, yet quite unlike her. So restless. And impatient, with himself and others. Demanding. Every time I borrowed a book, he made me memorize a long passage. I had to recite it perfectly before he'd let me have another. If not for him, I could never hope to be mistress of the new spinning school." "It's not teaching you'll be dreaming of, now your fine young lord is home." "I'm not daft, Calybrid, I don't expect him to dream of me. I've always known that. It would take one of your charms, the most powerful pishag of all, to make him-" Her face brimming with hope, Ellin asked, "Would you help me? You could." Her magic was powerful, but she didn't perform miracles. Calybrid pressed her fingertips to her temples and thought hard. "Please, Calybrid, say yes. For his sake as well as mine. I could make him happy, I'm sure. You sell love charms to other girls-why not me? I can pay." To be nineteen, and in love, was to be vulnerable. Calybrid felt the weight of her forty years dragging her down. A very long time ago Isbel Moore had made a similar request, and afterward suffered much tragedy. Now her orphaned daughter pined for an earl's heir, a young man known to be proud and elusive. Rising, she moved to the tall wooden cupboard containing the materials of her trade. Briefly she studied the neat rows of pots and tins, and reached for a small glass bottle of a fine powder. She tipped the contents into a silver chalice and took it into her thie mooar. Removing the kettle from the hook over the fire, she poured warm water into the cup. "Lhiat myr holliu," she murmured, as she offered it to Ellin. "To thee as thou deservest." "I'm supposed to drink it all?" "Take nine sips." "Is the magic in the mixture, or the cup?" "Both." Watching Ellin drink, she wondered how many love charms she'd given since learning the ways of a ben-obbee. She used her hereditary powers and vast knowledge for the good of her people, selling medicinal cures concocted from herbs, counteracting curses, healing livestock, and providing protection against the evil eye. Equally well versed in the diabolical arts, she chose not to practice them. Not even against her great enemy Finlo Standish. Ellin took another tentative swallow. "I thought it would have an unpleasant taste. There's hardly any flavor at all." Tenderly Calybrid smoothed the loose tendrils of brown hair. "Lhiat myr holliu," she repeated. Isbel's daughter was good enough for any man,

and far too good for most of them, she thought, pride and protectiveness burning in her breast. Ellin had bestowed the priceless gift of her heart upon Lord Garvain. Far greater woes than those he presently suffered would come to him in future, if he should damage it. Chapter 3 Ta cooinaghtyn yn chree ny share na cooinaghtyn yn chione. The remembrance of the heart is better than the remembrance of the head. MANX PROVERB

"We give thee hearty thanks," the Vicar prayed, "for that it hath pleased thee to deliver our sister out of the miseries of this sinful world...." By foot and on horse the mourners had travelled from all parts of the island to join the funeral procession, marching along the church road to Kirk Maughold. The mingled voices, raised in doleful hymns, drowned out the tolling bell. Others took comfort from religious ritual; Kerr could not. His earliest ancestors, druids and pagan Celts, lived on within him. His great heroes were philosophers and thinkers, not saints. His grandmother's Popish ways had given him a strong distaste for piety. He cast a critical glance at her marble monument, towering above the plainer gravestones of other departed Cashins. Twice the size of her husband's, it was carved with flowery testimonials to her good works and many charities. But what her survivors remembered about Countess Mooar, the Great Countess, was that she'd bequeathed the bulk of her great fortune to the Catholic Church, leaving them all destitute. When the brief service concluded, Vicar Cubbon made a private address to the bereaved family. Hearing the recitation of his sister's many sterling qualities, Kerr found his contrary mind dwelling upon her less laudable but more endearing traits. Her wicked, witty teases. The sharp scolds that blasted like a sea squall, and swiftly faded. Her impatience when one of her drawings didn't turn out as she'd hoped. In her correspondence, she made no secret of the restrictions and boredom of her invalid's existence. Now, her struggle over, her spirit free, she lay with that Norseman whose earthly possessions he'd uncovered yesterday. She'll be glad of the company, thought Kerr. He fancied he could hear her dear voice urging him to be gone, to concentrate on living his life and not stand here mourning the end of hers. Turning away from the family plot, he found his way blocked by Finlo Standish. The man's vibrant red hair and massive frame made him seem larger than life, and his heavyboned figure carried not an ounce of excess flesh.

His powerful shoulders and chest confirmed the story that he'd been a farmer in his younger days, before he'd turned to manufacturing. "Lord Garvain, your father and I are not on the best of terms, and my condolences mean very little to him. But I wanted you to know that even the local pariah esteemed your sister-from a distance." The normality of the man's voice surprised and relieved Kerr, weary of the hushed and sympa0thetic tones he'd heard from everyone else. Except that pretty young girl Ellin Fayle. Inclining his head, he replied, "I appreciate your telling me, sir." "Over the years I've learned the value of a confidant-whether an acquaintance or a stranger. There may be days, or nights, when you wish to discuss matters unrelated to your departed loved one. You'd be welcome, any time you choose to call upon me." Why would Standish, universally despised, make a friendly overture to a member of a family that shunned him? Loneliness, Kerr supposed. At least he had the good sense to wait till Father was out of sight. "My parents would be distressed if I visited Castle Cashin while it's occupied by their-" He sought an inoffensive term but found none. "Their enemy. Yes, I know their feelings, so you needn't spare mine." His father's tenant, who fled the island in disgrace and returned with a fortune, had always intrigued Kerr. And never more than now, when he was determined to emulate Standish's great success as a mill owner. His attention wavered from the man's retreating figure when he saw a brown head bob up from behind a gravestone. A distinctive pair of bright eyes followed his march across the burial ground. He could pretend not to notice. But he found himself changing direction. Ellin Fayle's blooming face would be a welcome sight in these grim surroundings. "I thought you stayed behind at Dreeym Freoaie," he called, when he neared her hiding place. "Just long enough to uncover all the windows after the coffin left the house. By the time I arrived, there was so large a crowd that I had to stand outside the church wall." As he joined her, she laid a stalk of apple blossom on the grass. "My mother and my grandfather lie here." Kerr regretted his assumption that she was unacquainted with loss. The inscription on the smaller slate stated succinctly, Isbel, beloved daughter of Magnus Moore, departed this life November 17,1780. Judging from the description, she'd never been any man's wife. Therefore, her daughter had been born out of wedlock. A clump of daffodils partly obscured the additional words carved near the bot-

tom, and he reached down to sweep them aside, revealing the telling phrase, And her Infant. Died in childbed, he deduced. Before persuading her lover, whoever he'd been, to give her his name. Illegitimacy was prevalent on the island and casually accepted. He wasn't surprised by Ellin's bastardy, neither did he pity her. "Where's your devoted companion?" he wondered. "Scadoo? Most likely she's inside the ehurch, napping under our pew. Just as she does every Sunday morning during service." "Doesn't the sumner chase her out?" Her eyes twinkled. "Come to matins, and you'll find out." "I've no taste for prayers and preaching," he declared. "Funerals, either. The whole time the vicar was praising my sister's virtues, I was thinking how very unsaintly she could be. Even so, she was the good twin, and I the bad. My youthful misdeeds would fill a catalogue. I broke the Sabbath in a variety of ways. I pawned a religious medal my grandmother gave me to purchase a naughty book." Aristotle's Masterpiece. A slender manual containing detailed and highly titillating descriptions of physical relations between a man and a woman. Despite the many benefits of education, there were some things one just couldn't learn from books. Lovemaking was definitely one of them. "What's so amusing?" she asked. "I'd better not say. I wouldn't want to scandalize you." "You couldn't," she assured him. "You think I don't know you very well, but your sins are no secret to me." "Name one," he challenged. "You tried to raise a ghost." "I'm not sure that counts as a sin, Ellin. Did one of my sisters tell you?" "They didn't have to, I was here that night. Some of the crofter children dragged me here to watch. You brought your bow, and you told us that your arrows would pass straight through the specter." "It was a decade ago, at least. You must've been a child." "Nine years old. And I was terrified." That made him smile. "There was no cause for terror. I was only showing off." "You also committed a desecration," she accused. "Are you sure? I remember some dramatic gestures, and chanting, and-" His frown relaxed, and he laughed out loud. "The tombstone! I wonder which it was?" "I can show you." She steered him to the lichen-covered slab. It marked the resting place of one Margaret Corlett Fayle, buried in 1756, whose spirit he'd tried to disturb.

"What became of my handiwork?" On that longago night, he'd used the metal tip of his arrow to carve out a small but significant circle into the slate, altering the woman's impressive lifespan of 200 years to an incredible 180 years. "Uncle Henry complained to Vicar Cubbon that his kinswoman's grave had been vandalized. The mason repaired it." "My thanks for not naming the vandal." Kerr knelt down, unconcerned about getting grass stains on his best breeches. "A pity I left my blade at home." He searched the ground for a sharp rock. With its pointed end he attacked the marker, chipping away at the mortar that filled and concealed his previous incision. "You deserve to be haunted," Ellin told him severely. "Drean, my faithful wren of a sister, will plead with this departed soul to leave me alone. She'll defend me well." He seized the girl's wrist and made her hold the stone. "Now you're an accomplice," he said, forcing her to deepen his incision. Her gurgling chuckle delighted him. "Beware, my veen," he whispered in her ear. "Wickedness is contagious." Calybrid's potion, Ellin marveled, was already affecting the baron. She stared at their joined hands, paralyzed by his nearness. He was so close she could feel him drawing in each breath, and his breeze-tossed hair fluttered against her cheek. If she moved so much as an inch, her breast would brush against his arm. Should she? Tortured by indecision, she kept still. In her girlhood, merely being in his company had been sufficiently rewarding. But the passage of time had altered and intensified her desires, and she yearned not only to touch him, but to be touched. Greatly to her disappointment, he released her and stood up. As he flung away the stone, he said, "Mustn't linger. Mother and Father have worries enough without wondering what's become of their scapegrace son. I'll see you later, at Dreeym Freaoie." "I'm not going back," she told him. "My grandmother needs me, my aunt also." She watched closely for his reaction. He seemed untroubled by her disclosure. Then he gratified her by saying, "Next time I'm at the mill, I'll stop by the tavern." This saddest of days, Ellin reflected when he walked away, had brought unanticipated joy. She went into the church in search of Scadoo. Beside the stone baptismal font she found Norris Martin, the linen factor, and Edward Corkhill, clerk of the parish, a large book under his arm. Her dog, lying at their feet, came to greet her. "Miss Fayle, I'll gladly return you to Boayl Fea in my gig," said Mr. Martin. "I must travel in that direction."

She thankfully accepted his offer. Well-dressed and prosperous, Norris Martin had pleasant manners and smiled almost constantly-even on the day of a funeral. Like Sergeant Clucas of the Manx Fencibles and Donald Brady, an Irish linen weaver with soulful blue eyes and a rich brogue, the Lancashireman was a regular visitor to her uncle's taproom. But no one, and she least of all, counted him among her suitors. With typical detachment, he assisted her into the vehicle. He didn't object when Scadoo scrambled up, crowding them in the seat. "I've been looking over the Maughold parish register," he explained. "Though I was born in Liverpool, my father was Manx, and there are many Martins and Norrises scattered about the island. Today I made a highly significant discovery which will assist my future investigations." She responded with an absent nod, her mind busy with thoughts of Lord Garvain. "I'm quite fascinated by the past, in a way I never was before. I wonder, Miss Fayle, how much you recollect about your earlier years? Have you any memories of your mother, or where you resided before your aunt and uncle took you into their home?" Perplexed by the question, Ellin replied, "None at all. I was an infant when I came to Boayl Fea." "You are contented with your life there?" "I can't imagine any other." Her family were very dear to her. Only her unrequited affection for Lord Garvain had marred her happiness, and the recent death of his sister, her kind friend, was the first tragedy she'd faced. Discomfitted by the deeply personal nature of his inquiry, she changed the subject by asking how his business fared. "Tolerable well. I'm bound for Laxey to inspect the bleaching fields, then it's on to Douglas and Mr. Moore's linen factory. Your maternal grandfather, Magnus Moore, did he belong to that branch of the family?" "I'm not sure. That's such a common name hereabouts." As his horse followed the road's downward slope, he commented, "It must be interesting, living at a tavern. You learn the local news and gossip before anyone else, and meet all the touring gentlemen who come from England to admire your island's scenery." "Those touring gentlemen view the Manx people as entertaining curiosities," she answered. "When I serve them they speak very slowly, as though I'm simple-minded or deaf, and they're terribly disappointed when I reply in English. As for gossip, Aunt Marriot always sends me off to the kitchen just when it grows interesting." When they halted, Scadoo leaped down first and ran in the direction of the stone house. An empty wooden ale barrel stood on end at the front door, proclaiming to passersby that this was a thie-oast.

The tailless cat seated on top of it arched her back warily at the dog's eager approach. Ellin laughed. "Scadoo's favorite game is bouncing at Mottle and making her jump. My thanks, sir, for bringing me." "My pleasure, Miss Fayle. I mean to return on my way back from Douglas, when I'll have more leisure for your uncle's ale than I do at present." The horse and cart crossed the stone bridge that spanned the River Cornaa, and moved quickly out of view. The public taproom was dark and deserted, the wooden benches and chairs displaced by last night's visitors. She put the furniture to rights before entering the back chamber. For the women of the household, the thie mooar served as kitchen, workroom, eating room, and parlor. Soft female voices blended with the gentle whir of the wheels. "Here's our Ellin home again," said Aunt Marriot. "Just when I'm needed." Embracing her frail and sightless grandmother, she said, "Your bobbin is full, and your distaff isn't. Shall I dress another for you?" Lifting her foot from the treadle, Mrs. Moore replied, "I've worked long enough." "The wind must have blown Ellin here from the church," her daughter commented. "Her cheeks are as red as her petticoat, and her hair flies about." "Sit down, child, and I'll comb it for you." Ellin placed a stool before her grandmother's chair and untied her ribbon. She was glad to resume this familiar ritual, and as the comb's ivory teeth plowed through her unbound tresses, she felt her cares dissolve. "Is the lambing over yet?" "So says your uncle," her aunt responded. "He's busy at the plowing now, in the old barley field. This season he's to plant his flax there." "Will he buy new fishing nets?" "He says his old ones should last another season." "I'll help him mend them," said Ellin. "Did Calybrid charm the calf out of its sickness?" "She did." The lost mother who dwelled in her imagination resembled Aunt Marriot. According to Calybrid, Isbel had been the prettier sister, and the first to get a sweetheart-but she'd never had a wedding. Her aunt, so attractive and capable, might have found herself a more refined husband, but not a better one than the tavernkeeper who worked his own farm. Not only had he supported Marriot's orphaned niece and widowed mother all these years, he loved them as he loved her-quietly, undemonstratively, but fiercely. Uncle Henry was a Manxman through and through, dedicated to his land and determined to wrest a good living from it. He was fluent in the old language, unlike the Moores, who had become Anglicized several generations ago. Occasionally he muttered about his wife's "airs and graces," but it

was no secret how much he prized her. Surrounded and shielded by her loving family, Ellin had never felt the absence of the father whose name had never been uttered in her presence. "Hold your head steady," Mrs. Moore chided, "or you'll get a scratch on your sweet face." Ellin smiled. How many times had that gentle warning been uttered? Her eyelids drooped as her grandmother's steady strokes lulled her into comfortable drowsiness. Here, everything was exactly as it had always been. Nothing could alter the rhythm of life at Boayl Fea. That evening, her thoughts strayed to the much larger farmhouse atop the heather ridge. Resuming her familiar tasks, so similar to those she'd performed for the earl and countess, she wondered how they were bearing the aftermath of the funeral. She could picture their son, his fine face clouded by grief, his gray eyes dark with despair. Later, when she went upstairs to her bedchamber, she let her gaze cross the glen and the hills, toward Dreeym Freaoie. She hoped Lord Garvain would soon come. When he did, she'd say or do whatever was necessary to make him smile upon her again. Chapter 4 Check your passions that you may not be punished by them. EPICTETUS, THE ENCHIRIDION

Leading his horse along the drive, Kerr confronted Castle Cashin. The block towers and jagged gray stone battlements of the centuries-old castle were impervious to the passage of time or a change of occupant. The first difference he noticed was that the flock of four-horned loghtan sheepwho had wandered the lawn for as long as he could remember-had been banished to a walled pasture. Yellow celandines, now safe from their teeth, spotted the uncropped grass. Two large marble urns were positioned on either side of the front steps. He itched to remove them. The classical ornaments clashed with the stark antiquity of the weathered stone building, and their heavy pedestals crowded the white crocuses. A portion of thick vine clambering up the East Tower had been hacked away. The bushy lavender plants growing around the foundation had recently been trimmed into a neat hedge. New leaves unfurled on the roses his mother and sisters had lovingly tended, now thriving in a stranger's care. He stopped near the edge of the cliff and watched the waves crashing against the rocks below. Gulls and cormorants dove down from the nearby heights of Maughold Head to pull fish from the incoming tide. Yernagh, his Irish gelding, flung up his head, almost jerking the reins out of his grip. He scents the salt in the air, thought Kerr. He

recognizes his home. A mistake, coming here so soon after Kitty's funeral and on the same day he'd learned the terms of her will. He carried the copy given him by his father's lawyer. Standing in the shadow of their birthplace, he read it again. [break] In the name of God, Amen. [break] I, Katherine Anna Cashin, spinster of Maughold parish, being weak in body but sound of mind and memory and understanding, do make and constitute this to be my last will and testament. I leave and bequeath unto my beloved brother, Kerron John Cashin, the whole of the marriage portion granted me by the Countess of Ballacraine, our departed grandmother, after all designated bequests are paid. To him also I leave my books and my pencil drawings. . . . I leave and bequeath to Ellin Fayle an appropriate remembrance, to be chosen for her by my brother. . . . I further leave and bequeath the sum of £50 to be administered by my brother and father together, for establishing a spinning school in Glion Comaa within a year of my decease. . . . [break] Kerr folded the paper without reading the other bequests, his breath coming out as a ragged sigh. He should leave this memory-laden place and return another time, when he could be more objective. A glass portal-one more jarring additionswung open. "Lord Garvain! I didn't expect to see you so soon." There could be no escape now. Drawing himself to his fullest height, he said diffidently, "I've been at Ramsey, ordering flax seed. In the neighborhood, you might say." "And no doubt you'd like to get out of the wind. Fearsome, isn't it? And a snowfall overnight-you can see how it's whitened the tops of Snaefell and North Barrule. Lead your horse to the stable, and my groom will take charge of him. I shall wait for you here, in my-in the library." A dart of fury struck Kerr at that swiftly retracted possessive. Dreading the awkward interlude to come, he nonetheless did as Standish suggested. He'd stopped at the castle for a very good reason: might as well stay and see how much he could achieve. What he found inside stirred his resentment even more than the changes outdoors. Making his way down the central passage, he noted the fresh coat of paint on the walls. The familiar portraits and landscapes were positioned incorrectly. In the place of the long strip of drugget he knew so well was a brightly hued Turkish runner, fringed at either end. Glancing into the rooms along the way, he saw many costly embellishments. The library delivered the strongest jolt. Its diamond-paned casements had vanished; the re-

placements had broad squares of glass and unobtrusive leading. In the place of the wooden door that used to open onto his mother's garden was the new one from which Standish had emerged, tall and wide and topped by a Palladian fanlight. Breaking a tense silence, Standish commented, "Makes the room brighter than it was. This is Meanoie." He indicated a black Newfoundland. A large dog for a large man. "Midnight-he's well named." Nodding at the glass door, Kerr asked, "When was this done?" "Soon after I took possession, one of my workers found the windows and sections of the door in an outbuilding-still crated. Your grandfather had ordered them from a Liverpool glazier, but for some reason never set them in place." "A lack of funds," Kerr answered. "An expensive undertaking. Does Father know?" "I informed him of my discovery. He raised no objection, nor to any subsequent improvements I've made. Would you care to see what else I've done during my tenancy?" Curiosity superseded his reluctance. Confronted by the elegant rose curtains and Chinese floral wallpaper in the dining room, and the lavishly upholstered drawing room chairs, Kerr tried to calculate the sums they represented. His parents, concerned with keeping food on the table and paying the doctor's bills and servants' wages, hadn't been able to afford such luxuries. The sensation of being a visitor in his own home was extremely distasteful. Entering the chamber that had been Kitty's, he felt his depression grow. A cheery yellow-striped fabric adorned the grand fourposter. A bed for a princess and hung all about with her favorite color-wouldn't she have loved it? Equilibrium was restored by the absence of any changes to the upper chamber of the East Tower. Family legend stated that the first Lord Ballacraine had watched from the window, awaiting the return of his smuggling vessels. His spyglass, carefully preserved, remained in its customary place on the leather-topped desk. Picking it up, Kerr extended the shaft and pointed it at the hills of England, miles across the sea. Great-grandfather, ruthless and ambitious, would approve of his being here today. "Shall we take a glass of brandy?" Standish asked, reaching for the decanter. When invited to take a chair, Kerr went immediately to the high-backed one his late grandsire had occupied; it resembled a throne, with ornamental carving and bulbous legs. Seated there, he felt more like a potentate than the supplicant he truly was, and the brandy burning in his throat bolstered his confidence. "How fares the Manx Linen Manufacturing and Bleaching Company?" Standish inquired. "In future we'll operate as the Manx Linen Com-

pany," Kerr informed him. "We continue to produce coarse goods for domestic sale-ticking, checked linen, shirting material for the soldiers. Our retting and scutching mill was constantly busy after last year's harvest, and additional weavers were hired on during the winter months. But our last year's profits were flat. Competition from Mr. Moore's factory in Douglas forces us to keep prices low, which prevents expansion and increased output." "Your father could borrow the necessary funds for capital improvements." Kerr shook his head. "He has a horror of overextending himself again. Several months in a London debtors' prison makes a man cautious. In London I developed an alternative scheme, because there I found a more lucrative market for our products. Wherever I looked, I saw quality linen-ladies' dresses, gentlemen's shirts, window hangings, upholstery. And I mean to supply these avid purchasers." "Thereby ensuring the success of your family enterprise." "Exactly." Leaning forward, Kerr continued, "Many of our weavers make aanrit keyll-fine linen. We had yards and yards of cambric on the bleaching greens last summer, still unsold. I believe we should send it away to be printed. What's more, Donald Brady, an Ulsterman, can weave damaskshis brother is equally skilled. These goods, if exported to England, would command a price high enough to offset the tariff." "In English markets you'll have a multitude of competitors whose resources are far greater than yours." "Even so, I believe I can create a demand. Particularly in London, where Manx prints will be appreciated for their beauty and quality-and novelty. I met Richard Ovey, a linen-draper, there. His clients include members of the Royal Family and the aristocracy. I hope he will serve as my conduit to the exclusive market I seek to supply." "What is the earl's opinion of your plan?" "He hasn't yet heard it. I've told no one but my sisters and my brother-in-law, Lord Garrick Armitage, who agrees it's an opportunity worth pursuing. Before the next meeting of the company directors, I'll commission a set of designs and produce samples of printed goods. Brady will provide a patterned damask. I've just come into some money, so I can meet the initial expense. You, sir, must be familiar with reputable printing works in the north of England, and I'd be glad of your recommendation." "There are any number in Lancashire. I can draw up a list. You'll want an experienced pattern drawer, and the best copperplate engraver." Standish took a thoughtful sip from his brandy glass. "You surprise me, Lord Garvain. Not so many years ago, I understand, you were intent on schol-

arship-to the exclusion of all else." "No longer," Kerr responded. "During my absence from this island I learned a great deal-quite unconnected with the history and literature of Greece and Rome." "Suffered a setback, did you?" "Of a sort. Several sorts, actually." "As did I, a long time ago. After a variety of misfortunes, I devoted myself to business. Made me richer, but I can't claim to be any happier for it." After a pause, the older man added, "You're a scholar still, my lord. Your questing mind has moved in a new direction, that is all. Now you apply yourself to the study of mills and manufacturing, and markets." "I'm not counting on Father's support, or Thomas Whaley's. They may be reluctant to enter into a risky venture. I've got Garrick's proxy; he supports my view. The vote might be two against two." "You need a fifth." "Would you consider investing?" "If circumstances permitted. But the earl would oppose my involvement-most adamantly." True, Kerr acknowledged. Father was firm in his views, and rarely changed them. "You're a businessman-rather, you were. Do you agree that this is a worthwhile effort?" The rusty head moved up and down several times. "Indeed it is. I perceive in you the determination and the energy necessary to make your mark. Time will tell whether my impression is correct." Standish reached for the decanter. "More brandy, Lord Garvain? It comes from the castle cellars and bears a French name." Pleased by this favorable start, Kerr extended his glass. "The spirits smuggled into this isle by my forefathers were always the finest. We Cashins crave the best, and usually manage to get it. By foul means or fair." [break] The blustery winds counteracted the warming effect of the brandy Kerr had consumed, and he decided to stop at the tavern-not only for drink, or to warm himself at the fire. He was hoping for a glimpse of Ellin Fayle's charming face. Boayl Fea, the House of Rest. Its original name had long ago passed out of use. Proximity to two crossroads made it a popular stopping place for travellers, and with Glion Cornaa's linen and corn mills so close, it never lacked customers. Henry Fayle was not only a brewer and licensed publican, but also a farmer and fisherman. His wife Marriot, the most reliable of the local spinners, produced linen yarn of the highest quality. They lived comfortably but kept no household servants, only a boy to tend the cows and sheep and pigs. At sowing time and at harvest, Fayle employed day-laborers. Ellin Fayle's dog kept watch in the straid. Accustomed to visitors, she didn't bark, although she did stand up to examine him. Her black fur was damp

and matted, and mud caked her long white stockings. "How did you get so dirty?" he greeted her. "No wonder you've been left outside." The cowherd emerged from a low-roofed building, and the hens skittered out of his path. "Shall I put away your horse, y hiarn?" "Thank you. Here's a copper to make it worth your while." The lad took the reins and led the animal to the stable. Kerr went to the door facing the road, the public entrance. The lamp in the hall hadn't been lit, and the taproom was uncharacteristically dark and empty. To signal his presence, he stamped his boots to shake off the dirt. "Quoi t'aynsen?" Ellin Fayle hurried out from a back room, wiping her palms on her apron front. "It's you! Have you brought the books, then?" "Not today." He must remember to do that. The offer of his texts had slipped his mind. She reached for a tankard. In an entertainingly businesslike fashion, she asked, "Ore sailt, y hiarn?" "Brandy." "We've got only rum. It's good rum." "That'll do." "I'll get the bottle, and a proper glass." When she returned to his table, he asked, "Where is everyone?" "Uncle Henry took Aunt Marriot to Laxey. Grandmother went with them-quite an occasion for her, as she rarely leaves Boayl Fea." She placed his drink on the wooden table, and he slid a coin across the smooth, worn surface. "I'll make up the fire, but first I should take the lamb out of the oven. If you're cold, you might come into the kitchen." "I'll not be in the way?" "I'd welcome your company," she answered. "I'm not used to being so alone here." He'd never yet turned down an opportunity to be private with an attractive member of the opposite sex, and he wasn't about to start now. As she led him away he focused on the alluring sway of her hips. Three spinning wheels stood by the stone hearth, and a cross reel for winding finished yarn. The room was filled with the comforting scent of burning turf and brightened by flickering rushlights, which he'd missed during his roving years. Hunger gnawed at him when he spied the pot of boiling potatoes and the dipper of milk on the hearth. "How's that lamb coming along?" he asked, as she opened the beehive oven. "Still breathing." "Breathing?" "Come and see." Curled upon the flat baking stone was a brownfleeced lamb. It blinked at him, and yawned. Before mirth overcame him entirely, he managed

to say, "I assumed you were roasting it." Ellin's laugh rang out, a rich, golden sound. "I'm reviving it. We lost a ewe last night, so Scadoo and I spent the day looking for her lamb. She found it abandoned in the field, one leg stuck in the mudcold and near dying. I brought it home and put it inside the oven to warm it. I made a false teat from one of my kidskin gloves by slicing the tip of one finger, a trick Uncle Henry uses when he rears an orphan." She picked up the dipper. "I'm hoping it will take this milk. Perhaps I should add a few drops of rum." He watched as she tentatively dribbled the liquor into the container. After a pause, she added a larger measure. His belly ached from his last attack, but this set him off again. Oh, it felt so good to laugh. When he recovered his composure, he cautioned, "Take care it doesn't get too fond of the stuff." "The spectacle of a drunken lamb frolicking at Boayl Fea would draw people from all over the island-good for business," she declared, her smile dimpling her cheeks and chin. She lifted the tiny creature from the pillow, cradling it in one arm like an infant, and placed it on the table. "Stand up," she pleaded. When he helped her support it, Kerr's hand passed between the spindly hind legs. "A female," he reported. "What shall you name her?" "Rum," she answered. "Could you pour the milk for me? Not too much." He tipped the dipper into the glove, and when she was satisfied, tied off the top with a string. A white trail leaked across the table when he handed it over. Ellin quickly inserted the pierced fingertip between the lamb's lips. They both waited anxiously, willing Rum to suckle. When she did, they smiled at each other in shared relief. London, thought Kerr, was a world away from this cozy Manx kitchen. The starved creature nursed for a long time, its tail twitching back and forth. Afterward Ellin transferred her to the straw-filled cushion, shifting it closer to the hearth. "She'll sleep now." "One's first drink does have that effect." Kerr drained his glass. "Will you have more yourself?" He nodded. This peacefulness was pleasant, after the torment of his week. Sipping his drink by the fireside, he watched the comely and curvaceous girl perform her tasks. She broke eggs into a bowl and whisked them, crumbled oatcakes into the batter, stirred the potatoes. She gathered up a handful of flax line, saying, "I need to dress a distaff for Grandmother. If she's not too weary from her outing, she'll be at her spinning tonight." She held the bunch of long, straight

strands to her waist. "Can I beg your assistance once more? Fasten this string round my middle, tight enough to hold the flax." She positioned herself in front of his chair. Her breasts were at eye level, tantalizingly close, thrusting against the fawn-colored loghtan wool. High and full, they would fill his hands. His fingers fumbled with the string as he fitted it around her slender waist. "My sisters never learned to spin." "Why should they? Ladyships needn't earn their keep." "In our family, one can never be too sure. For the Cashins, reversals of fortune occur with amazing regularity." "The next reversal is destined to be favorable, I'm sure. Thank you, that's perfect." She seated herself beside him. Spreading her fibers over one knee, she separated them, fanning the sections across her lap. "You haven't any cause for concern, my lord. Didn't one of your philosophers say that fortune seldom interferes with a wise person?" The chit was quoting Epictetus. "You've a good memory." With slow grace she rose again and asked him to loosen the string. He moved behind her and labored with the miserable knot he'd created. Once she was freed, she spread the prepared flax web across the table and wound it onto the distaff. A dangerously attractive girl, young and fresh and sweet. Too tempting by far, with her winsome face and delicate neck, and the ripe bosom. As his eye moved downward, he noted a scarf tucked into her bodice. It was fine, sheer cambric, delicately embroidered all over with white silk thread in a familiar motif. "I know that pattern." His hand shot forward and he tugged at her fichu, pulling it free. She straightened. "Cre'n-" "The Three Legs of Man, our national emblem. This is exactly the pattern I want for my damask." Her startled stare jerked him out of his raptures. His eyes moved from her face to her chest, and he discovered that he had bared a delectable expanse of creamy flesh. He couldn't stop looking at the exposed tops of her breasts. What the devil was he thinking? Passionate impulses inevitably lured him into disaster. He couldn't let it happen now, when he had much to accomplish, and far too many responsibilities. He glanced down at the fabric in his clenched fingers. "Kitty's needlework?" "My own. But I copied a design she drew for me." "I'd like to see it." She put down her distaff and hurried away. Her swift tread echoed in the staircase, fading with her ascent. She soon returned to place her workbasket on the table before him. Raising its lid, she began removing the contents.

"I've used her pattern several times," Ellin was telling him. "See? I embroidered the three legs in gold thread on a red background." She handed him a length of material. "It's a petticoat flounce." His mind raced as he studied the fabrics. He imagined ells and ells of linen, block printed with a medallion of rose madder with the legs in contrasting yellow, a vivid combination. Yards of purest whitest damask patterned all over with the Manx symbol. "Here it is." She gave him a piece of paper. The instant he saw his sister's simple sketch, he sensed her presence keenly. It was as though she had stepped into the room. "It can't compare to Lady Kitty's other drawings," Ellin volunteered. "The scenes of fishermen and crofting folk, and the mountains and the coast." "Watercolors? They have sentimental value, but I can't print them onto linen." "I meant the pictures she made with her pencil, not her paintbrush. She covered sheet after sheet, but she didn't like to show them. Her masterpieces, she called them-she pretended to jest, but they were very important to her." Kerr recalled the phrase from his twin's will, bequeathing him her "pencil drawings." "She meant to send them to you when she finished," Ellin told him. "Sometimes she used a French word to describe them." "I wonder why I haven't seen these pictures?" "Lady Ballacraine asked me to put everything away in the cupboard. They must be there still." "May I borrow this whitework of yours? Donald Brady can copy it when he drafts his damask pattern." He held up the sketch. "And this-I'll have it block-printed onto my cambric." If he wanted it, Ellin would gladly let him take the entire basket and all it contained. She couldn't understand his repeated references to damask and block-printing, for her knowledge of linen-making began and ended with the spinning process. But from his excitement, she knew that he was involved in something momentous, of great significance. His dark pagan beauty stirred her emotions. She longed to smooth the rough waves of black hair. If she laid a hand upon his cheek, would that sunkissed skin feel cool or warm? Thick black lashes fringed his gray eyes. Here was a hero in the flesh, straight from the Celtic legends. Manannan Mac Lir, the island's first ruler. The lawless brigand Maughold, before his conversion. Walking up to her, he said, "By summertime, the most fashionable ladies in London might be wearing gowns of my printed linen, woven from thread you made yourself." His hands spanned her waist, pulling her toward him. "You provided me with inspiration at exactly the moment I most needed it. And for that I shall be forever thankful, Ellin Fayle."

Before she could accept the amazing fact that he'd actually touched her, he kissed her. Chapter 5 Heart skewered by shafts of desire, the raging Beast, passion, out at prowl in my breast. OVID, THE AMORES

Wholly unprepared for the effect of his eager kisses, Ellin clutched at him. Before his return, love for him had flowed from her head and her heart-now he was demonstrating how it also dwelled in the rest of her body. The hunger she felt was a physical craving unlike any she had known, and it dissolved all barriers between them. Nevermore would he be the elusive Baron Garvain, standing on his lofty pedestal. Kerron Cashin, the man, had stepped down to take her in his arms, and he was showing her exactly what it meant to be a woman. His mouth, hot and insistent, sought to devour her very soul. She opened herself to him, giving as joyously as she received. When the kissing ended, she didn't know what to say or do. He was studying her in a way quite different from the disengaged manner familiar to her for many years. His appreciative smile assured her that he liked what he saw. "A bold expression of my gratitude," he murmured. With breathless candor, she said, "I wish I might do more." "Truly?" His fingers drifted lightly across her cheekbone. "I'll remember that, Ellin." A voice calling from the taproom shattered this promising intimacy. "Is anyone here?" The baron stepped away from her just before Norris Martin walked into the kitchen. The linen factor's smile faltered. "Lord Garvain." Hurriedly, Ellin explained, "There was no fire yet in the other room, so I invited his lordship to have his drink here. You're welcome to do the same." His arrival relegated her to the role of serving girl, which disturbed her nearly as much as his intrusion upon a private-and promising-interlude. She went to draw his ale. After giving it to him, she stirred the potatoes again. As the men exchanged comments, she finished preparing her grandmother's distaff. The familiar task took longer than usual, her hands were so shaky and unreliable. Lord Garvain questioned Mr. Martin about the current state of the linen market, narrowing the discussion to damask and prints. She expected him to mention his plan and show the designs, but he didn't. Whenever his keen, falcon-like stare fell upon her, she sensed that he was silently urging her to hold her tongue. To prove she'd understood

him, she closed her sewing basket and moved it to the cupboard shelf, out of the way. Afterward, she caught his conspiratorial wink. He used his carefully phrased questions like a hook, prying out information about competing mills in Douglas and elsewhere. The factor, clearly wishing to impress the baron with his knowledge of the trade, talked freely. Belatedly realizing how garrulous he'd been, Mr. Martin said, "I shouldn't have revealed so much. Your lordship wouldn't want me sharing your secrets with Mr. Moore." "You're too ignorant to do me any harm." Affronted, the factor sat straighter in his chair. "I'm the one who sells your firm's manufactures to the merchants." "And I hope you'll continue doing so. But I've implemented changes you know nothing about, the first of many. My father and the directors have vested me with full authority as manager." His tone was barely civil, and his expression severe. Although affairs at the mill were none of Ellin's concern, she was in love with the baron and the factor was her friend, so she wished for a warmer relationship between the two. She stuck the distaff pole onto the spinning wheel and moved to the hearth to check the lamb, lying there so innocently, its hooves tucked under its fleecy body. From Calybrid she must get a strengthening dram, similar to those the farmers used to heal sick sheep and cattle. The sound of the cart rumbling into the straid signalled her family's return. She pressed her fingertip to Rum's pale pink nose before rising-and found the baron looming over her, dark and compelling. "I must go." "Ta," she said, nodding, "it's best to be safe at home before darkness comes." "Of course," he said in a teasing tone. "That's when the witch stirs." "And the moddey dhoo on the hill road, and the buggane of the tholtan." "I don't much care to meet your fearsome witch or that black dog or the ghost," he replied, a telltale quiver in his voice. But because she detected a warm affection in his mockery, she didn't mind it. When she swung the kitchen door open, her dog barged in and brushed against his knees, leaving dirty smudges on his leather breeches. "Oh, Scadoo," she cried in dismay. Reaching down, he pulled one of the dog's floppy black ears. "She's forgiven. I shall return to find out how Rum is faring." In an undertone, he added, "Next time, my veen, I'll stay longer." Ellin treasured the promise in his words as much as the endearment, for it was the sweetest farewell she'd ever heard. [break]

That night during dinner, Kerr contrasted the somber scene with the gaieties he'd known in London. Last year at this time, a typical evening had included a ball or supper in a grand house and flirtatious banter with Lady Felicity Walsingham. And he'd spent many a night, more than he could count, in bed with play actresses whose talents between the sheets exceeded those on the stage. The four years of Kerr's absence had added gray to his parents' heads and lines to their faces. They had resumed the usual duties of household and farm, and though they bore their loss bravely, he knew they were no more resigned to it than he was. He had assumed that they were only dimly aware of his London exploits, but tonight he'd discovered that they were far better informed than was comfortable for him. Said his father, attacking the fish on his plate, "I cannot fathom why my children can't live in London without entangling themselves in some appalling scandal. First Lavinia, then Kerr." "You came to grief yourself, John, when you went there. It was while you were shut away in debtors' prison that our daughter got herself into difficulty." "True. But our son has no such excuse." Thinking it best to turn the subject away from himself, Kerr described Ellin Fayle's method of warming her foundling lamb. "Such a tender-hearted girl," the countess commented. "With a remarkably sunny nature, which brightened your sister's darkest days." "Kitty left me the responsibility of choosing an appropriate memento for her friend. On the way home I decided what it should be." "I was going to suggest some dress materials," said his mother. "That would save the Fayles the expense of her bride clothes." Kerr's eyebrows lifted. "She's got a suitor?" "More man one, I should think," the earl commented. "At the tavern she's always surrounded by fellows. That linen factor. Weavers from the mill." "And your sister often teased her about Sergeant Clucas, from the garrison at Ramsey." Which one had taught the girl how to kiss? Not Martin-he didn't look at all hot-blooded. Probably the soldier. Many a girl responded to a man in uniform, although he would have expected his Ellin to be more discriminating. His Ellin? "I think she ought to have Drean's books," he said. "There's a set of Miss Burney's works, isn't there? And The Vicar of Wakefield. I remember other novels-Richardson, Fielding. She might also like to have a drawing or watercolor as a keepsake. She was telling me about some pencil sketches, specifically." "Kitty made those for you," his father stated, confirming what Ellin had told him. "Landscapes, mostly. Some illustrations of island legends.

They're your property now, to do with as you please." After dinner, Kerr went up the stairway, his heavy tread echoing the thud of his heart. Until now, he had avoided Kitty's room, dreading the emptiness he would find there. Staring at the chair by the window, he could hear her soft voice encouraging him to go-to Italy, to Cambridge, to any place his dreams and ambitions led him. Even as she wished him Godspeed, she must have feared she might not be here to welcome him back and hear of his adventures. In the tall, narrow cupboard set into the wall he found several thick portfolios, each formed by two flat boards sewn together and tied with frayed ribbon. He carried them downstairs to the parlor, where Joney was lighting the candles, and piled them on the gate-leg table. "Te feayr," she grumbled, pulling her shawl against her body. "Dy jarroo," he agreed. But the cold affected him not at all; his whole attention was on this mysterious and unexpected legacy from his sister. The first and thickest book bore the title Scenes of Manx Life. Inside, he discovered many proofs of his twin's observant eye and talented hand. The pencil work on each of the large sheets was exquisitely detailed. Her drawings provided a visual tour of their island. He recognized all the landmarks, and many of the busy characters she depicted. Herring fishermen unloading their catch, shepherds with their flock, weavers, reapers, milkmaids. The pretty girl at her spinning wheel, with dog beside her, was the one he'd kissed tonight. Ellin Fayle's image appeared again and again. She danced with a military man, her long braid flying. She labored in a field, stacking sheaves of flax. She herded half a dozen loghtan sheep, Scadoo trotting behind with tail aloft. Charming though these subjects were, Kerr couldn't determine their significance, if any. Puzzled, he turned over a sheet. Manx Scenes, fifth version, was the notation Kitty had written on the back. New design for linen toile. Toile-the French word Ellin hadn't remembered. She'd probably never heard of the stylized fabric patterned with landscapes and views of pastoral life like the one he held in his hand. Now he understood the purpose of his twin's masterpieces, and her secrecy, and her plan to send them to him. She'd made these pictures for a single, specific purpose-to be engraved onto copper plates and printed onto Manx linen. The next volume was crammed with illustrations of classical and allegorical subjects, novels, plays and poems. Scenes from the Odyssey. Dido and Aeneas-curiously, Ellin was the model for the lovelorn Dido, and Kerr detected a strong likeness between Aeneas and himself. He found depictions of popular Manx legends and myths: the voyage of

St. Maughold, the Fairy Cup of Kirk Malew, the Mermaid's Courtship. He and Ellin appeared again and again as heroes and heroines from the island's history-Manannan Mac Lir and his bride Fand, King Olave and Queen Emergaid. And also as characters from Shakespeare. He reached for the third, impressively thick collection, helpfully labelled Designs for Floral Prints. It contained watercolors, mostly of flowers-sprigs of purple and green heather, nosegays of roses and lilac and larkspur tied with pink ribbon. Exactly the kind of multicolored images that typically decorated block-printed fabrics, crafted to appeal to the feminine eye. Closing the boards, Kerr placed his head in his hands and shut his eyes. "Thank you, Drean," he murmured. Miraculously, in the space of a single day he'd found everything he needed to proceed with his scheme for the mill. He was ready to conquer the world of manufacturing, and set himself up as the lord of linen-makers. Nothing and no one, he thought triumphantly, stood in his way now. Chapter 6 Taferrishyn as beishtyn ayns dagh voayl jeh'n cheer veg shoh, as kinjagh te d'imraa dy vel ad er num vakin oie as laa. There are fairies and ogres everywhere in this little land, And 'tis often said that they are visible both night and day. MANX FOLK SONG

With a wary glance at the tumbledown, longabandoned dwelling, Ellin touched the lucky stone she wore threaded on a ribbon around her neck. Calybrid Teare had provided the necessary protection against danger before sending her to the hill farm for plants. She'd braved gray skies and blustery winds, but the elements were less fearsome to her than this haunted tholtan. Stay away from the house, her friend had warned. Although she knew no details of this place's history, Calybrid's reluctance to enlighten her meant it must be truly dreadful. In the tavern the crofters swapped tales about a buggane and reported strange happenings caused by local witches or those small mischief-makers who roved the parish by night. Ellin resumed her work in the sad, longneglected garden. These plants, which had long ago outrun their original bounds, were the same ones filling Calybrid's cottage plot. Yn Ihus grew rampant, and its companion motherwort. Lurgadish and lus y chias saghey-the medicinal herbs pennyroyal and feverfew. Coming upon a clump of columbines, she sliced deep into the surrounding soil with the point of her spade. As she dug, her gaze occasionally strayed to the

roofless shell of stone walls. A portion of the house had been blackened by fire, years ago. At one end stood an elder tree, its trunk bent and scarred, and near the gaping doorway bright daffodils blossomed. The straid was overrun with weeds, and its buildings were in a forlorn state of decay. She excavated the plants with care, keeping their clustered roots intact, and wrapped her gleanings in a dampened cloth. The earth, cool and moist, stuck to her fingers. It was pleasant to be outdoors again after four long days at home, spinning, waiting, hoping-and fretting, because Lord Garvain had not yet returned. This morning she'd visited Calybrid, seeking an interpretation of his kiss and his subsequent neglect. The presence of her friend's nephew, John Teare, had inhibited her, and she hoped he'd leave before she delivered the requested columbines. The song of a missle thrush perched in the elder pierced the silence. Eager for a glimpse of it, Ellin gathered up her bundle and approached the ruined house. An enormous shape passed by the gaping window hole, and terror turned her legs to stone. Forcing herself into action, she turned and hurried down the hillside as fast as she could. "Stop! Don't go!" The buggane was calling to her-chasing after her. In her haste she stumbled over a protruding rock. Down she went, falling hard enough to knock the breath from her lungs. She lay sprawled in the rough, rust-colored heather, helpless. Her only comfort was that phrase from the Lord's Prayer, Livrey shin veih oik... Deliver us from evil.... "Are you hurt?" The voice was gruff, but she detected a note of genuine concern. Daring to look up, she saw Finlo Standish towering above her. "No," she panted. "I'm sorry if I frightened you." So was she. It would be at least a week before her heartbeat resumed its normal rate. "I feared you were the ghost." Enormous hands reached down to her. "Let me help you up." "I'm dirty," she said, displaying her muddy fingers. He was not deterred. The instant she was on her feet again, she searched for her bundle of plants. "There's water in the trough, if you want to wash." When she showed hesitation, he said curtly, "Come now, no buggane lurks here, I promise you." As they crossed the field together, he said, "I never paid much attention to the local legends, and I've forgotten the ones I did know. Whose spirit haunts this farm?" "A murderer. He was strong enough to kill a man with a single blow. It happened in that field." She pointed toward the stone boundary wall. "I'm

not sure how he died. He roams the hills and valleys with Gob ny Scuit, whose legs are so long that in only three strides he can travel from the eastern slope of North Barrule all the way to the sea. On winter nights he howls down at us from the mountains, or stands upon the shore and roars." "You've heard him?" "Everyone does. He's very loud." "But you've never actually seen him?" "I don't want to," she said frankly. "He used to be a crofter, they say, because after harvest he sometimes creeps into people's barns at midnight to do some threshing." He startled her with a great boom of a laugh, powerful enough to drown out Gob ny Scuit's shout. "Not such a bad fellow, after all." "And there's a moddey dhoo who prowls along this stretch of road after dark, searching for his master till dawn." "A black dog? I'm not afraid of it; I've got one myself-a Newfoundland." Ellin continued, "You must never, ever linger at the ford in the river, near Towl Eaynin y Ruyghey, the Cave of the Red Man's Daughter. Trapped inside is a little girl, who cries constantly for her father to return and rescue her. It's the saddest sound-and it haunts you forever. Unless you're carrying yn thus in your pocket, or wearing a magic stone." She fingered the one dangling from her neck. "Calybrid Teare, the ben-obbee, will sell you a charm for protection." This time his laugh was not so hearty. "Don't be so sure of that. She probably prefers that I fall victim to the buggane, or the moddey dhoo." So he was aware of Calybrid's hatred, thought Ellin. What evil had he committed to inspire such venomous dislike? His unpopularity had never been explained to her. She knew only that the mention of his name brought frowns to faces; his presence at a gathering produced a powerful undercurrent of tension. Born a Manxman, he was nonetheless regarded as an outsider, and an unwelcome one, at that. "1 gather you're impressed by Calybrid Teare's supposed powers," he said, in a tone that clearly conveyed his own opinion. "No charm of hers has ever failed. She would never cause harm to anyone. The Teares have been healers since-the beginning of time, I think. Her father learned his skills from his mother, and he taught them to Calybrid. A male is always followed by a female, and a female by a male. She's training her nephew John from Ballawhane. He studies her book of magic and cures, and she shows him how to mix medicines." "Not even were I at death's door would I trust a mixture given me by that witch-woman," he stated firmly as he led her to the drinking trough of hollowed stone. "I've been trying to remember where I've seen you before," he said.

"At Dreeym Freoaie." She plunged her dirty hands into the accumulated rainwater and dried them on her overskirt. "That's right-I paid a condolence call, not that anyone wanted me to. Who are you; where's your home?" "I'm Ellin Fayle. I live at Boayl Fea, my uncle's farm-the tavern by the river." "The same Ellin my friend Norris Martin mentions so often?" He smiled. "You're the reason he's so down-hearted whenever he leaves the island for Liverpool. He fears some soldier fellow or one of the weavers will claim your affections before he can." Troubled, she said, "I didn't know he felt that way." "If you're so doubtful, he's managing his courtship very ill." "I can't marry Mr. Martin," she said firmly. "One of his rivals has taken your fancy? Someone who also fancies you, I hope." The memory of the baron's fiery kisses warmed her cheeks. Avoiding her questioner's watchful brown eyes, she said shyly, "I believe so." "I rejoice to hear that at least one young person in this parish is lucky in love. No chance for poor Norris. And I'm guessing Lord Garvain has suffered a disappointment-doubtless that's why he fled London." Lady Kitty, with gentle candor, had revealed her brother's hope of marrying an heiress-a ladyship. Had he made an offer and received a refusal? Did he love her still? Jealousy and regret churned Ellin's stomach. "I look forward to attending your nuptials-do send me an invitation. For I've not been to a proper Manx wedding since-" He shook his red head sorrowfully. "Not since my own. The old Earl of Ballacraine was still alive, lording over us all, and Countess Mooar played Lady Bountiful. The Cashins were wealthy. I was not-never expected to be. But I had a good wife, and a fine piece of land to work." He paused, then said, "In those days, this place had a name. Ballanard, the farm on the height." He's lonely, she thought. Small wonder, living in that great castle, shunned and hated by all. Her ingrained prejudice against him was softened by a vague pity. "You'll have a long wait for my wedding," she warned. "I'm not sure I'll ever be a bride." "Nonsense," he said heartily. "Pretty as can be, with more suitors than you want or need-you'll get yourself a husband. Though you do look a bit young for wifehood. Tell that sweetheart of yours to wait a year or two." "I'm nineteen," she blurted. "The impatience of youth," he said, smiling down upon her. "Away home with you, Ellin Fayle. And try not to grow up too soon."

[break] Calybrid moved about her stillroom like a restless raven, black skirts whipping with her every turn. "Finlo Standish! Putting a terror into you-how like him! Mooidjean! Blackguard!" "He didn't mean to frighten me." Ellin glanced over at John Teare, a wiry, dark-complexioned youth several years her junior. He shrugged his thin shoulders, similarly mystified by his aunt's tirade. "What was he doing there? I should never have sent you to that place." "Did you know it's called Ballanard? That's what he says." "I care nothing for what he says!" her friend retorted, seething with rage. "I don't trust him, and you shouldn't, either. Don't go near him againpromise me, Ellin." "I promise." She didn't bother to ask why she shouldn't, having more important matters to discuss. "I need to talk to you about that potion you gave me. The one I drank from your silver cup." Calybrid returned to the table. Untying the bundle, she inspected the wilting columbines. "Do you remember what these are used for?" she asked John. "To make syrup for a sick throat," he responded promptly. "Which part?" "The leaves." "Ta. The plants must go into the ground at once. I've prepared a place at the corner of the gardenhere, take this traval. And be sure to water them well afterward." With a nod, the lad took the implement his aunt held out to him and carried the columbines outside. Seating herself across from Ellin, Calybrid reached for her hands. "You're troubled about the young lord. Has your love charm not acted upon him yet?" "I thought it had. Calybrid-he kissed me! Last week." Ellin shared the thrilling tale of Lord Garvain's visit. "After I gave him my embroidery, he was happier than I've ever seen him. He embraced me and put his lips on mine. And I think he would've done it again, if Mr. Martin hadn't come in. When he left, he promised to return. But he hasn't," she concluded regretfully. Calybrid's dark eyes flashed with triumph. "Kisses-a promising sign, ennoil. He couldn't come to you, because business took him across the water. He's in Liverpool. Joney told me when she bought a pishag for the abscess on her hand." "Will it be long before he returns?" Calybrid rarely made predictions about future events, and composed her reply carefully. "When he can no longer withstand the force of your longing, you shall see him again." "Perhaps I should take another dose," Ellin sug-

gested. She smiled. "It's time for you to feed a charm to him." Crossing to her shelves, she reached for the bottle containing the white powder she'd fed to Ellin. "I'll put the mixture in a vial small enough to keep in your pocket. When he visits the tavern, pour it into his ale." While she combined the necessary ingredients, she fumed over Finlo Standish, too large a threat to ignore. Because of him, she was increasingly tempted to explore the darker and more dangerous realms of her art. Tonight, after John had read his lesson from her secret book of spells, she would look up a curse to bring great misfortune to her enemy. If he'd remained in seclusion, hidden away behind the castle walls, she would have left him alone. His seven-year lease on the earl's property was due to expire in three years-they would pass all too quickly. When the Cashins reclaimed their home, Standish would seek a place to live. Was he roaming the countryside in search of available land? He was wealthy enough to purchase all of Glion Cornaa if he wanted to, and build the grandest, most ostentatious mansion on the island. She couldn't let that jouyl, that devil, invade her life again, and destroy the peace she fought so hard to maintain. She combined her powder with a harmless cordial made from elderflowers, then decanted a portion of the mixture into a small bottle of cut crystal. Presenting it to Ellin, she said, "Be vigilant, and soon as you're able, put this into the young lord's drink." "Gura mie ayd," the girl said gratefully. She looked and sounded so much like Isbel that Calybrid's heart shuddered. "Ellin, my magic can make the barran want you. But he's the earl's heir, and no power of mine or yours will change that. What is it you really want from him?" "His love." "No wedding ring, or promise of one?" Said Ellin, with quiet certainty, "I dare not hope for so much. If I knew he truly cared for me, I'd willingly become his-anything he asked." "Ennoil, shall I tell you what happens to a nobleman's pet? You'll be cuddled and fondled when he's in the mood for it, and afterward forgottenuntil that bwoid between his legs sends him running to you again. He'll let you bear his bob, but he'll not give you his name. He craves power and money, and respect, and he'd never get them by marrying you." "You are harsh, Calybrid." "Life is harsher. Every action has a consequence, and you must be prepared to meet it. Now is when you must determine the extent of your desires and the limits of your strength-not later, when there's no turning back. You've kept up your reading and studying because you wish to be mistress of the

spinning school. An improper relationship with Lord Garvain-or any man-will hold you back. Parents would expect you to provide an example of morality and decent conduct to their impressionable young girls. Ta ennym mie ny share na berchys: a good name is better than riches. If you don't believe it, ask Finlo Standish," she spat. "Already you've tossed me into bed with the baron and have me bearing his child, all because of a few kisses." The smile dimpling the rosy cheeks quickly faded. "If you know what the future holds for me, don't conceal it. Bee graih orrym?" Shall I be loved? Her mother had asked the same question-long ago, when Calybrid had been boastful of her powers and foolish enough to play fortune-teller. She answered Ellin as she'd answered Isbel, with the same heavy sense of dread. "I have no doubt of it." Chapter 7 Your arrows practically know their own way to the target And feel less at home in their quiver than in me. OVID, THE AMORES

Ellin entered the church behind her uncle, and they took their allotted places at the back of the nave. Scadoo crept into the small space beneath the wooden pew and sank down, laying her pointed muzzle atop her paws. Their bench was in excellent order, unlike many others; individual landowners were responsible for the upkeep of their pews, and Uncle Henry was among the most conscientious. On Sundays he exchanged his linen farmer's smock for his finest suit of wool cloth and his best hat. Removing it, he bared a head of thinning gray hair. His face, roughened by exposure to sun and wind, was plain. A quiet man, deliberate in his speech and his ways, he was the last of an established Maughold family. If he regretted his lack of a son to succeed him, he hid it well. To Ellin he was more father than uncle, for he'd raised her as his own child, and from him she'd learned the old language and the old ways. She labored in his fields and mended his nets and fished the rivers and the sea with him. If she sat indoors reading too long, he plucked the book from her hands and sent her outside for fresh air and exercise. On nights when the taproom was crowded with boisterous seamen or millworkers, Aunt Marriot and Grandmother tried to keep her with them in the Me mooar, but whenever her uncle had real need of her, she never failed him. The adjacent pew belonged to the Earl and Countess of Ballacraine, regular churchgoers, and today they had prevailed upon their son to join them. Ellin, assuming he was in Liverpool still, was amazed when he sat down-right beside her, with

only the low wall of the compartment between them. His dark head moved, and she glimpsed a brief but devastating smile. How fine and lordly he was in his black coat and silk waistcoat, the most exquisitely tailored garments she'd ever seen. Ellin bowed her head over her Manx prayer book and with shaking fingers turned the pages. Losing her place, she had to start again. This was the Sunday before Easter-only one more week of Lent. Flax sowing would soon begin, and she joined the farmers in praying for mild weather. It was the sumner's duty to keep order and preserve the sanctity of the church by expelling unruly individuals. Arms crossed over his chest, he began at the front door and marched slowly forward. When he reached the Fayle pew, he halted, drawing all eyes in the congregation. Bending down, he scratched Scadoo behind the ear. Her tail thumped the floor. A curious sound rose from the Cashin pew. Slanting a sideways glance at Kerr, Ellin saw that his lips were pressed together in an effort to contain his amusement. He looked straight at her and let out a choking chuckle. The sumner, rising, scanned the rows of benches for the source of the disturbance. Ellin held her breath. Would he chastise the young lord for misbehavior? Banish him? Much to her relief, he proceeded along the narrow aisle. Her awareness of Kerr persisted throughout the service. During the general confession the Vicar referred to lost sheep, and when she heard that chuckle again, she knew Kerr was remembering Rum. As the service progressed he grew restless, shifting in his seat like a little boy. He propped his arm on the side of the pew, then removed it. When everyone rose to recite the Apostles' Creed, he stuck his hand over the partition and dropped a folded square of paper onto her bench. Oh, he was a naughty fellow, passing a note in church! Ellin, far less bold, waited before picking it up. As she knelt for the next prayer, her stealthy fingers closed over it and hid it between the pages of her prayer book. The sumner's attention was elsewhere, yet she dared not read the paper lest he catch her and confiscate it. Uncle Henry, occupied with his devotions, hadn't noticed. But Calybrid, so observant, probably had done. Her friend sat high in the gallery, among less prosperous crofters and cottage tenants who owned no land and weren't entitled to a permanent seat. Ellin was impatient for the final benediction to be over, so she could study the baron's note. At the conclusion of the service, the parishioners exited the nave in a leisurely procession and gathered in the churchyard, where their dogs and horses waited. Friends and neighbors exchanged

warm greetings and family news; those engaged in disputes studiously avoided each other. The Vicar shook hands with Lord and Lady Ballacraine. Uncle Henry paused to address an acquaintance, and Ellin hastily unfolded the paper. Meet me in Margher Freoiae. Heather Field-a flat wasteland at the edge of his father's farm. Looking up, she saw him speaking with the sumner. As she approached, accompanied by Scadoo, she heard him say, "You never used to allow dogs inside your church." "That one there, y hiarn, is as godly as any of the rest of us. Quieter and better behaved than some," the sumner added severely. "Miss Fayle, likely you could tell me who it was found the service so amusing?" Said Ellin airily, "Ta. But I won't expose the transgressor, for I'm sure he repents his poor conduct." She flashed a smile at the baron before passing through the gate. Kerr's eyes followed the girl as he dared not. Would she meet him? Because of their kiss, there could be no turning back, and after his week away from the island, he was eager to press forward. He had to find out whether her inclinations matched his. Her ready response to his ardor had promised much. His interest in her was piqued not only by all that he knew-that she was pretty and sweet-natured, with a disarming directness and a gift for kissingbut even more by what he had yet to discover. Superstitious and fanciful she might be, but she was also clever. With enough experience, he believed, to recognize when a man was in the mood for dalliance. From his sister's drawings, he surmised that she was in the habit of walking and dancing with her admirers. In all likelihood they bestowed the sort of promises that persuaded an unsophisticated-or ambitious-country lass to grant certain liberties. That encouraged his hopes. Bastardy was a common condition on this island, where so many couples delayed tying the knot until their passion bore fruit. Marriage within two years of a child's birth legitimized it. Isbel, beloved daughter of Magnus Moore, had borne one infant out of wedlock and conceived another. If there's an amble in the mare, the farmers said, it'll be in the foal. Neither of Ellin's flirts had watched her grow up, as he'd done. They couldn't know how the loan of a book made her eyes shine, or that she preferred animals to adornments. Such rivals would be easy to rout. Both were constrained by their respective duties. Sergeant Clucas couldn't escape the Ramsey garrison without leave from his superior officer. Norris Martin was nonresident. An experienced seducer, Kerr felt sure he could exploit his advantages. But before initiating his

pursuit, he must be sure his enticing quarry was willing to be caught. If she came to him this afternoon, it would be a sign. [break] Scadoo, accustomed to joining in Ellin's rambles, always showed disappointment when left behind. "Streih Ihiam," Ellin apologized, hugging the white-ruffed neck. "Stay here by Grandmother and Aunt, and keep them company till I return." "Where are you off to?" Marriot wanted to know. Her relatives, Ellin knew, shared Calybrid's concern about the recent encounter with Finlo Standish. "Over the hills," she answered vaguely. Slipping her feet into her carranes, she tied the leather laces. She'd changed her churchgoing dress for a plain long bodice and a red linsey-woolsey petticoat short enough to show several inches of blue worsted stocking. "The sergeant sometimes arranges to leave his post on Sundays," said Marriot. "He'll be disappointed if you aren't here." "And if he doesn't come, I'll have wasted this lovely day." Tom Clucas's attentions left her unmoved. Early last summer, after learning from Lady Kitty that Lord Garvain paid court to a London lady, Ellin had sought consolation from the flirtatious young Fencible. The only time she'd agreed to walk out with him he'd assumed-quite wrongly-that she would let him kiss and fondle her. Unfortunately, by rebuffing his advances, she inadvertently fanned the spark of his passion. Now that her wandering baron was safely home again, she wished the sergeant's flashing eyes would alight on another. She wanted to believe this first day of April, so mild and pleasant, was a sign of things to come. The stores of winter fodder were nearly depleted, and the sooner the cows and horses could be turned out to graze, the better. A cruel and teasing month, this one, and if the weather turned wet and windy, the planting would be postponed. Recalling Uncle Henry's fatalistic maxim, she recited to herself, "February will feel, March will try, and April will tell whether you live or die." She crossed the stone bridge spanning the River Cornaa and took the road leading to Ballanard. Scrambling nimbly over a stile of rocky steps, she followed the ridge path to Margher Freoaie, an expanse of flat high ground where the heather grew profusely. In years past Ellin had occasionally watched Lord Garvain practice target shooting, and she wasn't surprised to see the familiar canvas-draped mound of straw with a colored circle stuck on. As she came towards him, he hoisted the bow, easily as tall as he was. His archer's stance made his lean, athletic figure look magnificently heroic. "My best shot yet," he told her merrily. "You bring me luck, and I need it. I'm shooting across a

distance of sixty yards, working my way back up to the one hundred required of Maughold Bowmen." "I'll collect your arrows," she offered, having previously performed that service for him. Hurrying over to the target, she tugged at each shaft. When she returned them to his wooden quiver, she asked, "Was this the reason you demanded that I come? To fetch and carry for you?" He laughed. "I didn't think of that." "Why, then?" "So I could give you the canvas bag over there." She sat down on the ground to open it. "Books!" she cried joyfully. One by one she took them out. Their leather bindings shone in the sun, and the gilt lettering glistened. Eagerly she scanned the title pages-mostly novels, and some she recognized. "These belonged to Lady Kitty." "They're yours now. Lavinia sent some of them from London, so recently that their pages haven't even been cut." "Now I won't have to borrow when I need something to read to Grandmother. I'll begin with Pamela. Do you know it?" "A tale of seduction." "Perhaps another. Clarissa?" "It's much the same." She held up a third. "Evelina?" "Don't know, never read it, or anything else Miss Burney has written-too respectable for my taste. If you wish to spare your grandmother's sensibilities, choose a female author." His voice lowered, and in a silky, suggestive tone he added, "But when you're in the mood for titillation, you'll want a man." The whir of an arrow made her glance up from the volumes in her lap. She watched him fire off half a dozen shots in rapid succession, with varying degrees of accuracy. Shaking his head, he said, "Out of practice. And I've not yet got the feel of this new bow I acquired in Manchester." "I thought you went to Liverpool," said Ellin. "That's where I disembarked from The Lapwing, a vessel owned by your dog-loving friend, Mr. Whaley. But I traveled extensively in Lancashire and Cheshire both. I commissioned an engraver to make plates from Kitty's drawings, and toured several printing works. Bannister Hall, near Preston, is making samples of block-printed linen. Mr. Slack of Manchester is doing the rest. If my fellow mill directors approve of my finished fabrics, I'll take them to London and show them off to the merchants there." His animation roused dormant fears. Four years ago, his restlessness had led him away from her. In her joy at his longed-for return, she hadn't imagined that his homecoming might be temporary. "You said you'd stay on, to manage the mill," she said, making no secret of her sorrow.

"And so I shall. But if my new venture is going to succeed, I must occasionally visit the capital in pursuit of business." Daringly she asked, "Is that all you pursue when you're there? You must find London ladies much to your liking." "They're well enough, in their proper setting. But rather a bore. Fear not, I'm a true Manxman-and prefer Manx girls to any other variety." He drew a shaft from the quiver, and with mingled grace and force, hefted his bow. Abruptly lowering it, he asked, "Do you care to try shooting? I'll teach you." His velvet voice and fog-gray eyes lured her to his side. He unbuckled the leather gauntlet he was wearing. "Hold out your left arm." He slipped the shooting glove over her sleeve and fastened it for her. She felt a warm tide flowing from him, surrounding her. She tried to focus on what he was telling her. He showed her the parts of the arrow-its sharp metal point and the goose feather attached to the shaft and the indentation at the end-the nock, he called it. He demonstrated where it fit onto the bowstring, indicating the sewing silk wound over the string to protect it. When she had positioned the arrow properly, he placed her hand around the curve of the bow and helped her lift it from the ground. It was taller than she, and heavier than she expected. "Keep your left arm straight and as firm as you can. Now, draw back, slowly." When she felt his arm close around her waist, she was startled into releasing the string prematurely. Her arrow flew away in an arc and fell far short of the target. "I let go too soon," she mourned. "Try again." He drew another arrow from the wooden quiver. Again his hand covered hers to assist her in raising the bow. Once more, his supporting arm encircled her. "Ready?" His breath sent a breeze across her cheek. "Let fly." This time her arrow soared straighter and farther, but it landed on the ground. Her next attempt fared no better. With a self-conscious laugh, she acknowledged, "I'm not very good." "You can't expect to hit the mark your first time trying," he consoled her, and gently pried an arrow from her tense grip. "I started you too far from the butt. What's more, you're too slight a creature for a bow so large." "But I'm no weakling," she defended herself. "I can plant and pull flax all day. And row my uncle's baatey-ymmyrt. And-" She paused when she realized that his smiling mouth hovered over hers. "Yes," he drawled. "I definitely prefer Manx maidens to London ones. I've wanted to kiss you again for days and days. Would you mind?"

"No." Her breathless admission made him smile. "Honest Ellin." Her mouth welcomed him. She moved in as close as she could get, until the softness of her bosom came in contact with the solid wall of his chest. After his lips parted from hers, he commented, "In lovemaking, as in archery, you show much promise. With careful instruction and regular practice, you'll soon be expert in both." "My lord, there are many things I hope to learn from you. And teach you." [break] Kerr returned to Dreeym Freoaie and stowed his archery equipment in the tack room. Making his way to the house, he counted the reasons for his excellent mood. Lancashire printers were already stamping Kitty's designs onto his fine cambric. Brady the weaver worked at his loom night and day, creating the first length of Manx damask. His new bow pleased him. And pretty Ellin Fayle wanted him for her lover. When he'd asked if he could kiss her again, he'd expected a coy, flirtatious reply. As ever, she'd surprised him. Passing through the thie mooar, he snatched a hot oatcake from the griddle. The aroma of fish predominated. One aspect of London he missed was the variety of available food, for he was heartily weary of herring, potatoes, and cabbage. His parents were in the parlor, passing each other the pages of a long letter. "From Lhondhoo?" he guessed. "Yes. Your sister sends sad news. Did you ever meet her brother-in-law?" "Halford? Twice, perhaps three times. Dined with him once-he has the most amazing collection of books. An odd chap. Ran off with somebody's wife." "The somebody challenged him to a duel. He's dead." Lord Ballacraine shook his gray-streaked head. "Not from a gunshot, though. They fought on a cold morning and the duke took a chill, which brought on the illness that killed him." "Poor child," the countess interjected. "My letter about Kitty crossed hers in the post. She and her husband each lost a sibling in the same monthbut at least they've got each other for comfort, and the children. Shared sorrow will draw Lavinia and Lord Garrick closer together." "They couldn't be any closer than they are," Kerr replied, conscious of a faint, familiar envy. "But wait-Garrick's a lord no longer," he pointed out. "He's the Duke of Halford now." He had difficulty imagining his reckless, iconoclastic brother-in-law as head of a ducal house. And he couldn't repress a grin to think of his lovely, wayward little sister as a duchess. "They've moved from Monkwood to Langtree,

taking Kat and little Jonathon with them. After estate business is settled, they go to Halford House. He wants to take his seat in Parliament-who would've thought it of him? Lavinia dreads London, but because she's mourning, perhaps she won't be required to go out very much." "She needn't be so sensitive about a scandal so old as hers," he said, having received a comprehensive education in such matters. "Besides, nobody dares to shun a duchess." Lavinia's improved status made up for his dismal showing in the matrimonial stakes. Since returning to the island, though, his own social disgrace had ceased to trouble him. He doubted that he'd enjoy settling down to domesticity with the spoiled, self-absorbed Lady Felicity, or someone exactly like her. In Ellin's arms he had found solace. He looked forward to revealing the full extent of his ambitions-with her encouragement, he might find his duties less onerous. And he would be grateful if she could teach him to be as merry and lighthearted as she, for that would be a lesson well worth learning. Chapter 8 To be loved, you must show yourself lovableSomething good looks alone can never achieve. OVTD, THE AMORES

"This meeting for the Manx Linen Company is called to order." Lord Ballacraine paused for an officious survey of the tiny parlor, dimly lit by a branch of tallow candles. Then, in a voice loud enough to be heard above the din from Henry Fayle's taproom, he continued, "Directors and investors here present are: Thomas Whaley, Esquire, and Kerron Cashin. In absentia: Lord Garrick Armitage. Rather, the Duke of Halford, as he's now styled." He paused to pick up his quill and scratched the correction on the written record. "With John Cashin in the chair. We shall first hear our manager's report on prospective markets." Kerr stood up and described his investigations while in London, his acquaintance with Richard Ovey, and his recent activities in Lancashire and Cheshire. "This ongoing war with France prevents the importation of foreign cambrics and damasks. Which, I believe, presents us with an opportunity." Buck Whaley, a rich and canny Irishman, spoke up. "You're saying we should sell our cloth in England?" "Not in a raw state. I advocate the production of figured linen-to be designated Manx print and Manx toile and Manx damask. My sister created designs for this specific purpose. At my own expense, I've commissioned samples." From beneath his written report he removed two squares of fabric.

"Made from flax grown in this parish, retted and scutched at our mill, and spun in this very household. Woven by one of our Manx weavers, imprinted with a Manx scene drawn by a Manx noblewoman." He gave one piece to his father and the other to Whaley. "I've got block-printed patterns also." He produced two more swatches. One was decorated with the Three Legs motif in yellow and red-his vision made real-the other was covered with heather sprigs. Whaley said, "You mentioned damask. Have you any to show us?" Kerr presented a square of it. Even in its unbleached state, the intricate design was apparent, the Manx national emblem repeated in the glossier weft threads. "If you care to see more, there's a web on Donald Brady's loom. No capital improvements are required in the short term," he proceeded. "Eventually, we'll need to lease additional ground for bleaching greens. Furthermore, I propose that a portion of our profits be used to subsidize and promote the production of flax. And to fund the new spinning school." "The Fayle lass is to be the mistress. You sister said so." "Then she shall be," said Kerr. He fully expected that before much longer, Ellin would become his mistress. But the two positions were not mutually exclusive. They might, he mused, prove highly compatible. "Why would the English be inclined to buy Manx fabrics?" asked his father. "They regard us as a race of smugglers and drunkards." "Awareness of our island is on the increase. Mr. Townley published a memoir of his residence here. A few years ago, Mr. Robertson printed his Tour Through the Isle of Man. Mr. Feltham's forthcoming account will be even more favorable. Our prints will clearly demonstrate our respectable, ordinary occupations like farming and fishing, and they show our romantic scenery. My acquaintance, Mr. Ovey, supplies furnishing and dress goods to the Royal Family, as well as to aristocrats and politicians and other important figures-leaders of opinion, influential persons who can eradicate prejudices against us. The Duke and Duchess of Halford, for example, will join my campaign to promote Manx fabrics." His parents' expression of pride and approval gratified him. Apparently his well-executed presentation had undone the damage caused by his stupid scandal. The earl inhaled from his long-stemmed clay pipe and released a smoky breath. "Whaley, what say you? Shall we set my young falcon loose?" "Faith, I see no reason not to," the Irishman replied. "Let him carry us to glory-and profit-if he can." "I suggest we adjourn to the taproom. We must

ask Henry Fayle what kind of flax crop he predicts for this year." Eager to inform Ellin about the outcome of the meeting, Kerr made his way to the thie mooar. Donald Brady, the weaver, stopped him. "Did my damask please them?" "You're to be a busy man," Kerr informed him, "and your brother also. I shall want as many yards of cloth as the pair of you can make." "Working steady, we can each manage four or five yards in a week, my lord." "Enjoy this night of leisure, Brady-you'll not have many more." Kerr clapped him on the back and gave him a pair of Manx cartwheel pennies. "Buy yourself another ale." Then he entered the adjoining room. Marriot Fayle and her mother sat near the chiollagh, their spinning wheels revolving. Calybrid Teare, at the table, wound finished thread onto a cross-reel. "Lord Garvain has come," Marriot murmured to her mother. Mrs. Moore's wheel of turned and polished oak, made in the Irish style, was elegant enough to grace a lady's parlor. Kerr watched as she shifted the line of flax to her right hand. After moistening her left fingers in the water pot, she used them to pull more flax down from the distaff. Her foot tapped on the treadle below the wheel as her right hand, in a steady twisting motion, formed the fibers into yarn. The wheel and its bobbin revolved unceasingly. She sees with those fingertips, Kerr marveled. Unhampered by her affliction, she created thread of unrivalled perfection. Did these women understand the timelessness of their trade? The ancient Egyptians had spun flax. The Greeks and the Romans had worn robes of fine linen. At his burial, Christ had been wrapped in it. For Kerr, increasing its manufacture in the island was tantamount to a crusade. "Is Ell-is Miss Fayle not here?" he inquired. "Gone out to the stable to tend her lamb," said Marriot. Added Calybrid Teare, "And she's bringing in the buttermilk she forgot to get the last time she was out. It's not like her to be so scatterbrainedbut she's not been herself these past few days." Pierced by her sharp brown eyes, Kerr felt a twinge of unease. Had he done something to offend her? Hoping to placate her, he said, "My sister had a high regard for her abilities and talents. As do I." Ellin, coming into the room, was startled to find the man who had occupied her thoughts day and night making complimentary speeches about her. The crock slipped from her hands and struck the stony floor with a crash. Its contents splashed onto her feet and skirts. "No buttermilk tonight," she said regretfully. Atreih, what a clumsy thing she'd done! She felt flawed, fallible-he was so splendid and lordly.

And vastly pleased about something, from the look of him. "Have you convinced them to make your figured linens, y hiarn?" "Indeed I did. I came to tell you-all of you," he added, with a smile for the other women. After he withdrew to the taproom, Ellin gathered the broken crockery and mopped up the spilled liquid with a cloth. A loud burst of masculine laughter prompted her to say, "Busy in there. I should be helping Uncle Henry." "He can manage," said Marriot, as she always did. "It's not proper, your being among all those men." "I'll not stay long," she promised. Her longawaited chance to feed Kerr the love charm had presented itself, and the vial was in a linen pouch tied under her long apron. Nearly all the taproom's seats and benches were occupied. The gathering was lively and talkativebut not raucous. Arguments and altercations rarely occurred here; the law had never rebuked Uncle Henry for presiding over a disorderly house. He and the earl discussed agriculture, a topic of mutual importance. Mr. Whaley, the dog fancier, rubbed Scadoo's black head as he listened to them. Revelling in the attention, she swung her tail back and forth. Mr. Martin, having prolonged his stay on the island, was speaking with the baron. His habitual smile was missing as he said in a disapproving tone, "Your lordship is setting up as linen factor yourself? I thought you meant to manage the mill." "I shall do both." "An earl's son as a tradesman-it's unheard of!" "My forefathers involved themselves in a variety of occupations, legal and illicit. They owned staff lands and held a barony, but it never deterred them from smuggling, farming, fishing-or manufacturing. Whatever Cashins must do to survive, we will." And they had often relied on matrimony to bolster their power, thought Ellin, and augment their income. Lady Lavinia had gone to London to find a wealthy husband. Everyone had expected her brother to bring back a well-dowered English bride to the island. Calybrid's potion could win her his love, but it would not prevent his marriage to another. With this disheartening prospect in mind, she approached the two men and offered them a drink. "Ale, please," said Kerr. "So much talking has made my throat dry." "For me also," Mr. Martin told her. She went behind the stairs, where Uncle Henry stowed his kegs and stored an array of drinking vessels. Taking one from a shelf, she set it on the barr. The crystal vial sparkled in the light from the tallow candle, and after she removed its stopper she sniffed-the aroma was sweet and pleasant. Holding it over Kerr's tancard, she wondered how

much to give him. She couldn't ask Calybrid, not wanting Grandmother and Aunt Marriot to know what she was doing.... Boldly she poured out half of the contents before placing the mug under the tap. The pishag had no visible effect on the ale, which foamed up as usual and retained its rich, yeasty aroma. When she presented the drinks to her customers, Mr. Martin reached for the one in her left hand. Snatching it out of the way, she said, "This one for his lordship." She extended her right hand. "Here is yours, sir." If he had drunk from the other-too dreadful to contemplate! Her relief at averting disaster was short-lived. Kerr had changed his mind. "Keep the ale for yourself," he told her. "I'm in a mood to celebratewith a dram of your uncle's rum instead." "Rum," she repeated. Uncle Henry, bottle and tumbler at the ready, came to wait on the baron himself. Afraid to drink the charmed ale, Ellin left to draw a fresh pint. As soon as she returned to the taproom, Kerr gestured at the high-backed settle, saying, "Sit you down, Miss Fayle. I must talk to you about the spinning school." He was all business tonight, his manner so formal, yet only a few days ago he'd held her close and kissed her senseless. Their secret intimacy warmed her inside like a rum punch-delicious and potent and ever so slightly dangerous. Seated across from him, she could gaze directly into his eyes, and watch for his glinting smile. She scarcely noticed that the factor had taken the vacant place beside her. "I share my sister's desire to educate the daughters of weavers and mill laborers, and teach them the trade. Besides offering employment and education, the school will supply our weavers with yarn so they can produce more cloth, and the demand for raw material will encourage local farmers to increase flax production." Ellin nodded. "Uncle Henry says it's a shame that more of them don't grow it." "I agree. The new school will open after harvest, and the term will last until the flax sowing beginsOctober to April. To begin, we'll admit up to a dozen girls from this parish, aged eight years to fourteen. They'll work four hours at the wheel, two hours at their lessons. Our scholars will be articled, like apprentices. Those who fulfill their obligation to remain for three seasons will be allowed to keep their spinning wheels." "That's generous," she commented. She looked to Mr. Martin, assuming he would agree, but he merely sipped his drink. "The directors have agreed to certain requirements for a schoolmistress. She must present a certificate of good character from Vicar Cubbon. In

addition to proving her talent for spinning, she should be educated and capable of imparting knowledge to her pupils in English. She'll have her private lodging above the schoolroom. For each pupil she brings us who remains throughout the contracted period, she receives a monetary bonus." Mr. Martin spoke up. "You might find a woman to teach spinning, and another with learning enough to instruct the bairns. But you'll never find one person who can do both." "I'm pleased to say that I have: Miss Fayle." "A fine spinner, certainly. But too young to teach." Mr. Martin's tone was challenging. Ignoring him, Kerr told Ellin, "The position is yours." "I didn't realize the school would open this year," she said. "Or that I must live away from my family to work there. I'm not sure Grandmother can manage without me." "Your salary will enable you to hire a servant," he countered. Mr. Martin, his expression grim, swirled the ale in his tankard. "Lord Garvain, you should find a widow or a weaver's wife to serve as mistress." When the baron's amused gray eyes met Ellin's, she had to wonder what construction he'd put on the word "mistress." "Miss Fayle is my best and only choice." "Even if she accepts the position, she's not likely to keep it for the full term-if as long. You'll have to find someone else when she marries." Why did everyone suppose she was on the verge of being wed? First Mr. Standish, who assumed the factor was her suitor, and now the man himself. Unable to publicly state her disinclination to become his wife, she could only say, "I'm not promised to anyone." "A good thing." Kerr rose, giving her another of his rare smiles. "If you were, I'd have to chase the fellow off the island. I'm that determined to have you." He wasn't merely teasing. Mr. Martin might be unaware of those undercurrents of meaning in his lordship's comments, but to Ellin they were clear. His possessiveness was not that of a prospective employer; it was also personal. Be careful what you wish for. Calybrid often repeated the maxim, and now she understood its meaning as never before. She remembered a book the baron had included with his sister's novels, in plain covers and without any lettering on the front or the spine. Curiously, almost prophetically, it had first fallen open at Chapter Four, which bore the description, Of Virginity; what it is; how it may be known; by what means it may be lost; and how a person may know that it is so. Ellin suspected his gift, as much as his kisses, proclaimed the amorous intentions which the charmer had previously foretold. Chapter 9

Those places a woman adores to have touched up, don't let any feeling of shame prevent you, go right in. You'll see that tremulous glint in her eyes, like the dazzle of sunlight on a lake. OVID, THE ART OF LOVE

Intending to settle the matter of the spinning school, Kerr returned to Boayl Fea later in the week. Leaving his mill office, he crossed the road just as Marriot Fayle, wielding her broom, emerged from the outbuilding that lodged travellers, vagrants, or drunkards who required a bed for the night. Ellin, she reported, had gone down to the beach to gather limpets. "It's Good Friday tomorrow, and my husband must have his barnee for breakfast." "I wondered whether she'd made up her mind about accepting the position of schoolmistress?" Concern settled over Marriot Fayle's comely but careworn face. "If anyone knows, it's Calybrid Teare." "I want to assure you that the directors of the Manx Linen Company will provide a servant to assist you and your mother, in the months your niece is living at the school." "We want no charity," she answered severely, "nor do we need it. It's not the loss of her labor we mind. My husband and I regard Ellin as our daughter. She's devoted to her grandmother, and we cannot look well on a plan that parts them for much of the year." "Miss Fayle would be very near," he pointed out. "Within walking distance." "Ellin only just turned nineteen last month, yet you would make her responsible for a dozen girlssome barely younger than herself." The woman shook her head. "We think it best to keep her with us for a while yet, Lord Garvain." He was sorry to discover such strong objection to his cherished plan. Winning the support of Ellin's family was essential, and would require considerable effort. His mind was busy as he wandered through the glen, shaded and cooled by graceful alders, green with fern and brightened by yellow kingcups. In a few weeks, the patches of bluebells that thrived in this damp woodland would add another color to the display. Following the river to its outlet at Port Cornaa, he came to the disused building he would convert into the spinning school. Its lower level would be divided to make a workroom and a classroom; the loft, reached from outside by a flight of stone steps, would house the mistress. His mistress. At day's end, her pupils would trudge home to their families, leaving her alone. After dark, he could come down from the heather ridge and climb this rocky stair. She would open the door-he'd

make sure it was freshly painted-and greet him with kisses. He'd take her in his arms and lead her into the bedroom. Or perhaps she would lead him. Often he had dreamed about what they would do to each other. He would delve deep to solve the mysteries of her, skillfully stoking the hot fever of mutual lust until it consumed them. They could spend long, uninterrupted hours alone together, with only her faithful Scadoo to share their privacy. He would encourage her to read to him in that delightfully sweet and soothing voice. For entertainment, he might even tutor her in Latin and Greek. His influence would refine her rough edges. He'd supply money for prettier clothes, and give her a gold necklace to replace the primitive pudding stone she wore strung on a ribbon. Studying the loft, he could imagine a bookcase or two, filled with the volumes he had once treasured. His Manx damask would cover her bed. And their entwined bodies would warm it well. So much in his life had gone wrong lately that he felt entitled to seize some pleasure. And amorous, lighthearted Ellin seemed perfectly willing to provide it. He walked on toward the pebbly beach, bracketed by a hillside of heather and gorse and a grassy slope. It reminded him of a passage from the Aeneid, describing a place where the weary Trojans and their fleet made landfall. In a long recess lies the harbor formed by jutting earth, against which the waves of the ocean are broken . . . on either side vast cliffs . .. the waters all around are calm and still. No Trojans to be found. Only Manxwomen with their children-and their dogs. Striking out for the shoreline, he met several women and their offspring headed homeward with their baskets. Ellin remained behind. Red petticoat tucked up, she waded bare-legged through the water, bending down to gather the shells containing the succulent morsels. Scadoo splashed along beside her. "Queen Dido, of surpassing beauty," he quoted softly. "While rivers run into the sea, while shadows move around the mountains, while heaven feeds the stars, your honor, name, and praise will dwell in me, wherever I reside." He'd lost his reason, obviously. Would his heart go next? Desire pulled him towards her like a tide, strong and relentless. He tugged off his boots and peeled away his stockings. Cold, hard stones, worn smooth by the motion of the sea, shifted and crunched beneath his soles. Stepping into the water, he felt his flesh freeze and go numb. "How can you bear it?" he called out. She laughed. "It's no colder than the water I wash with every morning." "So you suffer to keep your complexion so fine."

"Is it?" "Exceedingly." He ventured a bit farther, clenching his teeth as he entered deeper water. "Your aunt says you've not decided to take on my spinning school." "Not yet." Her tone was apologetic. "If that's why you're here-" "Only partly. All week I've wanted to see you again." What a ridiculously besotted thing to say. And it had come out all wrong. His tone was supposed to be smoothly gallant, not aching and desperate. "Would you-might I-could we go riding together?" he asked in a great rush. "Yernagh, my Irish saddle horse, wants exercise. So does our pony Fannag." She dropped a limpet into her basket. "I must get these barnee home and scrape them out of the shells to be cooked. And collect the eggs for our supper." "Tomorrow?" "I promised to help Uncle Henry mend his nets." "Sunday, then." "On Easter morn I always climb up Snaefell to see the sunrise. And afterward . . ." He recognized her hesitation-her self-protective instinct had asserted itself. She understood exactly what he wanted from her and was unsure whether she was ready to let him have it. This show of reluctance had a powerful effect upon his desire. He was already enchanted; her admiration had acted upon him like a love potion, an aphrodisiac. And he was ever more determined to know her as completely as a man could know a woman. Staring out over the rippling water, he added, "Clear enough to make out the peaks of England. The view from the mountaintop will be even more remarkable. If you let me join your excursion, I won't press you about the school, I promise. We shall talk of other matters." He meant it, yet his interest in conversation was waning; the time for action was drawing near. When he'd departed that faint and distant shore in the smugglers' boat, Kerr hadn't known Ellin Fayle was waiting for him here, a source of delight and fulfillment. Her thick brown braid trailed to her waist, a veritable rope of hair. He tugged it gently, tipping back her head to receive his kiss. The warm and gentle lips made him forget his chilled feet. She pulled away from him, something she'd never done before. "Would you have my family starve?" she asked in mock reproof. "Make yourself useful, y hiarn, and help me gather the limpets." "You'll have to pay. A kiss for every one I find." He bent down to pick up a pointed shell. Adding it to her collection, he bussed her again. "You're shameless." On Sunday, vowed Kerr, he would demonstrate how very shameless he could be.

[break] "Hold tight." Ellin clung to Kerr's hand as he helped her over the rocks. Her carranes dug into the rough earth and dislodged several smaller stones, which went rattling down the ledge. "Haven't we climbed high enough?" "Ta," she panted. Her legs were weary, for they'd left their tethered mounts down below. And she was thirsty. Tied up in her loghtan shawl, with the food she'd brought, was a tin cup. But they must wait for daybreak before seeking a mountain spring; in this darkness it would be too easy to become hopelessly lost. The wind whipped her hair about, for she hadn't taken time to tie it back before meeting the baron and his horses. She chose a piece of ground near a bristly patch of heather and sat down to wait for the spectacle. "No clouds or mist," she said thankfully. "True. But we're in danger of being blown back down the mountainside." Joining her, he pulled a flask from his coat and handed it over. "Here, this will warm you. Ushtey-bio." The whisky seared her throat as it went down. He swallowed some himself, then stuffed it back in his pocket. "Islanders who follow the old ways come to the highlands to greet the sun. What do people in Italy do on Easter Day?" she wondered. "Attend mass. And celebrate. The Venetians are particularly festive; enjoyment is their great talent." "And Londoners?" "They also go to church. During Easter week the playhouses open again, the parks become livelier. At all the grand houses, there will be dinners and parties every evening, and assembly balls." Ellin could picture him at a ball, exquisitely dressed, with a beautiful partner. How the ladies must have admired him. And he them. "Etiquette and propriety rule-in public. In private, people behave as they please. Hypocrisy runs rampant. Garrick and Lavinia warned me how it would be, but I chose not to believe them. I should have." He reached for his flask again and held it to his mouth. "You disliked London?" "Yes and no. I might've liked it better if it had shown a liking for me. I got myself into trouble, you see." "How?" "A woman was my downfall. Many women," he corrected himself. He looked at her with raised brows. "Sure you want the sordid details?" However much she dreaded hearing, she needed to know. "Lady Kitty told me you were courting an heiress." "Lady Felicity Walsingham. Pretty, rich, besieged by suitors. My nonconformity appealed to her, and my arrogance. And the fact that I wasn't someone

she'd known all her life. Unlike her parents, she was unconcerned by my lack of fortune. She encouraged me, she flirted with me. Quite an impressive conquest. I was damned pleased with myself." Discomfited by the direction his tale was taking, Ellin was no longer so sure she should hear it through. "Felicity and I met at social events, for the most part, and our intimacies never went beyond holding hands when we danced. For me, that wasn't a satisfactory state of affairs. After all, I'd spent two years among Italian courtesans, who are very-" He paused. "I'm only human. I'm a man. I've got desires." She could appreciate his dilemma. During the weeks since his return, she'd fallen prey to similar desires. At times they were unsettling-alarming, even-but whenever she was near him they exhilarated her. "I knew there'd be no marriage for months and months, not till the season ended. Besides, I hadn't even proposed. I had to do something." He tugged at the stopper of his flask and drank again. "When I was in the mood for fun, I visited the sort of places men go for that particular activity. Like that disreputable house in Douglas-surely you know about it." "A little," Ellin confessed. "For many weeks, I lived a double life. With Felicity, I was ever the perfect gentleman. She was entirely ignorant of where I went and what I did after I left the ballrooms of Mayfair. But my chief rival for her hand and dowry, a regular visitor to the same havens of debauchery, exposed my secret dalliances. Felicity and her parents rejected me, cut me off, and all their friends did the same. Young women were warned to keep away from me. I was reviled: labelled a rogue, a libertine, a seducer. And that silly, spiteful chit wed the same blackguard who denounced me to her, whose exploits in the brothels were no different from mine." "Did you care for her?" He shrugged. "It wouldn't have been a love match. I was more concerned with the material advantages of matrimony." Ellin rejoiced to learn that his heart was whole, free of any prior claim. "For a while I lived up to my notoriety. I haunted theatre green rooms and the opera house pit. It made me feel better, all those play actresses and dancers throwing themselves at me. Amazingly, my attentions were sought by a fair number of aristocratic ladies-they wouldn't invite me to their parties, but they were quick to let me know when their husbands would be away from home. I had an extensive collection of perfumed notes." The cynical twist of his mouth broadened into a grin. "If I'd had a taste for blackmail, I'd be a richer man now. The new Casanova, people called me-most inaccurately. In Venice I'd met plenty of his ac-

quaintances, and no experience of mine could match the most mundane of the tales they told about him. Nor did I wish to emulate his career. I preferred philosophy to philandering." Ellin had never heard anyone speak so frankly about relations between men and women. It made her feel oddly excited. "More whisky?" Giving her the flask, he went on, "All the while, I was forming my plans for the mill, consulting linen merchants. And then I came home." A long silence followed. Even the wind subsided. "You must think me a wicked fellow." She shook her head. "It's nothing to me, how you behaved in London. But I'm glad to know that you haven't got a sweethard." "I want one. Very much." He leaned closer. "I'm losing sleep over you, Ellin Fayle. I neglect my work, thinking about you. Can you guess why?" "Because you're a man," she answered softly, repeating his earlier statement. "Perhaps you should go to that house in Douglas." "I could," he agreed. "But you'd rather I didn't. Because you want me just as much as I want you. And I can think of no reason why either of us should hide our true feelings-or our desires." Hidden in her pocket was the vial containing her love charm. His words convinced her that she needed it no more, and an onslaught of kisses made her forget about it altogether. "Show me that you feel the same about me." She tried, with her lips. Just as he did, she used her tongue to explore the warm, wet cavern of his mouth, flavored by the whisky. She breathed in the scent of him, a mix of shaving soap and wood smoke and saddlery. Love as she knew it was a simple, natural emotion, flowing from the heart. What she felt now was the most primitive form of need, terrifying in its intensity and complexity. It affected every part of her. Her face felt flushed. Her head was humming, her pulse beat erratically. Her fingers tensed, curling upon his shoulders. Tossed about by a gale of desire, her only protection was the one who had summoned the storm. He eased her to the ground. Placing his mouth near her ear, he said in a husky voice, "Let me pleasure you." He loosed the ribbons holding her bodice together, then he was tugging at her shift. Her mouth fell open, releasing little gasps as he caressed her bared flesh. Pleasure-dy jarroo, that's exactly what it was. He looked yearningly into her eyes, still cupping her breast, his thumb teasing her nipple. Before she could accustom herself to the tingling this evoked, his mouth replaced his fingers, and he suckled her until she thought she was going to burst into flames. She felt his fists pushing at her petticoats, moving them out of the way. His hands toyed with her gar-

ters, tugged her stockings down to caress her legs. He stroked her thighs and daringly touched her"Oh," she cried. "We've waited too long," he muttered between kisses. I've spent an eternity waiting, thought Ellin. For you. For this. His fingers deftly probed and parted her. They found a spot so sensitive that her entire body trembled. From this hidden center of her desire, waves of heat radiated outward through all her limbs. When he moved his hand away, she made a mournful sound of regret. As he loomed over her, she became aware of his jutting bwoid. His hand was on her again, separating and dividing her. She was ready, yearning for him to come inside-and he did. She surrendered herself to the pleasurable pain of his entry when suddenly his body tensed and stilled, as if gathering strength. He pressed deeper, filling and stretching, and she uttered a strangled cry. "Streih Mam," she whispered, twining her arms around his neck. He drew a long, ragged breath before saying, "I'm sorry. Oh, Ellin, Ellin, I never guessed-" His mouth covered hers. His hips began to drive against her, gently easing in and drawing away. She tightened her hold on his, clinging hard. Her lover was as solid as the mountain beneath them, wilder than the wind blowing over their joined bodies, fiercer than a falcon. To be possessed by him was the purest and most elemental joy she could ever know. She hoped it would go on forever. With increased vigor, his hardness surged into her, until his entire frame shuddered and stilled. He moaned against her neck, and lower down, where they were joined, she was aware of a pulsing warmth. Opening her eyes, she saw the sky above, colored in the blue-gray hues of dawn. "Ta'n ghrian girree," she said contentedly. "The sun is rising." Chapter 10 No pleasure is in itself evil, but the things which produce certain pleasures entail annoyances many times greater than the pleasures themselves. EPICURUS, PRINCIPAL DOCTRINES A

A virgin. Kerr found additional proof, not that he needed any, marking the hem of his shirt. None of Ellin's admirers had initiated her. That honor was his, and he was glad-it bound him to her in a unique and wondrous way. Yet if he'd known beforehand, he could have been a more considerate lover. He'd promised to pleasure her, only to discover that her inexperience was a barrier to her full

enjoyment of the act. Because her face was turned away from him, he couldn't read it. "No tears, I hope," he said softly. "Did you suffer greatly?" When she looked at him, her smile lightened his conscience. "Less than I expected." "You had expectations? How flattering." He kissed her brow. "When I went to the ben-obbee, she told me-" She hesitated. "What?" Ill "Many things. She can predict future happenings. That's why I studied the little book you gave me, to prepare myself." "A book? Which one?" "It's written by Aristotle, and describes the secret parts of men and women, and the act of love. And so much more." "Not Aristotle's Masterpiece?" Her forehead brushed his coat lapel as she nodded. "A misleading title, for I assure you the great philosopher did not compose it. In fact, it first appeared as recently as the last century and has been reprinted many times since. Immensely popular-hardly surprising, given its subject matter. In my misspent youth I bought it on the sly, and hid it among my classics. I'd completely forgotten about it. A very naughty book, my veen." "Why? I don't see what's wrong with reading about what everyone longs to do. And eventually will." He laughed. "A practical view. I don't fault you for your curiosity, or your willingness to learn. But when you set up your school, lock Aristotle's Masterpiece away. If one of your pupils should find it, you'll be in a devil of a mess!" Up came her smiling face. "I'll be careful," she promised. She retied her garters and pulled her skirts down over her stockings. She looked up at him, green eyes sparkling. "We might be able to see all six kingdoms, now the sun is up." "I can see but four," Kerr replied. "Scotland to the northeast, England and Wales to the south. And Ireland on the western horizon." "You've forgotten the two loveliest." She spread her arms wide, and gazed across the expanse of mountainous terrain. "Our Isle of Man." Then she pointed skyward. "And the kingdom of Heaven." The forceful breeze fanned her long brown hair. She was so naturally lovely, thoroughly Manx, and free of any artifice. With her, he was happy. Her adoration of him was impossible to resist, not that he'd tried very hard. She cared for him, not his title or position. She wasn't greedy; he couldn't imagine her demanding money and presents. With so many interests of her own, she wouldn't interfere in his work. In retrospect, his many courtesans and actresses and opera girls seemed flashy and shallow. Ravish-

ing, all of them, but none had possessed Ellin's winning personality, her intelligence, or her thirst for knowledge. For four years he'd roamed in search of fulfillment, only to find it here on his native island. The person most necessary to his wellbeing was a girl he'd always known but never much noticed. His heartbeat still raced from their coupling, and already he looked forward to a repetition-in a more civilized setting. Preferably a comfortable bed. Traa-di-looar, he told himself. Time enough. All the time in the world. They began their descent, leaving Snaefell's steep and barren terrain for the gentler, greener hills below. They retrieved their horses from the meadow and continued their journey toward the glen. From the distant village came the festive tolling of the Maughold church bell, drawing parishioners to Easter service. When they came to a ruined tholtan shaded by an elder tree, Kerr caught her pony's reins and forced a halt. "Better that we part here, and go our separate ways." He climbed down from Yernagh, and helped Ellin to dismount, saying, "But first, I've a favor to ask. I want you to consider all the advantages of becoming schoolmistress." "So I have done-constantly. But my family prefer that I remain at Boayl Fea," she told him. "If I did, your mill directors wouldn't have the added expense of feeding and housing me." "But it would inconvenience the mill manager. Hasn't it occurred to you why I want you living at the school?" Giving her no chance to reply, he said, "So I can be with you. Morning or day or night. Especially night." Taking her hand, he folded his long fingers among her shorter ones. "How often will you want to-" She blushed adorably. "To be with you? Whenever I'm at leisure, and you're willing." He swung their twined hands back and forth. "I'm thinking I should arrange for the teacher's private chamber to be prepared at once. We could meet there any time we wish. Doesn't that appeal to you, my veen?" "Ta." "Then you'll accept the position?" "And the lodging." He pressed a kiss on her knuckles. While leading their horses across the meadow, he detected a change in her. The light in her eyes had vanished, and her face had lost color. He wondered if she regretted her decision, until he caught her glancing warily at the ruin. "No one's there to see us," he assured her. "That house has been abandoned ever since I can remember." "It's haunted," she told him solemnly. "By a buggane." "He must be hiding from us." Cupping a hand

over his mouth, he shouted, "Show yourself!" "Quiet," she begged, grasping his sleeve. He broke away from her and loped off toward the derelict building. "Y hiarn," she called, "stay here." He ignored her frantic plea. "Kerr, don't go inside!" The roofless house was surprisingly large-the distance from wall to wall was greater than he'd expected. One support beam, charred by fire, had fallen onto the stone-paved floor. The hearth was intact, but its stones were weathered from long exposure to wind and rain. An iron chain with a hook dangled over it, thick with rust. Ellin's horrified face appeared in the gaping space where a window should be. "Come out, it's dangerous in there." She vanished as quickly as she'd appeared. His curiosity satisfied, he left the house. She waited for him beneath the overhanging branches of the elder. "I survived. No buggane to be seen," "You can't always see him. Calybrid says-" "Never mind what she says," he interrupted. "Your friend has stuffed your pretty head with her superstitious nonsense." Seizing her hand again, he led her back to the house. "I'll show you, there's nothing to fear." She froze. "Don't make me go in." Her terror was very real, and she appeared to be on the verge of tears. "I'd never make you do anything you didn't want to do," he declared, and swept her into a consoling embrace. "You're safe here, in my armsfrom the ghost and the witches. From everything and everyone. Except myself." "I don't fear you," she answered, with a smile that heated his blood. One saucy glance, and he wanted her again. He kissed her hard, hungrily. Buckling his knees, he carried her down to the soft grass shaded by the tratnman branches. "Ellin, Ellin," he panted. "What have you done to me? I can't get enough of you; I'm completely and hopelessly spellbound." Desperately he fumbled with her bodice fastenings. He freed her breasts and filled his hands with their warm, delicious weight. Creamy skin, tipped with rose-beautiful to gaze upon, to touch, to taste. She tugged her skirts up, baring herself. She was as eager to couple as he. So hot and wet, and exquisitely snug. Pressing into her with slow deliberation, he stared down at her rapt face. She shifted beneath him, raising her hips, and he very nearly lost control. They fit together as if created for that purpose. "Lie still," he begged. He couldn't let this end with a sudden burst of pleasure for him, and nothing for her. Gratifying her was an ambition unful-

filled-not for long, he vowed. He withdrew, ever so slowly, and swiftly returned. He varied the strength and tempo of his thrusts, fondling her as he moved, and was rewarded by her moans of desperation. Surprisingly little effort was needed to bring her to the brink of release-and a good thing, for each soft whimper made him ever more desperate for his own. He heard her startled cry of discovery, felt the fluttering contractions where he was embedded. Within an instant he shared the ecstasy, excruciatingly intense. What had he ever done to receive such a reward as this? He didn't know, he didn't care, but he was glad of it. He studied her elfin face. Her eyelids were closed, her smile was dreamy. When he whispered her name, she failed to respond. Asleep. Without bothering to cover himself, he rolled onto his back and studied the cloudless blue sky. A calm had descended upon him in the wake of his triumph; depleted and contented, he felt entirely relaxed. He envisioned a delightful future of testing the limits of his endurance and her responses. "What have you done to her?" The voice was loud and deep, and for a moment Kerr believed in Ellin's buggane. He leaped to his feet, pulling up his smalls and his breeches. Finlo Standish stood a few yards away. He had a whip, and looked as though he meant to use it. "Is this how you disport yourself on a high holy day, Lord Garvain?" A flush of chagrin swept from his forehead all the way down to the soles of his feet. Ellin bobbed up like a marionette. With wide, fearful eyes, she stared at the intruder, struggling to hold her bodice together. Kerr hooked a protective arm around her. Standish stalked forward to separate them, dragging the girl away. "Don't worry, child, he'll not harm you again-I'll make sure of that." Rounding on Kerr, he added viciously, "I've never been so mistaken in a man's character in all my life. You deserve to be flayed to ribbons!" Ellin, taking the threat seriously, snatched at his whip. "No! I won't let you hurt him!" The big man told her sadly, "I wish I knew how to help you, but I can't. You must go to your mother." "She has none," said Kerr. "She's an orphan." Ignoring him, Standish said to Ellin, "You need a woman. Find Calybrid Teare, she'll brew a posset for you. Her magic is worthless, but her medicine is sound." "I'll take her myself." "Not looking like that, you won't," Standish objected. "Those bloodstains on your shirt bear witness to your crime against her."

Kerr hastily stuffed his shirttails into his breeches. "He didn't force me," Ellin defended him. "Don't make excuses; he doesn't deserve them. Did he threaten you with reprisals if you dared to speak out?" "No, sir." "I'll take you home in my gig." "I prefer to go alone," she said, her quiet pride a contrast to the tangled hair and disarranged clothing. Kerr was furious, mostly with himself, for his recklessness had thrust them into a situation far more damaging to her than him. Aching to apologize, and offer whatever comfort he could, he chased after her. "Stay!" Standish barked. "I've not done talking to you." He whirled around. "Leave us alone. You've done harm enough." "Not as much as you," the other man said grimly. "Seducing that innocent creature was a heartless act. Have you no shame?" "My only regret is being in the wrong place at the wrong time, doing something you disapprove of." Standish's struggle to repress his rage showed in his reddened face and the knotted muscles of his thick neck. Striding past him, Kerr went to fetch the horses. Being found out by Finlo Standish, of all people, was devastatingly bad luck. He'd hoped to persuade his father's rich tenant to invest in the linen mill-a lost cause now. Worse, if Standish told tales, Ellin would suffer. So might he, for the older man had jumped to the conclusion that he'd committed a rape. Tomorrow he'd go to Castle Cashin. No point trying to explain the situation now; Standish wouldn't listen until after he'd calmed down a bit. But explain he must. The last thing Kerr wanted or needed was speculation and gossip about his sexual appetites, and a repetition of the scandal he'd endured when living in London. [break] Kerr's dozing parents were roused by the thunderous knocks upon their front door. "Who can want us at this hour?" the countess wondered muzzily, and gathered up the linen she'd been embroidering before she dropped off to sleep. The earl responded with a gruff, unintelligible mutter. He heaved himself out of his armchair. Kerr, abandoning his account books, picked up the branch of candles from his worktable and followed him to the door. "Standish! What the devil brings you to Dreeym Freoaie?" The earl's tone was one of mingled outrage and suspicion. "At night," he added significantly.

"My apologies for the disturbance, Lord Ballacraine. I must speak with your son-in private. Now." Here's trouble, thought Kerr. "With my son? What business can you possibly have with him?" "It's all right, Father," he said. "I know what this is about." He ushered his visitor into the dining room and closed the door behind them. Placing the candelabrum on the table, he said, "I intended to call upon you tomorrow." In the dim, flickering light, the other man loomed large, and his flowing black cloak exaggerated his ominous appearance. "In the hours since I last saw you, I've made inquiries about Miss Fayle. The more I learn, the more appalled I am by your treatment of her." "It wasn't so dreadful as you suppose. We were careless, and shouldn't have initiated our-our liaison when and where we did. But what's done is done." Standish's rusty brows swept down in a quelling frown. "Spare your breath, Lord Garvain. The object of your tawdry gallantries is, by Norris Martin's account, a virtuous young woman whose aptitude for learning is quite remarkable. Her uncle and aunt were described to me as thoroughly respectable. So was Miss Fayle, before you ruined her." The broad chest expanded, the shadowed face expressed resolution. "You'll have to marry her." The stern pronouncement stunned Kerr into silence. Making a quick recovery, he said coolly, "That is not my intention." "I'm quite sure it isn't. I'm here to point out to you that you've brought dishonor on the lass and her family. I daresay if you'd remained in London, my friend Martin would've wed her, or that sergeant who was courting her before his commanding officer gated him." "I doubt it. Not only is she poor, she's baseborn." In his loftiest manner, he added, "I cannot speak for those gentlemen, but for me these facts are impediments to matrimony." "I wonder whether your lordship's parents will share that opinion, when they learn what you've done." They probably wouldn't, Kerr reflected. In situations like this, people usually championed the female. He'd experienced this same sinking feeling years ago, during a youthful cross-country ramble. The seemingly solid earth beneath his boots turned out to be bogland, wet and soggy and hazardous. "You didn't tell them, did you?" "A gentleman doesn't openly discuss his mistress with members of his family." "Don't flatter yourself-you're no gentleman. They'll find that out soon enough. So will this whole island."

"I daresay. However, that's my problem, not yours." "You think not? Mark my words, this liaison, as you call it, will destroy you both. Martin says you intend to employ her at your spinning school. Methodism is on the rise in all our parishes. Most of the Irish linen workers who fled the troubles in their own country are staunchly Catholic. Much is forgiven here on our isle, but no conscientious parents would ever send their daughters to be schooled by an immoral female. Or let them work at a mill whose manager is a notorious seducer. Eventually, this year or next, there'll be tangible proof of Miss Fayle's disgrace. If you get her with child, how can she keep her position as schoolmistress?" Kerr shrugged. "I'll take care of her-and any offspring." "Legitimacy is conferred if the parents marry within two years of a birth. If she bears a son-a possible heir to your father's title and propertieswould you wed her then?" After a brief consideration, Kerr replied frankly, "I can't afford to marry a penniless, dowerless girl." "I'll dower her myself, if necessary." "Sir, my personal affairs are no concern of yours," Kerr declared angrily. "They are now. You Cashins may look down on me as a money-grubbing vulgarian. You take great pride in that meaningless title your smuggling ancestor purchased from an English king. But a century ago-two centuries-there was little difference between your lot and the rest of the Manx people." Kerr wished he could knock that disdainful expression from the other man's florid face. "You're forgetting the barony and the staff lands. They've belonged to the family far longer." "I don't care about your lineage, Lord Garvain, or your ancestral properties. I want to know whether you are a man of conscience-of honor. As yet, I've seen scant evidence of it. The Fayle girl loves you. Sadly, she's too young to realize how greatly she will suffer for it. And I can't stand idly by while your selfishness and pride and poor judgment break her heart." Kerr had taken more criticism than he could stand. "I'll not be commanded to marry anyone," he said roughly. "I can bring you down, make you the most hated person on this isle. And Ellin Fayle the most pitied." "If you spread gossip, you'll harm her more than I-" Stunned that he'd very nearly admitted his accuser was right, he said coldly, "Be gone, Standish. I've had enough of your damned interference." "And I of your arrogance," Standish retorted, moving to the door. "I'll leave you to reflect. But

we'll discuss this matter again. Very soon, I assure you." The instant he was alone, Kerr sat down in the nearest chair. Elbows on knees, head in hands, he wallowed in his dejection. He could see no easy way out of this tangle. None of his miserably few options appealed to him. "What did that mooidjean want?" Looking up, he saw his parents-one wrathful, the other worried. "Revenge," he answered dully. "He's more than a blackguard, he's a blackmailer. This afternoon he caught me and Ellin Fayle together, and he means to make as much trouble out of it as he can. She's blameless. I'm not. I'm going to marry her," he blurted. "I must." "Oh, Kerron, how could you?" said his mother, deeply distressed. In a softer tone, she added, "Poor child." The earl marched decisively into the room. "Did Standish set a trap, using her as bait? He'd gladly bring about our downfall-not that we have much farther to go before bitting bottom," he observed bitterly. "There was no collusion between them. Ellin is not at fault." "He seeks to destroy us by blackening your reputation." "He can't, not if I marry her." "Don't decide your future in haste, Kerr. The situation may not be so grave as it now appears." "Quiet, John. He's made his choice. We shall accept it." "In the morning," Kerr told them wearily, "I'll go to Bishopscourt for a license. There's no time for banns. The honor of the Cashins is at stake, and with it the future of our linen mill. I didn't tell you, Father, knowing how you hate him, but Standish knows of my efforts to produce and sell printed linens." "How?" "I told him myself, hoping he might invest in the mill. I regret revealing so much. As you say, he can't be trusted." Said his father heavily, "Your doings in London were bad enough-now an intrigue with the Fayle girl. The tavernkeeper's bastard niece, not a shilling to call her own! I can't rejoice over this marriage, it's not what I wanted for you. If you were mad in love, I'd raise no objection. But it's clear that you're not." Kerr gave a lopsided smile. "Remember, she was Kitty's friend." "And you're fond of her," his mother prompted. "If I weren't, I wouldn't have-courted her. I'm no rakehell." In England he'd deserved that reputation, but not here. With forced cheerfulness, she said, "I've got a lovely cambric put away, and quite a lot of my dear mother's lace. If Joney and Catreeney and I begin at once, we can sew a bride's gown before the week

is out." By which time, thought Kerr, she'd be positively enthusiastic about this match. But Father never would be. At least, he reminded himself, he could look forward to his wedding night, to escape his present feeling of wretchedness and entrapment. He'd share a proper bed with Ellin far sooner than he'd expected. Chapter 11 Nagh nhare shin foddey ve poost, ve poost, Na taggloo smessey ve j'yn? Is it not better to be married, be married, Than to have worse talk about us? MANX FOLK SONG [break] This morning couldn't be better for the sowing, Ellin observed, for yesterday's blustery wind had dried out the well-harrowed fields. After Uncle Henry gathered up one fistful of soil and crumbled it between his fingers, he'd promptly sent for Calybrid. The ben-obbee had marched around the perimeter of each plot, reciting a benediction that would guard the crop from evil spirits and foraging sparrows. Too few day-laborers had turned up, so she and Aunt Marriot were working. Like the other women stretched in a line across the tilled earth, she clutched a bulging apron with one hand and dipped inside it for seeds to scatter. Five acres to plant, two and a quarter bushels of seed per acre. With a long and tiring day ahead of her, Ellin was already conscious of a slight ache at the base of her spine-from rolling about with Kenon the hard ground-and a lingering soreness between her legs. As yet her family knew nothing of what had occurred yesterday, or the changes that would come of it. She was in no hurry to enlighten them. What her mother had been, so would she become. What she was, her children would be also. There had only ever been one possible relationship with the man she loved, and she had agreed to it. Shirragh, his family called him-the wild falcon. She would gentle him, and help him bring prosperity to their glen. And I never even fed him that pishag, she thought, reaching into her apron for another handful of seed. She'd reached the boundary hedge and was about to reverse direction when she saw her lover come riding up the hillside on Yernagh. As she watched him dismount, her heart swelled with affection and pride, and a heady sense of possessiveness. With careless haste, she cast away the rest of the seed and flapped her long pinafore to remove the debris. She smoothed her skirts and straightened her linen bonnet. With all the witnesses about, she curbed her impulse to fling herself into his

arms, and waited impatiently for his stride to bring him to her. "I didn't think I'd see you so soon," she said. "After the way we parted?" "I've tried to think how we might appease Mr. Standish. People speak ill of him, Calybrid especially. But I believe he's a fair man. If I visit the castle and explain to him how-" "You can't," he told her briskly. "Trust me, it wouldn't help. In future, you must keep your distance from Finlo Standish. Do you understand?" Not at all, any more than she'd understood the identical warnings voiced by her friend. "You dislike him, but you don't say why." "At my sister's funeral, he made a gesture of friendship. I responded-I even confided in himnever guessing he'd seek to harm me and my family. By maligning us, sharing our secrects, he can impede our ability to conduct business. If the mill fails, Father will have to sell the barony lands and the staff lands-and Castle Cashin." "And Mr. Standish is the only man rich enough to buy." She was beginning to appreciate the Cashins' mistrust. His frown was replaced by a grim little smile. "Happily for us, Lavinia's husband recently inherited one of the largest fortunes in England. Garrick would intervene, I'm sure, to keep the property in the family." "Then you've no cause for concern," Ellin pointed out. "Nothing, not even the Armitage wealth, can prevent his making trouble for us. That's why we must-" He uttered a strange laugh, saying, "Never mind about Standish. Give me your hands." When she responded, he clasped them tightly. "I'm about to do something I've never done and I fear I shall do it badly. Ellin Fayle, will you be my wife?" Lesh yn arryltys smoo. That answer was already written on her heart. Her fingers trembled against his, but her voice was steady when she said it aloud. "Most willingly." Ta graih orrym, she exulted. I'm loved. Calybrid had foretold that, but not matrimony. Whether the unacknowledged wish of her heart had come to her magically or miraculously, Ellin did not know. "Yesterday you meant to be my fer-coadee, my protector. Now you wish to be my husband." "I do. So much that I've got the marriage license with both our names writ upon it, signed and sealed by Claudius Crigan, Bishop of Sodor and Man. My mother is ready to measure you for a bridal dress." His glance veered sharply away, and silently he surveyed the row of women working at the edge of the field. "We'll marry this week." "So soon?" "Name the day." "Tuesday and Thursday are luckiest," she replied.

"Tomorrow won't do, not with the dressmaking and other preparations. Thursday it is." In three days, she would be his wife. It didn't seem possible. "The earl and countess-do they approve? They expect you to choose someone like that Lady Felicity you talked of yesterday." "They'll be kind," he assured her. "Your devotion to Kitty won their affection and their gratitude." Tugging on her hands, he pulled her closer. "I realize your family want to keep you here at Boayl Fea. But after our wedding, I'll have to insist that you come to live with me." She smiled up at him. "So I should hope!" Leading her behind the hedge, he bestowed the sort of kiss that scattered her thoughts. "Shall I speak to your uncle now, or is he too preoccupied with sowing his crop?" "Ta, let's tell-it will cheer him up. He's cross about the laborers failing to show." "So am I." With mock sternness, he added, "I can't approve of the future Lady Garvain toiling in the fields." "That sounds like someone else altogether, not me at all. I shall be a long time getting used to a title." "I'm sure Lavinia said much the same when she found out she was Duchess of Halford. Just think, Ellin, you'll be sister to a duke and a duchess." "And wouldn't they be surprised," she replied merrily, "if they could see their new relation-the flax-sower?" "No more work for you. Mother wants you at Dreeym Freoaie. She's already chosen the materials for your wedding finery. A pity you can't be wed wearing one of my Manx prints. The heather sprig would suit you well. Or a Manx toile." "That's the French word her ladyship used for her drawings! Toile. What does it mean?" "It's a French-made fabric, Toile de Jouy, patterned all over with people and scenery, and used to cover furniture and windows and walls. Your image appears in many of Kitty's designs-spinning and dancing and driving sheep with Scadoo. In her illustrations of the Aeneid, you're the model for Queen Dido and I for Aeneas." "Their love didn't end happily," she remembered. "I mean to make you happy," he responded quietly. "My wicked ways and my sins you already know. My faults are infinite, as you'll soon discover. But I'm faithful to my promises." From his somber tone and face, she perceived that one of his dark moods was settling over him, like a heavy gray cloud spreading itself across Snaefell's peak. "I trust you," she declared. "With my heart and my life." For an instant, his expression became even more tortured. But before she could ask the reason, his kisses chased the question out of her mind.

[break] "He's determined to have her," Marriot Fayle declared, basting the joint suspended over the open fire. "And she's not sure if she's on her head or her heels, she's that joyful." A wedding. Calybrid pressed her lips together to trap a cry of glee. Conquering her emotion, she managed to say, "I've not seen Ellin this week. The young lord must claim all her attention." From her customary place by the fire, Mrs. Moore said placidly, "She never told me in words, but I knew she yearned after him." Scraping the skin from another potato, she said, "I've heard it in her voice, these many years, whenever she spoke his name." "But Mother, she hasn't considered what this means. She's marrying a Cashin-the earl's heir." "Proud, they are," Calybrid acknowledged. "Driven by ambition. And this one holds a darkness deep within him." "If Countess Mooar were alive, she wouldn't permit him to wed our girl." "Do not forget, Marriot," said her mother, "that her ladyship was a friend to me-to all of uswhen we needed one." "What do Lord and Lady Ballacraine say?" Calybrid inquired. "Their son gets his way, so he must have won them over," Marriot answered. "Soon as Ellin told Henry, he dressed himself fine in his Sunday suit and marched over to Dreeym Freoaie. It's not like him to put himself forward, but he didn't approve of these young people arranging matters their own way. Between them, he and the earl made a proper marriage contract. There's to be a wedding at Maughold Church day after tomorrow, and a great feasting here afterward. So many fowls to pluck and roast, puddings and cakes to make-how shall we manage in time?" The door swung open and in walked Ellin, with the dog. "Calybrid!" she cried joyously. "Have you heard?" "Dy-jarroo, ennoil. Come to me!" As she embraced the girl, she whispered, "My pishag had great power, did it not?" "I never gave it to him. The one I drank from your silver cup made him love me." "That dram wasn't strong enough to bring about marriage," said Calybrid. She sensed that something was amiss here, but when she confronted those glowing cheeks and shining eyes, she made no mention of her concern. Ellin's love for the young lord had brought changes. She'd neither sought Calybrid's counsel before accepting him, nor had she run to the cottage to declare her engagement. That hurt, more than she cared to admit. Don't cling too hard, she warned herself. She'd miss Ellin's companionship, but she knew

her days were going to be full. There was John Teare, who must be trained in the ways of charming. She had her garden to tend, wild plants to gather, her medicines to make. Looking back at a whole cycle of disaster that had ended with tragedy, she preferred to let the future take care of itself. Ellin was a woman grown, not the helpless, needy child she'd taken into her heart. She had the right to choose her own path freely, unhampered by a past that had never been fully explained to her. Calybrid would lend support when asked for it, but she mustn't interfere. Scadoo placed her head in Calybrid's lap, as if in comfort. Stroking the glossy black fur, she asked, "And where will the baron and his bride be living?" "At Dreeym Freaoie," Ellin answered sunnily. "The earl agrees to settle the property on Kerr in three years, when Mr. Standish's lease of Castle Cashin terminates. He will continue to manage his mill, and I'll oversee the spinning school. And," she added, "visit this house and your cottage whenever I'm able." Calybrid and Marriot each exchanged knowing glances. "You'll be busier than you know," her aunt predicted. "Even before your babes come." Mrs. Moore chuckled. "Is she blushing now?" "Her face is aflame," reported Calybrid. Gently shoving Scadoo out of the way, she went to take a wooden bowl and spoon from an uncharacteristically flustered Marriot, and began to stir the contents. Ellin, untroubled by the good-natured teasing, collected a piece of paper and a goose quill pen. "Where's the ink?" she asked. "Someone in the taproom wanted it," her aunt answered. "So much work, and you're writing love letters." "No, an invitation. I once told Mr. Standish that if I ever married, he might attend my wedding." Calybrid slammed the bowl on the table and went to snatch the paper from Ellin. "He must not." "Can't you set aside your quarrel with him for a single day?" "Never," she said decisively. "Do not ask it of me, ennoil." And don't, she begged silently, ask why. Coming to her rescue, Marriot said, "Your uncle won't want him, either, Ellin. Nor do I. Not in the church, not here afterward." "Scadoo!" scolded Calybrid. All eyes turned to the mongrel. Her long pink tongue was lapping the last of the batter out of the bowl. If the ben-obbee had deliberately conjured this distraction, thought Ellin, she couldn't have chosen a better one. "Naughty girl," she said, grasping the loose skin at the back of the dog's neck and forcing

up her head. "Very bad." "Your bride cake," moaned her aunt. "Now I must begin again." "I'll fetch the eggs," she offered, taking up a basket. She crossed the straid to the pigsty, and climbed the short ladder to the hen loft above. As she leaned inside, the most prolific layer squawked a protest at being flushed from her nest. Flying feathers made Ellin sneeze. While selecting the largest of the brown eggs, a solution to the problem of Mr. Standish presented itself. She'd ask Kerr to invite him-not to the wedding itself, but to the celebration that would follow it. A gesture of goodwill could ease the strife between the Cashins and the tenant of their castle. They Fayles couldn't possibly turn him away, for it would be an insult to her in-laws and a breach of Manx hospitality. "Miss Fayle-be careful!" Looking down, she found a fair-haired gentleman peering up at her, hat in hand. "Have you ever seen a finer day, Mr. Martin?" He seemed taken aback by her query. "I never thought to find you so active after your-your recent ordeal." She popped a final pair of eggs into her basket and backed down the ladder. "I'm not sure what you mean," she declared, when she was on firm ground. "You needn't pretend it didn't happen. Finlo Standish revealed everything to me-he's deeply concerned about you. And I, my dear Miss Fayle, am determined to assist you out of your difficulty." Ellin chafed at being the subject of masculine discussion. And her anger was directed at Mr. Standish, who had no right to publicize the incident at Ballanard. Her desire to have him attend her marriage feast swiftly died. "Miss Fayle-Ellin. To demonstrate my deep regard, and also to preserve your good name, I will marry you." In haste, he added, "Lord Garvain has stolen your virtue. But do not despair-I shall restore your honor." "Mr. Martin, please don't-" "I'll not reproach you for being taken in by his predatory charm. As my wife, you'll be safe from him. No one can slander you-the truth of his villainy need never be exposed." Ellin didn't know whether to laugh or weep. "Your chivalry is-admirable," she managed to say. "But I'm already engaged. His lordship obtained a license from Bishop Crigan, and we'll be wed on Thursday." Attempting a smile, she held up her basket. "These eggs are for my bride cake." Dismay spread across the linen factor's face. "No, no," he protested, "that is not possible. Has that rapist compounded his crime by forcing you to wed him?" "Mr. Standish is mistaken," she declared, "I was

not-" She couldn't utter the fearsome word. "If the baron had treated me so brutally, I would hate him. I couldn't marry him." His head, bowed in sorrow, bobbed up. "The license-he's got one already? You're certain?" "He showed it to me." "With your name written on it?" "Mine and his together-Ellin Fayle and Kerron John Cashin. The bishop signed it." Mr. Martin, unable to contain his agitation, seized her hand. "Don't marry him, I beg you. You can't begin to understand the calamity that will result. Lord Garvain won't suffer. But you willmore than you know. I waited too long, I should've spoken before he came back from England to plague you. But I never guessed he would destroy my hopes. Or your innocence." Bitterly he declared, "He must not go unpunished. And will not." Greatly distressed that her wedding had provoked his spite, Ellin said, "He has wronged neither of us, sir. I'm sorry if it pains you, but I could wed no other man." With a look of utter hopelessness, he said, "When you become Lady Garvain, I shall remain your friend. Remember that." She wanted no friend who was unfriendly toward Kerr. He went around to the tavern entrance, and Ellin carried her eggs back to the thie tnooar, a sanctuary from strife. Plucking the goose, her least favorite task, would seem pleasant compared to her encounter with Norris Martin. Chapter 12 Maynrey fan ven poosee t'an ghrian soilsehan urree. Happy is the bride the sun shines on. MANX PROVERB

The incessant, jarring blare of the horns below Ellin's window sounded beautiful to her ears. It proclaimed to the people of her glen and all the parish that this was her wedding day. Even Scadoo, perched on the low, narrow bedstead they shared each night, must know this was a momentous occasion. The whole house smelled of cooked meats and fish, and there was a constant influx of relatives and friends with contributions of fresh cakes and breads. Lady Ballacraine had sent Joney and Catreeney over from Dreeym Freoaie to help the Fayles lay out the feast. Peering into the smoky, pitted looking-glass Calybrid held up, Ellin was enchanted by her own appearance. Her white cambric gown was the most beautiful she'd ever seen. A layer of patterned lace, intricate as a spider's web, covered the bodice and formed a sheet overskirt. The long, tight-fitted sleeves made her feel like a lady. A corset nipped in her waist, and though it constricted her

breathing somewhat, the fashionable effect was worth the discomfort. "Hold up your head, and keep still," said her grandmother from behind. "Else you'll get a comb across your cheek." The familiar chastisement reminded her that this was the final performance of this ritual. At day's end, she must comb out her hair herself, or have Kerr do it for her. And for this night, and all the ones to follow, her sleeping companion would be a husband, not a dog. "I wish you could go to church with me," she said wistfully. "A long distance to drag these old bones." "You could ride in the cart." "My heart will follow you, child, and my prayers. Calybrid will be my eyes, and afterward she'll describe to me all she sees. When you return to me, a married woman, I shall rejoice with you and welcome your husband." Marriot joined them in Ellin's bedchamber. She so seldom wore her best blue dress and taffeta bonnet that despite their age they remained in a state of remarkable preservation. When she saw Ellin, she had to reach for a handkerchief to blot her tears. "If only your mother had lived to see this day, how proud she'd be. As we all are." "Now, Marriot, don't start the bride a-crying," Calybrid cautioned. "Smiles only on this morning." "Ellin," her grandmother said, "may you and your young lord be happy as Magnus and I were." It was a blessing to treasure. Ellin turned and kissed the withered cheek. "]ean siyr, make haste," Calybrid urged. " Tis time to leave for the church." When Ellin emerged from the house, a great shout went up from the crowd that would escort her. The men blasted away on their horns, louder than before. Members of the Moore family had come on horseback from various parts of the island; the crofters living in her own glen had come on foot. Lord and Lady Ballacraine were surrounded by a contingent of Quayles, her ladyship's relatives, and other prominent individuals from as far away as Douglas and Castletown. Ellin, searching for Kerr, spotted him with Mr. and Mrs. Whaley. Judging by his expression, he was receiving some good-natured teasing. Never had he looked less like a Manxman. His black hair was smoothed back and tied behind with a satin bow, London fashion. His modish clothing became him well. The coat, the color of dark, rich wine, had long tails; his pale breeches fit so perfectly that not a crease could be seen. The buckles of his shoes gleamed in the sunlight, and though they looked like highly polished brass, she suspected they could be real gold. Would he prefer her this way, swathed in white lace and cambric, with a wreath of flowers on her

head? She'd never asked whether she must copy the style worn by his mother and sisters, and the gentlewomen of London. She was accustomed to laplinyn, her comfortable working clothes. Calybrid organized the procession in accordance with tradition. First the fiddler, next the bridemaids paired with the bride-men, who carried osier wands. Ellin joined Uncle Henry and Aunt Marriot, and Scadoo trotted at her side. "Cha row rieau moddey cha firrinagh," her friend observed. "Never was a dog more faithful. The baron gains more than a wife today." Everyone laughed. The Cashins had formed their own group with Kerr at the head of it, flanked by his parents. A long parade of horsemen and pedestrians brought up the rear. Up hill and down they went, following the road to the church. As ever, the castle by the cliffs claimed Ellin's attention. If Finlo Standish was standing at one of his many windows, he'd see the wedding party pass by. More people waited in the churchyard-acquaintances from Ramsey, from Sulby, from Jurby. As they marched around the building the requisite three times, her uncle commented that most of the northern district had turned out to honor Ellin. "Not me," she protested. "They've come because I'm marrying the earl's son, a Cashin." He began to protest, but Calybrid cut him off, saying, "There's truth on both sides." They reached the church door for the last time. Kerr offered his arm to Ellin. Her dog accompanied them down the aisle, and when they paused before the Vicar, she sat down nearby. Relatives and friends entered after them, filling all the available space. The others remained outside. "Dearly beloved," began the Vicar, in English, "we are gathered together here in the sight of God...." For Ellin, the entire service passed like a dream. She heard Kerr speaking, and her own voice giving the responses as directed. Obey, serve, love, honor, keep. Words she'd long associated with the towering, heroic figure beside her. From this day onward she would live by them. Amazingly, miraculously, she was his wedded wife. Arms linked, they passed along the nave and exited from the portals. Exultant cries greeted them, and when Kerr held her hand to his lips, kissing it, the shouts were deafening. The church bell clanged. Donald Brady led Yernagh through the church gate, and she saw festive scarlet ribbons twined in the dark mane. "My baroness mustn't walk all the way back to Boayl Fea," said Kerr in her ear. She was Lady Garvain. So strange to possess a title, she thought, when her surname was borrowed

and her father's identity was a mystery to her. Kerr mounted his horse before her, and the weaver lifted her up to sit on a little pad behind the saddle. She wrapped her arms securely around her husband's waist, and they set off at a swift pace. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw Scadoo hurtling after them. Ears flattened, pink tongue lolling, her long white-stockinged legs mimicked the horse's canter. "Hold on," said Kerr. The breeze ripped the floral wreath from her hair. Clinging to him with all her might, she pressed her cheek against his back. The wool of his beautiful wine-colored coat was smoother and finer than any made on this island. Kerr felt the pressure of Ellin's head against his shoulder. They were bound together, permanently and eternally, each responsible for the other's comfort and contentment. Satisfying this lighthearted, optimistic girl would not, he felt, be so difficult. Eager to please, free of bitterness, never falling into a sour mood-he knew only her best points, not her flaws. As far as he could tell, she was his opposite in temperament and would serve as a counter-balance. He had vowed never to speak disparagingly of her questionable pedigree and tavern upbringing, but he was determined to mold her into a lady and eradicate her countrified ways. Drawing back the reins, he slowed his mount for the steep descent to the glen. He halted in the middle of the bridge, and flung out his arm. "Look, Ellin. Glion Cornaa. The mill valley, stretching from here to the sea." And far across the water lay England. Soon, he would have to go back. The Bannister Hall printing works had reported the completion of his order; Mr. Slack of Salford had finished a selection of Manx toiles. He needed to take his fabrics to London and show them to the tradesmen who sold such items in their wellstocked shops and warehouses. Yernagh carried them to the farm straid. Ellin slid to the ground, and when Kerr dismounted, she gripped his hand and towed him toward the house, saying, "Come, Grandmother is waiting for us." Mrs. Moore sat in her chair, hands folded in her lap. Her head lifted as they entered. "You've come back." Ellin went over for an embrace. And as her questing fingers roamed the girl's rosy face, she smiled. Her vacant eyes, a pale green, reminded Kerr of Ellin's in spite of their lifelessness. He'd been accustomed to Countess Mooar's sharp and piercing glare-missing nothing, dissatisfied with everything. Beneath Mrs. Moore's simple black dress was a kind and loving heart. She was generous enough to welcome him, and to conceal her regret at losing Ellin's companionship. His own grandmother, peevish and self-centered, would have made no secret

of her true feelings. His parents, travelling by carriage, brought the vicar with them; the Fayles returned in a cart, with Calybrid Teare. Well-wishers arrived in droves. Ale flowed, and a variety of wines. The tavern-keeper placed one of his largest kegs on the edge of the stone bridge, so strangers and passers-by might share in the celebrations. When Kerr saw the many fowls lined upon the long tables-goose, duck, capon, partridge, grouse-he knew that the multitude of guests would not go home hungry. Ellin's reverential study of the tarts and puddings made him suspect she had a fancy for sweet things. Wouldn't she enjoy Kelsey's in Bond Street, he thought, with its vast array of rich creams and sugarplums and fruit ices? On the tail of that realization came a new one. When he took his Manx linen to London, he could also take his wife. She could help him promote the beauty and utility of his fabrics-by wearing them. During the meal, he pondered the merits and drawbacks of this new and intriguing possibility. Ellin, so fetching in the cambric created by his own weavers, suddenly appeared to him in a fresh and highly promising guise. The seed that had planted itself in his fertile brain took root and began to sprout. How could Londoners fail to accept his baroness, if she were presented to them by no less a personage than the Duchess of Halford? His sister could tutor her in the social graces, and arrange for her garments to be made by the most skilled and fashionable dressmakers. By the time he'd sampled all the dishes within reach, his idle rumination had resulted in a solid decision. Many toasts were offered up, the wittiest by Buck Whaley, whose Irish wit and eloquence soared with every mug he quaffed. The fiddler struck up "The Black and the Gray," the popular tune that was always played at weddings. Kerr and Ellin, as lead couple, opened the dancing. The steps, dimly remembered from his youth, came back to him. One of the weavers had also brought his instrument, and the two musicians joined in an amicable contest, playing the liveliest jigs and reels in their repertoire. The festivities continued until dusk. Kerr dutifully performed his assigned role of carefree, lighthearted bridegroom. But all the while he was examining every aspect of his latest scheme and refining it. The Whaleys departed. Most of the Quayles drifted away, and his parents returned to Dreeym Freaoie. Kerr was left stranded among Ellin's relations and his millworkers, most of them deeply, happily drunk. Everybody insisted on kissing the bride-including a wiry militiaman in a scarlet coat with white facings. Kerr hovered possessively while she chattered to Sergeant Clucas, her former

suitor. His smiling bride received the blessings and best wishes of people who had been her equals this morning and now were her inferiors. She seemed unaware of her rise in status. On this island, distinctions in rank were less significant than they were in England. The Duke of Athol, formerly lord of the isle and currently its nonresident Governor, was more often derided than praised. Kerr's father, as possessor of a Manx barony and staff lands, received considerably more respect, but it was no secret that bribery had won the Cashins their hereditary earldom. He and Ellin might be addressed as lord and lady by courtesy, but in the eyes of these people they were commoners, albeit a very superior variety. He knew they revered him more for his ability to provide employment than the fact that he was son of an earl and heir to a castle. He went to fill his tankard from the nearest ale cask. Finding it empty, he returned to the kitchen. Calybrid stood at the table, her back to the door. As she vigorously cleaved a roast capon in half, she said to Mrs. Moore, "Marriot is mistaken. Nothing can be gained by going against Isbel's wishes, and much lost. Ellin is a Cashin now-that name will be her protection." The blind lady sighed. "I pray it may be so." Calybrid ran her forefinger along the edge of her blade. "But I shan't forget my promise to Isbel. Unto death I am her daughter's most vigilant guardian." Her intensity surprised Kerr. This odd creature was more than a friend to Ellin, he realized, and her influence might be stronger than he supposed. He didn't want her interfering in his marriage, and it was not too soon to let her know. Advancing into the room, he said, "From this day onward, you may both entrust Ellin's welfare entirely to me." Said Calybrid unsmilingly, "You have proved that already, y hiarn." Her brown eyes lanced him, staring straight into his heart and his soul. "Myr s'doillee red," she intoned, "smoo shynney lesh sleih ad." The more difficult a thing, the greater the honor in doing it. Her unsettling pronouncement made him wonder if mind reading was one of her gifts. Had Ellin told her about the events of Easter Day, or had she divined the truth? She called herself a charmer, but Kerr could more easily believe her a witch. "Shall I fill your tancard?" Prying it from his grasp, she withdrew to the area behind the stair. When she returned, it brimmed with foam. "Take the girl away. The longer she remains, the harder it will be for her to go from us." Although he resented being dictated to, he saw the wisdom of her advice. He found his bride and her uncle in the building that sheltered the chickens

and pigs and the orphan lamb. Ellin's care had transformed Rum into a sturdy, lively creature. When he told her it was time to depart, she gave him a look so trusting and hopeful that it terrified him. If he'd asked her to follow him to the ends of the earth, doubtless she would have given him the same bright smile, the same ready reply. Nothing seemed as simple as it had been a week ago, when he'd been so eager to have her for his mistress. Now he was a husband, and had entered into uncharted territory. The young people formed another escort party to accompany them across the valley and over the ridge, with the fiddler leading the way. Their elders tossed old shoes, for luck. Scadoo, assuming it was a game, picked up a worn slipper in her mouth and carried it off when she followed after Ellin. Pausing in the middle of the road, everyone formed a circle and danced, while several of the men raced each other to the bridegroom's house. The winner, receiving the customary flask of brandy at Dreeym Freoaie, ran back and delivered it to Kerr. He raised it in a toast to his bride, and afterward it made the rounds of the party. When they reached the farmhouse, the revelers remained outside to continue their drinking and dancing. Joney had brought a morsel of the bride cake with her and broke it over Ellin's head before she crossed the threshold. Young girls scrambled for the lucky pieces, and Scadoo paused to gobble up as many crumbs as she could. Time and Ellin's warmth, Kerr suspected, would thaw his father's stiff civility toward her. His mother welcomed her with an embrace and a kiss. She misses Kitty, he thought. For her sake it might be kinder to leave Ellin here when he went to London. But to desert his new wife so soon after their marriage was highly undesirable for a number of reasons, both selfish and unselfish. Hastily and self-consciously he took Ellin up the staircase. Scadoo scampered after them, her nails scraping the treads. When he opened the door to his bedchamber, the dog darted inside. "Mother wasn't sure you'd like my room as it was," he said. "She made some changes." Fingering the blue checked linen that draped his window, Ellin asked, "What was it like before?" "Spartan. The bare necessities: bed, table, chest, washstand. When your belongings and clothing were sent over, the second chest was added to accommodate them. You may arrange things according to your tastes." "Why?" she inquired, with a startled look. "It's your home as well as mine. And hers," he added, for the dog was giving every object an exploratory sniff. The silence dragged on and on. He didn't know what to say, and apparently she didn't either. "Oashyr!" The shout came from below. "The bride's stocking-we want it now!"

"Hand it over!" called another. Ellin promptly sat down on his bed-their bedand slipped off her left shoe. Reaching under her white skirt and petticoat, she unfastened her garter and stripped away her stocking. "Toss this through the window," she said, holding it out to him. "Why?" "The girl who catches it will be the next to marry. Hurry!" she urged him as the demands grew louder. "They'll make a nuisance of themselves till they've got it." Opening the window, he leaned out. A dozen expectant female faces tilted upward. He waved the stocking-quite uninteresting now that it no longer enclosed Ellin's shapely leg-and let it fall. He quickly banged the window shut and drew the checked curtains. "Who caught it?" Ellin asked. "I don't know. Or care." In the half-light she seemed an apparition conjured by his imagination. The rippling hair and the serenity of her shadowed face reminded him vividly of an angel fresco he'd seen in an Italian chapel, innocent and earthy all at once. Head bowed, she untied her other garter and slipped her right stocking slowly down her leg. The eroticism of her simple act lured him to the bed. She kept her head lowered, watching his fingers while they unbuttoned the front of her lace-covered bodice. When he finished, she reached out and pried his shirttail from his breeches. Her smile, a combination of amusement and playfulness, put him in a teasing humor. He swept her skirts up to her thighs and ran his hands up each leg, from the prettily molded ankles and past her graceful calves. When he grazed the backs of her dimpled knees, her gasp told him he'd found a remarkably sensitive area. He resolved to make the best possible use of it-tonight and in the future. With great care, he removed her fine gown, revealing the pink and cream flesh of a Tiepolo cherub. Her shoulders were smooth and warm to the touch. Her bare arms were shapely, the wrists narrow and fine-boned. She ran her hands along her boned busk and admitted, "I've never worn one before, and I'm not sure how to get out of it. There are strings at the back." He knew better than to reveal that his familiarity with female corsetry far exceeded hers. Her laces weren't drawn very tight, but when he loosened them, Ellin released a great, chest-expanding sigh of relief. "Better?" he asked when he'd extricated her. "Dy jarroo. Now I know exactly how Uncle Henry's pony feels when I remove her saddle." Laughter bubbled up, as it invariably did when he was with her. "You do rather resemble a pony. You've a long and glossy mane, and exceedingly fine hocks." And you afford a most pleasant ride, he

thought, but did not say. He pulled his shirt over his head and emerged to find her standing on the bed. "You'll not see six kingdoms from that vantage. But I assure you the mattress is more cushioning than the mountaintop." He was glad he hadn't wedded one of those highborn London girls. Making love to a shy, shrinking, virginal bride would've been an ordeal, a duty. His Ellin was refreshingly eager, thoroughly uninhibited-and entirely delectable. If nothing else, matrimony would provide considerable enjoyment. He grabbed her ankle. Her sudden squeak of alarm turned into a giggle. "Take off your shift," he commanded. "I'll be cold without it," she answered-quite illogically. She was near to naked as could be. "Not for long," he assured her. "I want to look at you." "You are looking at me. You're staring." "If you won't take it off, I will do it myself." He scrambled onto the mattress. "Don't stand," she cried, "you'll bump your head on the ceiling. I'll do it." Slipping the shoulder bands down her arms, pushing the linen over her hips, she shed the garment and kicked it away. Her face expressing uncertainty, she waited for his reaction. Chapter 13 Were you never commanded by the person beloved to do something which you did not wish to do? EPICTETUS, DISCOURSES

His admiring gaze lingered on her breasts, beautifully formed, the tips brushed with carmine. Her waist was girlishly narrow-small wonder she'd never needed that busk-and the gentle flare of her hips so womanly. Her maidenhair, slightly ruddier than her flowing locks, was a dark contrast to her pale skin. She possessed a delightfully saucy bottom, plump and round and alluring. "My dreams didn't do you justice." "You dreamed about me?" "Endlessly. Even before we-" He swallowed. "And every night since." No longer content merely to stare, he reached out for her. A need to possess, to bore into her softness and mark her as his own, made him wild. This was so savage a lust, he doubted it could ever be tamed or extinguished. He pulled her down to the soft mattress. He nuzzled her face and neck. The fresh scent of her skin intoxicated him-she smelled of sweet herbs. He held her breasts in his hot palms, traced their curves with his mouth. Hungrily he devoured each one in turn, his tongue flicking at the hard buds until she moaned like a creature demented.

With his fingers he ministered to her elsewhere, delving into the slick crevice, searching for that hidden source of her pleasure. She watched him through half-lidded eyes, green as vervain and even more magical. Never had he felt such power, or less hurried. He could linger over each delicious inch of her, taking his time, observing her reactions. His mastery over her was rivaled by her ability to rouse him. Her hands roamed across his buttocks and swept up his spine, leaving a trail of sparks. His rock-firm flesh pulsed with need, the source of an almost unbearable sensation. When her questing, exploring fingers closed around him, his thundering heartbeat abruptly came to a standstill. "Yes," he hissed through clenched teeth. She tightened her hold. Her gentle stroking destroyed his last vestige of restraint. Bestowing wild, eager kisses, Ellin opened her legs. "Nish," she pleaded. Now. Dizzy with desire, she waited for Kerr to come inside, to free her from this prison of longing. His massive body covered hers, the weight of it welcome and familiar. She reached down to guide him, but he knew the way-oh, how well he knew. He entered swiftly, a sudden coupling that brought forth a joint murmur of satisfaction. It was utter bliss, knowing she belonged here in this wondrously large bed, with a lifetime of loving before her. But how selfish, how shameful to lie beneath him, the recipient of so much pleasuretaking all, giving so little. Seeking to enhance his pleasure, she moved against him, matching thrust with thrust. Their bodies met, parted, met again. A cloud of sensation and anticipation built up deep within her, growing larger and larger until at last it opened up with a torrent of pleasure and flashes like lightning. Shaken, she cried his name. His embrace was fierce, his voice a gentle whisper. "My veen." After a brief respite, he rolled her onto her side and then renewed his motions. They lay entwined, his face beside hers. While he pressed in and pulled out of her with an excruciating tenderness, he stared back at her with storm-gray eyes, his mouth faintly smiling. "You like it better this way?" "Every-way," she managed, aware of another little burning cloud starting to grow and swell. There was something she must say, soon. "Ta mee guee, I beg you-" But she felt flushed all over again, and near to swooning. "What?" "Don't stop." "I won't. I can't." He didn't. She survived-just barely-another shattering explosion of fire and feeling. Her recovery was

slower this time. She lay limp and trembling, vaguely aware of his body's thrashing and his frantic moans. His hands clenched her shoulders as he surged into her with great force. His muscles slackened-all but his heart, which pulsed strong and steady beneath the hand she'd placed upon his damp chest. Limbs tangled, they panted in unison, exhausted and replete. Ellin parted her lips, but she was too drowsy to form even the simplest words of gratitude, of love. Her eyelids drooped; her breathing slowed. I'll tell him when I wake, she thought, before sleep stole her away. [break] She wasn't sure whether she'd slept five minutes or five hours. A woollen blanket covered her bare skin, and a smooth linen pillowcase lay beneath her cheek. Remembering where she was, she sat up. Kerr sat at his desk, pen in hand, bathed in the feeble light cast by a pair of candles. He wore what must be his dressing gown, a variety of garment she'd heard of but never actually seen. "How long did I slumber?" "A quarter of an hour. You had the same reaction at Ballanard, do you remember? For men, it's a common occurrence after a lively bout of lovemaking." But not for a woman, she surmised, and hoped he didn't deem it a fault in her. "Where's Scadoo?" She heard the reassuring thump of her dog's tail striking the floorboards. "She tried to jump up beside you, but the bed is too high. So she crawled underneath." He returned his attention to the paper in front of him, and after a thoughtful moment dipped his quill into the ink bottle and continued writing. She left the bed and searched through the drawers of her chest for the new nightshirt her aunt had sewn. Someone, probably the countess, had placed dried lavender between the folds of her clothing-a thoughtful gesture. Lacking a mother, she wanted their relationship to be warm and close. She aspired to be a true daughter to the Cashins, although she could never fill the aching void left by Lady Kitty's death. Imagining her future, she envisioned a contented, uncomplicated existence. Kerr had his mill, and she would devote her energies to the spinning school. One day she'd have little ones of her own to care for and instruct. From her their cloan would learn their numbers and their letters, and how to read. She could share with them the history of the island, and teach them the old ways, and entertain them with the many legends Uncle Henry and Calybrid had recited during her childhood. She found a silver-backed comb, prettier than the one Grandmother's wrinkled hand had plied every night. A wave of nostalgia struck her unawares. Her nineteen years at Boayl Fea had been happy, apart from the loss of her friend, and doubts about

whether the baron would ever return, and fears that her affection for him would forever go unrequited. Now she felt doubly blessed. She was bolstered by her family's devotion, and could also bask in her husband's love. She picked up the comb and turned to him. Glancing up, he said, "Nearly finished." After the final stroke of his pen, he held up the folded letter and read the outside writing. "The Duchess of Halford, Langtree, Oxfordshire, England. Hard to believe it's the same Lhondhoo who used to scamper about the countryside, wearing my cast-off red riding coat and a grubby loghtan wool skirt. When I visited her Venetian palazzo, and later saw her in England, mistress of the manor, I scarcely recognized the little sister with tangled curls and mudcoated shoes." Ellin regretted that Lavinia, whose beauty she'd long revered, lived so far away. "Lord Garrick fell mad in love with her the instant he saw her, didn't he?" "So he claims. I doubt it was mutual. At that first meeting he did something to offend her; I'm not sure what." He reached for a square-shaped leather case. "If you'd seen the diamonds he gave her for a bride-gift, you'd consider your gift paltry by comparison. The Ballacraine rubies-our family heirloom, passed from generation to generation." He pried up the lid of worn cordovan, revealing a necklace, earrings, and ornaments for the hair, all studded with faceted red stones. "You don't expect me to wear them," she said fearfully. "On appropriate occasions." She couldn't imagine one. Her social life consisted of church on Sunday, her regular visits to Calybrid, and the annual harvest dance. "Father doesn't care for them much. They've always been a bone of contention in the family. When Grandmother, Countess Mooar, was widowed, she refused to relinquish them to Mother, as she should've done. Lavinia wore them when she first went to London, and restored them to the family after she married. Now they're yours." He removed the necklace. "Let's see how this looks on you." She let him place the jeweled collar around her neck. How weighty it felt, how cold against her breast. Kerr beamed his approval. He tucked the combs into her hair, and inserted the curved wires of the earrings through her earlobes. "Now you look like a baroness. The sooner I provide you with some elegant gowns, the better. I shall be a modern Pygmalion, and turn my Manx alehouse lass into an aristocratic lady." His tone was lightly humorous, but his words had teeth-they ripped away a piece of her heart. And with it, a large measure of her joy. He regarded their marriage as a misalliance. Her assumption that it was a love match could not long

survive so mortal a wound. He found her wanting, and he cherished a grandiose, idealized image of what Lady Garvain should and should not be. She wondered if she could live up to it. Attempting a smile, she asked, "Wasn't Pygmalion the brother of Queen Dido, who loved Aeneas?" "He was." "I'm no ivory statue, to decorate with jewels and fine raiment," she told him, as he stripped her of the glittering ornaments piece by piece and put them back in the case. "I have my reasons for improving your appearance. I'll explain tomorrow." Weary though she was, and despite the comforts of a splendidly feathery mattress, sleep was slow to come. She lay beside the man she loved, covered by the same sheet and counterpane, yet he'd never seemed so out of reach, or his motivations more obscure. In the church, she had bestowed upon him her life, her loyalty, her entire being. But in the aftermath of consummation, he'd indicated that he required still more. Daylight was visible behind his curtains when her rest was interrupted by her pet's restless prowl. Peering over the edge of the bed, she found Seadoo's chestnut eyes staring at her. The fringed tail waved, the black and white body wriggled. Lowering her head, the dog growled. "Bee dty host! Sole sheese." Obeying Ellin's second command, Scadoo sat on her haunches. She let out an aggrieved yap. Kerr stirred. "What the devil-" "She wants to go outside. And she's hungry." Resigned to her duty, Ellin shoved aside the covers. "Joney will tend to her." But Ellin wasn't about to consign her beloved companion to a servant's care. The wooden floor chilled the soles of her feet; the washing water in the pitcher felt like ice against her cheeks. Mindful of the fact that she was Lady Garvain, she chose her favorite green shortgown and a quilted petticoat she'd previously regarded as too fine for everyday wear. While she dressed, Scadoo capered impatiently. Glancing at the bed, Ellin saw that its occupant was dozing, black hair fanned across his pillow. At the bottom of the stair, habit took her down the corridor leading to the thie mooar. Catreeney gaped at her. "Moghrey mie, y ven chiarn." Hoping that this would indeed be a good morning, she responded cordially, "Moghrey mie." During her previous stay at Dreeym Freaoie, she'd joined Catreeney and her mother in their kitchen work, adding chunks of dried turf to the fire and preparing the Cashins' breakfast. She would gladly do so now, but instinct warned her that it would be an error. She followed Scadoo into the fresh air. This farm

straid was more spacious than her uncle's, as befitted a larger establishment, and its outbuildings were bigger. There was ample room for Rum, her lamb. Ellin wished she could keep Mottle here with her as well, but her Grandmother was fond of the tailless cat. At Boayl Fea her days were regulated by her tasks and her grandmother's needs, and when possible she'd assisted Calybrid till it was time to prepare her family's afternoon meal. At night, she'd spun by the fireside or waited on tavern customers. Her abrupt transition from alehouse lass, as Kerr had called her, to baroness came so unexpectedly. He hadn't adequately prepared her for this new life, or explained how he wanted her to fill her time. The countess managed her household and garden; Joney reigned supreme in the kitchen. The earl, when not engaged in parish and island affairs, supervised the men who tended his livestock and crops. Although her situation appeared slightly less bleak in this gentle morning light than it had in the darkness of night, she still felt the wound left by Kerr's determination to mold her into a proper baroness. She esteemed his intellect and was intimately acquainted with his body. But she couldn't yet comprehend the workings of his mind, and his moods had often confounded her. She was the would-be mistress that he'd chosen to wed, for whatever reason. Again and again he'd revealed to her the many marvels and delights of physical passion. It didn't seem possible that he could tenderly touch her and kiss her so avidly and place his mouth upon her breasts without loving her. She wouldn't want him doing those things if she weren't in love with him. But men were strange beings, and hers was apparently ruled by his desires more than his heart. Scadoo led her down the hillside to the gnarled crab apple. A few primroses still bloomed all around it, their starry yellow flowers spotted with dewdrops. She lingered briefly, thinking back to the night of Kerr's homecoming. When she crossed over the crest of the ridge and saw him, her spirits lifted. He'd risen and dressed, and followed her-a promising sign. "Do you usually go walking before breakfast?" he asked. "As far as the cow byre, for the early milking. Scadoo and I are always up and about soon after daybreak." He rubbed the animal's head and gently pulled one of her ears. "You'll not be dairying at Dreeym Freoaie. And once we're in England, you may lie in bed as late as you wish." "England?" she repeated. "What would I be doing there?" "Keeping me company. I must collect my linens from the printing works at Preston and Manchester. Afterward we'll travel on to London, where I'll in-

troduce my bride to society and show my Manx damask and toiles to the town merchants." "That's why you wanted me to have the rubies," she realized, "and new clothes." "Lavinia will teach you all you need to know about etiquette, and dancing, and how to dress properly. You're so clever, I'm sure you'll learn quickly. I'm depending on you, Ellin. I need your help." Adding to her dismay, he explained in alarming detail exactly how she could assist him. Those fine gowns he intended her to wear would be made from the products of his mill. People of fashion would be so intrigued that they would crave printed linens from the Isle of Man, and the resulting demand would force the most reputable London linen-drapers to place substantial orders. "Your participation is crucial to the success of my venture," he declared. "And the future of the Manx Linen Company." "I've not yet got used to being wed, or living away from my family," she protested, torn by her wish to please him and her firm connection to others she loved. "To go so far away-how shall I bear it? How will they?" "Only till summer's end," he said encouragingly. "We'll be back for the flax harvest, in good time to open our spinning school." Her voice breaking, she admitted, "I didn't imagine I would ever leave the island. I'm not like you; I never cared to live among strangers or learn English ways. But if you go," she concluded bravely, "so must I. You are my husband." "I'll book places on the next boat for Liverpool," he said. "Soon as you're packed, you can go to Boayl Fea to say good-bye to your relatives." Striving to conceal her distress, Ellin flung her arms around her pet. "Soon you'll be sailing away with us to England, Scadoo." "She most certainly will not," Kerr contradicted firmly. He couldn't be serious. "She's very well behaved when we go out in Uncle Henry's fishing boat. And she's used to riding about in carts, so she won't mind carriage travel. I can make sure she doesn't trouble you in any way. Please, Kerr-I beg you." "I wouldn't be at all kind if I let you take a farm dog to live in that enormous city. Believe me, she'd be miserable. It's impossible." "Lady Lavinia took her cat Xanthe when she and the earl went to London." "Cats are different. They're less energetic and more self-reliant. A dog like this is accustomed to regular exercise, and all her life she's had your constant attention. Would it be fair, forcing her to endure hours and hours of sea travel, and day after day of confinement in a post chaise?" It broke her heart to accept that reason was on his side. Unable to hold back her tears any longer, she buried her face in the soft black fur. Her body

shuddered with each sob. "Don't be childish, Ellin," chided her husband. She drew a ragged breath. "You don't realize how dear she is to me. You had your sisters to play with, to talk to. I've only ever had my animals." "My parents and their servants will treat Scadoo most kindly." "No!" she objected resolutely. "She must go back to Boayl Fea-a place she knows, with people who love her. She'll miss me, and be confused. I don't think we've been parted more than a few hours, ever." As she stroked her unsuspecting companion's head, she added, "There's no way I can explain why I'm deserting her, or that I'll return." "You can take her to the tavern later, after you've made ready for our journey. Dry your eyes and let's go in." When he tried to take her arm, she jerked away. "Not yet." "I refuse to continue this quarrel," he said in irritation. "I want my breakfast." Raising her face from the crook of her arm, she watched him stalk off toward the house. He was the quarrelsome one, she thought defensively. When he'd declared his intention to leave for England, she had agreed to accompany him despite her reluctance. His refusal to take Scadoo pained her, but she hadn't opposed him. Abandoning her home, her family, and her beloved friend-these were not small sacrifices. She was entitled to shed tears, more than a few. And her high and mighty husband had no right to deny her this soulwrenching grief. As ever, when her heart was bruised and her mind hummed with questions, she needed Calybrid Teare. [break] Calybrid drew her stool nearer the hearth. Staring at the glowing center of stacked turf, she plucked a rusted pin from her apron and poked it into the doll's soft, rag-stuffed belly. Then she turned it over and stabbed another pin into the nobby reddish head. Never had she used her sorcery to strike someone unawares. But she could no longer contain her fierce desire to gain power over Finlo Standish, and buitcheragh, black witchery, was her only weapon against him. She would slowly steal away his health, nothing more. His fortune and his property must be preserved. She put the crude image on the edge of the table, in front of the rabbit. "Mark him well, my carrey," she whispered. It twitched its pink velvet nose, and the black bead eyes glinted back at her. Turning back to the chiollagh, Calybrid stirred the small pot dangling from the hook. 'Twas an evil mixture-hate and spite and malice steeped together, a foul dose to cause great affliction. There remained one ritual, the most potent of all. Could she bring herself to do what needed to be

done? Her broomstick leaned against the cupboard. Seizing it, she began to sweep, reciting the words she had never expected to utter. "My tnynney mollaght ort Finlo." My bitter curses on Finlo. "Skeab lome ort hene." The naked broom on himself. "An folllym faase." Empty desolation. A rap on the windowpane interrupted her incantations. She looked around, but saw no one. In panic, she wondered whether she'd inadvertently roused some jealous wizard or enchantress. Hurrying to her door, she flung it open. Rarely did she permit a display of amazement, but maintaining her habitual diffidence was impossible. Ellin stood beneath the thorny, leafy arch formed by the apothecary roses clambering up her doorway. "Ennoil, should you not be slumbering next to your handsome bridegroom? I didn't think to see you for many days." "You won't see me again-not for a very long time. May I come in?" "Dy jarroo-but leave Scadoo outside." She dreaded to think what conclusions the girl would draw from her miniature red-headed man made of rags, and the hare. And worse, the sweeping. "I'm going away to England," said Ellin. "I believed we'd stay in the glen. But Kerr says he must make a lady of me and present me to London society. And he won't let me take Scadoo," she mourned. "I wept, I couldn't help it. I made him angry." "More with himself than with you," Calybrid guessed. "When he asked me to wed him, it was a miracle. He didn't seem to care that I lacked a name and wealth. Until last night, he never made me feel we were unequal. But I know now that unless I can become exactly what he wants me to be, I shall never possess his heart. I'm afraid of displeasing him, of failing him." "You will overcome your fear. Your love for him is strong enough to sustain you, just as it did through all the years you waited for him. And he surely loves you, else you would not be his wife." Miserably, Ellin shook her head. "He doesn't tell me so." There were times when she felt certain of itwhen she saw desire warming his gray eyes, or felt the press of his mouth on her own. But she might have been misreading these signs. "The carelessness of man has pained many a woman before you," her friend replied. "You've not yet learned his ways of loving, or taught him yours. This journey to England will be a good thing, for it will bind you closer to him. As your dependence upon each other increases, so will your

understanding. To begin your marriage in a distant place, without interference from relatives and friends-and enemies-is not so terrible, ennoil." Ellin's doubts were tenacious, but she trusted Calybrid's judgment and needed her magic. "Have you a charm to give me?" she asked wistfully. The black-clad figure withdrew to the stillroom, leaving her alone with the brown hare. She watched the creature nervously. Motionless, it stared into the distance in a most disconcerting way. At its side lay a curious object, a little doll pierced with rusted pins. Remembering the many tales of how the witches turned themselves into mwoie, she moved away from the table lest she attract the animal's attention and bring harm upon herself. Over the fire hung a small pot. Curiously she peered inside, and found it filled with thick, black, bubbling liquid. The pungent and unappetizing odor made her back away quickly. So strange, for all other medicines and potions brewed by the benobbee were delightfully fragrant, or else had no detectable aroma. With a glance at the broom, she recalled what she'd seen when she paused at the window-Calybrid brushing it across the floor, frowning and muttering. Skeab lome-the naked broom. The most dreadful curse a Manx sorceress could invoke against someone who stirred her wrath. Here was much evidence of malevolent magic. Ellin, alarmed by this change in her friend's methods, regretted that she must leave so soon. Calybrid returned with a small linen pouch. "Dried periwinkle leaves. If husband and wife eat them together, at the same time, their love for each other will prove strong and true. Crumble it into the food, steep it in hot water to make a tea, whichever is easier. And here are some sprigs of yn Ihus for each of you, to guard you both from danger during your travels. Remember, wherever you go, however long you are away, I hold you in my heart." Ellin accepted these offerings gratefully. "I'll be back for flax harvest," she said, returning Calybrid's embrace. "I'll miss you so. You'll make sure no trouble befalls Aunt Marriot and Uncle Henry and Grandmother?" Said Calybrid, very solemnly, "I shall guard them well." "And you should take Scadoo with you when you go about the countryside gathering wild herbs. But keep her near, don't let her chase after the hares," she added, with a wary glance at the one on the table. Looking into her friend's dark, fathomless eyes, she pleaded, "Calybrid, be careful." "Of what?" Ellin wasn't entirely sure. "Away to your family," Calybrid said briskly. "But do not linger, else the barran will think you

regret the marriage. And don't fall into despair." Placing a gentle hand upon Ellin's cheek, she murmured, "Foddee fastyr grianagh ve ec moghrey bodjalagh. A sunny afternoon may follow a cloudy morning." Chapter 14 Keep clear of all quarrels, sharp-tongued recriminationsLove's sensitive, needs to be fed with gentle words. OVID, THE ART OF LOVE

From the window, Ellin watched the busy inhabitants of Preston. So many people darting up and down the streets-men of commerce, their well-dressed wives, their harried servants. She was glad to avoid the hustle and bustle, preferring to observe it from the relative peace and quiet of the Red Lion hotel. Kerr had left her here when he went to Bannister Hall printing works. She hadn't minded staying behind; two days of constant travel had left her more weary than she'd been in her life. Their sea crossing had lasted sixteen hours. She'd first viewed Liverpool through a haze of exhaustion. "Second only to London in size," her husband blithely announced, as they stood on the deck. She would always remember it as a vast mooring, for spread along its quay was an endless array of wood-hulled sailing vessels with towering masts and billowing sails. And she'd never forget the multitude of clattering carriages, or how the black coal smoke combined with the Mersey fog and loomed over the many rooftops. The road they'd travelled the following day had been a marvel to her, smoothly surfaced all the way from Liverpool to Preston. She considered the latter far more pleasant; its buildings were fewer and more attractive, perched on a hill above the River Ribble. For many years a center of clockmaking, Preston was associated with the cloth trade, said Kerr, as were most sizable towns in Lancashire. Although the daylight had gone, activity in the streets didn't cease. An exodus of laborers from the factories increased the crowds below; hooves and metal-edged wheels struck the cobbles noisily, and the glowing lamps attached to the carriages were bright spots in the gathering darkness. "You were a long time away," she commented, when her husband returned. "Couldn't be helped-Mr. Jackson and Mr. Stephenson insisted that I take my dinner with them. Have you ordered yours yet?" She shook her head. Although he'd explained that the hotel servants were there to do her bidding, she hadn't felt comfortable making requests of strangers. "What would you like?" Praasyen as skeddan-potatoes and herring-had

been the only choice for so many years that she didn't know what to answer. "You choose for me." His ability to make selections from a long bill of fare surpassed hers. "Soup? Roast fowl? And tarts and cakes and whatever else that's sugary and sweet, of course," he said with a fond smile. He rang for the waiter and gave the order. While she was dining, he removed the brown paper wrapping from the heavy parcel he'd brought back from Bannister Hall. "Dress materials." He held up a length of white linen printed all over with medallions in red and yellow. "The Three Legs of Man. You'll like this one especially-sprigs of Manx heather, pale purple and green. The primroses and cowslips turned out splendidly; the yellow is exactly as I hoped. I wasn't sure about the ferns and seaweed, but Jackson says unusual patterns are highly sought after. And here's my triumph: by far, the most exquisite of the floral patterns." He brought over a fabric so finely woven that it had a silken sheen. The repeating design was a nosegay-pale pink moss roses and buds, lavender sprigs, carnations, cowslips, blue flax, bound with a flowing ribbon. "Beautiful," she breathed. "Elegant enough for a ballgown, don't you agree?" Ellin nodded. His fingers moved across the linen with a tenderness she recognized, for on their wedding night, he'd touched her in the same worshipful fashion. With a flutter of anticipation, she eyed the bed in the corner. After a long, dull day of solitude, she was eager for his warming embrace and his fiery kisses. "I saw the wooden blocks they've cut to make other patterns, and the printers stamped them onto paper, in color, to show the London merchants. Jackson and Stephenson were pleased to hear I can supply them with more of Kitty's artwork. Original designs for the quality market are in high demand." His mood was cheerful and ebullient, a direct contrast to her quietude. This wasn't his first journey. Accustomed to travel, he didn't share her pain at the sudden separation from loved ones, nor could he comprehend how deeply she missed Scadoo. All day she'd caught herself instinctively gazing downward, expecting to find the black and white dog stretched out at her feet. No sad sighs, no more tears-not when Kerr was near. She must hide her grief, just as she concealed her terror of London. Larger even than Liverpool ... certain to be busier and dirtier and noisier. Kerr folded up his fabrics and stowed them in the trunk he'd bought for that purpose. "We should depart by half-past five, if we're to board tonight's mail coach to Manchester." Feebly she repeated, "Tonight? I'd hoped we'd

rest here, and continue travelling on the morrow." "We must press on," he answered. "You're tired, I know, but you can sleep on the journey." Not very well, thought Ellin, now familiar with the discomforts of a swaying vehicle. "If we fail to arrive at the Bridgewater Arms by the time I specified in my letter from Liverpool, the landlord will give the rooms to someone else. Tomorrow is Sunday; we can spend it quietly." He came over to the table. Briefly his hand rested upon her shoulder, his mouth brushed her cheek. "And stay in bed all day, if we wish." He moved away, for the servant had returned to clear away Ellin's plate and the remains of her dinner. A different man carried their baggage to the maroon-bodied mail coach with the Royal Arms painted on its doors, which had halted just long enough for its driver and guard and passengers to swallow some tea. Kerr, after paying the fare, insisted that the trunks go into the foreboot. Mud coated the wheels, but Ellin was able to spot vestiges of bright red paint before Kerr bundled her inside. They weren't the only Manchester-bound passengers. A pair of businessmen occupied one side of the compartment. "We're in the cotton trade," one of them informed Kerr. "And yourself?" "Linen," he replied. It transpired that their fellow travellers were acquainted with Mr. Slack, the printer-engraver who was supplying Kerr's Manx toiles. Ellin tried to follow their conversation about printing methods until fatigue won out over her interest. She rested her head against her husband's forearm and dozed, despite the constant jolting and rattle of the coach. Hours later she emerged, feeling stunned and shaken. Light streamed from every window of the Bridgewater Arms, a vast building that looked more daunting than welcoming. Kerr, who had stayed there on a previous occasion, received a warm greeting from the landlord. "Aye, m'lord, everything as you requested. Topfloor rooms. Fresh sheets for your lor'ship's bedchamber, aye indeed, and a bucket of coals. A bottle of brandy. And a maid to wait on her la'ship-aye, aye." Ellin numbly climbed the stair, relying on her husband's support. She mumured her thanks to the mobcapped young woman who brought washing water and passed a long-handled copper warming pan between the fresh linens. "You may go now." Kerr's dismissal sent the girl scurrying. To Ellin he said remorsefully, "My veen, I've made you ill-you're not used to all this dashing about." As he helped her out of her clothes, he added, "The worst is over. I promise you'll have two days to recover your strength before we set out for London." She scarcely heard; she knew only that he'd lifted

her in his arms and was carrying her. He placed her in the bed and pulled the covers up to her chin, as though she were a child. She mumbled to him in Manx, trying to express her relief. But she couldn't hear her own words and wasn't sure he even understood them. [break] Pealing church bells wakened her-dozens, if not hundreds. With a sense of unreality, she blinked hard and examined the strange surroundings. No, she hadn't died of exhaustion, for certainly this was no paradise. Plain functional furniture, smoking coals in the grate, trunks standing in the corner. Rain lashing at the windowpanes. The Bridgewater Arms, Manchester. She recalled the late-night journey with Kerr, hurtling through the darkness in the mail coach. Sunday morning. A week ago, they had climbed Mount Snaefell, setting in motion the series of events that had so swiftly altered her life and brought her to England. By now Uncle Henry would be making his way home from St. Maughold's on his horse, and Scadoo probably trotted alongside. Aunt Marriot would have his pipe ready; she'd plump the cushion of his favorite chair before he sat down to tell her and Grandmother all the parish news he'd brought back. The dog, after collapsing in a heap before the turf fire, would fall into a sound sleep, her white paws jerking and her black nose twitching as she dreamed. Her relatives hadn't questioned her husband's decision to carry her away to England within a day of making her his wife. Whatever their opinion of her abrupt exodus from the island, they sent her away with good wishes and blessings. Dy bishee Jea shiu, God prosper you, her uncle had said. She escaped the heavy, lulling heat of the covers and searched for the chamberpot. When she went to the washstand, she found soapy water in the bowl, and beside it her husband's razor and a crumpled linen towel. He wasn't here, that was obvious. Knowing his disinterest in religion, Ellin doubted he'd attended morning services. She stared at the two doors, unsure where they might lead. One swung open. Kerr, fork in hand, invited her into the parlor for food and drink. "Don't bother to dress, you're fine as you are." She took the chair nearest his. "Have you been awake very long?" "Just long enough to shave and order in our breakfast. At an inn this busy it's no small feat getting a servant's attention. There's a pot of cocoa here, all for you." "What are you having?" "Coffee. You may share it, but I suspect you'll prefer the chocolate." He poured some into her cup and she took a tentative swallow. Though it looked like muddy wa-

ter, it tasted delicious. "Here, try mine." The bitterness of his coffee was not at all to her liking. "More chocolate, my sailliu." After topping up her cup, he passed her the sugar bowl and said, "You might want to add this." A thundering crash from the corridor startled her into dropping the tongs. It was followed by quarrelsome male voices, someone berating a servant for clumsiness. "A noisy place," said Kerr. "The last time I stayed here, my room was on the middle floor. The chap who lodged directly above me marched about at all hours, clomp-clomping like a draft horse." Ellin replied, "No one could disturb my sleep, I was so very weary." He spread butter on a slice of toast and passed it to her. Their fingers brushed, and his eyes, pewter gray, shone back at her. "I suggest you return to bed. Quite soon." "Ta. I should like to." There was no mistaking his ulterior motive. "Ah, Ellin, what a candid little creature you are. Don't ever change." His affectionate tone and appreciative smile made her forget the whirlwind of horrors she'd endured over the past two days. The rich, hot chocolate also added to her sense of well-being. Kerr sat back against his chair, highly entertained by watching his wife eat. She broke her bread into small pieces and delicately inserted each one between her luscious pink lips. When she sipped, her mouth caressed the rim of the cup. Although common decency demanded that he let her slake her hunger, he was impatient to alleviate his own starvation. They were newlyweds, after all. Two days married, but they'd shared a bed for only a single night, in Liverpool, sleeping soundly for the duration. He didn't count their berth in the packet boat from Douglas to Liverpool. When she finished her toast, he took a wedge of bacon from the platter and carved it into little bits. Spearing one on his fork, he offered it to her. Soon he dispensed with the utensil and fed her with his fingers. He broke a scone in half, quartered it, and coated each portion with plenty of marmalade. "Sweets for the sweet. Open." He popped the morsel into her mouth. Yes, he'd definitely take her to Kelsey's in Bond Street and Gunter's, too, and buy all the confections she fancied. After swallowing, she said, "Enough. I can't. No more." He pulled her up from her chair. Her nightgown was made of a sheer, fine linen. His favorite fabric, except when it separated him from something he liked even better: his bride's lovely body. She stood on her toes to kiss him. He tasted sugary jam and citrus flavor. "Delicious," he sighed, hoping he could make it all the way to the bed.

Ellin led him into the next room. "I fed you," he said. "You can return the favor by undressing me." She pulled at his dressing gown, drawing it down over his shoulders, and tried to remove his shirt. "You aren't helping," she chided. "Bend down." She managed to get it over his head, even though he made it more difficult by doubling over with laughter. "Your first time removing a gentleman's clothing?" he teased. "You're not very gentlemanly." She forced him to straighten up. Brow furrowed, she studied his breeches. Her fingers dug into his side, working at the buckles of his waistband. "That tickles," he cried. "If you're going to complain, take them off yourself." "I don't think I can." She stepped away from him. Her hands moved to the line of ribbons running down the front of her nightgown and she plucked each one until the linen gaped, exposing her from collarbone to breasts to navel. She let the garment drop to the floor and nonchalantly stepped on it as she crossed to the bed. She positioned herself in the center of the mattress, propped herself on a pillow and gazed back at him invitingly. Kerr couldn't remove his breeches and smalls speedily enough. "Clever wench," he commended her under his breath. She'd taken advantage of his vulnerability and his need. And she was in a mood for play. Well, he could teach her some new games, wilder and more enjoyable than any she'd known before. Taking her foot in his hand, he kissed its sole, then her wriggling toes, and started working his way upward along her leg and inside her thigh, to the cinnamon brown hair, where he paused. His tongue darted into her cleft, licked the tiny jutting bud. She didn't object to this variation. Her fingers buried themselves in his hair, and he felt them clench as she neared her moment of release. All her limbs quivered and jerked as she rewarded him with joyous cries. His hands roamed her familiar contours, smooth and softly rounded. He knelt between her legs; he lowered himself to her. When his hardened flesh probed her damp softness, he felt her welcoming sigh against his cheek. He could no longer think; he could only do what instinct commanded. Afterwards, she slept. A blush tinted her face. Her lips, slightly parted, were cherry-bright from kissing. When his finger lightly traced the arch of one brow, her long, upcurved lashes fluttered slightly. She had the faintest dusting of freckles across her forehead, and several more fanned outward from her pert little nose across her cheeks. He'd never noticed them before. In summer, he suspected, they would be more ob-

vious. Ellin Fayle. Ellin Cashin, now. Lady Garvain. It didn't seem possible that the slumbering girl was his wedded wife. A month ago their acquaintance had been so slight, to call her a friend would have been an exaggeration. Now they were partners in a hasty marriage founded on liking and lust. He crooked his arm behind his head, and considered their future. The busy months in London, full of the hectic social activity that characterized the season, would pass quickly. They would return to the island for flax harvest. If the crop proved plentiful, his mill would require additional laborers to perform the retting and scutching. Ellin would make the necessary arrangements for the spinning school, hiring the mistress, selecting the pupils. With more linen yarn at his disposal, he'd be able to employ more and more weavers. And by selling enough cloth, he could reestablish the prominence of the Cashin name and build up the family income. In three years' time, when Finlo Standish's leasehold on their castle expired, his father would be able to reclaim it. Kerr wanted to raise his children there, but not as he had been raised. No starchy tutors or prim governesses: he and Ellin were fully qualified to educate their children. She would teach them letters; he'd instruct them in the classics. At the proper age, their eldest son would be sent to an English school. How he'd longed to attend Eton or Harrow or Rugby for the classical education that would have better prepared him for Cambridge. That had never been an option since his grandfather had insisted on keeping him at home, thwarting his wife. Countess Mooar, so wealthy in her own right, had wanted Kerr to attend the French Catholic seminary in Douai-for an iconoclast, that would have been a dire fate indeed. The arguments and debates about his schooling were among his least pleasant memories of youth. Ellin stirred against him. She was gazing at him with luminous green eyes. "What else shall we do today?" she wondered. "Nothing else," he vowed, covering her breast with his hand. "Only this." Chapter 15 Give me some wild love-making to disrupt dull slumber, With congenial company between the sheets ... OVID, THE AMORES

As the day progressed, Kerr and Ellin found many ways to amuse themselves. In between bouts of lovemaking, he turned to books for their mutual entertainment. From one of his trunks he unearthed a battered and well-travelled copy of Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure; in a failed effort to shock her, he read aloud the most salacious pas-

sages. He also showed her Aretino's Dialogues, with content and pictures even more outrageous. "It's meant to be satirical," he explained. "The author describes in vulgar detail the manners of his time. Very bawdy-an experienced female informs a less experienced one about the lives of wives, nuns, and whores. There's more about whoredom than anything else." She pried the book out of his grasp and turned its pages. Leaning against the pillows, he toyed with the tangled, waving strands of her hair. "What does this mean? 'To be a courtesan demands more knowledge than to be a doctor'?" "During the Renaissance in Italy, the most successful courtesans were also exceedingly clever women." "And nowadays?" "It's much the same," he admitted, hoping she wouldn't ask how he'd found out. " 'Never put velvet pillows on silken beds.'" Staring at him, she said, "Imagine that-silk on a bed!" She glanced down again, then held up the drawing so he could see it. "I never saw the like before." "I should hope not indeed." Arriving at the next illustration, she gasped aloud. He peered over her bare shoulder. "This edition is supplemented with engravings referred to as 'Aretino's Postures.' As you plainly see, they show a man and woman in a variety of erotic positions." She proved more than willing to attempt them. Throughout the afternoon they contorted their bodies inventively, usually successfully, occasionally succumbing to fits of hilarity. I'm not corrupting her, Kerr reassured himself, as his body strained against hers. We're lawfully married, so why not make the most of it? By the day's end, they had managed to work up quite an appetite. Kerr would have happily enjoyed their lavish repast in the comfort of their rumpled bed, but he submitted to Ellin's wish to dress and eat at table. While they dined, he announced his plans for tomorrow. "First I shall buy another trunk, to hold the toiles. Then I'll visit the printing factory in Salford, across the river." "May I go?" He hesitated. She might be bored, and her presence could impede his ability to discuss affairs of commerce with Mr. Slack. And while he didn't care to examine the reason, he wasn't yet prepared to introduce her as his baroness, not even to the manager of a printing works. If he paraded the streets with a country girl wearing her shortgown and scarlet petticoat, he'd also attract undesirable attention. "You haven't got the right sort of frocks. Yet,"

he added. "What about the one I was married in?" Ashamed of his reluctance, he admitted that it was acceptable. Ellin was his wife. He couldn't hide her away in their hotel as though ashamed to be seen with her. If he escorted her round Manchester tomorrow, he reasoned, the size and spectacle of London wouldn't seem so daunting to her later in the week. "You'll need a pair of gloves," he told her. "And a hat. I'll get them for you when I go for the trunk, to save time." They returned to the chamber in which they had disported themselves. The scene of their feverish joys looked as though a whirlwind had passed through it. The coverlet and sheets hung over the edge of the well-used mattress and puddled on the floor; pillows lay heaped at the footboard. Open books were strewn about. Ellin tidied up. Catching sight of her reflection in a looking glass, she commented, "My hair is a raven's nest. What to do? If I were at home-" Suddenly she went silent. "Can't you plait it?" "Not unless these tangles are combed out. Grandmother always did it for me, every night at the fireside." Detecting the pensive note, Kerr said, "I'll do it." After she dug about in her valise, they sat down together at the hearth, he on a chair and she on the footrest. He plowed the comb through the thick waves of brown, trying not to tug too hard as he carefully worked out the snarls. "Just like currying my mare's tail," he declared. "Your mare is lucky," she murmured, head bowed. "You're so gentle." He swept the curtain of hair aside and kissed her nape. "Because you've tamed me." Her shoulders shook with laughter. "You were anything but tame this afternoon," she reminded him. "Quite wild, in fact." "A wild gentleness," he conceded. He had reason to feel satisfied. His body hummed from head to toe after making love to her the whole day through. They had achieved a compatibility he hadn't previously experienced with anyone. His stamina and appetite surpassed that which had made him a legend in London's brothels and bagnios. In their marital bed, he was living up to that reputation he'd earned last year. Recalling those mad, careless nights, he felt vaguely ashamed. No longer did he require those cheaply printed guidebooks containing the names, attributes, and prices of Covent Garden's most accommodating whores. Even when plotting the seduction of this girl whose slender back rested against his knees, he'd believed that with her he could find an exquisite fulfillment. And on this third day of wedlock, he was certain of it. [break]

Manchester's marketplace was a center of activity on Monday morning. Pedestrians moved about in a throng, housekeepers with their shopping baskets, servants wearing gold-embroidered livery, soldiers in bright red coats. Staring at them from the hackney coach window, Ellin commented, "Not even in Douglas do people walk so quickly, or look so busy." "You can see the theatre, down that street," said Kerr. "If we were staying longer, we could attend the play. But the finest actors and actresses are in London-we'll be there soon enough." The hackney carried them through bumpy cobbled streets lined with brick buildings, the largest Ellin had ever seen, blackened by the coal smoke pouring from their chimneys. "The River Irk has more mills upon it than any its size in England. At that factory on our left side, steam-powered looms weave fustian from cotton and linen yarns," he explained. "Over there is a dyehouse." The broader River Irwell separated Manchester from Salford, their destination. When they halted before a flat brick facade, Kerr helped Ellin down from the carriage. He adjusted her hat and straightened her filmy lawn fichu, both acquired during his excursion to the shops. He'd also provided her with silk gloves stamped all over with blue forget-menots and had purchased a pair of frivolously flowered garters, woven locally. Those, he declared sternly, were for his eyes alone. "Lord Garvain-Lady Garvain, too!" Mr. Slack nodded and smiled as he ushered them inside. "An honor, indeed. Your lordship's linens are ready. Come this way." He took them into a stuffy chamber crammed with stacks and bundles of cloth. "On the work table you'll find the samples we cut from each bolt, which you'll want for your pattern-book. My assistant will see to the packingif I can find him." When the man left them, Ellin rushed over to inspect the finished toiles. "So many!" She'd seen several of Lady Kitty's original sketches but hadn't realized how lovely they would appear when printed onto Manx linen. Here, in brown, was a scene of rural activity-crofters working their fields, cutting turf in the mountains, unloading the herring boats. Another, red upon white, showed the dancing and merriment at the annual Tynwald Day ceremony. Another pattern in China blue depicted the flax harvest and the various tasks connected with linen-making. "And who might this be?" her husband murmured in her ear, placing her forefinger upon a female figure. "It's me," she marvelled. She was seated at her spinning wheel, with Scadoo beside her. "You'll find yourself in this one also." He showed her an allegorical design.

Ellin was flattered to discover that she'd unwittingly served as model for more than one legendary Manx heroine. Her face and form had been bestowed on Fand, wife of Manannan Mac Lir, who resembled Kerr. Emergaid, loving wife of King Olave, ancestress of the Kings of Man. Mary, daughter of King Reginald and in her own right Queen of Man. Even the saintly Bridget, receiving her veil from the hands of Bishop Maughold. Mr. Slack returned with another man carrying a sheaf of paper, who bowed and said, "My lord, these are impressions from the copper plates of designs yet to be printed. You'll want to examine them for accuracy." Ellin wondered whether the printers noticed that she and her husband looked exactly like Dido and Aeneas, and other characters portrayed in their finished patterns. Twitching Kerr's sleeve, she murmured, "I'd like to watch while the fabrics are printed." Clearing his throat, Mr. Slack answered apologetically, "My lady, I regret to say it's not possible, for my men and boys carry out their work in a state of-of undress. The printing shop is so hot that they wear no shirts or coats, just breeches. Or aprons only." He added, "We'll leave my assistant to finish packing these toiles, so they can be delivered to the Bridgewater Arms, and I'll take you and his lordship to our pencilling shop. The women are a decent enough lot." He led them up a stairway to a room on the building's top level; a wall of broad windows let in plenty of light. Females of all ages occupied the tables, bending over long sections of printed material. "This firm prints cotton goods as well as linen, chintzes, and calicoes. Here the workers fill in the colors that can't be stamped with the plates-indigo, green, yellow-with their brushes, made from wooden twigs. Floral patterns are the most complex. Liddy, show her ladyship how you daub the paints." The wan, hollow-eyed girl carried out her task with a lamentable listlessness. How many hours had she been at it, and how many more ahead of her? In Ellin's opinion, poor Liddy needed fresh air and exercise. Her fellow workers looked no healthier. She detected spirits on the breath of an older woman who held up a brush caked with green dye, and invited her to try a bit of pencilling herself. "I'd better not," she answered. "I'm afraid of spoiling my dress. It's my best," she added. The woman's bloodshot eyes darted towards Kerr, waiting near the door. "Himself will give ye another, divil take me if he don't." "You're Irish?" "We are that, most of us. Making our fortunes in the factories." Snorts of derision greeted her jesting comment.

"Enough chatter," Mr. Slack said mildly. "Forewoman, you must maintain order here-particularly when visitors come." As soon as they departed the printer-engraver's establishment, Ellin faced Kerr and said, "It's all very well for the people who can afford to buy the chintzes and calicoes. But how dreadful it must be, working at the factories where they are made, from morning till night. To live in one of those dirty, narrow lanes we passed along the way." "Those women earn a fair wage," he responded. "They chose to work in the city rather than at a farm or in a village." "But what of the boys Mr. Slack mentioned?" she persisted. "They'll grow up ignorant, with no chance to improve their lot in life." When they strolled by a cotton factory, she heard the constant rattling of its power looms. Clutching his hand, she said, "I want your linen mill to prosper, but I pray Glion Cornaa will never become like this place. So little beauty, so little-soul." "You needn't worry. I seek to improve lives in the glen, not change them." He pressed her gloved fingertips. "You're so fetching in your white frock, my veen, that I must take you to the promenade grounds, where you can be seen." Her enjoyment of the excursion was short-lived. The tree-lined walk ran alongside an elongated pool-within view of the lunatic asylum. A group of patients clad in loose linen garments were there with their attendants, who plunged each one into the water. Their babbling and shrieking and splashing aroused Ellin's compassion again, and distressed her far more than what she'd witnessed in Mr. Slack's pencilling workshop. Kerr linked his arm through hers and drew her away from the bizarre scene. He hailed a hackney and drove her to a spot where she could view a marvel of engineering: an aqueduct high above the ground, wide and deep enough for sailing ships and barges. "Part of the Duke of Bridgewater's canal system," he said. "It connects Manchester, the manufacturing capital, with the seaport at Liverpool." From the footpath below, they watched the vessels pass by overhead till their necks grew stiff. "Before we return to our hotel, there's one more place we should visit," Kerr informed her. "I'm thinking I'll purchase a lady's bow from that same fellow who made my own. He supplies the Manchester Archers, reputed to be the most proficient in all England." "They can't possibly be superior to your Maughold Bowmen," said Ellin loyally. Kerr's bow-maker declared himself honored to equip Lady Garvain. He measured her height and stretched his tape along her left arm, from shoulder to wrist. After studying her forearms, he offered her a selection of leather braces and shooting gloves to try for the best fit.

"I've got in a good supply of English yew, and can begin carving her ladyship's bow straightaway. Soon as it's finished, I'll send it on to London by carrier," he promised Kerr. "Include a bow made to my measurements as well-I left mine behind, on the island. Two quivers, both leather, the kind with a shoulder strap. Plenty of string, and a dozen arrows for each of us." These requests were taken down, the price calculated. Using a portion of his inheritance from Kitty, Kerr paid on the spot. He hoped the transaction would restore the sparkle to Ellin's eyes and perhaps dispel her grim impression of Manchester. He let her precede him out of the bowyer's shop. Without looking, she stepped blithely into the busy street before he could stop her. The fashionably broad brim of her new hat shielded what he could see with horrifying clarity. The driver of a four-horse phaeton had overtaken a drayman's cart, and with alarming speed hurtled toward the figure in white. Kerr darted out to seize Ellin's waist, dragging her out of the way. The horses passed so near that specks of lather struck her gown, and the wheels came within inches of crunching her toes. Her body sagged against him. He feared she was swooning until he heard her gasp, "Warn, jean myghin orrin." Lord have mercy, indeed. Unable to contain his emotion, he exploded into fury. "Don't ever walk across a street without first making sure it's safe! This isn't a deserted lane in Maughold parish. Those pitiful idiots bathing in the infirmary pond have more sense than you-they'd have looked both ways." He grasped her shoulders and shook her, not very hard. "My God, Ellin, you could've been struck down." "S'treih Ihiam-I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'll be more careful." "You'd better be," he blustered, ignoring the tears that filled her eyes. "If you think Manchester is a large city, just wait till you see London." His blood ran even colder as he envisioned its busy thoroughfares. The carelessness of hackney coachmen. The speed of sporting vehicles like the one she'd just encountered. Inexperienced young bucks, pretending they knew how to drive their phaetons and curricles to an inch. Ellin, so innocent and trusting, was wholly unaccustomed to town living. Until this moment, he hadn't considered how entirely dependent upon him she would be, for as long as they stayed away from their island. His long study of philosophy hadn't prepared him for this degree of responsibility. He hadn't revealed to her the full truth of their forced marriage. He'd brought her along on this grueling, exhausting journey over sea and land.

Unintentionally, he'd shown her disturbing sights. He'd nearly got her killed. And now he was making her cry. Again. His wrath turned inward. She dried her colorless cheeks with the dangling end of the fichu crossed over her bosom. "Don't worry," she said, remarkably calm. "I'll take care to conduct myself properly, in future." Back at their hotel, they met with the usual frenetic activity, which exacerbated his foul temper. Ellin had uttered scarcely a syllable since her nearaccident, speaking only when he spoke to her. She didn't sulk, but she was obviously troubled by the events of the day. So was he, but probably in a different way. Their dinner was not so leisurely as it had been the previous night, for they would be boarding the mail coach to London a few hours after midnight. When she completed her own packing-it hadn't taken much time, she had so few belongings-she offered to do his. In a sweet, evenly pitched voice she sang a Manx tune, that same one Joney always hummed while performing her kitchen tasks. Arrane y Lhondhoo, Song of the Blackbird. Its minor key suited his despondency. Laa liauyr, laa liauyr. Keirys dhoo, keirys doo. Long days, long days. Dusk darkens, dusk darkens. Spread out before him on the table were his dreams made real, pieces of printed Manx linen. He should feel soaring triumph, not flat despair. He hadn't realized that Ellin was brewing tea until she brought two cups over to the table and sat down, interrupting his bitter reverie. After one sip, he asked, "What blend is this?" "Calybrid's." His mouth twisted. "I'm so bad a husband that you're using sorcery to rid yourself of me." She sipped from her own cup. "It's supposed to be soothing. What have you been doing?" "I finished cutting my samples. Now I'll glue them into the book of patterns and label them." She picked up the brush. "I've often painted oil on the pony's hooves. And I help Uncle Henry paint his baatey-ymmyrt every spring, before the fishing starts." Remembering all the harsh and merciless criticisms he'd flung at her head this afternoon, he didn't feel deserving of any favor. Nonetheless, he removed the lid from the glue pot. "You'll find this much easier than painting an entire boat." As she worked, she told him softly, "You can alter my appearance, Kerr, but not much else. I'm not perfect, and I won't ever be. I shall make other mistakes. When I do, I hope you won't shout at me as you did this afternoon. I'm not used to it. And I dislike it." "I wasn't angry with you. I mean, I was, but-" He tried again. "I'm angrier with myself for not warning you to be cautious, for assuming you

knew the danger." He handed her a swatch of the floral print. She turned it over, brushed glue on the back, and pressed it firmly onto the page. "These designs need titles," he realized. "Some are easily described-Dido and Aeneas, for instance, and The Three Legs of Man." Ellin offered up a number of inspired suggestions: The Courtship of Olave and Emergaid, The Manx Crofters, Harvest Home, Manx Heather, The Four Seasons. "Nobody in England will know what Tynwald Day means/' he commented. "What do we call this one? Manx National Assembly?" "Manx Festival," she offered as an alternative. " 'National Assembly' brings to mind French radicals and the guillotine. 'Festival' is a lighthearted word." She shoved the large book in his direction so he could write it down beneath the square of red and white toile. When their book of samples was completed, he sent her to bed to get some sleep before their early departure. After a careful, satisfied survey of the finished pages, he went to join her. Removing only his boots, he stretched out on top of the quilt. When he closed his eyes, his weary mind tortured him with visions of the carriage incident, as it might have been-the horses plunging, Ellin knocked to the ground, her head hitting the cobblestones. Battered limbs, blood staining her white bridal dress. His heart raced nearly as fast now as when he'd rushed forward to rescue her. He rolled his head from side to side, trying to rid himself of the fearsome image of her lifeless body. His twin was gone, and he was surviving the loss. Kitty had been unwell since their childhood; he'd accustomed himself to the probability of outliving her. Her greatest and dearest legacy to him was not her collection of botanical drawing and designs for toile, nor even the hundreds of pounds that he used to fund the production of Manx prints. It was his wife. Kitty had left him all those pictures of Dido and Aeneas, Fand and Manannan Mac Lir as a sign that he and Ellin Fayle were meant for one another. She had used her talent to send a message. My saillu, he told her from his heart. I thank you. This day, marred by fear and strife, had concluded with several revelations. Ellin had enough character and honesty to acknowledge her errors, and the frankness to identify and point out her husband's faults. She was extremely sensitive to outbursts-his raised voice brought on her tears. He must remember that. But he would be carrying away one pleasant memory of their post-nuptial visit to Manchester: a rainy Sunday of passionate and vigorous bed sport. He shifted onto his side. Ellin's face was serene.

Her steady, rhythmic breath and slightly parted lips assured him that she slept, and he was relieved. Their journey to London would be arduous, lasting more than twenty-four hours, with only occasional halts for tea and a hasty dinner. By the end of it, his bride from an island measuring a mere thirteen miles across and thirty-two in length would discover how much larger and more varied England was. In London he would not dare let her out of his sight. If any harm came to her while there, her witchy friend Calybrid Teare would hound and curse him to his grave-and beyond. And he would deserve it. Chapter 16 Share s'laik lesh dagh usahg e hedd hene. Every bird likes its own nest best. MANX PROVERB

Ellin's first view of Halford House, an enormous expanse of creamy stone set within a rail-enclosed lawn, awed her into silence. This was no house; it was palatial, with a wealth of decorative detail. A series of arches curved above the many lower floor windows; flat columns separated each of the upper ones. Projecting wings at either end had even broader, taller windows. The roof was so vast, it must have taken an army of men to cover it with slates. Expecting the activity of Liverpool or Manchester, she commented on the calm quiet of Stanhope Street, and all of Mayfair. "Only because it's so early," Kerr said, as they halted before the wide double door of gleaming oak. "No one but servants and tradesmen stir in this part of town in the morning." Not all servants, either, Ellin discovered, when a man answered her husband's thundering summons. His cravat was untied, and his coat rumpled, as though he'd pulled it on hurriedly. He glared at them both with outright suspicion. Unconcerned, Kerr said, "You must be the porter. I'm Lord Garvain, Her Grace's brother. She's expecting me-and my wife." Halford House's exterior, handsome though it was, didn't prepare Ellin for the magnificence within. From a cavernous hall-gleaming stone floor, molded plaster, gilt-framed art-they were taken up an impressive staircase to a painted antechamber, with a looking glass that stretched up almost to the ceiling. The plasterwork border combined classical motifs, with urns and lamps and vases. "We don't wish to disturb the duke or duchess at this hour," Kerr told the porter. "But you might inform Carlo of our arrival." "Very good, my lord," the man replied respectfully, and vanished.

Ellin was staring at the life-sized statues set in alcoves on each side of the doorway: female figures-entirely naked. "In these great houses, every room has its purpose," her husband explained. "Visitors are first brought in here. It leads to the dining room, you see." She poked her head into the adjoining chamber. The floor was polished wood; the mantel was carved marble. At intervals along the pale green walls were more statue-filled niches. "After the guests finish their dinner," he continued, "they cross the staircase hall to the drawing room, even more impressive." He showed her to another ornate chamber, where oil portraits and landscapes covered almost every inch of the blue silk damask lining the walls. There were enough chairs and sofas to seat two dozen persons. "Bedchambers are on the upper floors, kitchen and cellars in the basement level." "Have you been here often?" she asked. "Twice, when I first came to London. The duke asked me to dine as a favor to Garrick and Lavinia, and we found we shared an interest in books. After my disgrace, the invitations ceased. But that may have been due to his own troubles. He carried on a long affair with a married woman-she left her husband, who challenged him to a duel." She'd read about similar scandals, in Lady Kitty's collection of novels. Never had she supposed that she might be even remotely connected to one herself. And now she was married to a man whose past liaisons were commonly known, visiting the city where he'd become notorious. "What happened to the woman?" "London gossip is by far too salacious for the purity of your pretty ears. Good morning, Carlo," he greeted the swarthy man who had quietly entered the room. Flashing bright teeth, Carlo said, "Is three years since we first meet at Venezia, no? And here in England you visit Monkwood, but not for long time." "You shall see much of me in the future, however, for the baroness and I plan an extended staythrough the summer." "Si, so the duca and duchessa tell me." With a smile for Ellin, he added, "You travel in coach very far distance, will be wanting rest. Come." She was disconcerted to find that she and Kerr would have separate bedchambers, connected by an airy parlor. Too fatigued to ponder this curious arrangement, she tumbled into a canopied fourposter and soon fell into a dreamless slumber. After a quick wash, Kerr changed his travelcreased garments for casual London dress, and settled down to a hearty breakfast. His sister found him in her dining room, polishing off the last morsel of pickled salmon. "Lhon-

dhoo," he greeted her, waving his fork. "We are safely arrived!" "Sooner than expected," Lavinia responded. She was as lovely as ever, he observed, in a morning gown that flattered the clear porcelain skin and long black curls. She came over to embrace him. "Just the two of us, now. Shirragh and Lhondhoo, the falcon and the blackbird. Atreih, how I've missed you, more than ever since our loss. How are Mother and Father faring?" "Reasonably well. The flax sowing and other work about the farm keep him busy, and Mother has her garden and the house to tend. She was much cheered by the wedding." Kissing his cheek, she said, "I've not offered my felicitations! When your letter arrived, I had to read it twice through, I was that astonished. You must tell me every detail of your courtship. And then," she added slyly, "I shall ask Ellin for her version." Avoiding her fascinated gaze, he fortified himself with coffee. "I believe Kitty would be pleased by the match. Father didn't exactly welcome it, and Mother's initial response was more resigned than ecstatic. When I resumed my acquaintance with Ellin, I had a different relationship in view." "Kerron, you are a depraved creature! Why did you marry her?" "Why did you marry Garrick?" "Because of his fortune, to hear him tell-it's his favorite tease. He pretends to forget how I accepted his first proposal, when he had hardly any money at all." "I've always thought it remarkably convenient that you were living in Italy when your Kat was born. A month before time, I believe." With lips pressed together and eyes downcast, she looked exactly as she'd done as a little girl caught in naughtiness. "I shall overlook that excessively scurrilous speculation about my daughter." "I was speculating about you and your husband," he said pointedly. "Am I to assume you and Ellin will become parents in fewer than nine months?" "Possibly, but not that I'm aware. I wed her, Lavinia, because we got caught. By a person who threatened to expose me as a rapist-which I'm not. His reprisals would have ruined the Manx Linen Company, and Castle Cashin might have been lost to us. I did what I had to," he said defensively. "And I've concealed from Ellin the real reason I was so quick to rush her to the church. Ours is a love match. Remember that, if you please." "Kerr-" "Don't, I beg you, say how disappointed you are. I've heard as much of that nonsense as I can stand." "My beauteous duchess," said a deep voice nearby, "never utters nonsense." The new Duke of Halford clapped him on the shoulder, and in a more serious tone added, "My sympathies, Kerr."

"You've got mine as well, Garry. A decent fellow, your brother." "Where's your bride?" Lavinia rose from the table with characteristic grace. "Recovering from their mad dash across the country." She kissed her husband and smoothed a stray lock of blond hair from his brow. "We must be very gentle with Lady Garvain. Poor creature, I don't know how she'll be able to endure my brother's beastliness." "Lhondhoo," Kerr warned. Her clear gray eyes assessed him. Then she smiled. "You've told me some interesting facts. I'm even more eager to hear Ellin's side of the story." "Don't expect her to malign my character. She's devoted to me." Said Garrick glibly, "A wife's devotion is a gift from the gods." "The gods," he repeated. "Greeks and Romansthat reminds me. I need a favor." "Anything in our power." "I'd like to show Ellin the collections in the British Museum, but I can no longer claim any friends among the trustees, nor the Society of Antiquaries." "I'll apply for tickets on your behalf. Edward was a firm supporter of the institution, and I'm confident my request will be acted upon promptly." Garrick tweaked the black ribbon trailing from Lavinia's mourning cap. "Dolcezza mia, where are the precious bambini?" "Nurse is giving Jonathon his bath." "Ah, that accounts for the caterwauling I heard from the nursery." "And Kat is sitting quietly in the upstairs corridor with her entire collection of poppets spread across the floor. She's waiting for Aunt Ellin to emerge from her bedchamber." Kerr feigned dismay. "What about Uncle-won't he be getting his kiss of welcome?" "You wouldn't want it, if you could see her mouth," Lavinia responded. "Toast and jam for breakfast?" her husband guessed. "Yes, and she bolted it. How many times, I wonder, will we have to change her pinafore today?" "It was worse at Langtree. Kat haunted the stables," Garrick added, for Kerr's benefit. "She takes after her father," said Lavinia accusingly. Accustomed to their domestic banter from previous visits, Kerr found it especially appealing today. Evidence of his sister's marital happiness awakened a desire that he and Ellin might achieve a similar harmony, in time. No sooner had this hope crossed his mind than the Halfords entered into a cordial but stubborn debate on whether the landscape gardener should be received that day, or asked to come later in the week. Kerr eavesdropped quite shamelessly. The outcome meant nothing to him, but it was enter-

taining-and highly educational-to observe how a fond husband should conduct a civilized quarrel with his wife. [break] "I don't want to be in London," Lavinia declared. "Nor I," admitted Ellin, relieved that she need not conceal her fears from her sister-in-law, in whose sunny parlor they sat. Lady Katherine Armitage, age four, climbed on to her lap, demonstrating her liking for her new aunt. The year-old Marquis of Rotherfield sat on the carpet, stacking the wooden blocks his mother handed him. Both possessed Lavinia's black hair and Garrick's brown eyes. Kerr said they resembled Italian children he'd seen during his travels, and by geography, if not blood, they very nearly were. Kat had been born in Venice, and the family had returned to England a mere two months before her brother's arrival. "Business brought Garrick here, also. He felt he must take his seat in the House of Lords, and his brother's estate is extremely complicated. Solicitors and bankers and clerks pop in and out each day, and at night he's trapped at Westminster. I hoped to remain at Langtree, making it a real and comfortable home for us all. But he objected, even though he knows of my long-standing aversion to this city. Now that I've got an important duty to perform, I shan't mind London so much." "Helping me to become a lady, you mean." "You're that already. Kerr expects me to supervise your presentation. He cares for you so, and wants you to be a great success." She knows, Ellin realized. Either he told her he doesn't love me, or she guessed it. "He's so impatient, he expects me to turn you into a fashionable baroness with a flick of my hand. Duchesses have no such powers-would that we did. Dressmakers and dancing masters will be more helpful to you than I. And the leaders of society, who will judge whether you are acceptable." Or unacceptable, Ellin worried. Jonathon batted at the tower of blocks, scattering them across the floor. His mother helped him rebuild it, saying, "When I first arrived in London, I was paralyzed by doubt and fear. My simple, quiet life on the island hadn't prepared me for what I found here. Four years later, I'm every bit as conscious of my limitations." Ellin couldn't imagine what Lavinia meant. Beloved by her handsome husband and delightful children, beautiful and charming, she was blessed with good fortune. An aristocrat by birth, she made a finer duchess than Ellin did a baroness. And she was so tactful, she behaved as though they were equals and always had been. "With the season just begun, all the best seamstresses may be too busy to make your gowns. Miss Fallowfield would probably accept the commission, and her sister is an exceptionally fine milliner. They

aren't French, but they're reliable, and their prices are reasonable." A short while later, when the case was put to Kerr, he deferred to his sister's judgment. "If you think these women will serve, so be it. But make it clear that Lady Garvain can wear only Manx prints, and her garments must turn all heads." Lavinia agreed. "I mean to enlist the support of Garrick's cousin, Frances Radstock, the most fashionable woman of my acquaintance. She helped me a great deal, and will surely do the same for my sister-in-law. And her maid Celeste is a skilled coiffeuse; she'll devise a flattering style for Ellin's lovely hair." "Don't let her cut it," Kerr warned. "I don't want it an inch shorter than it is." Ellin was relieved, for neither did she. And what a comfort, to hear that he approved of one feature. Kat stuck a finger in her mouth. "Toof hurts," she complained. "You've still got the toothache?" asked her mother. The child nodded. Ellin clasped the tiny, grubby hand. "I can helpmy friend Calybrid taught me. I must first gather clover, if it grows here." Lavinia smiled. "You might find some growing in the lawn, although I doubt any weed could long survive our gardener's vigilance." After the grueling carriage journey and a day of confinement at Halford House, Ellin was eager to be out in the fresh spring air, even though it smelled faintly of burning coal. She and Kat spent several unproductive minutes wandering the precisely edged gravel pathway, then boldly set out across the velvety grass. What the Halfords called a garden was really just a great lawn enclosed by a boundary wall, with clumps of tall trees and several shrubs in bloom and an abundance of statuary. Everything ornamental, nothing useful. Ellin, frequently pausing to examine the ground, was about to relinquish any hope of finding common clover. At last she spied a small but determined patch that had eluded his grace's gardener. "Here, luss-ny-tree duillag, plant of three leaves." She plucked a few stems and showed them to Kat. "Chew them, and that will cure ny beishtyn-toothache." The little girl stuffed them into her mouth. "Fling eats grass." "Who is Fling?" "Papa's horse. He's at Langtree now, and so is Magpie. Do you prefer the country?" "I do," sighed Ellin. The Halfords had welcomed her so kindly. But their speech was sprinkled with words and phrases of Italian or French, which Kerr rarely translated for her. Their servants were either foreigners, whose accented English was difficult to under-

stand, or else Londoners who spoke a dialect that was equally incomprehensible to a Manxwoman. The splendors of this great house were stupefying, with all of its gilt and marble and rich wood and expensive fabric. The library contained an incredible and daunting number of volumes, collected by previous dukes, and no matter how tempted she was by their titles, she dared not remove one to read it. "I've got a cat," Kat piped up. "And lots of kittens. Some wif tails, some wifout." "Is Xanthe their mother? My own cat, Mottle, is one of her kits." "Has she got a tail?" Ellin shook her head. After a moment, she said, "My dog is called Scadoo. In Manx, that means 'shadow.' She's nearly all black, with a white neck and belly, and marks on her legs like stockings." "Why didn't you bring her?" Now that she'd seen London, she knew why Kerr had been so adamant about leaving her pet behind. "Because she wouldn't be happy in such a big city as this." Lavinia had lent Ellin a gray gown that she regarded as the height of fashion-until the afternoon, when Garrick's cousin came to meet her. As handsome as she was elegant, Mrs. Radstock wore a magnificent creation, and a hat topped by enormous waving plumes. Her auburn hair, threaded with silver, was smoothed into a becoming chignon. "Yes, of course I can secure vouchers for Almack's," she said, in answer to a question from Lavinia. "I'm happy to do so." "During this period of mourning," Lavinia commented, "I cannot entertain on Ellin's behalf. Whatever you can do for her, we shall be most grateful. I know so few people." "You shall soon know many more. As Duchess of Halford, you'll be courted by society," Frances predicted. "Best to begin in a gradual way. Lady Garvain should appear at a few small select gatherings before attempting balls and evening receptions. As you know, I've planned a small dinner party in St. James's Square next week, a perfect opportunity to introduce her to my circle of friends. Ten at table altogether, and we shan't stand on ceremony." Ten people-a London lady's idea of a small party. The only time Ellin had dined with so many had been at weddings and wakes. Their dialogue turned to fashion, and she listened as they talked of dressmakers, milliners, and hairdressing. "I'm most eager to view these Manx linens myself." "They're lovely," Ellin volunteered. "Do you suppose her Manx accent will pose a problem?" asked Lavinia. "I shouldn't think so, in a town overrun with Scots and Irish. People will assume she's one or the

other, until they're told otherwise." Gathering up her reticule, Frances said, "To my regret, I carmot stay any longer. I'm collecting Radstock in Downing Street. We're expected at the Queen's House for a tedious half-hour of stilted pleasantries with Her Majesty-and all those plain, dull Princesses." The Queen, the Princesses-this charming and gracious female was acquainted with royalty! In subsequent days, Ellin endured measuring and draping and fitting, and thereby acquired a variety of stylish garments and ladylike accessories. Mrs. Radstock instructed her in the use of a fan and the proper responses on being introduced to persons of every rank, from the King himself all the way down the social scale to a country squire. From a lively Italian man she learned the latest dance steps. In the evening, when Kerr came to her bedchamber to brush out her hair, he quizzed her on what she'd learned that day and seemed pleased by her progress. Sooner than she wished, the ducal carriage bore them through Mayfair's lamplit streets to the Radstock mansion in St. James's Square. Ellin wore large pearls in her ears and a string of them around her throat, her marriage present from the Halfords. Her gown was cut from the patterned cambric she'd named Manx Heather. Her heart thumped nervously, and her mouth burned from the salt she'd surreptitiously eaten to bring her luck. Pinned to the inside of her bodice, where no one could see it, was the pudding stone Calybrid had given her years ago to ward off evil spirits. Here in England her reliance on Manx magic was as strong as everpossibly stronger. As she'd discovered in Manchester, unknown dangers could present themselves at any moment. Mr. Radstock was a benign personage, a distinguished diplomat who had represented his government at many a foreign court. The conversation at his table was difficult to follow. Ellin listened carefully to the flow of words but contributed few of her own. The other four diners, friends of the Radstocks, were their contemporaries and like them remarkably well preserved. Their flesh was pink and healthy, not sallow, all looked well fed; they exuded confidence and contentment. On her island, many middle-aged people had creased, careworn faces; those who drank excessively had rosy cheeks and red-veined noses. Lavinia, in black silk trimmed with white Venetian lace, grew particularly animated when the talk shifted to Italy, where she had begun her marriage to Garrick. Ellin admired her sister-in-law's facility for adapting to the many changes in locale and style of living. The duke, exhibiting his usual bright spirits, showed no concern when one lady spoke to him in a disapproving tone about a gaming house that had come under that scrutiny of the law.

"No need to preach at me, Mrs. Sneyd," he said merrily. "I ceased to visit Albinia Buckinghamshire's house before I married, and haven't so much as touched a pack of cards since." The same woman directed a frown at Kerr, saying, "Lord Garvain, I remember meeting you at the Walsinghams' house last year." "Undoubtedly," he replied. "Pray convey my regards. To their daughter, also, should you have the opportunity." "I marvel that you should wish to be remembered to her," Mrs. Sneyd said tartly. "She doesn't feel at all kindly toward you, nor do her parents." Ellin glanced from her husband to Mrs. Sneyd and back again, recalling the events Kerr had told her about from last year. Kerr smiled blandly. "I bear no grudge against them. Indeed, I hope that Lady Felicity lives up to her name, for she is entitled to every sort of happiness." "Your goodwill does you credit, my lord," said his critic, slightly mollified. "Sadly, her marriage to Mr. Turnbull has not prospered, despite the birth of their son. She's grown rather restless, and more daring than a young wife ought to be." "I'm surprised to hear it. She used to be so sedate." "I've noticed," said Garrick with mock gravity, "that marriage tames the wild ones. And the tame ones grow wilder." His dark eyes flashed wickedly at his duchess. "Stop being outrageous," Lavinia reproved him. "You shouldn't imply-quite falsely-that I've tamed you." Her remark elicited titters from the ladies, guffaws from their spouses. At the conclusion of the meal the sexes divided into groups, the gentlemen remaining in the dining room and the ladies retiring to a drawing room. Ellin kept close to her sister-in-law, following her to a settee with spindly legs that looked too insubstantial to support two persons. Nobody was much interested in card playing; they preferred gossip. Mrs. Sneyd, even more intimate with the royal family than Mrs. Radstock, told many an anecdote of her visits to the Queen's House and to Windsor, describing previously unreported aspects of Princess Elizabeth's confinement. Ellin learned a great deal about pregnancy, of consuming interest to these females just as it was to Manxwomen. Fashion, as she'd already discovered, was another favorite topic. Responding to a diatribe against the vogue for a low and revealing decolletage, Frances declared, "For ladies of a certain age, it's most unwise. I'm sure we all agree that mutton dressed as lamb is never appealing. If worn by younger women with charming figures, such as die Duchess and her sister-in-law, I cannot object to the current mode." She bestowed an approving smile upon Ellin.

"Lady Garvain, your gown is extremely pretty. Wherever did you find the material for it?" The question was deliberate. She'd been waiting for it, and had composed her answer in advance. "I'm wearing Manx cambric, ma'am, made at Lord Garvain's mill and printed in England." "Rea-lly?" Mrs. Sneyd studied her more closely. "Very elegant, indeed. Yet I've heard the Duke of Athol say your Isle of Man is but a primitive, backward place." "Compared to London," said Lavinia evenly, "it may seem so. But we Manx regard ourselves as thoroughly civilized. You should read the tour that Mr. Feltham has published, or the one Mr. Robinson produced several years ago. Both gentlemen accurately describe the delightful scenery and rural activities depicted in the linen toile my brother has produced. I've seen his book of patterns, and hope to be the first to decorate a parlor with Manx furnishing prints. Our own dear sister, whom we lost but two months ago, designed them all." "I must tell Her Majesty," the other woman said. "She is ever willing to promote British manufactures." Ellin hastened to correct her. "They're Manxmade. Our island isn't governed by Britain, not exactly. Even though the Duke of Athol sold his lordship rights to the Crown, our laws are enacted and enforced by our Tynwald, not your Parliament. The Bishop is independent of the English church. Many of us continue to speak the old language and follow our long-established customs." This was the longest speech she'd made in London, and it left her breathless and self-conscious. The ladies pelted Ellin and Lavinia with questions. They were encouraged to say some words in their native tongue, and describe quaint Manx traditions. Frances Radstock tossed out an occasional query, but the flame of her guests' curiosity needed no fanning. At last, for the first time since becoming a baroness, Ellin had a task to perform, an important one. On her cambric-covered shoulders rested the future of the crofters, spinners, and weavers of Glion Cornaa. If her husband's venture succeeded, the entire parish would benefit. The gentlemen entered the room, flushed and merry from drinking port and exchanging stories. Ellin forced herself to remain in her seat, but she longed to fling her arms around Kerr's neck and tell him of the promising start to their campaign to conquer London with his linen. [break] Ellin's first ball. Kerr regarded it with trepidation and wasn't sure why. She'd survived several dinner parties similar to the one in St. James's Square. During her brief debut at Almack's Assembly Rooms, her distinctive attire had aroused comment. He'd taken her to Gunter's pastry shop in Berkeley Square, and to Kelsey's fruit shop. They'd strolled

through Hyde Park during the popular afternoon promenade. Mrs. Radstock and Lavinia assured him that these preparatory exercises had prepared Ellin for the ultimate test of her newly acquired gentility and flattering collection of gowns. To establish a demand for his fabrics, he needed to present her to the highest echelons of society. Richard Ovey seemed willing to act as exclusive agent for Manx printed linens. But despite his praise for their quality and usefulness, he hadn't committed himself. He would wait, he said, to see the Manx damasks, due to arrive within the next few weeks. As his wife accompanied him up the Abingdon House staircase, only Kerr could appreciate her transformation from Manx crofter to aristocrat. Mrs. Radstock's Frenchwoman had created a most becoming coiffure, well suited for displaying the ruby-studded hair ornaments and earrings from the Ballacraine set. She wore a ballgown fashioned from the Manx Nosegay pattern, a multicolored floral print with a neckline that dipped so low he could see the creamy tops of her breasts. And so would other men. They proceeded through a cavernous hall and ascended a marble staircase. It was a grand occasion, for the Duke and Duchess of Abingdon were leaders of society. According to Mrs. Radstock, an invitation to their Grosvenor Square residence was highly valued. She commented to Kerr in a satisfied voice, "Just as I expected, everyone worth knowing is here. Mr. Pitt's blowsy confidante, the matchmaking Duchess of Gordon and her daughter Lady Georgiana, wearing her classical draperies and looking as if she might come undraped at any minute. And would the Duke of Bedford, the object of their pursuit, notice if she did? Lord Hervey came, but not his bride-most curious. I wonder what it means?" Moving through the throng, Kerr was aware of many dark looks. No one turned away from him, as they'd done at the last ball he attended, but he knew the cruel gossip was being revived behind all those spangled fans and gloved hands. "There's my friend William Shandos, Lord Normanby. How convenient that Garrick is off in Newmarket with his racehorses, and Lavinia stayed home with the children." "Why do you say that?" Ellin wondered. "Lavinia jilted him, poor man. It might have made for an awkward encounter." The words were hardly out when Kerr recognized a face from his own scandalous past. Golden hair, blue eyes, saucy smile, pert bosom. "Aile niurin," he cursed under his breath, wishing that hellfire itself would consume him. Because Lady Felicity Turnbull was moving toward him, and there was no chance he could avoid her. Chapter 17

Approaches to indecent discourse are likewise dangerous. EPICTETUS, THE ENCHIRIDION

Whatever unpleasantness was about to unfold, he could withstand it. But Ellin, sensitive to sharp words, was a softer target. Could he shield her from this woman's spite? "Lord Garvain, you have been busy," she trilled. "Setting up as a maker of linen. Taking a wife." Gentling his voice, he said to Ellin, "My veen, I present Lady Felicity Turnbull." He felt a curious triumph, watching the proud beauty who had spurned him curtsy to his baroness. "Lady Garvain, every female in London will want to know what trick you used to catch so dedicated a bachelor." He came to Ellin's rescue, swiftly asking, "Madam, is your husband among this company? I should be glad to renew our-friendship." It was a lie; he hoped it might chase her away. "Mr. Turnbull," she replied icily, "maintains an establishment in the country. It's unlikely that he'll come to London during the season. I'm making an extended visit to my parents." He regarded the start of the music as fortuitous. "I regret breaking off this delightful reunion," he said, another blatant falsehood, "but Lady Garvain wishes to join in the dancing." With a dismissive smile at Felicity, he ushered his wife toward the ballroom. In an awed tone, Ellin said, "You told me her ladyship was pretty. She's beautiful." He couldn't refute it. But the lady on his arm possessed a winning charm that appealed to him far more than Felicity's perfections. "And she's very vain about her looks." His partner performed the formal figures of the minuet de la cour as nimbly as she climbed Snaefull's summit, never missing a step. The light of the great chandelier made her rubies gleam and added a sheen to her filmy cambric overskirt. When she stepped forward to clasp his gloved hand, he glimpsed the pointed toes of rose satin slippers. Did she wear those flowered garters he'd bought for her in Manchester? He would find out later, when he undressed her. Anticipation quickened his pulse. Certainly Felicity had never aroused this intense passion, and with other women it had been so fleeting, easily satisfied. None of his premarital liaisons had endured beyond a month, yet he couldn't regret the permanence of his union with Ellin. After their dance, Mrs. Radstock led Ellin away to be introduced to the Duchess of Abingdon. Kerr, left to his own devices, returned to the antechamber and accepted a glass of chilled pink champagne from a footman making the rounds with his silver

tray. "Your Manx bride doesn't match the description I was given." He whirled around. Felicity again. "She said the same about you." "I expected someone pretty, but not so youthful or simple. Your reputation led me to imagine a woman of great sophistication. Not an island rustic." Her crystalline voice was reflective, unemotional. "A recent conquest?" "Ellin was a neighbor; I've known her many years. My sister Kitty was fond of her. Lavinia and my mother also." "Your family made the match?" Kerr smiled thinly. "Not exactly. I made it myself." Her breasts rose with her drawn breath, released as a sigh. "My parents warned me that you weren't the sort to be ruled by anyone, not even a rich wife. But I never cared that you were a fortune hunter. Does Lady Garvain?" "By your standards, she's no heiress. She'll inherit her uncle's farm and not much more." "Ah, now I see the appeal for you. Ignorant and poor-unlikely to make a fuss about your favorite pastime. After I found out that you were consorting with your actresses and whores, I managed to convince myself that you wouldn't marry." "I was entirely free to do so," he stated. "You cut me in public, never even permitted me an apology. You and your parents and Ralph Turnbull wrecked my reputation. And then you married him." "The great mistake of my life," she added bitterly. Reaching out, she seized his glass and drank from it. "I was breeding so soon after my wedding that the wags called me Lady Fertility. Ralph wagered it would be a boy. I helped him win quite a large sum, but he never thanked me. He spent it on his mistress." After another sip, she asked, "Did you know about his women the way he knew about yours?" "Of course." "I wish you'd told me." "When did I have the chance? Besides, you wouldn't have listened." "Probably not. I was desperate to salvage my self-respect, and the only way I could was to get a husband-quickly." She handed back his empty glass. "Your little wife will need a friend's guiding hand, unless you want more scandal heaped upon you. Will you mind if I call at Halford House?" Very much. But he wouldn't admit it, lest he antagonize her. "Do as you please. She's rarely there-Mrs. Radstock takes her everywhere." Felicity ran her finger along the frill of gold lace adorning her decolletage. "So much the better, if I find you alone." Kerr had no idea how he should reply to that remark. He didn't even try. "I'm not such a prude as I used to be. And I can

accept that a man of your appetites and prowess requires more than one woman. When the honeymonth ends and the pleasures of your bridal bed have palled, I'll gladly bestow the favors that I withheld when we were both unwed." He wouldn't have her intruding into the sacred territory of his marriage. "Could you willfully inflict upon another female the same pain you've suffered?" "It depends on how much I gained by it. But she wouldn't find out. If you haven't yet learned how to be discreet in your amours, I shall have to show you." She gave him a sly, predatory smile, and drifted away. An overpowering instinct to protect sent him searching for his wife. Ignoring the many frowns of disapproval and pairs of unfriendly eyes, he hurried past the overdressed women in his path. Where was Ellin? He went to the ballroom, not really expecting she would have returned to it. To his amazement, he saw her dancing with Lord Waterford-a promising sign of social advancement, but one that sparked jealousy as he watched them from the sidelines. When the set concluded, Waterford escorted Ellin over to a group of young lords and ladies. They welcomed her to their circle, and she chatted with them as though she'd known them from her cradle. Too much success, coming too soon, he realized suddenly, could lead to trouble. He knew it all too well. "I can't say when I've seen such a sweet print," he heard one of the ladies tell her. "I'd quite die to have one for myself. At which warehouse did you find it?" "My husband gave it to me," Ellin answered. "The cambric was woven on the Isle of Man and printed at a factory near Manchester. I have many others just as fine. You might inquire at Mr. Ovey's establishment-I believe he's in Covent Garden." With that simple suggestion, Ellin had helped him more than she knew. If aristocratic females descended on Ovey and begged for Manx prints, the draper would have no choice but to stock them. "Lord Garvain," Waterford greeted him, as he joined the group. "These ladies are mad for your cloth. You should set up as linen-merchant." "I'm too busy growing the flax and supervising my spinners and weavers-as well as commissioning engravers and printers. But if I opened a shop of my own, I do believe Lady Garvain would enjoy waiting upon my customers." His lighthearted jest was greeted with laughter. "My mother is giving one of her morning receptions tomorrow, a Venetian breakfast," announced one lordling. "I know it's short notice, but won't you both come?" Their goodwill toward Ellin was so strong that they could overlook all his unsavory exploits of last

year. Although he was tempted to accept the impromptu invitation, he had to reject it. "I regret that we are not at leisure. Though you might not think it of a lady so fashionable, my baroness is a classical scholar, and I'm taking her to the British Museum to view the Greek and Roman antiquities. If she wishes." Ellin grasped his arm, her face lit by a smile. "Dy-jarroo!" "That means yes," he translated for their companions, who smiled indulgently at her obvious enthusisam. [break] Before Garrick left town to watch his horses run at Newmarket, he'd made good his promise to secure a pair of tickets to the British Museum in Bloomsbury. The ducal request also provided Kerr and Ellin with a guide, Mr. Diss. After bidding them an effusive welcome, he respectfully inquired, "My lord, what do you wish to see first?" "The books," Kerr responded. They were promptly shown to a large vaulted chamber with tiers of bookcases. Their guide proved to be knowledgeable about the contents, but pedantic. After they left the library, he whisked them through chamber after chamber of glass cases containing a variety of curiosities-mummified Egyptians, items collected by Captain Cook during his Antipodean voyages, the skeletons and stuffed bodies of odd, unfamiliar creatures. At Kerr's insistence, they lingered in the rooms where the Greek and Roman antiquities were displayed, and Ellin found time spent there by far the most valuable. For the first time, she could gaze upon relics similar to those Kerr had seen in Italy; her very own eyes dwelled on remnants of the great civilizations that so fascinated him. Each statue, each fragment of a column, each terracotta vase helped her feel closer to him. And her every question revealed more of the lore hoarded by his questing mind. She didn't need Mr. Diss or his guidebook to tell her about Roman artifacts, for Kerr had visited the ruins of Pompeii and Herculaneum from which they had been excavated. Said their guide, "Some twenty years ago Sir William Hamilton, our Ambassador to Naples, sold these items to the Museum. Seven hundred and thirty Greek vases, over six thousand ancient coins, glass, bronzes, ivory carvings, and gems." "What's the value of it all?" wondered Ellin. "To the scholar, impossible to calculate. At that time, the price was in the region of eight thousand pounds." Her husband's reverent attitude made her smile as he lingered before the head of Homer, carved in marble. Moving on, he said, "Just think, Ellin-the Greek lady who wore this jewelled hair comb would also have worn a chiton of linen!" When at last they exited the great storehouse of

history, she asked, "Did you ever bring Lady Felicity here?" He tipped his black head back, laughing so loudly that the gatekeeper stared. "Not once," he assured her. "I never even considered it." The majority of fashionable Londoners, in Ellin's view, were aloof and on occasion extremely rude to Kerr. But the younger generation of aristocrats almost seemed impressed by his notoriety, or else they were more forgiving. Lady Felicity Tumbull, the lady he'd courted last year, was by far the friendliest of that exclusive set. She admired Ellin's gowns and paid lavish compliments, and invited her-and her husband-to share the Walsinghams' theatre box. Kerr, learning of the scheme, refused to participate. Moreover, he cautioned her against assigning too much importance to these overtures. Desperate for advice and clarification, she sought it from Lavinia. "Kerr has good reason to keep away from Felicity Turnbull," her sister-in-law said emphatically. "She's dangerous-I'd have to say devious, if her tactics weren't so ludicrously transparent." "Tactics?" she repeated. Lavinia's delicate black brows swept downward in a frown that made her resemble her brother at his most outraged. "She's drawing you in. Making a friend of you to get near your husband. When she found out he had mistresses, she decided not to marry him. Now she's scheming to become his light-of-love herself." He hadn't given his heart to Lady Felicity, Ellin reminded herself; he'd only wanted her money. Ellin's fears about his fidelity would have been fewer if she'd possessed his love in full. She'd used up nearly all the periwinkle leaves the ben-obbee had given her, and the tea she'd brewed from them was very slow to take effect. "What should I do?" she asked Lavinia. "Nothing. As we say at home, ta cree dooie ny share na kione croutagh." A kind heart is better than a crafty head. "I need Calybrid Teare," she said wistfully. "She'd give me a charm to protect Kerr." "From temptation?" "From evil of all kinds. I feel a keen dread. Perhaps because this is May Day Eve." "I hadn't realized. Now, don't tease me again about abandoning Manx ways. I'm wed to a Sostnagh, after all, and live in his country." Rising, Lavinia smoothed her gray silk. "And his children will be wanting their scones and jam." Her slender white hand touched Ellin's shoulder. "Don't fret," she said gently, before leaving the room. She wouldn't; it did no good. She must act. Chapter 18 Ta beeal tutler poagey scrieu yn jouyl. A gossip's mouth is the devil's postbag. MANX PROVERB

Ellin departed Halford House confident that no one could possibly recognize her as Lady Garvain in her green shortgown and a striped linen petticoat covered by a plain apron. For the first time in London she stepped outside with a bare head. She reveled in her freedom, unhampered by a fashionably tight bodice and long, full skirts and constricting hat ribbons. She hurried to the end of Stanhope Street and crossed over to Chesterfield Gate, the nearest entrance to Hyde Park. Avoiding paths and carriageways, she walked until she lost all sense of being in a city. Impressed by the size and splendor of the trees, she studied them closely, searching out the ones she needed. She'd come to gather sumark and cuirn branches and greenery, for by spreading them about the house she could ward off the bad spirits that roamed so restlessly. Tomorrow, on Old May Day, witches and fairies would be at their most powerful, and she wanted to take precautions. This might be London, not the Isle of Man, but wickedness ran rampant here. Wandering through a grove, she came upon a rowan and quickly broke off a pair of twigs. Splitting one with her fingernail, she inserted the other through the gap to form a cross and bound them with woolen thread pulled from the fringe of her loghtan shawl. After making a crosh cuirn for Kerr, both Halfords, and their children, she placed them in the pocket tied around her waist. Before moving on, she reached higher to take several longer branches, and tucked them under her arm. She made her way to an outflow of water from the Serpentine to pick rushes growing there, wetting her feet in the process. All she needed now was sumark. A distant patch of yellow blossoms caught her eye. Primroses! She hurried over and knelt down to pluck them. "I say, there," said a masculine voice, "did you realize you're being pursued?" Looking up, Ellin met the quizzical stare of a well-dressed gentleman on horseback. "You've got some chap chasing after you. I can't see him at the moment, he must be hiding behind a tree." He leaped down from his saddle. "You're awfully fond of flowers. May I help?" "I've taken enough." Removing her apron, she spread it across the ground. She placed all the primroses, rushes, and rowan branches on the cloth, and tied the corners together. "I assume you're employed in this neighborhood. Where?" Without bothering to refute his assumption, she replied calmly, "I live at Halford House." "Yours isn't a London accent. A charming country lass. Just come from the provinces?"

He'd moved in quite close. Before she could step away, he captured her forearm. "Nothing I like better." He dipped down his head to steal a kiss, his hand squeezing her breast. Ellin tore herself from his arms. She ran as fast as her legs would move, clutching her bundle to her chest. "Halford House," he called after her. "I won't forget!" Ellin didn't dare look over her shoulder. She might trip and fall, as she'd done at Ballanard when she'd mistaken Mr. Standish for the buggane. Not until the park gate came into view did she slow her pace. Before venturing across the carriageway, she paused to let the vehicles pass by, having learned her lesson in Manchester. Back over Park Lane, quickly up Stanhope Street. Halford House, safe at last! She left a leafy rowan branch on the threshold, and placed primrose leaves at every window. Hurrying up the staircase, she continued the familiar ritual in the drawing room. While scattering flowers over the window seats, she heard Kerr's voice and turned to greet him. But her smile of welcome faltered, for he was not alone. "Lady Felicity." Her spirits plummeted. His companion swept into the room, dressed all in violet from her high-crowned bonnet to her kid shoes. "I met his lordship in Pall Mall and went with him to Harding and Howell, in Schomberg House. The proprietors were intrigued to hear about the Manx linens and damasks, so we've come to get the pattern-book." Ellin regarded Kerr, whose disapproving face roused her apprehensions. "Ellin, why are you wearing those clothes? What's all this?" He picked up the rowan branch lying on the doorsill. "Cuirn, to protect us from the evil spirits roaming on Oie Boaldyn." Carlo intruded upon the awkward moment. "Barone, is a visitor. He demand to see baronessa." Her amorous admirer from the park. Atreih, this situation was going from bad to worse. "Were you expecting a gentleman, Ellin?" "I was afraid he might come," she admitted. "Bring him up, Carlo, whoever he is." Lady Felicity pulled off her pale purple gloves and laid them on the table beside some plant material. Her serene smile was at odds with the calculation in her eyes when she faced Kerr. She wants him, Ellin realized. I've displeased him, and she's glad. Here was a witch who had no fear of rowan and rushes. To her relief, the person Carlo ushered into the drawing room was not the bold stranger who had accosted her in the park. She'd never seen this stocky red-faced man. "There you are!" he cried, pointing his stubby

finger at her. "I knowed I'd catch up with you!" "What's your business?" asked Kerr impatiently. "I'm here to charge that lass with thievin'. It's the park attendant I am, and she shouldn't ought to be takin' flowers and damagin' trees. And look, here's the evidence," he said, grabbing the branch Kerr held and waving it at him. "Stop that," said Kerr, his tone dangerous. "She meant no harm." "Didn't she? You ain't seen what she did to that tree! And them primmyroses. Not just one or two, mind you-she nicked nearly every one. Leaves and all." "I'll pay the damages. How much?" "That's for my superior to say. I've come to get her name, 'cause the chap what kissed her didn't know it." Ellin quailed when her husband rounded on her. His eyes were stormy gray, his handsome face filled with outrage. "You let someone kiss you?" "I didn't let him. He thought I was a servant." "I'm not surprised." Turning back to the park keeper, he said, "As Lady Garvain's husband, I'll do whatever is necessary to satisfy your superior. But you'd be doing us both an enormous favor if you simply forget this entire matter." "Here," said Lady Felicity. "Perhaps this will help." She handed over a golden guinea. "For your trouble-and discretion." The man took it, saying with a grin, "You're a lady what knows how to behave proper-like. Not like that'n," he added, glaring at Ellin. "Damn your impudence!" Kerr exploded. "You'll treat her ladyship with civility, or I'll kick you down the stairs. Carlo!" The Italian entered promptly. "Barone?" "Take this man away. And inform Lady Felicity's driver that she's leaving." "We both are," the lady reminded him. "I'm taking you back to Schomberg House, so you can show your patterns." "I'm not in the mood." "No wonder, after so much uproar. Dear Lady Garvain, you cannot run about the park dressed like a farm woman, stealing greenery and courting the attention of strangers." Ellin lifted her chin. "I thought these plants grew on common land. And I didn't want that man to touch me, that's why I ran away from him." Turning to Kerr, Felicity said sympathetically, "Here's the answer you were so reluctant to give when I asked whether Lady Garvain is adapting to London." "You should go," he replied, "before I say something I'll regret." "Speak your mind," she encouraged him. "We're such intimate friends, I'll find it in my heart to forgive you." If he smiles back, thought Ellin, Lady Felicity will count it her victory.

He didn't. "A true friend would take the hint that her instant departure would be much appreciated." Ellin flinched as Felicity's soft hand cupped her cheek. "He wants to scold you in private. In the future, my dear, have a care how you behave in a public place." When they were alone, Kerr said steadily, "Don't look so terrified; I'm not going to shout at you. I understand what happened-I think-and why. But I wish it hadn't. And I hate that Felicity was here when that park attendant came." "So do I," she admitted. "I can't afford another scandal, and I've been careful not to provoke gossip. But twice in the past hour, all my caution was undermined. First, by Felicity-following me to that linen-draper's, when she knew all her friends would be shopping and could see us together. Then by my own wife, dressing like a crofter and kissing men in the park." "It was only one man, and I didn't kiss him," she insisted. "I wore laplinyn to make myself inconspicuous." "You're anything but." She sat down on the window seat, crushing her primroses. "Have I ruined your plans?" Amazingly, he smiled-quite broadly. "Oh, we'll find a way to stifle the busybodies. While we were both getting into trouble this afternoon, a large case arrived here-I saw it in the porter's hall. I suspect it came from our bow-maker in Manchester. Lady Garvain, tomorrow afternoon you'll receive your first formal lesson in archery. In Hyde Park-with all the most fashionable people in London looking on." [break] Horse-drawn vehicles sped along the carriageway, painted wheels crunching the gravel. Phaetons, curricles, and coaches formed an endless cavalcade. Ladies and gentlemen on horseback showed off their skill, and elegant pedestrians took leisurely exercise on the footpaths. Having made prior arrangement with the park keeper, Kerr had set up his shooting butts a safe distance from the crowd-but well within its view. He'd insisted that Lavinia and Garrkk come along to watch Ellin's lesson. Their party was accompanied by an impressive retinue of footmen in powdered wigs and full livery, who had carried the sporting equipment and furniture from Halford House and were now laying out fruit and champagne on the tablecloth. Ellin's shooting habit of Manx toile became her well. She was, Kerr noticed, clutching her bow in a death grip. "Relax," he told her. "What if I hit someone by accident? That would be disastrous!" "Have you so little confidence in your instructor?" he teased.

"No. In my aptitude." His lips hovered over her ear. "My veen, you've shown great aptitude in other realms of learning. As recently as last night-lest you forget." He ran his eye over her deliriously molded figure. Her overdress, printed with The Courtship of Olave and Emergaid in rose madder, was tightly pleated at the back to form folds of cloth that flowed to the ground. In front, it divided to reveal a white cambric petticoat. Perched on her head was a flat straw hat with a low crown and small brim, and rose ribbons streaming behind. Placing his hand in the small of her back, he said, "Stand upright, move your left foot forward a bit. Do you remember what to do next?" She held out her hand for an arrow. He gave it to her, nodding as she placed the nock against the bow-string. "Take your aim." Her left arm hefted the bow. Narrowing her eyes, she stared at the canvas-covered blocks of straw as if facing down an enemy. "I'm ready ... I hope." "Draw back slowly, as far as your strength will allow, and let loose." Her arrow shot forward, sailing straight at the target, and stuck there. Cheering, the Halfords clinked their glasses together. Ellin's elfin face was gleeful. "A hit," she cried, "on my first try! In the heather field, I never came close." "Probably my fault, for distracting you. I was more interested in kissing than archery." He offered another arrow. "Try again. Left foot forward." As she assumed the proper stance, Kerr looked over his shoulder and saw that a group of pedestrians had paused to watch. He signaled to a footman for his own bow. After Ellin completed her shot, he took one himself. "I'll never be as good as you," she declared, after his arrow struck near the bull's-eye. "Not without practice." He lowered his bow. As they continued to shoot, a small audience gathered. The females were vocal in their admiration of her ladyship's shooting habit; the gentlemen expressed curiosity about Kerr's hobby. Garrick and Lavinia, as previously agreed, invited the observers to share their alfresco repast of strawberries and champagne. The party atmosphere appeared to be impromptu, but in fact was carefully orchestrated down to the last detail. "With so many people milling about, asking questions, it's difficult to concentrate," Ellin commented. "We're about to be interrupted again, by a gentleman I don't recognize." When her gaze followed his, her cheeks turned poppy red. "I do. He's the man who-you know. Yesterday." The one who'd had the effrontery to kiss his wife.

The piercing glare Kerr directed at the fellow was sharper than the arrow he whipped out of his quiver. Advancing towards them, the man said, "My eyes do not deceive me! Indeed, you are that wench I-" He stopped himself, then amended, "The lady I met on my last visit to the park. At the time, I neglected to properly introduce myself. Harold Launceston." "Lady Garvain-my wife-described the encounter," Kerr told him frostily. "Garvain? You're that eccentric Manx lord Lady Felicity's always talking about. You make some kind of cloth." "At the moment, I'm giving an archery lesson. Watch us if you wish, but I'd prefer you did it from a distance. Are you acquainted with my sister, the Duchess of Halford? Her servants will provide you with a chair, and champagne." Mr. Launceston accepted the invitation, joining Garrick and Lavinia. "Gum mie ayd," murmured Ellin. "For what are you thanking me?" Kerr wondered. "For not being cross, or losing your temper with that man." "He had the sense to show remorse, so perhaps he's not a bad sort. I feared he must be a rogue on the make, exactly like-" With a lopsided grin, he concluded, "Like me, before I married you. Now I'm finding out what it is to be the jealous husband. For a lass so young, you've had entirely too many sweethearts. Sergeant Clucas from Ramsey garrison. That linen factor, Norris Martin." "Mr. Martin never kissed me," she assured him. He refrained from asking about the sergeant, since he doubted he'd like her answer. She released a sigh. "Lady Felicity's coming. I might have known she'd find you." "My veen, however tempted you are to shoot her, please don't." "I'm not so bloodthirsty. Unless," she continued with feigned gravity, "you tell me she's kissed you. Then I won't be responsible for my actions." "She most certainly has not," he insisted. "And she'll never get the chance. Why don't you have some food and drink? I mean to be rid of her, and it won't be a pleasant scene." Ellin looked up at him gravely. "I had a sweethard or two, yes, but I never broke anyone's heart. Don't be unkind to her, Kerr." A strange emotion bubbled up inside him at this gallant, dignified speech. He managed two swift successive shots before the blonde beauty reached him. "When you finish your little game," she said, "we really ought to return to Harding and Howell." "I can't," he replied. "But you've kept them waiting since yesterday!"

"One of Lavinia's footmen can deliver the pattern-book to Schomberg House." "That's too impersonal. Use me as your gobetween. If you like, we can discuss it later. My parents have an evening engagement, but I cried off. Join me-we'll dine together, a deux." He released another arrow before addressing her again. "Lady Garvain and I are dining with the Radstocks. Afterward, we attend a soiree." "She probably won't enjoy it," Felicity commented sourly. "It's obvious she prefers wearing her rags to swarming about in all those glorious gowns." Moving closer, she pleaded, "Let me have your linens! I can show them to greater advantage than your peasant bride." Felicity's insult to Ellin was insupportable; her pursuit of him was tedious and distracting. But he must be cautious in his rejection-if provoked, she could do much harm. In the past, she'd vengefully participated in the destruction of his good name. Out of spite, she might direct her malice toward Ellin. Speak merely what is necessary, and in few words. So said Epictetus, and it was a sound recommendation. Quietly he said, "Don't think that I'm not in sympathy with you, or unaware of how lonely you must be. But my patience wears thin. I didn't come all the way to London for your amusement. If you have a taste for dalliance, look to Launceston, that bold chap who kissed my wife. I'm just not-" He stopped short. "Interested?" She pressed her lips together. "We were never plighted to each other," he reminded her. "You married Ralph Turnbull. My indiscretions convinced you I was a flagrant libertine, wallowing in vice. I'm sorry to disappoint you." "How trying it must be, playing the role of faithful husband." "You don't know me as well as you suppose. Despite my faults and mistakes, and they've been many, Ellin looks up to me. I'll not debase myself in her eyes by living down to my reputation." "You're in love with her," she accused him. His heart lurched against his chest. "Certainly she deserves my love," he replied. "And she worships you, that's plain. Would she, I wonder, if I revealed your sordid past?" "She knows; I've told her. Unless you want to make yourself ridiculous-and create a messy little scandal of your own-you'll keep your distance from us. Excuse me, I must go to my wife." He hoped his honesty hadn't roused her anger, and he hoped she had enough sense to heed his warning. Leaning his bow against a tree trunk, he walked over to the table. Ellin came to meet him, her toile skirt billowing. "Kerr, one of these gentlemen belongs to the Tottenham Archers. He invites us to a field day at their archery ground. There's to be a competition, with

silver medals awarded to the best bowmen, and a fete afterward with music and dancing." "Sounds delightful." Observing the blonde's retreat, she asked, "You sent her away?" "I was as kind as I could be. I don't think she'll seek either of us out in future." With wifely devotion, she unfastened the buckles of his wrist guards. "Then we must both forget about her, and enjoy ourselves." "An Epicurean sentiment, succinctly expressed." He smiled down at her bowed head. "Pleasure is the alpha and omega of a happy life. And we are happy, aren't we, my veen?" "Dy jarroo." Her love for him had survived grim Manchester, the strain of London living, and Felicity's attentions, he exulted. At home, their differences in class and upbringing had partly blinded him to her finer qualities. Ironically, in this city where the contrasts were more obvious, he could more clearly perceive her attributes, even as he attempted to transform her. Loyal, brave, persistent-and uncomplaining, no matter what sacrifice he asked of her. Helplessly candid, Ellin continued, "But if we returned to the island and Glion Cornaa, I should be far happier." Her wistful words alarmed him. Her buoyant spirits had lulled him into the belief that she was willing to remain as long as it suited his convenience. His was a costly contentment, and a selfish one. Was he in danger of losing more than he could win during this protracted stay in the city? Ellin's patience-and her devotion to his cause-might not prove as limitless or as durable as her affection. Chapter 19 His shafts-worse luck for me-never miss their target: I'm on fire now, Love owns the freehold of my heart. OVID, THE AMORES

For Ellin, constantly occupied with her social engagements, the weeks raced by. As May vanished into June, the days stretched longer, each one devoted to as much pleasure-seeking and entertainment as could be crammed into it. She spent her nights in splendid ballrooms, dancing with men not her husband and receiving compliments on her garments from women. She was always meeting people or greeting the ones she'd met already, and doing her utmost to behave appropriately. The exhausting round seldom left her with the opportunity for introspection. Whenever she could steal the time, she documented her various activities in lengthy letters to her family at Boayl Fea, for Marriot to read aloud at the fireside. She described how strange it was to inhabit a duke's mansion and mix with aristocrats.

She gave an account of her visit to the British Museum and the Tottenham Archers' fete, where Kerr's skill with bow and arrow had won him so many accolades. With Mrs. Radstock, she had visited a royal residence. She'd curtsied to the Queen of England, a forbidding-looking German, who had taken Ellin's figured cambric gown in her skinny fingers and declared it to be very fine. There were things she couldn't reveal to her loved ones-or anybody else. What she and Kerr did together after they retired to their adjoining chambers each night. The way she felt while lying beneath him, or on top of him, or propped against the bed, their bodies locked in passion. Or how, when he wasn't looking, she sprinkled dried periwinkle in among the tea leaves before adding hot water, relying on Manx magic to secure his love. Lavinia, taking advantage of her double mourning and her husband's frequent forays to his racing stud in Suffolk, continued to refuse all invitations. She remained in contented seclusion, doting on her children and consulting the architect responsible for the refurbishment of Halford House. Holding up a length of Manx toile, she asked Ellin, "What do you think of this one for my sitting room? Dido and Aeneas." Ellin looked up from her novel. "You told me you'd settled on red. Harvest Home, wasn't it?" "I rather fancy something in blue. More elegant, and so soothing. And if I use this pattern for my curtains and cornice and chair covers, I needn't change the carpet." Ellin reached for one of the many tiny sugarcoated cakes on the tray before her. Kerr had thoughtfully made arrangements for a daily delivery from Gunter's, the celebrated pastry shop in Berkeley Square. "Are you perhaps eating for two?" inquired her sister-in-law. "Cha nel," she answered. "I'm always hungry before my courses start." Smiling, she added, "Kerr won't want me to start breeding until he's sold enough cloth to support a child." "How absurd. You'd have no shortage of linen for making swaddling bands and dresses. And in the first year or two, you'll provide the babe's nourishment." "We've been wed but two months," Ellin pointed out. Although she'd love her child dearly no matter when or where she conceived it, she preferred that the miracle take place after she returned to her island. She needed Calybrid nearby-to confirm her condition and ease her concerns, and to recite the charms that ensured a strong and healthy son or daughter. Today Kerr was closeted with a linen-draper, Mr. Brownlow, who had come to view the printed linens. She hadn't expected him to see him for an hour

at least, and was delighted when he entered the parlor. "What are we all doing indoors on a day so fine?" He directed a burning gaze at Ellin, and cocked his eyebrows inquiringly. "An improper book?" Laying Miss Burney's Cecilia aside, she replied, "Not in the least. You'd find it very dull and-uninspiring." They shared a complicit, reminiscent smile that brought a blush to her face, and she was thankful that Lavinia's black head remained bent over the fabrics. "Change into a promenade dress, my Lady Garvain. We're off on an excursion." She bounded up from the settee. "Where to?" "A place you're sure to like. No, I won't sayit's a surprise. Un.ondh.oo, may we borrow your landau?" "By all means," his sister responded cordially. "My carriage horses also. And the coachman." Kerr tweaked one of her trailing black ringlets, a childish gesture that made Ellin laugh. Lavinia, forgetting her status as duchess, wife, and mother, turned on her brother and tickled him until he doubled over. A sense of family was one benefit that had come to Ellin in London. Her allegiances had tripled. By birth, she was a Moore, she'd always called herself Fayle, and through marriage she'd become a Cashin. Here those names might be meaningless, but on her island they held great significance. To an orphan, these bonds of kinship were precious. She chose the same gown she'd worn to meet the Queen, fashioned from the yellow and crimson The Three Legs of Man print. A footman helped her into the open carriage, and Kerr, after a secretive conference with the driver, climbed in beside her. "Why so mysterious?" she asked him, as they rolled down Stanhope Street toward the park. "Never mind, just enjoy the ride." He captured her hand and held it between both of his. When they passed through Chesterfield Gate, she decided that they were simply taking a few turns around the park. But the coachman soon exited onto the Rnightsbridge Road. After he paid the toll at the Hyde Park Turnpike Gate, she overheard the gatekeeper say the ticket would open all the Kensington gates. A new one must be bought at Hammersmith, three miles on. The landscape soon took on a rural character. They drove by expensive villas near the road and fine estates set in parkland. Kerr pointed out Prime Minister Pitt's house, a bastion of Torydom, located quite near Holland House, the unofficial headquarters of Whig partisans. They swept past Hammersmith, Turnham Green, Brentford, Twickenham, and Teddington in rapid succession, as the horses swiftly covered eleven miles of road. On reaching a vast wooded park, the coachman asked directions from the lodge-keeper.

"Ye takes the road round to Hampton Wick," the man instructed him. "Then through the village, along the lane, round a corner, and there's the palace." "Palace?" Ellin repeated, looking to her husband. "Fear not, you don't have to curtsy to any royals." He drew her hand up to his face and pressed her gloved palm against his cheek. "I'm devoting the remainder of this day to your pleasure, my veen." In an undervoice, he added, "The night, also." The coachman deposited them in front of Hampton Court Palace's impressive Lion Gates. The brick clock tower reminded Ellin of the entrance to St. James's Palace, the King's official London residence. "They may have been built at the same period," Kerr speculated. He told their driver to wait at the inn near the gates, and refresh himself and his horses. Leading Ellin through the arch and across the forecourt, he said, "This place fell into disuse years ago. It contains grace-and-favor lodgings in addition to the public rooms. I'm sure somebody here can tell you its whole history. One of Henry's beheaded wives supposedly haunts one of the galleries." That historic wood-panelled corridor, a remnant of the Tudor era, was one of the first rooms they were shown by the porter. " 'Twas here at Hampton that Catherine Howard learned what her fate was to be. She went into hysterics afore they dragged her off to the Tower of Lunnon, protesting her innocence and begging to see the King. Sometimes at night, her ghost runs up and down in here, shrieking and wailing, crying out that she don't want to die. I've heard her myself," he added grimly. "A fearsome sound, sends chills up and down my spine, it does." Ellin seemed eager to escape the place where the young Queen's restless spirit roamed. "I didn't realize English people believed in ghosts and apparitions," she murmured to Kerr, as they climbed the King's Great Staircase. "This stair," the man went on, "was designed by Christopher Wren for William the Third. Murals painted by Verrio, and Italian. And here we come to the Guard Chamber-that's three thousand pieces of armor and weaponry you see hanging on the walls. Wren himself devised the patterns." The intricately arranged pistols, daggers, shields and pikes impressed Kerr. The suite of royal apartments, ornately decorated, included presence chambers, drawing rooms, state bedchambers, private chambers, and galleries-one set created for the Stuart Kings, another for their Queens. In one room, the bed canopy rose almost to the ceiling, and was hung with scarlet curtains. "I wish I could lay you down upon it," Kerr whispered to Ellin, when their guide was out of

earshot. They stepped into the bright light streaming in from the tall windows, and he noted her pallor. "Your face is whiter than bleached linen. What's the matter?" "I felt her. Catherine Howard." Her eyes looked blank. In the past he might have mocked her fanciful nature, or scoffed at her overactive imagination. But philosophy, he reminded himself, didn't depend on proven absolutes. There were so many theories about humanity-its worth, its morality, its purpose. Like Ellin, he followed a set of guidelines. Hers were primitive, handed down by oral tradition, and closely allied with the religious doctrine she'd absorbed. His were agnostic, derived from classical authors, and extremely fluid. Nevermore would he tease her about the combination of religion and superstition that guided her behavior. Their tour ended at the palace greenhouses, where they viewed the largest vine in all Europe. "Planted by Capability Brown, the landscape gardener, exactly thirty years ago," said the porter. "It's a Black Hamburg grape, started from a small cutting." Kerr paid him a gratuity and took Ellin outside. To his relief, her color had returned and her eyes were bright again. Strolling through the brick-walled privy garden, a rainbow of color, he told her, "Epicurus was the first to suggest placing gardens in the midst of cities. Both Pliny the Elder and Pliny the Younger wrote about horticulture. In the opinion of the former, 'a lily growing among roses becometh and beautifieth the place very well.' " "I agree," said Ellin, gesturing at that exact combination of flowers. "And Pliny the Younger grew evergreen topiaries in his Tuscan garden." "Look, periwinkle!" she cried, and darted away to examine a flowering border. With a furtive glance over her shoulder, she pulled a few leaves from the vine, then recklessly snapped some tendrils. Returning to his side, she hid them in his coat pocket. "You stained your gloves." Briefly she inspected the green marks and small spots left by the whitish sap, then stripped them from her hands and stuffed them in his other pocket. With a playful smile, she reminded him, "This is a day for enjoyment, you said. I do not enjoy wearing gloves. Or a hat," she added, untying the satin bow beneath her pointed chin. "Nor do you like having your waist pinched by a corset. Will you remove it as well?" he inquired hopefully. "If you're so inclined, I'll gladly assist. Now-or later, if you prefer." "Definitely later," she agreed. Her pink lips curved in a most beguiling smile. "You're a minx, Lady Garvain. A Manx minx. Come along, let's explore the famous maze," he

suggested, thinking of all the naughtiness they could indulge in behind its tall and shielding shrubbery. Hand in hand, they followed the alleys of clipped hornbeam, Ellin casually swinging her straw hat by its ribbons. After a long silence, she said, "I've something to confess." "A bad thing?" "Quite good!" she assured him. "While you've been meeting with your merchants and drapers, I've also been helping the Manx Linen Company." "Indeed, by wearing your fine dresses." "I did something else. I've collected some money for our spinning school." "How much?" It was an idle query; he fully expected that the sum she'd gathered would be insignificant. "One hundred and fifty pounds." "Good Lord." Staring down at her, astonished, he asked, "Who gave it to you?" "Everybody I asked. I started with Lavinia-she gave me fifty pounds. Mrs. Radstock gave twenty. At parties and dinners, when the ladies admire my gowns, I tell them about the mill and the weavers. I mention our need to train more spinners, and open a school. They always seem so eager to own the fabrics-why should they not also assist the people who create them? When they hear that the Duchess of Halford was the first to subscribe to my fund, they become convinced they should join her. Mrs. Sneyd gave me her winnings at whist one night, and the other day Lady Georgiana Gordon handed me a five-pound note. Even Queen Charlotte presented a gold guinea. Mrs. Radstock says it was a remarkable gesture, because she's excessively tightfisted." "What a canny girl you are. And a treasure of a wife." "Have I got enough to purchase a dozen wheels and lesson books?" "And even pay the schoolmistress her salary." They continued walking, and as he'd often done lately, Kerr examined the emotions she inspired, in his ongoing effort to define them. Liking and lust had combined, and the union of the two was something even deeper and richer and more promising. It suddenly became clear to him that at some point during the two busy months of marriage, he'd fallen in love with Ellin. A loner no more, he regarded this as a partnership in every possible sense of the word. She was his companion, his friend, his lover. She made him laugh, and she brought out protective feelings previously unknown. Her lighthearted approach to life, even when mired in homesickness or burdened by anxiety, inevitably brightened his darker moods. His dismay at being compelled to wed her had faded, and he didn't like to remember that he'd married her to prevent his own and his family's ruin.

"If the weather is as fine at home, Uncle Henry and Aunt Marriot will be cutting turf in the mountains/' she said, "stacking it to dry in the sun. They'll be wishing I could help-with the days so long, there's much work." "You'd give up dancing till dawn and visiting palaces for hard labor in the turbaries?" he quizzed. Her brown head moved up and down in affirmation. "I'd like nothing better. Mud on my hands and the wind in my hair and the sun warming my back." "And Scadoo romping nearby." He felt a tug of nostalgia for the Ellin he'd known prior to their wedding day. Dressed like a crofter, her feet shod with carranes, she'd roamed free and unfettered from seacoast to mountaintop. Devoted to her family, attached to her pets, guided by the ben-obbee, her days had been regulated by farming work, and her nights by the needs of the customers in her uncle's taproom. He'd stolen her from the life and the people she dearly loved and keenly missed. He was holding her hostage while he pursued his ambitions, trusting that mutual affection and passion were sufficient compensation. In retrospect, his demands upon her loomed large. And she'd never once demanded anything of him in return, except that he not raise his voice. Accepting, patient, generoushe didn't deserve her. And she deserved better. Her popularity, modest as it was, could be her undoing. Had he inadvertently set her up for a fall? The very people who professed to admire her clothes and declared her Manx speech and manners charmingly unique would be the first to denigrate her when they grew bored. Creating a sensation was not nearly as enjoyable as destroying one-in London, even a small success could ordain a mighty failure. For a girl so tender-hearted, that would come as a harsh blow. His overly optimistic assumption that she would embrace London living had been ill founded. She yearned for the day when he would take her home. "Ellin." She glanced up at him, eyes wide and lips slightly parted. Rather than relying on words to express his remorse, he chose another form of communication. His hands framed her face, and he kissed her. Unable to bear his uncertainty, he asked, "Do you regret marrying me? If you did, would you tell me?" "I could never regret it." "No matter how idiotically I behave? Or how unfairly I've treated you?" "Nothing will alter my feelings," she insisted. "For I can't stop loving you, any more than I can stop my own heartbeat. Why do you ask such questions?" "I made no effort to earn your affection, and

have done much that could damage it. What's so easily won might easily be lost." "It's not your actions, good or bad, that matter, so much as who you are." "A smuggler's great-grandson. A notorious seducer. A linen manufacturer desperate to find a lucrative market." He took a deep breath. "And worst of all, a husband who hasn't even told his wife how very much he loves her." Ellin drew a sigh of complete contentment as his arms came around her and held her close. "It's what I hoped for, half my life at least." Bee graih orrym? Will I be loved? At last she had the answer to the question she'd posed to Calybrid so many weeks ago. On the mountaintop, the first time Kerr's body joined with hers, she had taken that as proof of his love. When he'd asked her to marry him, it had confirmed her belief. In bed, it had always seemed true. But until this moment, she'd never been entirely certain. Her joy resembled what she felt stepping out of her tree-shaded glen into the full light of day, and finding a glittering blue sea before her-but far, far stronger. To hear his longed-for words, she would have crossed a thousand such seas. She noticed a strand of periwinkle poking out from his coat pocket. Should she admit that she'd bewitched him into loving her? No, she decided, he might feel tricked, be displeased. Tempted though she was to convince him of her friend's powerful magic, she didn't want to spoil this moment. Removing the wilted vines, she tossed them away. "I was mistaken-I don't need these after all." With a smile, she asked, "Did Epicurus state his philosophy about making love in a garden?" "I'm not sure, but I do know there are better places for it. And I want to find one." This was easier said than done, for they were hopelessly lost deep within the maze. Every turning brought them to a barrier of sheared hedge or an alcove with no outlet. Kerr blustered and cursed, mostly in English but partly in Manx, till Ellin was overcome with giggles. "We passed that same bench once before," she dared to point out. "Probably more than once," he muttered. "Aile niurin! I hope that whoever designed this puzzle was throttled and thrown into a dungeon!" Taking his hand, she turned him in the opposite direction. "Let's try this way." "No, I say we should-" Suddenly his brow cleared and he shot her a grin. "Lead on, Lady Garvain." Rather than plunging down avenues at random, she followed a system of right turns which eventually brought them to the elusive center. "Now what?" Kerr wondered. "We're halfway in, halfway out," she replied cheerily. "This way," she decided, again choosing

the path on her right. Hands clasped, fingers knitted together, they wound their way through the maze, never knowing how near or far they were from escaping it. When they finally arrived at the gap through which they had entered, Kerr declared, "I shan't walk into one of these damned things again as long as I live." He planted a swift, firm kiss on her lips. "I'm taking you to that inn lying beyond the palace gates, and if you have to ask what I intend to do there, you don't know me very well." "I've no doubt whatever," she said. "Jean siyr, be quick-else we shall start a new scandal right here." The King's Arms, an attractive public house and posting inn, sat opposite the Lion Gates. Kerr barged inside, told the tapster who he was, and demanded to see the landlord. "We need a bedchamber." "Your lordship is staying the night?" "We must return to town before sundown." "But-" "Walking through that damned-through the maze has fatigued Lady Garvain. She wants to lie down." "Oh, my word!" The landlord inspected Ellin. "She does look flushed-a mite feverish, indeed. There's a doctor in Hampton Wick. Shall I send for him?" "No!" Kerr objected. "I'm sure she'll be better after an hour or so of rest. In your quietest, most secluded room." "Yes, my lord, as you wish. All the way to the top of the stairs, and down the corridor, last door on the left." "Do you think he guessed why we came?" asked Ellin, as she preceded her husband up the staircase. "I don't know and don't care." An insistent hand on her backside forced her to move more quickly. "Quicker, unless you want me to have my way with you on the landing!" The room he hurried her into was pleasant, its window framing a view of the river and the bridge to the opposite side. "You can admire the landscape later," said Kerr, tugging* at one of the ribbons sewn into the seams of her gown. They undressed each other with swift efficiency, their urgency spurring their desire. Ellin's eager hands stripped the white shirt from Kerr's muscular torso and pushed his breeches down his hips to free his erect flesh. His love for her was inseparable from his passion; his passion was a product of his love. She'd been mistaken when claiming her feelings for him were static, unalterable. Her love for him was stronger at this moment than ever before, because now she knew it was returned in full. No secrets divided them now, no uncertainties. His hands worshiped her breasts, then he del-

uged them with kisses. She arched upward, seeking greater gratification from his lips, and sighed as his tongue brushed one taut nipple and the other. His gray eyes were smoky with want; his weighty body loomed above her. He positioned himself between her legs and placed his hands upon her waist. Raising her knees and parting them, she grasped the great and tangible evidence of his desire and sheathed it deep inside her. He sank against her; she rose to meet him. As they moved together, his open-mouthed kisses swallowed her incoherent murmurs. He loves me ... he loves ... love.... With every stroke her mind repeated the phrase, until sheer bliss impeded her ability to form her thoughts. All that mattered was that he never ever stop-stop loving, stop touching, stop kissing, stop pressing into her. "T'eh feer vie," he whispered. It's very good. An understatement-it was absolutely wonderful. Amazingly, it got even better. She sang out her joy as she dropped into a bottomless abyss of pleasure. Straining against her, he heaved a gusty sigh of satisfaction and release. Not until their breathing slowed did he detach himself from her. He rolled over onto his back, chest heaving with laughter. "What amuses you?" asked Ellin, trying hard not to succumb to an overpowering drowsiness. "Everything," he said, brandishing his arm expansively. "The frustration of being hopelessly lost in that cursed shrubbery at the worst possible moment. Dashing into an inn, demanding a bedchamber. My complete loss of control, over a slip of a girl I've known forever. Who, for reasons I shall never fathom, consented to marry me and make me the happiest man alive." "Because," she whispered, eyes closed, "I always loved you." She felt the mattress move as he shifted onto his side. "Are you awake?" "I can't tell. This feels so much like a dream." "It isn't." His kiss was gentle. "Rest well, my veen." He wrapped his arms around her, drawing her head onto his muscled chest. She tried to nod, and failed. The steady, soothing pound of his heart lulled her into peaceful oblivion. Chapter 20 Mollee yn molteyer oo my oddys eh. The rogue deceives you if he can. MANX PROVERB

Ellin admired her husband's face, kissed by the golden flames. They lay on a heap of pillows in front of her bedroom fireplace, sipping the duke's finest cognac. "Shirragh. That's what your family call you-falcon. Because of your looks, or your behavior? I can

never decide." "It was my father's doing; you'll have to ask him." She'd believed, before their revealing trip to Hampton Court earlier in the week, that if she won his heart she couldn't want for anything more. But her yearning to be away from home had intensified. She wished to share her joy with everyone who loved her, and needed to know that they were also well. "Take me home, Kerr. To the island." His lips moved across her bare shoulder and up the column of her neck. "Before summer is over. As I promised." He found her earlobe and took it gently between his teeth. "Why not sooner?" "Not until I've concluded my negotiations with the merchants. If this gambit of mine succeeds, as it might well do, much credit goes to you. Affluent and aristocratic Londoners admire our prints, and my pattern-book has the drapers vying for the privilege of selling them for me. Thomas Brown in Cheapside, of Brown Rogers and Company. Proctor and Brownlow. Harding and Howell, those eminent drapers at Schomberg House. Richard Ovey remains my likeliest prospect, but he's waiting to see my damasks." "Couldn't Garrick show them to him, if you weren't here? He's your partner in the mill." "And a very generous one. He invested heavily from the start, four years ago. He doesn't expect me to pay him back, but I feel honor-bound to ensure that he profits. Buck Whaley, too. Building up our business is essential." He stroked her cheek. "Patience is one of the great virtues, Lady Garvain. For guidance, study my philosophers. Read your Manx Bible." She'd already done so; it hadn't helped much. She didn't need intellectual or spiritual enlightenment, but her grandmother's fond embrace. She wanted to see Uncle Henry's well-tended fields and taste the sweet, soft butter Aunt Marriot churned. She missed her visits to Calybrid's cottage. And she longed to feel the warm weight of Scadoo's head resting on her knee. For Kerr's sake, she must continue to feign complete contentment. And at this moment, enfolded by his arms, her mood was more blissful than not. When his latest onslaught of kisses subsided, he pointed out, "The longer we stay in town, the more refinement and social expertise you'll gain." "What use will they be," she responded prosaically, "on the island?" "As Baroness Garvain, you are the highestranking native Manxwoman-after my mother. One day you'll be mistress of Castle Cashin." "You Cashins place too much value on your titles and your castle," she said, shaking her head at him. "Why shouldn't we be proud? We were bold

enough to claim an entire barony. We enriched ourselves-" "Through illegal activities," she interjected. "And we bought an earldom." "From the English king," she countered. "Your grandfather never endeared himself to his people. After the British purchased the lordship rights of the isle, he did very little to help them." "He suffered far more than ordinary Manxmen. He had more power and money to lose." "And you'll not be satisfied until you get it all back again." He stared at her. "A critical assessment of the clein you married into." "I'm objective, which you can never be. I love you in spite of your title, Kerr, not because of it. I know you can't help being a baron." "And a brigand, just like my forefathers. A libertine, too, as I so enjoy proving to you." The hand that covered her breast was replaced by his mouth. She shivered in delight. After a brief lapse of memory, she recalled what else she'd intended to say. "Underneath all the fine clothes, I'm no more or less than a Manx tavernkeeper's bastard niece." "You aren't wearing any clothes," he pointed out wickedly. "When I look upon you, every glorious, delectable inch of you, I see a baroness. One who pleases her husband by mixing with other aristocrats, studying their etiquette, copying their manners." "If you wanted a real ladyship for a wife, you should have married Lady Felicity." "I couldn't. I never wanted to do this to her. Or this." When his teasing strokes ceased, she murmured, "I am trying to improve myself. For you." "If you did it for yourself, you might actually succeed." She drew away from him, distressed by his implication that she was a failure. But honesty forced her to face the fact that she didn't really want to change. She was comfortable as she was, and wholly unconcerned about how other people viewed her. Except Kerr. His opinion mattered, very much. He loved her. At the same time, he regarded her as a potential embarrassment. With an illconsidered remark or an error of judgment, she could dash his hopes for the mill. These many weeks of wearing his linens and pinching her body with corsets and smiling, smiling all the time, had been more difficult than he knew. And she wouldn't be at peace until he called a halt to her tedious masquerade, and took her away from London. She forced herself to lift her head, even to smile at him. "Why must we submit to English rules? I'm the Manx baroness, and you the Manx baron. What a shame I left my carranes behind-I could start a new fashion here."

Exactly as she'd hoped, he laughed at her jest. "I can't picture the elegant Mrs. Radstock trotting about in shoes made of hair and hide, tied on with leather thongs." "Or Lady Felicity." "Her least of all. Easier to bring our Manx linens into vogue." Easy? If only he knew. "This isn't at all what I expected when I agreed to be your wife. I've never felt so idle, and never been so busy." "Here we sit in the lap of luxury, guests in the home of a duke, invited to every lavish entertainment. And all the while you dream of turf-cutting and herb-gathering." "What do you dream of?" He grinned, passing his hand down her abdomen. "Doing this." "I'm serious." "So am I." Proving it, he eased her down on the soft hill of pillows. [break] "Baronessa, is visitor waiting in antechamber," Carlo announced one showery day, when the ladies returned to Halford House. "A gentleman." "Did he give his name?" Lavinia asked her butler. "Signor Martin. He perhaps come to stay? He bring boxes." The Italian indicated a pair of trunks standing in the porter's hall. Lavinia looked at Ellin. "Are you acquainted with a person called Martin?" "Ta." Abandoning decorum, she picked up her rain-spotted skirts and rushed up the staircase. In his plain brown suit, Norris Martin looked woefully out of place among the marble statues and giltwood furniture in the receiving room, seated on the edge of a satin-covered armchair. When she entered, he bobbed to his feet. "Mr. Martin, what brings you to town?" The smile she remembered so well vanished, and he goggled at her, mouth agape. "I hardly recognize you, Miss Fayle-Lady Garvain. I've brought his lordship's damask." "Is that what's in the trunks? He'll be pleasedso am I. How are my family? I hope you've also brought plenty of news from Glion Cornaa!" "But of course-I stopped at the tavern to tell them I was coming here. Your grandmother sends many messages. Your dog is hearty, and your lamb has joined the herd on the hillsides. Your cat Mottle has a devoted swain. He lives at Crowcreen, Mrs. Fayle says, and comes down the hill to court her of an evening. Your uncle's taproom has been busy. And his flax crop thrives." These tidings of home, precious and unexpected, made her eyes water. "My lady, have I distressed you?" She couldn't explain that this was the time of the month when she cried easily, about matters of little

or large significance. "I'm relieved to know that all is so well. Tell me more!" At their last meeting he'd offered to restore her honor with marriage, a chivalrous gesture. That rejected proposal should have produced awkwardness between them, but it didn't. Oh, how she needed a friend. The constant strain of concealing the extent of her homesickness from Kerr was wearing her down. She didn't feel comfortable sharing her discontent with Lavinia, who was likely to communicate it to her brother. In the past, Ellin had always relied on a confidanteCalybrid, Lady Kitty. Providence had sent Norris Martin to her exactly when she needed him most. "I'd best be gone, before your baron finds out I'm here." He gazed at her in thoughtful silence before speaking again. "In the weeks since your marriage, has he mentioned Finlo Standish?" "Not that I recall. Do tell Mr. Standish, when next you see him, that everything turned out well for me." "I confess, when you first came into the room, I wasn't sure." He picked up his hat. In a rush, she said, "I hope to see you again, before you leave London." Mr. Martin shook his head. "Lord Garvain won't like my calling on you." "If you're bringing more news from home, he won't object. If you prefer, we could meet elsewhere," she suggested. "Hyde Park is close by; I go there nearly every afternoon. If you wait for me at the Chesterfield Gate, I'll have no trouble finding you." "You shall find me there tomorrow." They agreed upon a time, and he took his leave. When he was gone, Ellin thought back to the days when the linen factor had possessed an aura of sophistication, moving as he did from her remote island and to the great city of Liverpool, and distant bleaching fields in Armagh and Galloway. After her experiences in Preston and Manchester, and a two-month stay in London she no longer felt so unworldly. And it was impossible to feel inferior to a tradesman when one was married to a lord. I am changing, she realized with chagrin. It occurred to her that she might feel differently about her homeland also, when she eventually returned to it. She couldn't imagine loving it any less, or that it would compare unfavorably to England. She was loyal, and she was Manninagh-a Manxwoman to her core. [break] "I feared there might be rain," Ellin said to Norris Martin, during their companionable stroll along the perimeter of the park. She studied the thick clouds of gray, scudding over the distant church spires. "Nobody minds it much because they've got their fine carriages. But it makes the city so gloomy. Odd that I was never depressed by the rain at home."

"You've certainly seen enough of it there," he stated. "That island of yours must be one of the wettest places in the world." "But when the sun breaks through, it's by far the most beautiful." He required no encouragement to talk of the glen, and fed her delectable tidbits of information about the crofters and weavers and other friends. And he told her about Mr. Standish's plan to invest in the Moores' linen factory in Douglas. "I suspect he's throwing his support to the Cashins' competitors, because he resents the way the earl has treated him. The rift grew wider after he found you and the baron-but you are content in your marriage, so I shall say nothing more." "I am," she assured him. "When you informed me of your engagement, you didn't say you'd be living in England." "I didn't know till the day after the wedding. My husband made the decision very suddenly. Merely a visit," she maintained. "We return to the island as soon as one of the London linen-drapers agrees to sell his cloth." "Lord Garvain," he said heavily, "cares about two things only: acquiring money, and restoring his family's power and prestige." "He also cares for me," she was quick to say. "Certainly he does-as a means to an end. He'd stop at nothing to gain a fortune. Not even seduction." Said Ellin, "He gained no fortune by choosing me." Mr. Martin said grimly, "Your husband knows exactly what you're entitled to. It pains me to see how he takes advantage of your ignorance, and your affection, for his own advancement. One day you'll be an exceedingly wealthy woman." She smiled at the absurdity of his statement. "My uncle is hardly so prosperous as that." "Oh, it wasn't Boayl Fea that tempted his lordship. There was more to your whirlwind romance than you ever guessed. He forced himself on you, in a place where you were likely to be caught by the very man whose wealth he coveted. And Finlo Standish went to Dreeym Freoaie that very evening to insist upon a wedding. The baron made a show of resisting, doubtless to conceal his true intent. The next day he made you an offer. Within days he married you. Did you never ask yourself why?" "It was my doing," she said softly. "I bewitched him, with Calybrid's help. I used her magic to win him." Norris Martin jerked his fair head derisively. "You needed no help from the witch. Kerron Cashin decided to have you the instant he learned the truth of your parentage. I could have stopped him-I also knew. But he was too clever, and far too quick." "My parentage? I don't even know my father's name. Are you saying that Kerr found it out?"

"The same way I did." Taking her hand, he gazed into her eyes. "Finlo Standish is your father. You, Ellin, are an heiress." She shook her head. "I don't believe it." "There's proof; I've seen it with my own eyes. In the church registers." He spoke with the sort of conviction that could not be questioned. "Even so, I'm still a bastard. I've no claim on Mr. Standish's money." A father. She had a father. It didn't seem real, or possible. "According to the register at St. Maughold's church, Finlo Standish was lawfully wed to Isbel Moore. The marriage went wrong somehow, so he left the island. He was in Liverpool when she died-he'd had a child, he told me it died also. When I was collecting information about my Manx ancestry, on a whim I searched the baptismal record for the name Standish. And found it-belonging to a girl, christened Ellinor Mary. But there was no corresponding reference to any deceased Standish, woman or babe. Your mother was buried as 'daughter of Magnus Moore,' and there's no notation of a child being buried with her, as there is on her headstone." Ellin's fingers clutched at his hand like a towline. "You said Kerr is aware of these facts. How could he be?" "After his sister died, he visited the church to prepare her grave and arrange the interment with the Vicar and the clerk. If he looked into the registers, as I did, he would have stumbled onto the facts." "It's not possible. He wouldn't keep quiet about it." "Evidently he has done." She turned away. "I must find him." Mr. Martin caught her elbow in a firm grip. "Don't tell him you learned about your parentage from me." Her thoughts were chaotic. "No one wanted Mr. Standish at my wedding. Not Uncle Henry or Aunt Marriot or Grandmother. Calybrid refused to attend if he was there. From the day he came to the island, she warned me to keep away from him. Why wouldn't they let me know my own father?" "I cannot say. You must ask them." She had to assume their reasons had been sound. But Kerr's deceit, if it was that, was much harder to bear. "It makes no sense," she murmured distractedly. "Why wouldn't Kerr tell me? Why didn't you?" "At one time, I did look forward to bringing about a reunion of parent and child. Lord Garvain, desperate to get a rich wife, prevented it. He was clever, I'll grant him that. What better way to win Standish's favor, than restoring a daughter believed to be dead these eighteen years?" Ellin had to wonder if the seduction, and their subsequent marriage, had been a calculated act of

vengeance against his enemy. Kerr's recent avowal of love might have been genuine, but in the wake of Mr. Martin's revelation, she wasn't sure what value to place upon it. If his affection was deep and selfless, if he truly cared about her, he would not have concealed information so meaningful to her. Her tenacious dream of a loving marriage had been dealt a stunning blow. She let Mr. Martin lead her along the path, relying on his steady arm for support. "What should I do?" she wondered. "Present yourself to your father, as swiftly as possible." "You've told him what you discovered about me?" Mr. Martin shook his head. "It's not my place. I hoped your husband would have the decency to enlighten you about your origins, even if he dared not admit how he used you as a pawn in his schemes. Callous blackguard." A brigand, she thought forlornly. A Cashin through and through. Ambitious, grasping, determined to succeed at all costs. Her love for him endured, but her trust was damaged. She wouldn't reflect on that now. She had other concerns besides her husband's dubious motives and machinations. The greater part of her past was a mystery, and she wanted to solve it. To do so, she must go home to her island, where all the answers were waiting. Chapter 21 Cha vel doghan erbee s'danjeyragh na dy ve fegooish tushtey cooie. There is no disease more dangerous than to be without true knowledge. MANX PROVERB

Kerr gave the linen-draper ample time to examine the ells of snowy white Manx damask. While his visitor studied the three patterns spread out upon the long library table, he examined the contents of a towering bookcase, smiling at the sight of so many friends-Ovid, Virgil, Marcus Aurelius-splendidly wrapped in richest leather. Every volume was a work of art, a masterpiece of printing and binding. For show, not for scholarship, he thought. Removing The Annals of Imperial Rome by Tacitus, he looked for margin notes. Not a one-these pages were pristine. Holding the beautiful book, he felt a keen nostalgia for the scholarship he'd renounced, a desire to retire from the busy world and resume a more contemplative life. He'd been infected by Ellin's craving for the familiar peace of their island. Thoughts of her made him scan the crowded shelves for erotic literature. They had perfected all of Arentino's Postures and enacted Fanny Hill's

bawdiest adventures-he needed fresh sources to work from. Richard Ovey asked him, "Will there be other patterns besides these three?" Stepping away from the books, Kerr replied, "It depends on my weavers. They can't manage the most intricate designs with a four-shaft treadle loom and fly shuttle. But when it comes to herringbone, diamonds, and checks, you'll find no better quality. Aanrit keyll, we call it-fine linen. The Three Legs of Alan motif is an innovation produced by a remarkably skilled Irishman, who drafted it from an embroidery pattern of my sister's. I daresay it will be more popular at home than here, unless as a novelty." The linen-draper smiled. "I rarely make predictions about what will take the fancy of my clients. The Prince of Wales, in particular, appreciates the unusual and the rare. By presenting him with a few napkins as a gift, you could probably tempt him into buying a dozen tablecloths for Carlton House." He turned the corner of the material over to study the other side. "I'm impressed by the excellence of the bleaching as well as the weaving." "We are constantly improving our methods. Situated as we are between Ireland and Scotland, we receive in information about successes and failures in the trade." "But this is all you've got at present?" "I cut off a good, ten yards so my wife could have a new court gown," Kerr confessed. "The rest can be offered for sale." Slyly he added, "By the first merchant who agrees to stock my printed cambrics and toiles." "I've made no secret of my admiration, or how impressed I am by your Bannister Hall printing works. I shall probably engage Mr. Jackson and Mr. Stephenson to print my own designers' patterns in future." "Mr. Brownlow said exactly the same thing." "Of Proctor and Brownlow?" "They expressed interest." The merchant asked soberly, "Who else?" "Brown, Rogers, and Company. Harding and Howell." "I refrain from denigrating my competitors, and I would hope they've been as generous toward me. But I believe I have the advantage in holding more royal warrants than any of them. Additionally, I offered my advice last year, when you first considered the possibilities for your Manx linens." "I've not forgotten." Kerr had wondered how eager the outwardly diffident Ovey was to win the commission; now he knew. Time to stop playing games, and conclude the business. "I shall always be grateful. When I sought you out, I was at very low ebb, and since then I've been even lower. You were the first to offer encouragement. And the sooner we come to an agreement, sir, the happier Lady Garvain will be. She's eager to go home, and

so am I." Minutes later, Kerr rang for a footman to bring wine. As he and the linen-draper drank together, he raised his glass in a silent toast to Ellin, who shared in this achievement. And to Kitty, for her remarkable contributions. "I'll need a copy of your pattern-book, of course," said Ovey. "Before you leave town, I'll select next season's prints. And I require furnishing fabrics with literary themes. Mr. Kemble did ask me if I could provide him with fabric depicting scenes from Shakespeare, or one of the Greek plays. Might I have another look at your book of designs?" "Certainly. I'll be but a moment." Leaving the library, he went upstairs to his bedchamber, where he kept Kitty's drawings and his pattern-books. He was gathering them from the bureau when he heard a curious noise-like the thud a trunk lid made when it was slammedcoming from Ellin's chamber. He ventured into their joint dressing room to investigate and found it in disarray. A bandbox sat on the dressing table, open and empty, and a shawl was draped over the chair-back. "Ellin?" Going to the bedchamber, he found her shoving a pair of shoes into a valise so full that it bulged. "What are you doing?" "Packing the presents I bought for Aunt Marriot and Grandmother." Last night she'd mentioned that she would ask Mr. Martin to take her gifts to her family with him when he left London. Kerr had helped her choose that high-crowned hat she held between her hands, purchased for her uncle. "I'm not sure where to put this." "In the trunk?" "Already full." If so, she'd bought many more presents than he knew about. "What about that round box on your dressing table?" He brought it to her, holding it so she could place the hat inside. "A husband can be useful out of bed as well as in it." "A wife also." She regarded him solemnly. "Isn't that why you married me?" "But of course." He bent his head to kiss her, but she evaded him. She placed the bandbox on the closed trunk. "Mr. Martin explained why you insisted on a hasty wedding, and everything else you have concealed about Mr. Standish." "Damned hellhound, he had no right to-" When she winced, Kerr moderated his tone. "I wish you hadn't found out. And from Martin, of all people." "All this time you've let me dwell in my fool's paradise, Kerr. You've spent years studying ethics and morality--if you'd lived up to your ideals, you would have spared me much suffering." "The whys and wherefores of the match don't

matter, if it's a happy one." "Dy-jarroo, they do-to me." "I tried to do what was best for everybody concerned. You and me. My family. Your family. Doing nothing would have resulted in personal and financial ruin, and I'd had enough of both. I staved off disaster, and in doing it I gained you. I won't apologize for that." But he did feel wretched. He hadn't wanted her to find out that Standish had threatened him with exposure, forcing him to marry. He had desired her, but he hadn't been in love with her. Belated explanations might hurt her even more, and make her doubt the very real and profound feelings that had developed since their wedding day. Far better, he decided, to let his actions demonstrate her importance to him. As soon as his business with Ovey was settled, he could arrange an immediate departure from London. In her joy, Ellin would forgive him. "Whatever that Martin fellow said about mehowever uncomplimentary-you mustn't assume the worst. Do you remember the day I proposed, how I swore I'd make you happy? In return, you offered me your trust. Keep trusting me, Ellin-you won't regret it." "It's time for me to go home, Kerr. More than ever, I need to see my family." If he tells me to be patient, thought Ellin bleakly, I won't be able to bear it. I'll break into a thousand pieces. I'll burst into tears. He didn't. "Yes, I know. And you will return to the island. Sooner than you think." Incredibly, he turned away from her. "Where are you going?" she cried. "Mr. Ovey waits in the library. He asked to see the rest of Kitty's sketches." "Tannee aynsoh-stay here, please. There's something else I must say." "And I've a great deal to tell you-later. Much to discuss, many plans to make." Before she could protest, he was gone. There would be no discussion, no planning, because she wouldn't be staying for it. She'd made up her mind to leave before he'd interrupted her, and his words had increased her determination to escape London. She couldn't bear to look at him, to have him kiss her, knowing how grossly he'd deceived her-and about what. Honesty was supposed to be better than duplicity, but in this instance it was also extremely hurtful. Her husband hadn't denied any of Mr. Martin's allegations; his casual dismissal of her concerns was a wounding and insulting display of Cashin arrogance. His near-admission that he'd married her to get his hands on the Standish fortune was an arrow through her heart. At the moment she didn't greatly care that he'd done it for her, and to save his family and their precious mill from disaster.

Tucking the coins and pound notes she'd collected for the spinning school into a wooden box, she considered his comment that he was ready to go back to the isle. The only cause for this change, if genuine, was self-interest. In order to establish her claim to the Standish fortune, he must present her to Finlo Standish as the daughter presumed to be dead and buried in Maughold churchyard. Her father didn't deserve to be manipulated, as she had been, to serve the Cashins' interests. She would be the one to tell him the truth. Kerr regularly provided money for her shopping. She counted the golden guineas-enough of them, surely, to cover her travel expenses. She sat down to pen a message to her sister-in-law, half-hoping that Kerr might return before she finished. She expressed her thanks to both Halfords for their hospitality, but gave no reason for her sudden departure. Her husband could do so, if he chose. Her attention wandered from the writing paper to the canopied bed in which they had pleasured each other, to the hearth where they'd frolicked. Oh, the agony of tearing herself away from him. But every hour she remained lengthened her separation from Finlo Standish, her father-whom Kerr had prevented her from knowing. Because his business tied him to London, he wouldn't go with her. And she couldn't stay. She reached for another sheet of paper. What could she say to him? Dipping her quill into the ink, she wrote several sentences. After reading her brief message, she added one more line at the end. With her packing completed, her letters written, and no possibility of bidding Kerr farewell, there was nothing left to do but begin her long journey. She directed a pair of footmen to carry the trunk and valise downstairs to the porter's hall, where she'd left Norris Martin. "Give this to the duchess, please," she told Carlo, offering him the folded note. To allay his obvious suspicions, she added calmly, "Lord Garvain knows where I am bound. And why." Mr. Martin pressed his lips together, as if trying to stifle an outburst. They had carefully formed their escape plan during their walk through the park, and clearly he disapproved of any deviation. Once they were safely inside the waiting hackney, he yelped, "You spoke to your husband?" She nodded. "Did he try to stop you?" "I can't be stopped." After a pause, she acknowledged, "My letter will make him cross, although that wasn't my intent." "After the brutal, cold-hearted way he's treated you, he deserves worse than that. When next I see him, I'll give him a piece of my mind-and a fist across his face." "Not if you're my friend." Ellin leaned against the seat. "I don't require a champion, Mr. Martin,

and I'm not abandoning my husband. I want to see my father, therefore I must leave London. It's that simple." And far more difficult than she made it out to be. Glancing out the window, she asked, "Where are we headed?" "To the General Post Office. The Liverpool mail departs at-" "Not the mail!" she cried in dismay. "I refuse to travel the whole distance on one of those horrible rocking coaches." "A post chaise will be costly," he warned. "I'm carrying a great deal of money." With a weary smile, she added, "Why shouldn't I be comfortable? Not only am I a baroness, I'm the daughter of a very rich man." Kerr would have recognized it as a jest. Norris Martin, assuming she was serious, nodded his agreement. "Quite true." For now, she wouldn't dwell on all that she'd lost by the day's revelations. She should cherish the great and miraculous gift she'd received so unexpectedly-a living, breathing father. Another person to love. Someone whose love she wanted to win, and whose loneliness she could relieve. She remembered Finlo Standish's desire to attend her wedding, before she'd had any hope of one. The large, rusty-haired man had made the match himself, and hadn't even been a witness to it. [break] "Every chap alive has been deserted by a female at some point," observed the Duke of Halford. "You're not the only one." "That's cold comfort," Kerr retorted. "Garrick, don't tease him. And you mustn't make him drunk." Lavinia laid a restraining hand upon her husband's arm as he reached for a brandy decanter. "Lhondkoo, what did Ellin write to you?" "Her thanks, for 'a pleasant and enjoyable stay at Halford House,'" she quoted. "She expresses her affection for Kat and Jonathon, and hopes that Garrick and I might someday take them to the island. Which we shall do, of course. But she doesn't explain why she left us. She concludes with, 'Te traa gollthie.'" Time to go home. She'd spoken those same words to him. "No mention of Norris Martin?" Kerr asked. Lavinia shook her head. "Read it for yourself." "He's involved in this." Kerr slammed a fist against the mahogany tabletop. "Aarnieul" Garrick looked to Lavinia for a translation. "Snake," she responded. "A jealous, interfering snake," Kerr embellished. "Telling Ellin things she was better off not knowing. His meddlesome friend Finlo Standish sent him here to make trouble for me and my wife." Said his sister sadly, "A person can't make trouble where it doesn't already exist." "How could I explain to my adoring bride that

our marriage resulted from coercion? Standish warned me that if I didn't wed her, he'd brand me a seducer of innocent girls-which she was. I'm wholly dependent on my workers and my weavers, and I need more of them. Manx or Irish, they're all decent, hardworking, God-fearing folk who prefer a respectable master to one who's an amoral libertine. I'm starting a school to train young spinners; I couldn't afford to become the subject of evil rumors." "What about Ellin? Were you thinking at all of her, or only yourself?" Kerr leaped up from his chair. "I was more concerned about her than anyone. Father advised me to brazen it out, pay her off. Mother felt differently. And I knew our Drean would expect me to do the honorable thing." After several paces, he came to a halt. "I meant no harm. I was guarding Ellin's reputation and salvaging my own. I wasn't mad in love with her, not then, but I cared, I wanted her to be happy. That's the reason I hid the truth from her." With a self-deprecating smile, he admitted, "I was a bit muddled; I didn't do things in the proper order. Seduction first, then wedlock, then love. But it all came right in the end." "For us," mused Garrick, "it was love first, followed by-" "Do stop!" Lavinia pleaded. "He doesn't need to know the details. As for Ellin, she felt trapped here in London. You used her as a fashion doll, Kerr, dressing her up in your fine linen and showing her off to influential people. And I must say, she endured Lady Felicity's pursuit of you with better grace than a more sophisticated woman would have shown." "She had nothing to fear from Felicity. I made that very clear." Kerr ground his teeth. "This running away is so unlike her. It makes no sense." Said Lavinia, "She was in a vulnerable state when Mr. Martin happened along and spilled your secrets." "A wounded creature," Garrick interjected, "will always seek its home." Returning to the table, Kerr snatched up Ellin's note. [break] Husband/ must see Mr. Standish, and hear his explanation of what is so difficult to accept-and believe. Your deceit pains me more than you will ever know, and far more than your reason for deceiving. The Manx linens are not made beautiful by my wearing them, this you know, and thus my going cannot harm you or the mill. "Any one activity, whatever it may be, when it has ceased at its proper time, suffers no evil because it has ceased." [break] Quoting Marcus Aurelius-oh, what a wife he had! Bright and brave-and utterly mystifying. "But she shouldn't have gone off with that linen

factor," he grumbled. "The jealous snake?" "We'll be in a devil of a mess, should the gossips get hold of that choice tidbit." He accepted the glass of brandy Garrick was offering, and this time, Lavinia didn't protest. "Norris Martin paid court to Ellin before I returned to the island. I thought his intentions were the same as mine, entirely dishonorable. I was wrong. He wasn't an earl's son; he didn't care that she lived in a tavern and had no father. If he dares lay a hand on her-" "Kerr, go after her. I once left London in a hurry, at a terrible time. Garrick followed me and found me, and it was such a comfort." "You didn't see her face, Lhondhoo. Her eyes." He swallowed, and the brandy seared his throat. "I don't know if she'll be so quick to forgive." Moving to the window, he stared down at the street. Darkness came so late now, and the most illustrious residents of Mayfair wouldn't stir until later. "I wonder where she is, when she'll reach the island. And that villain Standish, who will describe in damning detail my reluctance to make her an honest woman." "Lavinia's right," said Garrick. "Ellin needs you. We don't, and neither does the estimable Mr. Ovey. I'm your partner; I'll negotiate with him on your behalf, if required. We'll tell everyone who will listen that Lady Garvain was called home by an urgent situation, and you went with her. Also, that the Manx Linen Company enjoys the patronage of the Duke and Duchess of Halford. My travelling coach is at your disposal for as many stages as you want it, and my fastest team of horses will get you out of town at top speed. You might even be able to catch up to your wife on the road." "I hope so." Smiling, Kerr said, "I bear the heavy responsibility of parting Ellin and her dog Scadoo. I should definitely be present at their joyous reunion-it will be a sight to behold." Chapter 22 For a man cannot lose either the past or the future: for what a man has not, how can anyone take this from him? MARCUS AURELIUS, MEDITATIONS

The air was soft, even fresher and more fragrant than Ellin remembered. The late afternoon sun sent golden rays slanting across the sea. This clear evening was clouded only by her regret that Kerr wasn't beside her in the gig. He'd have managed this iron-mouthed horse much better than she was doing. Not that she was sorry to be alone. Unlike her husband, Norris Martin had turned out to be neither an exciting travel companion nor a demanding one. During their unadventurous journey across England and throughout the crossing from Liverpool, he'd granted her every wish without question. His constant deference had been convenient

but decidedly dull. She'd happily parted from him back in Douglas, leaving him to arrange the transport of her baggage. All she carried with her was the valise stuffed with gifts, the bandbox, and her dwindling supply of money. The gig clattered across Laxey Bridge. Spread out along the grassy riverbanks were great lengths of new linen, bleaching in the sun. The scene would be much the same, thought Ellin, on the broad, flat meadow near Port Cornaa. She knew every bend in this road, each hill and rocky cliff. Jean siyr, she silently urged the plodding horse, make haste! After she passed by the track that led to Dreeym Freoaie, she came to Ballanard, the crumbling farmhouse with the tramman tree beside it. Sheep ambled through the field, cropping the overgrown grasses. She wondered whose they were-had someone purchased the abandoned property? Rolling down the hill toward her own glen, she spied the long roofs of the mill buildings-and her uncle's house, nestled in a cleft between two hills. She pulled up in the straid and climbed out of the gig. Her legs were unstable, her hands shook as she shoved the reins through the ring fitted into the outside wall of the barn, and tied them. From the hayloft came a sharp bark. "Scadoo!" In a flash of black and white, the dog scampered down the stony steps and hurled herself at Ellin so forcefully that she almost fell backward. Standing on her hind legs, Scadoo whined and whimpered, and licked Ellin's face, salty tears and all. "Such a big, strong girl you are!" Ellin gasped, laughing and crying. "And so heavy, you'll knock me down. Sit-sole sheese!" The dog obeyed the command, but her entire body quivered with excitement, from her smooth black head to her rounded rump. She wagged her white-tipped tail vigorously, stirring the dust. "Immee, let's go in." Scadoo bounded to her feet and spun in frantic circles, barking madly. Ellin tried to quiet her and failed. Kneeling down, she gathered the dog into her arms and breathed the pleasant and familiar aroma of warm, excited animal. Uncle Henry, carrying his flat-edged shovel, bobbed up from behind the low wall of the garden. Whipping off her modish hat, she cried, "Uncle, I'm home!" "Ellin!" When she went to embrace him he was reluctant, for fear of dirtying her gown. "We've had no word from Dreeym Freoaie that you were expected. When I saw Lord and Lady Ballacraine at church-" "They didn't know I was coming. Mr. Martin brought me, all the way from London. He says I've got a father, that Mr. Standish and my mother were

married in the church." "I feared this day," he mumbled. "When that villain returned to Maughold, I told the women you should know the truth about being born a Standish." He spoke the hated name as if it burned his tongue. "All these years, we never told a living soul." "Not Lord Garvain, or the earl?" Shaking his head, he helped Ellin collect her belongings from the gig. Together they went into the thie mooar, unchanged from the day she'd informed her family that she must leave for England and asked them to care for Scadoo. Clumps of burning turf scented the room with its distinctive perfume; an iron pot hung above the heat. Her grandmother was at the spinning wheel. "I heard the dog-our Ellin is home?" "I am." "Dear child!" She extended her arms. Ellin nestled close to her, and felt the eager fingers roam across forehead, cheeks, nose and mouth. "You've been weeping." "Where's Marriot?" asked her uncle. "Upstairs, turning the mattresses." He picked up the cowbell the blind woman used for summoning aid, and gave it a shake. When his wife appeared, he announced grimly, "She's found out about Standish. And Isbel." Marriot's shoulders hunched and her brown head fell forward. Her posture was one of defeat and resignation. At long last, Ellin was able to ask the many questions that had tortured her throughout her lengthy journey over land and sea. As she listened to the story her relatives had never wanted to reveal, she curled one arm around Scadoo and clutched her grandmother's bony hand. "Your Grandfather Magnus was a Douglas man, and I from Laxey. We settled in Maughold after our marriage, and here we stayed, farming flax and raising our girls. His family down in the town sold linen-his nephews still do, they own the great factory there. He believed Marriot would be the first to find a husband, she being the elder and always so busy about the house and farm. But in my heart I feared 'twould be our Isbel. Finlo Standish had his eye on her. A fine, strapping fellow he was, with a property of his own. He told her she wouldn't have to spin if she wed him, he could afford to buy linen, and anything she desired. We knew he had a temper, and was a great one for visiting the alehouses. But for all that, they were married in the church, and he took her to Ballanard." "The farm on the height," Ellin translated. "You were born there," Marriot told her, picking up the tale. "On a windy night in March, the year after Father died. Isbel wanted the ben-obbee to help her deliver. Finlo, mistrusting Calybrid's methods, went to fetch a doctor. He ended up at a tavern,

the drunken sot, and got to fighting. When he finally turned up-the day after-Mother and I were there to tend Isbel, and you. He raged about, cursing like the devil. And Calybrid standing before him, silent as a stone. We begged him to be calm. Isbel was so weak and you were crying from hunger, and his noise. And then Mother-" She broke off. "I can't bear to remember it, much less speak about it. Let him tell you," she added viciously. "If he dares." In an unsteady voice, her grandmother explained, "After he left the island, Marriot and I went to live with Isbel. Her heart and her spirit were broken, and she was so weak from the birth. Countess Mooar was charitable toward us, buying our linen. And the tavern-keeper was most helpful, cutting the hay and pulling the flax when it ripened." Ellin glanced at Uncle Henry, who had contributed nothing. He sat in his favorite chair, hands on his knees. Breaking the silence, she said, "There was a fire at Ballanard, that I know." "We burned sticks when we wanted to conserve our turf," her grandmother said. "That day was so cold-November, it was-and the wind howling. A gust must have blown down the flue and sent sparks flying into the basket of flax. I was up in Isbel's room when I smelled burning wood, and cloth. Down the stair I went, to the thie mooar-and the heat pushing at me like a wave. I felt my way into the parlor and opened a window. Calybrid was in the potato beds, digging. I called out to her. She led me out, then went back inside to get Isbel. And you." "I wrapped you in my apron, ennoil," added a familiar husky voice, "so the smoke wouldn't burn your eyes." Calybrid walked into the room and placed a basket of shellfish on the table. "I'd taken some sheets over to the castle," said Marriot. "The countess kept me so long that it was nightfall before I returned to Ballanard. Nothing was left, only the four walls standing empty." She hid her face in her hands. "There was no saving that house," Uncle Henry said gravely, "nor anything in it. But Calybrid knows things such as the rest of us don't. When she dug up some of the floor stones, underneath she found a chest with money inside." "And Isbel's silver bride-cup," Marriot reminded him. Ellin knew that cup well-she'd drunk from it. "Isbel lingered but a few days," said the benobbee. "The exertion, and the shock, were more than she could bear in her weakened state. She made her will, leaving her cup to me. She begged us all, and Henry Fayle, to hide you from Finlo Standish and keep you safe from him, should he ever return." A storm flashed in her brown eyes. "We thought it best to pretend you died also,"

said Marriot. "So when we carried her coffin to the churchyard for burial, the Vicar said prayers for two. We insisted that he record our Isbel as Magnus Moore's daughter, not as Finlo Standish's wife. And when the mason carved her tombstone, we ordered him to do the same. As a safeguard, we paid for the extra words, 'and her infant.' " Calybrid moved restlessly about the room. "We'd heard Standish was in Liverpool, near enough to hear about the Ballanard fire." "How old was I when all this happened?" "Eight months," her uncle replied. "The sweetest l'il oikan as ever was, always smiling and cooing at me. Marriot's mind was set against marriage. She was thinking she should go into service at Castle Cashin. Countess Mooar had offered her a place as companion with room and board for her mother and you. A shame, thought I, for a Moore to wait upon a Cashin. So I told her if she'd take my name, I'd let you have it also. And if anybody got to asking questions, we'd say you were an orphan of her family in need of a caring home. 'Twas true, dyjarroo." Stirring the pot over the fire, Marriot said, "All the parish remembered was that Isbel had borne Finlo Standish's daughter. But he was so despised, and Mother so pitied, that none made trouble. Countess Mooar said 'twas a judgment on him, and she carried the secret to her grave. We've never had servants, who might spread gossip. And I've tried to keep you away from the taproom, where folk speak so free." "By marriage or by blood," said Calybrid, "we of Maughold are all of the same clein. We protect our own." And she had vigorously enforced their clannish conspiracy of silence. She'd threatened to lay a curse upon any person who dared to expose the secret of the little girl growing up at Boayl Fea. To keep intruders-and Ellin-away from Ballanard, she had embellished the local legend of the buggane who had long roamed the hills and glens. "Out of fondness for you, and fear of me, nobody breathed a word about what you were better off not knowing. And when they came to Boayl Fea of an evening, and told you their tales of a sorrowful female spirit wandering the hills, they were thinking of Isbel." After Finlo Standish returned to the island and took up residence at Castle Cashin, the danger of discovery intensified, as did the effort to conceal Ellin's connection to him. Concerned that he might notice and recognize them as his in-laws, her aunt and grandmother stopped attending church and avoided any public or private place where he might be. They lived in constant dread that he might stop at their tavern on one of his frequent rides to Ballanard. "Memory lives long, and the past is his worst enemy," Calybrid declared. "Just when we thought

you entirely safe from hint, you learned the truth. And not on this island, but away in London." "The buggane of Ballanard doesn't really exist?" "Ta, he does-he lives in the castle by the cliffs. Finlo Standish is more dangerous than any drogh spirrid, and never forget it." "The other legends you've taught me, about the Cave of the Red Man's Daughter, and the moddey dhoo, did you make them up also?" "I did. When you were a tiny girl, I took you with me one day when I went to gather lichen from the river rocks. When I heard the sound the water makes, to me it seemed like a bab crying out to someone who had abandoned it. Standish is the red man, and you are his daughter. The big black dog wandering along the road is no apparition-it's the dog that follows after him. For me, these places are truly haunted, but none so much as Ballanard itself." "I've seen him there," Ellin reminded her. "We couldn't have him at your wedding to the earl's heir-now you know why. When you married, we were pleased that you aligned yourself with a family who despise the mac mollaght as much as the rest of us do, for their own reasons." "It seems strange to me," said Uncle Henry, "that the linen factor found out you were Standish's child, but didn't tell him." "I think Mr. Martin kept silent on my account, to protect me-like everyone else. But in London, when he saw I was distressed, he became angry. He accused Kerr of marrying me to get at my father's fortune." Calybrid studied the girl's sorrowful face. "What do you believe?" "He hasn't denied it. At first I was sad, and angry. But I must find my way to forgiveness." "And what of your father. Is he to be forgiven?" "She must go to him," Marriot said. "Our revenge is complete when he learns what a treasure he lost by his crimes." "But will he believe that I'm his daughter?" Mrs. Moore raised her white-capped head. "When he sees me, he must. And the silver cup he gave Isbel at their wedding." "Ellin shall have it-as I always intended," said Calybrid. "I'll not go with her to the castle, or be anywhere near Standish. I made my promise, I must live by it." Bending down, she ran her fingertips across Ellin's soft cheek. "I've watched over you for nineteen years, ennoil, using my power to keep you safe and well. If you link yourself with Finlo Standish, you'll be needing me more than ever." She recalled her piercing sense of loss on the day Ellin had married the young lord, and how forlorn she'd been when the new-wedded couple had set sail to England. But those feelings could not compare to the heartbreak of letting her go to her father, the person Calybrid despised more than any who

lived. [break] "There's a lady t'see you, sir. And an ould woman with her." From the entrance hall, Ellin heard the manservant announcing them to Mr. Standish. She hadn't been inside Castle Cashin for over four years, not since Kerr's family had moved into the farmhouse at Dreeym Freoaie. Following the footman down the corridor, she saw how much of her father's fortune had gone into its restoration. The decayed grandeur she remembered was gone. Fresh paint and new upholstery and a colorful carpet woven in some exotic land were some of the changes she noticed. She and her grandmother entered the library. Her father was a giant of a man, broad in the shoulder, with legs like tree trunks. He wore a loosefitting silk garment over his clothes, tied with a sash, and on his red head was a round silken cap, a fringed tassel dangling down one side. A suitably large dog, shiny black, lay snoring at his feet. "Lady Garvain." He laid his pipe and his paper on the table by his chair, and stood up. "I didn't realize you'd returned from London." Her grandmother stiffened when he spoke, doubtless remembering his deep and powerful voice. The enormity of Ellin's mission daunted her. She stared helplessly up at him while his dog sniffed at her skirts, detecting Scadoo's scent. "Mr. Standish," she began, unable to call him anything else, "I'm sorry if we've come at an inconvenient time. We have much to tell you." "Lie down, Meanoie," he said, interrupting her breathless announcement. "Your ladyship's apology is quite unnecessary, and I shall be happy to hear whatever you-and your companion-wish to say. Please be seated, both of you." Ellin led her grandmother to the chair their host had vacated. Had the years altered her so greatly that her son-in-law couldn't recognize her? "Because I don't know where to begin, I must let this speak for me." She fumbled with the ties of her reticule and brought out the object concealed within, its silver cold and smooth to the touch. "Do you know it?" His ruddy face was frozen in a stare of astonishment and confusion. "How did you get my wife's cup?" "From Calybrid Teare. She found it at Ballanard, after the fire. It belonged to my mother, Isbel Standish, who died there. But I survived." Her heart was pounding so loudly she could hardly hear herself. "I'm your daughter." Through her tears, she saw the little tassel on his cap sway back and forth as he shook his head. Atreih, he doesn't believe me, she thought. "You were but a few days gone from the island," her grandmother said, "when we carried your

daughter to the church to be christened. You'll find her true name written in the church register, in Vicar Cubbon's hand-Ellinor Mary Standish." He turned around. "Mary Moore." "Do you remember the words I spoke to you, Finlo Standish, before you raised your hand against me? 'Lhisagh ny feallagh s'troshey ve ny feal lash s'meeney. " 'Should not the strongest always be the gentlest?' " he repeated. "I was too angry to heed you then. In later years, out of guilt and shame, I did try." Taking her fragile hand in his giant one, he said, "I've never forgiven myself for that blow." "A powerful one it was. Besides robbing me of sight, it caused my Isbel's death. I could not see the fire." That unmentionable incident Aunt Marriot had refused to relate was suddenly, horribly plain to Ellin. The man who had sired her was also responsible for her grandmother's blindness. "Because you struck me down, my daughter and Calybrid Teare have hidden your child from you, all these years." "Ellinor," he breathed. "Ellin. My daughter." "She's a woman grown, and curious about her father. Now she must hear your version of the past, Finlo. It is only right that you tell it." Ellin was aware of his struggle for mastery over his emotions. And when he began to describe his younger self, he did so with bitter objectivity, as though speaking of someone he hadn't liked. "I was quick-tempered-still am. In those days I was a heavy drinker and a rough fighter. But I loved Isbel Moore, and Ballanard. I was determined to rise in the world. When she told me a bab was coming, I rejoiced. I knew it would be a son, the first of many. I was too proud to have the ben-obbee attend Isbel's confinement. My wife would have the doctor. On my way to Ramsey to find him, I stopped at a thie-oast-for one drink, no more. But the men, when they learned I was to be a father, bought me another and another, till I forgot where I was supposed to be going, and why." Ellin, knowing much of men's behavior in alehouses, found this entirely credible. "The hours slipped away, and I unaware. A neighbor came in and saw me. Best hurry home, he said, for in the cradle is your inneen beg." A little daughter. "Not the son you expectedand wanted," said Ellin. "I thought he mocked me. I beat him about the head with my fists-I don't know how many men it took to pull me away from him. It was a roaring great brawl, and afterward I found myself trudging back to Ballanard-and all those women. Calybrid Teare, and Isbel's sister and her mother. And you, squealing like a piglet. I flew into a black rage. When she, your grandmother, tried to quiet me, my fist flew out, knocking her down. Her head struck the stone floor." He stared down at his clenched

fingers. "She so tiny, lying there, and I so large and strong." He'd wanted to flee then and there, he admitted, but stayed long enough to learn whether Mrs. Moore would live. Driven by shame and remorse, he deserted his family and boarded a ship bound for Liverpool. For many months he'd drunk himself into a state of oblivion, always hoping he could swallow enough courage to get himself back to the island. And then he received news of a terrible fire at Ballanard. "My wife was dead and buried, our child with her. I assumed my mother-in-law had suffered the same fearsome fate. I wanted to die myself. And yet the knowledge that I could no longer hurt those who loved me, whose lives I'd wrecked, freed me. I mourned them, but I sought solace in work. My ambition rose from the ashes of Ballanard. I was educated, skilled with numbers. I found a position as junior clerk to a mill owner, and learned his trade by supervising production and accounts. I hoarded my money, I bought shares. I purchased a cotton mill of my own, and built another. But I'd have given up everything I had gained to be able to wipe my conscience clean. To have back my happiness, and those three lives I'd destroyed." His remorse was painful to see. Pity prompted Ellin to say, "You made tragic mistakes, dyfirrinagh. But you repented." "Never more than now, when I must tell the daughter I did not value all the reasons she has to hate me." "No, no," she protested. "Grandmother has suffered by your actions, but not I. All my life I lived with Aunt Marriot and Uncle Henry, and was content. I've one reason to be grateful to you. You persuaded Lord Garvain to marry me." His look of despair was replaced by one of fury. "That may prove to be one of my worst misdeeds. All pride and arrogance, he is-it takes one scoundrel to recognize another. When I found you with him, at Ballanard-by God, if I'd known that you were my child, he'd be sleeping in Maughold churchyard, with his ancestors!" Chapter 23 Ny poose eirey-inneen my slooid ny fan ayr eck er ny ve croghit. Don't marry an heiress unless her father has been hanged. MANX PROVERB

Ellin stood near at the castle library's glasspaneled door, watching the two dogs at play. Her mongrel charged fearlessly at her father's shaggy black Newfoundland, and they engaged in a mock battle, snarling and snapping as they knocked each other down to the grass. "Scadoo gets on well with Meanoie," she observed. "I'd be happy to have her here all the time,"

Finlo Standish answered. "Both of you. You've told Lord and Lady Ballacraine of my desire to have you live at the castle?" "Ta. They say Kerr must decide. When he comes back," she added. Not only did she feel uncomfortable living at Dreeym Freoaie with her in-laws, her father couldn't visit her there. The earl and countess, when she'd explained that their son was in London and she didn't know when he might return, had exchanged grave, speculative glances. And although they reluctantly acknowledged that she couldn't ignore her nearest living relative, their attitude toward him proved how naive her hope of uniting them in friendship had been. She had learned to accept the strange facts that had been flung at her in rapid succession in recent days. Her father lived, but everyone dear to her despised him. Ballanard was her birthplace. Kerr might have married her to get his hands on the Standish fortune. And even if he loved her now, the discovery of his manipulations had left a scar upon her heart. No longer a child needing the protection of the ben-obbee and others, she was a woman facing difficult choices about her future. Her loyalties were divided among castle and farm and tavern, and the many people who had conflicting expectations. Her father sought to know her as a daughter, and hoped to inspire a filial affection. The Cashins claimed her for themselves, as wife of their son and heir. The hardworking relatives who had adopted and raised her had the greatest need of her helping hands. Every day she rode over from Dreeym Freoaie to see her father. At her urging, he shared his memories of her mother unlike any she'd heard from other sources. Talking about Isbel and their courtship, he admitted, was a comfort after years of dwelling on the tragedies he'd caused. "I don't resemble her at all, do I?" Ellin asked. "Aunt Marriot and Calybrid say not." "Her hair was brown, but a shade lighter than yours. Hazel eyes, she had. Looking at them was like gazing into that clear stream that joins the River Cornaa, near the linen mill-what's it called?" "Strooan ny Mrack. Uncle Henry fishes there, for trout." "In you, Ellin, I see your grandmother. That's a compliment to you, and for me a kind of curse." He came over, saying, "I must do something for her, and all of them at Boayl Fea. If they need servants, I'll pay the wages. Horses, cattle, a new plow. Anything you can think of, I shall see they have it." For a time he watched their romping dogs in silence, then he asked, "Does Mrs. Moore dislike your coming here?" "Not as much as Calybrid. Or Lord and Lady

Ballacraine." Kerr would also be displeased by her wanderings. She doubted that he would want her spending so much time at the castle, or that he'd accept her father's invitation to live there. And though he might not object to her visits to the Fayles, he certainly wouldn't approve of her joining in their labors. She was a baroness now, he would protest, not a tavern wench. She mustn't ramble about in laplinyn, her shortgown and checked linen petticoat and dark stockings. She wasn't supposed to spin flax or make butter or bundle the prickly gorse her uncle cut as fodder for his livestock. Her father, surprisingly, understood the allure of farm work. "Sometimes when I was imprisoned in a cramped office, perched high on my chair and scribbling in my ledger, I used to imagine my broad field at Ballanard. The yiarn-foldyragh in my hand, swinging it, watching the hay fall-oh, that smell!" "I know." They smiled at each other. "You should do what makes you happiest. A great shame it would be to defer to that husband of yours, who most selfishly dragged you off the island against your will. If he has any sense of fairness, he'll be guided by your wishes. And if he returned to find you already established in your father's house-his own birthplace-" He left his suggestion dangling before her. Ellin pondered her husband's possible responses. Kerr often expressed regret about the transfer of his family's castle to a tenant. Through her, he could regain what his father had surrendered. If he failed to recognize the advantages of the arrangement, she would point them out to him. "I think Kerr might be persuaded to live here," she mused. "It's a large house. And the pair of you may have a whole section for yourselves." He patted her shoulder. "It's settled, then. Tell Lord and Lady Ballacraine that you'll be paying a visit-no harm in letting them think it's temporary. And then your husband can decide. One of my men will follow you in the gig, to bring your baggage. I must be off myself-Vicar Cubbon expects me. Norris Martin brought something to my attention, concerning you. I'll ask him to dine with us tonight, if you don't mind." "Not at all," she replied absently, for Scadoo had surrendered and was lying on her back submissively while Meanoie stood over her, tongue lolling. That mild and summery evening, Ellin sat at the far end of a table for the first time in her life, in a carved chair resembling a throne. Its previous occupants had been the first Lady Ballacraine, and the proud Countess Mooar after her, and most recently, her mother-in-law. Her experiences in the palatial dining rooms of

London's aristocracy had prepared her for this debut as her father's hostess. But none of her studies, not social etiquette nor the maxims handed down by Kerr's favorite philosophers, were of any use when the gentlemen related the details of their meeting with the Vicar. Shattered by their revelations, she imagined that she could hear the mocking laughter of all those long-dead Cashins whose portraits lined the castle walls. [break] Kerr's crossing from England to Man was tedious, but far less dangerous than his journey on the smuggling vessel four months previously. During his northward journey, he'd failed to overtake Ellin. At Whitehaven, where he'd intended to catch the regular mail packet to the island, he'd suffered another setback. Maddened by the damnable lack of a breeze, he stalked the docks for much of the day, glaring out at the too-calm waters that separated him from his beloved. After a day and a half on the sea, he arrived at Douglas port. A blazing sunset greeted him, and the azure sky was dramatically streaked with copper. He waited impatiently while customs men poked through his collection of trunks and boxes with unusual diligence. After he disembarked, he negotiated with a carriage driver to convey him-and his belongings-to Dreeym Freoaie. "Not to the castle, y hiarn?" This man knew him, but was clearly uninformed about Maughold affairs. "My family haven't lived there for years." "I've heard different. Everyone buzzes 'bout your lady, and what happened after she came back." As the man thrust the last of his boxes onto the carriage seat, Kerr asked, "What was it you were saying about Lady Garvain? She's well, isn't she?" "Depends which way you look at it. Strange things do happen in Maughold parish, it being so full of witches and devils. They'll be roaming this night, y hiarn, for 'tis Midsummer Eve." Was it? He'd lost track of the days. "The Tynwald meets tomorrow. You've got back just in time." He couldn't care less about that; he was curious to know what had happened to his wife. "Get me to Dreeym Freoaie quick enough, and there's an extra shilling in it for you." Travelling along the curving road, he passed by many a hillside with a great stack of wood, straw, and gorse. When darkness fell, the crofters would light them to frighten away the witches and bad fairies. It was a swift journey to the farmhouse on the heather ridge, and as he stepped down from the carriage he smelled smoke in the air. His mother, eyes streaming, kissed him. "Kerron, I've been so worried-you were so long in coming.

But now you're home, you'll make things right." His father gripped his hand. "We did try to keep her here. But there was no convincing her, she was determined to go." "Go where?" The whole island spoke in riddles, and all the riddles involved Ellin. "To that blackguard Finlo Standish." "She's living at the castle," his mother told him. "Living there? Why in the name of hell would she-" "Because she's his daughter," his father thundered. "The Fayles and Mrs. Moore and the Teare woman hid the truth from her. And she assumes you were aware of her father's identity all the time." "I wasn't," he answered numbly. "When she went away, she promised your mother most faithfully that she'd visit. But we've neither seen her nor had any news of her since she left this house. I stopped in at the tavern yesterday and learned that she hasn't been in contact with the Fayles, either, which seems most strange." "You've not been to the castle?" "I planned to ride over there tomorrow." "I'll go now. I don't know what Standish's game is, but he's not keeping my wife." Ellin was Finlo Standish's bastard daughter. Small wonder the Fayles had concealed that fact, for no girl would want such a sire as he. So why was she living at the castle with him? There was no logic in it. He rode through the night, across a landscape of smoke and flame. The crofters had lighted their hilltop bonfires. His horse shied and screamed when they came to a wall of fire-whole sections of boundary hedge had been kindled, to keep the witches from getting into a field. His passage blocked, Kerr was forced to take a less direct route. At last he saw the dim outline of the castle, claimed and defended by his ancestors. Lights shone from the library windows. He could make a surprise attack, exactly like the Cashin raiders of centuries past. Smiling dangerously, he imagined himself storming in, sweeping Ellin into his arms, carrying her away on his trusty steed-in imitation of those novels she and Kitty used to read together. In the narrow lane he climbed down from the saddle and led his horse as near to the house as he dared. He wrapped the reins around a newly planted willow sapling-if Yernagh pulled the thing up by the roots, so much the better. It didn't belong here, any more than the inappropriately classical urns flanking the front entrance. The ancient stones were hard and cold against his side as he crept along the south wall. He ducked low to pass by windows, and rounded the corner. He detected no voices from within, for the wind was too strong; the only audible sound was the rhythmic wash of waves against the rocks. Reaching the Palladian-style door, he pressed his

face against one of the broad panes. He saw Ellin on the settee, so lovely that his breath caught in his throat. A long gold chain gleamed on her breast. Her pale blue gown shimmered in the candlelight-why the devil was she wearing silk, and not his Manx linen? She was feeding Scadoo pieces of broken cake and speaking to somebody, presumably Finlo Standish, whom he could not see. He drew back as a shape passed near. A male figure, slighter and more slender than the castle's tenant, and fair-haired. Norris Martin. Then Standish lumbered over, offering the linen factor a glass of amber liquid. Great-grandfather's French brandy, thought Kerr furiously. Quite a convivial little party his baroness presided over. Incredibly, she'd become mistress of his former home, the pampered darling of his family's wealthy enemy. He gripped the brass handle and swung the door open. "Ellin, I've come to take you home." Never would he forget the emotions that played over her expressive face. Pain, fear, desolation-everything except the joyous affection he'd expected to see. Finlo Standish moved in front of him, blocking his view of her. "My daughter won't be going anywhere with you, Lord Garvain." Scadoo came over and pressed her damp nose to the hand clenched tensely at his side. At least someone was making an effort to welcome him. He told Standish, "Your long-ago liaison with Isbel Moore gives you no right to interfere in her daughter's life." "It most certainly does," the man contradicted. "Isbel was my lawful wife. Ellinor, lost to me for nineteen years, is my legitimate child. You know it, so don't feign ignorance of the facts." Kerr sidestepped Standish and went to Ellin. "My veen, it's a lie. I swear it. Whatever they've told you-" he included Martin in his scathing survey "-be assured they've done it for their own purposes. How could I possibly know?" "Church records," Norris Martin said. "That's how I found out." Although he wasn't in a humorous mood, Kerr laughed. "I hardly ever go inside St. Maughold's, and when I do I get out fast as I can. Ask Ellin." Turning to her, he smiled and said, "You're a church-goer. How many times have you seen me there?" "Once," she whispered. "There, you heard her," he said triumphantly. "I walked in, sat through the service, and walked out when it was over. No time for poking about in musty old registers to find out exactly who begat whom." Slipping a possessive arm around her silk-

covered waist, he added, "You fellows can discuss genealogy to your heart's content. I've had a hellish long journey, and I've missed my bride most damnably. And I'm taking her home." She resisted, pulling away from him. "I cannot go with you." "What do you mean, you can't? He might be your father-atreih, one hasn't the choosing of one's relatives. But I'm your husband." "To think that I played matchmaker," said Standish, "and bear responsibility for my daughter's suffering. And her shame." More riddles, thought Kerr, his patience wearing thin. He gazed at Ellin, pale and trembling, reluctant to meet his eyes. "You understand what they're talking about. Enlighten me." "My name is all wrong." "Wrong? I don't understand." "On the marriage license," Standish boomed. "In the parish register. Both identify her as Ellin Fayle. But in the baptismal roll you'll find her true and legal name, Ellinor Mary Standish. Her marriage to you is therefore not a legal one, and never was." Ellin still wouldn't look at him. Her father's face was red and angry. Norris Martin's perpetual smile broadened. "That's impossible." "Not according to Vicar Cubbon," the linen factor informed him. "The discrepancy between the marriage documents and the baptismal record has freed you from the union you never wanted in the first place." Kerr ignored this comment. Facing Ellin, he took her hands and gave her a comforting smile. "Fear not, my veen. We'll make it all right again. There can be another wedding, performed in secret-no one will ever know." "If she carried a child," Standish interjected, "I would allow it. Thankfully, she does not. And there's no keeping the secret; it's already out." F,11in spoke up, her voice wooden. "The Vicar says I'm not your wife. So does my father's attorney." "But you want to be. You shall be." Kerr read doubt and uncertainty in her pensive face. Said Standish in an unpleasant tone, "I won't encourage her to accept a man who refused to wed her till he was bullied into it, and then used her for his own mercenary purposes." "I'm also the man she loves/' he shot back. "And I love her." "Why wouldn't you? She's a rich man's heiress. A worthier bride for a Cashin than a lass out of a tavern, isn't she?" "Stop," begged Ellin, covering her ears. The sight of Standish's meaty hand on her delicate shoulder made Kerr thoroughly wretched. "Leave us, child. You shouldn't be party to this discussion."

"I am the subject of it," she maintained, standing her ground. "Nothing can be decided tonight." The linen factor took up a branch of candles. "Come with me, Miss Standish," he invited, giving her name strong emphasis. "I'll light you to the staircase." Together they went out of the room, Ellin's blue silk whispering. "Your coming distresses her," said Standish. "Not me-your noisy blustering." "Lord Garvain, you aren't welcome in my house." "Your house?" he echoed. "Mark my words, if you harass my daughter while she's trying to decide her future, I'll keep this place. My lease has a few years yet to run-time enough to drive your father out of business. He won't be so high and mighty after he surrenders his property to me, will he?" "If you think dispossessing the Cashins will earn your daughter's undying affection, you delude yourself," Kerr retorted. "Ellin may be confused, and embarrassed, but she's more loyal than you know. By trying to come between us, you'll cause her much pain and bring greater infamy to yourself. If that's even possible." If only he could get her alone, he could convince her of his feelings. A pair of enemies, a hulking bully and a despicable snake, conspired against him. They had separated him from his wife, and would take great delight in destroying whatever was left of her faith in him. He left the castle determined to fight back in the best Cashin tradition, fairly or unfairly. He couldn't lose Ellin, so inexpressibly dear and so hopelessly out of reach. According to the emperor-philosopher, The best way of avenging thyself is not to become like the wrongdoer. Marcus Aurelius, he'd just discovered, was wrong. Dead wrong. And by his future actions he would prove it. Chapter 24 Practice, man, if you are irritable, to endure if you are abused, not to be vexed if you are treated with dishonor. EPICTETUS, DISCOURSES

Kerr and his father, by virtue of their status and the quality of their horses, represented Maughold parish in the cavalcade accompanying Lieutenant Governor Shaw from his residence in Castletown on Midsummer Day. Exhausted from too much drama and not enough sleep, frustrated, bereft-he was hardly in the mood to participate in the island's annual festival. After his four-year absence from the Court of Tynwald, he should feel excitement as Yernagh carried him into St. John's village an hour before noon.

The several roads converging at Tynwald Hill were crowded. People had come in their gigs, on their ponies, or by foot, and all wore a sprig of mugwort pinned to their clothing or tucked into a hatband. After hearing the new laws read aloud, they would eat, drink, gossip, and make merry. The warm weather and his ceremonial attire added to Kerr's discomfort. His thick tunic was bound from shoulder to waist with a crimson sash; his cavalier's hat, topped with a curling plume, made his scalp itch. The Manx Fencibles, outfitted in brilliant red coats and white breeches, raised their muskets for a welcoming volley. The Bishop of Sodor and Man, accompanied by the Archdeacon and other distinguished clergymen, welcomed the Lieutenant Governor, who was then passed on to the two dozen members of the self-elected House of Keys. The dignitaries entered the chapel. There were no benches, so all remained standing during the prayers and an interminable sermon and more prayers. Packed in tighter than red herrings in a barrel, thought Kerr, stifling one yawn after another. By the conclusion of the service his head was pounding, and he shifted impatiently from one boot to the other while waiting his turn to exit. Priests first, followed by Bishop Crigan and his Vicars General. With great solemnity the two Deemsters, chief justices of the island, fell into place. After them, Lieutenant Governor Shaw, the Clerk of the Rolls, and the seventeen parish captains. The cavaliers brought up the rear, the last group to march between the parallel rows of militiamen. "The ritual is as tedious than ever," he mumbled to his father, and cast a longing glance toward the canvas tents where ale was served. "You should rejoice that we keep our independence and make our own laws," his parent said severely. "I'd rather be ruled by Manxmen than those varlets in the British Parliament." "You've got a son-in-law in the House of Lords," Kerr reminded him. "And Garrick will be an advocate for our interests. Athol does more damage than good." As they neared the base of Tynwald Hill, the earl commented direly, "She's here. With him." Kerr's boiling blood went icy when he saw Ellin, appropriately dressed in the Manx Festival pattern. On this highly public occasion, she was making her first appearance as Finlo Standish's acknowledged daughter. Yet by wearing that red toile, Kerr realized, she proclaimed a vestige of loyalty to the Cashin name. Nevertheless, he was unable to summon up much optimism. Her hulking parent glared at him as he went past, and the snake Martin smirked. It galled him that the linen factor had insinuated himself into Ellin's life-journeying with her from London to the island, dining at the castle, escorting her to Tynwald. And petting Scadoo, with

whom he was apparently on most friendly terms. To break ranks and speak to her would draw attention to them both; their situation was bad enough without that. Staring fixedly ahead, he continued walking toward that all-important green mound, formed centuries ago with soil brought here from all seventeen parishes. A series of grassy steps gave access to the three terraces, rising to a height of twelve feet. The Lieutenant Governor climbed to the topmost level and seated himself in the east-facing chair of state, shaded by a canopy. The Deemsters read out the laws, in English and then in Manx. When they completed their proclamations, the crowd responded with three rousing cheers, and the procession of officials filed back to the chapel for the signing and witnessing of the documents. Freed from his ceremonial duties, Kerr ploughed through the throng in search of Ellin. He recognized a few of the people who acknowledged him, some with suspicion and others with respect, but most here were strangers. One ancient dame of his own parish bobbed a curtsy. "Y Ham," she said, "a great shame it is that the red-thatched devil should take your wife away. What God joins together, let no one tear asunder, that's what I've always believed." This Maughold woman, one of many, would mix with relatives and acquaintances from other parts of the island. By the end of the day, the whole population would have heard about his ruptured marriage. He didn't much care what people said of him, but it was agony knowing how Ellin's honor had been besmirched. Lured by the shade of a beverage tent, he purchased a tankard of ale. While slaking his great thirst, he overheard a man passing on the tale to another. "An heiress she is now, though she grew up amongst crofting folk-like one of our ould legends come to life. No more field work for Miss Ellinorshe'll live as a lady for the rest of her days and never lift a finger. Standish dotes on her, that's plain, and he rues the day she wed the barran." "Soon as she sheds her husband, she's sure to choose another. Wonder who 'twill be?" "Not me, that's certain. Pretty thing like that, she'll want a strapping young fellow, not a crabbed ould codger." Both men laughed. Grateful for the broad hat brim concealing his face, Kerr slammed down the drinking vessel and stalked out into the blazing sunshine. This island, his Ellin's paradise, had been transformed into a purgatory, with fresh tortures awaiting him at every turn. Much to his annoyance, she was conversing with a former suitor. Tom Clucas, decked out in his regimentals, displayed a profound interest in her account of her travels in England. But his alert gaze

frequently drifted from her earnest little face down to her rounded bosom. Stop ogling her, Kerr raged silently. Mine, she's still mine, and always shall be. He struggled to rein in his jealous possessiveness, fully aware that civility would serve him far better than a harsh rebuke. Reaching up, he whipped the feathered hat from his head and gave her a deep, theatrical bow. "Y ven chiarn." "She's not a ladyship any longer, Lord Garvain," Clucas huffed. "You must address her as Miss Standish." "In truth, Sergeant, I don't regard her as a single woman." "I've been promoted to ensign," the young soldier informed him, proudly fingering his epaulette. "Last month." "The glad tidings failed to reach us in London." Kerr slanted a smile at Ellin, but she didn't respond. "They tell me I can expect to rise to lieutenant within months." When the squeak of fiddles prompted the young man to ask Ellin for a dance, she answered reluctantly, "I'd better not." "You're not in mourning," he pointed out. "Your marriage wasn't ended by death, but by the rules of the church." "There's been no annulment decree," Kerr hastened to add. "Therefore, she must conduct herself with all the prudence expected of a married woman." "What she does or doesn't do, my lord, is no longer any concern of yours." "You think not, Ensign Clucas? Let me prove how mistaken you are." Tucking Ellin's arm in his, he drew her away. With killing candor, she informed him, "Of all men here, you're the one I shouldn't be with." She detached herself from him. "I preferred not to come, but Father and Mr. Martin persuaded me." "That was well done. A Cashin never hides." "I'm not a Cashin, and never really was." "You're the wife of my heart." Summoning every scrap of courage he possessed, he spoke from the depths of his anguished soul. "On that mountaintop, I accepted all that you offered me. At Ballanard also. Marriage was not my choice, I've admitted that. But I couldn't bear for you to suffer in any way-and because you loved and trusted me so much, I treated you honorably. Not only out of duty, but also out of great affection." He smiled when he reminded her, "No one forced you to accept my proposal. You were willing to be my bride." "Don't do this to me, Kerr." "In Manchester, when you ran out in front of that carriage, I was insane with worry, furious with myself for putting you in danger. While we were in London, I realized my good fortune in winning

you. I meant to be a better husband-more patient, not so concerned with my business. Each time you mentioned the island, it was a knife in my chest. I concluded my arrangements with Mr. Ovey as swiftly as I could-we came to terms the same day you left me." She looked up at him. "He agreed to sell your linens?" He'd forgotten she didn't know and was relieved to see how much she cared. "You're the one who suffers more from the absurdity of our separation, I know, but at worst, it's only temporary. Look on the brighter side-by a strange twist of fate, we're free to choose each other again." "Easy for you to say, now that I'm an heiress." "It's you I want, my veen, not Standish's damned money. Pay close attention, Ellin, for I'm on the verge of proposing to you again. But not till you've kissed me-as you should've done last night." "I can't. Not in front of all these people!" In deference to her sensibilities, and because privacy was necessary for some of the liberties he intended to enjoy, he pulled behind the ale tent, out of sight of the raucous crowd. He reached out, one hand moving to her waist, the other capturing her shoulder. "Come here." "No," she protested. "I'll not have you swooping over me like-like a falcon." His mouth touched hers. Sparks shot through him, each one bursting into a flame, and their combined power consumed him, like the fires roaring in the hedges and on the hillsides last night. He was a burning pillar of desire. She ducked her head to evade his lips. "This is wrong, and cruel." She fought for release, her hands pushing against his chest and getting tangled in his sash. "You won't remedy our problems with excuses and some kissing. Nothing you say or do changes the fact that you married me because my father, your family's enemy, threatened to make trouble if you didn't. I accept that you did an honorable thing, but not entirely for selfless reasons." His advances, rather than softening her heart, had firmed her resistance. Even worse, he was now the target of her righteous anger. "You know my feelings changed in London. Yes, I took you there to serve my own purposes, but enough good came of it that I can't summon up much remorse, or regret. We both want the mill to succeed, and we did what needed to be done. Your experiences weren't all bad, were they? You wore lovely linen gowns and the Ballacraine rubies. You curtsied to a Queen. You were befriended by my sister and her husband, you played with their children. We visited Hampton Court. I fell in love with you." "But for those three months I was no wife; I was your mistress-your whore. Because of that, I can't bear to remember other things we did-reading your naughty books, playing together in bed...."

The memories of all he'd done with her, and she to him, renewed his passion. His restraint faltered, and he was in danger of losing control. But he couldn't, because she was trying to tell him something important. "Are you ashamed?" "Not always. But sometimes, yes. And I can't help feeling cheated. Cheapened. A marriage made to save my reputation did exactly the opposite. My disgrace seems far greater than if we'd never married at all. Everyone here knows my whole history now, and many regard me as the heroine of a fairy story-a lost daughter found, heiress to a great fortune, living in a castle. Londoners won't be so generous. Everyone whose good opinion I courted, from Queen Charlotte on down, will find out. Lavinia and Garrick and Mrs. Radstock will pity me, but Lady Felicity and her kind will mock me. You needn't worry, you're the wild Manx baron. Our sham marriage enhances your reputation as a libertine." He hated to hear her say these things, because she was absolutely right. Her fears were justified. "There's an easy solution," he said. "A quick wedding. Marry me, Ellin, and we'll begin anew. A fresh start." Her head lowered. "I'm not yet twenty-one, and my father won't give his consent. He tells me to wait, not to act hastily. Vicar Cubbon counsels me that I should be guided by my parent's wishes." An entirely unexpected impediment. "No one dares to gainsay the richest man on the island, not even the parish priest." His voice soft and sonorous, he asked, "And what of your wishes, my veen?" She gazed up at him with eyes as green and desolate as an upland moor. "Your newfound guardian must be trying very hard to turn you against me. But there's nothing he can say that you don't already know. You're better acquainted with me than Standish is. Help me, Ellin; tell me how to convince him that I deserve the priceless gifts of his daughter's hand and heart." He added wryly, "Or is it the daughter who needs convincing?" "I need time, Kerr-to accept changes, to think, to heal." "To forget me?" "I hardly know who or what I am. I went from being Ellin Fayle to Baroness Garvain to Ellinor Standish. Never did I think to leave the island, and you took me to London. I believed I was an orphan, and I'm not. I thought I was your-" She breathed in sharply, and left her remark incomplete. He squeezed her hands. "I don't give a damn about what the law and the church say-you'll always be mine. Son dy bragh as dy bragh." Forever and ever. His words echoed in Ellin's mind for the rest of that afternoon, while she tried fruitlessly to enjoy

the traditional pleasures of Tynwald Day. Although she was proud of holding firm against Kerr, their encounter left her dissatisfied. It had cheered her to see him again, so dashing in his regalia, and feel his long fingers twined with hers, and hear his prof essions of love. But she was wounded by his simple belief that that reconciliation could be bought with an apology and those hungry, devouring kisses that melted her body. As ever, his desire for her was of paramount importance to him; he couldn't comprehend how lost she felt, or how alone. Travelling back to the castle in her father's chaise, she mulled over all that Kerr had said and reviewed her own responses. Had she been too cold, too distant? Or, by letting him broach the topic of remarriage, had she possibly given him too much encouragement? "Garvain was plaguing you, I noticed. Don't worry, it won't happen again." When she turned away from the carriage window, her father's smug expression gave her pause. "What do you mean?" "I've persuaded Mr. Crellin, Deemster for the northern district, to act on your behalf. I don't trust the baron, nor should you." "He wants to marry me," she blurted. His cheeks reddened; his rusty brows met over his nose. "What did you tell him?" With great effort, she maintained a neutral tone. "I cannot decide anything-yet." "Perfectly sensible. But I would expect no less of you, my dear." They arrived at Castle Cashin, rising tall and majestic from the stony edge of the island. Ellin was conscious of the irony that she, no longer a member of Kerr's family, occupied the house that was his birthright. "I'm thinking you need a restful holiday," her father said. "Your time in London faded your bloom, and I mean to restore it. We could take a house in Douglas for the rest of the summer. Just think of the fun-bathing in the sea, dancing assemblies at the hotel, musical concerts, all the nice shops." "I'd rather stay in Maughold, here at the castle. I've been so long away, and I missed Boayl Fea." "I don't object to your visiting your family. But they live entirely too near the Cashin farm for my comfort." Resigned, he said, "Very well, we shall remain. But I urge you to keep away from Dreeym Freoaie." It was an easy promise to make. She'd never felt that the earl and countess had approved of her, and they must be greatly relieved that their son's misalliance was declared invalid. They certainly would not care to receive her into their respectable home, for surely in their eyes she was a fallen woman. [break] "I feel sorry for her," Kerr's mother confided, while cutting great stalks of pink-blooming mal-

low. "Despite your distressing reason for marrying Ellin, I believed she was good for you. She's such a sweet-natured girl, yet there's a strength about her that will help her through the uncertainties of life-and the sorrow she surely feels now. Pass my basket, if you please." Holding it out to her, Kerr said, "You might call on her, tell her you aren't opposed to a second wedding." Her forehead puckered. "Her aunt and Mrs. Moore have far more influence." "And Calybrid Teare," he commented thoughtfully. "If you'd gone to church on Sunday, you might have spoken with Ellin yourself. Such a commotion there was! From the start of the service, the dog kept trotting back and forth from Mr. Standish's pew, where Ellin sits now, to the Fayles'. Poor animal, she was mightily confused, unsure where she ought to sit-I daresay the girl felt much the same. The sumner put her out of the church-the dog, that is-but she scratched at the door and made noises till he let her back in. Ellin eventually managed to calm her." "Since the truth came out about her father and she went to live at Castle Castle, the glen has been divided. Some take Standish's side, saying his daughter is better off with him. Others believe we've been wronged, that my wife has been stolen from me." "Here comes your father, home from Ramseywith his Manx Mercury. If we ask him to read us the reports on the Irish rebellion, we can prevent him from railing against Finlo Standish for the rest of the day and into the night." He watched his parent's stiff-legged march from the stable to the stone-bound garden plot. "He hasn't returned to us in the best of moods." Waving his newssheet, Lord Ballacraine called, "You'll never believe what that mac mollaght, that hellhound, has done! An outrage, an insult! Right here," he bellowed, stabbing the paper with his finger, "on the front page." "Be calm, John," said his wife soothingly. "By week's end that page will have gone to feed kitchen fires all round the island, and no one will remember what was printed on it." "Would that it were so. Listen to this. 'News from Ramsey. Mr. J. Crellin, Deemster for the North, has issued an edict prohibiting Baron Garvain of Kirk Maughold from causing annoyance to the daughter of Finlo Standish of Castle Cashin in the same parish. Here follows his judgment: 'By order of John Frissel Crellin, Northern Deemster. IfKerron Cashin, bachelor, attempts to cohabit with Ellinor Standish, spinster, or know her carnally, he will be immediately arrested and delivered to the prison at Castletown.' " "Let me see." Kerr snatched the paper from his father's hands. "Imprisonment!"

"Standish's doing. To prevent another seduction," said the earl. "As though you'd try anything so reckless-that's how you got yourself into this mess. In addition to making you look the villain, he's preserving his daughter's chastity until the Ecclesiastical Court has ruled on the case. I daresay he'll sue us for damages in the Court of Chancery, out of spite, even though he knows we can't pay." "I'm quite sure he'd accept your castle in lieu of a settlement," said Kerr. "If that's his game, he'll lose. We held the castle before the first Standish set foot on this isle, and we're keeping it." "My dear," said the countess, "you've always told me you hoped never to be like your father. If I closed my eyes, I could well imagine he was standing before me, you sound so like him." "I was cut from the same cloth. So was Kerr. He's my heir and Baron Garvain, and no bailiff will dare clap a Cashin into a gaol." Kerr held back a contradiction-it would be unwise to point out that his proud and defensive parent had spent many long weeks in a London debtors' prison. "Our son did no wrong, committed no crime. The fault lies with the girl's family, and all others who concealed her parentage." "Ellin Fayle, Ellinor Standish," Kerr said impatiently, "I don't care what name was inscribed on the license, or signed in the church register. I'm no bachelor and she's not a spinster-we're no less man and wife than we were a fortnight ago. A sacred bond exists between us. A connection that will always be strong and true and-and magical." He returned his mother's basket and marched off toward the stables. Law, religion, and family were united against him. The Deemster's warrant, issued at Standish's request and possibly with Ellin's knowledge and consent, imposed a fearsome penalty. The Ecclesiastical Court would review the case, but the outcome was a foregone conclusion. He'd failed to enlist support from his father, whose hatred for an enemy ran counter to his own desires and intentions. But there were other powerful forces at work on this island. And maybe, just maybe, the ancient beliefs practiced and enforced by Calybrid Teare would be his salvation. Chapter 25 In one way an arrow moves, in another way the mind. MARCUS AUREUUS, MEDITATIONS

The ben-obbee was tending the milk cow and she-goat and swine she kept in the small stone-bound enclosure behind her cottage. A white hood of a bonnet covered her head, and her long linen apron flapped in the breeze. She showed no surprise when Kerr dismounted from Yernagh and

joined her. Nonchalantly she tipped the contents of her bucket over the wall and watched the great lumbering sow and her vast number of piglets fight for the potato parings. Aware that this odd creature was reputed to be a seer as well as a healer, he said, "If what I hear of you is true, I needn't declare my purpose in coming. You already know it." Brushing past him, she said, "I'll not minister to those who must test my abilities. If you mistrust them so much, there's no help for you here." Her tart and disturbingly prescient comment startled him out of his skepticism. He went after her. "Miss Teare-Calybrid. Necessity brings me, and desperation." Agitated, he swept a hand through his hair. "I didn't know what else to do." Her eyes were brown, like the mud beneath their feet, and impossible to read. Would she be sympathetic? Or like the rest of the parish, did she hold him solely responsible for the troubles that had befallen Ellin? She replied, "Most of my visitors seek a cure for a sick animal, or need to know where their lost cow has wandered. I sell love charms by the dozen, and medicinal herbs." Her sharply angled black brows lifted, and her thin lips stretched in a smile. "But I've never been called upon to repair a broken marriage." "I'm sure you agree that Ellin must not remain with Finlo Standish." He noted that her long, skinny fingers had tightened around her pail's coarse hemp handle. "When did you last see her?" "At Boayl Fea, a few days past. I've not spoken with her privately since she returned from England, for she no longer comes to me as she used to. Step inside, y hiarn, and tell me exactly what you think I can do." The doorframe of her whitewashed dwelling was so low that he had to stoop to enter. Her stillroom smelled sweetly of drying plants; her thie mooar was redolent of smoldering turf. "That fire has burned there these hundred years," Calybrid told him, whipping off her apron. "And probably longer." He believed her, having heard other crofters make the same boast. When she invited him to sit, he did so, but her offer of refreshment gave him pause. Her chuckle reminded him of a rook's cry. "I'll put no evil dram in your tancard," she assured him. "Henry Fayle brews my ale, so it's safe to drink." She did read minds. With a sheepish smile, he said, "I'll have some." She filled two mugs and joined him at her table. When he told her of Deemster Crellin's warrant and its restrictions, her outrage matched his and his father's. "Standish is behind it." "The latest skirmish in a long-standing feud be-

tween families-like the Capulets against the Montagues." Assuming his allusion meant nothing to her, he explained, "Characters in a play, by Shakespeare." "Romeo and Juliet. I first read it years ago, when you were wearing long coats. Who do you think taught Ellin her letters? Her grandmother couldn't and her aunt was too busy." "S'treih Ihiam," he murmured in apology. Returning to his point, he said, "My father and hers can wage their personal battle as long as they have the energy and the will. But they won't succeed in keeping Ellin and me apart." "If she wanted to be with you, neither of those blustering, prideful men could prevent it." "She knows my feelings. I begged her forgiveness for the mistakes I've made. I asked her to marry me straightaway." "What answer did she give?" "None. Meanwhile, that jouyl Standish is constantly harping on the fact that I was forced into the marriage, which is mostly true, and persuading her that I treated her brutally, which isn't." He rested his elbows on the table and stared into his drinking mug. "You are much in the habit of getting your way," Calybrid commented. He grimaced. "It wasn't always so. My grandfather and grandmother refused to let me go away to school. Their rule over the family was nothing short of despotic. His barony lands and his castle and his title gave him power, yet she was the one with the money. She might have used it better. Her priest played upon her vanity, so she left her fortune to the church, believing herself charitable, when in fact she had a heart like a stone. She enriched the Pope and beggared her son. Small wonder I wanted to leave the island. Only after I got away could I live according to my desires." Calybrid remembered Ellin at thirteen, utterly dazzled by the restless young lord, and too ingenuous to conceal her admiration. So tall and handsome, she had often praised him, face a-glow. As wild and proud as a falcon, yet among his sisters as warm and merry as a robin. "I've watched Ellin grow from girl to woman. She remained true to you, even though there was no reward for it, whether you were on this island or away from it. Her love is as constant as that deep blue sea, grander than those mountains in the distance. When you returned from your adventuring and decided you wanted her, she was willing." "Well, she's not willing now. Marriage to me holds no mysteries, and not all her memories are good." "Better that she should learn the hardships of love as well as its pleasures." "There was a lot of pleasure," he declared with a breathtaking smile. "Her nights are surely as lonely as mine. I won't believe that she relishes her

empty bed." Calybrid envied the carnal delights that the baron and his bride had briefly shared. She'd never known that fulfilling, all-consuming union of heart and body, mind and soul, and though she valued her independence greatly, there were moments when she regretted not having a lover to sing her praises and court her favors. "She fears the power of her own desires, and yours." "That may be," he acknowledged. "But threatening me with prison can't have been her idea, could it? It reeks of Standish." In the spring and summer of this year, Calybrid had watched her dearest girl change from hopeful maiden to joyous bride, from confused heiress to disillusioned former baroness. The love between the couple had not died, she felt sure, but she didn't know whether Lord Garvain would be able to lure a changed Ellin back to his bed and board. "Imagine that one day, after much reflection and prayer, she tells you she'll nevermore be content as your wife. Could you accept her decision?" "I'd live out my life waiting for her," he declared. "That's no answer. If Ellin's happiness depended on a permanent separation, would you abide by her choice?" "Outwardly I'd resign myself to it. But I'd never give up hope." He tilted his dark head back, his clever gray eyes sharp with comprehension. "That was your test, wasn't it? To find out whether I'm man enough to let go of her? I'll never have to, if you help me." "Your hand." He stretched it toward her, and she took it between both of hers. "Lhiat myr holliu-to thee as thou deservest." His broad shoulders rose and fell with his sigh. "I don't know whether I've just been damned or blessed." "Time will tell. I'll be your friend, y hiarn, as I am to her. Through you both, I can strike at Finlo Standish. I've a score to settle with him-several of them." "So do I. Advise me." "You will obey the Deemster's prohibition. Standish set a snare, and you don't want to get caught in it." She left him and went to her stillroom to review every item on the well-stocked shelves. Standing on her toes, she took down the glass bottle of bright powder. She'd ground it herself in her mortar and pestle, from those glittering stones she sometimes collected near the Foxdale mines. Taking it to Lord Garvain, she said, "Add a pinch of this to Ellin's drink or her food. Do it stealthily, but make sure she sees you. And you should take some, too." With a faint smile, she added, "She'll recognize it, for she used this herself to charm you into loving her. Your being here now

is proof of its effectiveness." "I was a victim of witchery?" She nodded. "I gave her dried periwinkle leaves to feed you as well." "That odd-tasting tea she brewed-to 'calm' me." Laughing softly, he carried the bottle to the window, holding it so the fine grains shimmered in the light. "These concoctions of yours, mustn't they be applied in secret to work?" "The power of my magic depends entirely upon belief and faith. It matters very little whether you trust this powder. Ellin, as you well know, is a firm believer. And when she discovers you've got hold of the very pishag by which she secured your love, it will have a powerful effect upon her. You'll soon see." [break] " 'Every wish of my soul is now fulfilled,' " read Ellin from the volume she held, " 'for the felicity of my Evelina is equal to her worthiness! Yes, my child, thy happiness is engraved, in golden characters, upon the tablets of my heart and their impression is indelible.' " Farther along, she came upon words that her own father seemed incapable of uttering. " 'Give thee my consent? Oh, thou joy, comfort and pride of my life, how cold is that word to express the fervency of my approbation! Yes, I do indeed give thee my consent, and so thankfully. When she reached the end of the final page, Ellin closed the covers of her book, leaving the fortunate Evelina to enjoy the blissful state of matrimony. The tailless cat, spying a pair of idle hands, climbed up and demanded attention. For a while Ellin was content to watch the spinning wheel's smooth revolutions and listen to the steady tap of her grandmother's dainty foot against the wooden treadle. Cuddling Mottle, she commented, "My father's notion of passing the summer in Douglas didn't appeal to me. Maughold people accept me. I don't know what treatment to expect from the Taubmans and the Murrays and the Quayles. Even the Moores, my own relatives, are strangers to me." "They would welcome the chance to know you. Your Grandfather Magnus was well loved, and so would you be." Until she'd lost it, she'd never placed much value on her reputation-not long ago she'd been resigned, even eager, to be Kerr's mistress. But instead, unexpectedly, she'd become his wife. The many luxuries she now possessed could not compensate for her having been wrenched out of her marriage and parted from her maddening, magnificent husband, her one and only love. Her father often spoke of her future, but his version never included remarriage to Kerr. He'd bought her a little mare called Bainney, because of her milk-white coat, so she could ride back and forth to Boayl Fea. She slept in the chamber that

had belonged to Lavinia, which overlooked the cliffs and sea. But she had no one to comb out her hair in the night, or to kiss the chocolate froth from her lips in the morning. Accustomed to sharing a bed, whenever she woke in the dark she involuntarily reached out for the solid warmth of a man who wasn't there, whose deep breathing had always lulled her back to sleep. She set the cat on the floor, saying, "I've stayed longer than I intended." She always did. There were so many interesting things to do here. And just across the road lay the mill-with luck, one day she might encounter its manager. She kissed her grandmother's thin cheek, promising, "I'll soon return. With everyone in the fields for the flax harvest, you are too much alone." "I've got the servants, thanks to you-pleasant girls, and they spin. Your uncle takes Marriot to Maughold Fair tomorrow, so she can sell the hanks of yarn we've made. A great treat for her; she's not attended since Finlo Standish returned to the parish. Will you go yourself?" "Yes, and I'll look for them there," Ellin answered. Leaving the tavern, she found one of the weaving apprentices waiting outside. He bobbed his head at the mill. "You're wanted over there." "By the barran?" "Ta." Kerr had sent for her. Should she go? She did want to see him again, very much, but her father wouldn't approve. Scadoo decided for her, following the messenger across the lane to the long building of whitened stone. Once inside the mill, Ellin heard the steady thump of the handlooms. The smell of flax prevailed, and piles of brown linen, ready for the bleaching house, lined the corridor. "Ellin-I'm here," Kerr called to her. When she'd last seen the manager's office, it hadn't borne the mark of his personality as clearly as it now did. He'd added a tall bureau with shelves and a folded down desktop covered with loose paper. A plaster bust of a philosopher supported each row of books and ledgers. "I meant to tidy things before you came, but I got lost in these pictures of flax-scutching machinery. Take that chair-you can set the pattern-book on the floor. Scadoo, cre'n-ash ta shiu?" The dog bounded over, and he rubbed her head and tugged at her ears. The sight of her man and her pet playing together was so attractive that she found herself smiling. She picked up the thick volume. "Are these your latest designs?" "Just printed. Have a look." His cambrics were lovely; she yearned to wear them herself. One in particular, stamped all over with multicolored floral sprays, made her smile. "I picked these roses and delphiniums and larkspur

and everlasting peas in Calybrid's garden, as a gift for Lady Kitty. I didn't realize she'd made a pattern from them." She admired the selection of toiles in blue and red, and the brown that was called "sepia" in the trade. Her well-trained eye noted the quality of the shading, and she remembered those women who worked in Mr. Slack's pencilling workshop. "These turned out very well," she said. "But you've not given them names. Is that why you summoned me?" "Titles are Mr. Ovey's responsibility now. I wanted to discuss our spinning school." He searched through the pages spread before him. "I've found a qualified candidate for the position of schoolmistress, pending your approval. Miss Benedicta Brady, cousin to my damask weavers. She lives in Armagh, and in a recent letter to relatives here bemoaned the upheaval caused by the Rebellion. She also inquired whether she might find employment on this island, preferably as a governess. Like all the Bradys, she comes from a linenmaking district, and is a skilled flax-spinner. Here it is!" Glancing up, he said, "My letter to her describes the new school for Glion Cornaa. Will you look it over for me and make sure I've included all the necessary details?" Embarrassed by the tremor in her fingers, she took the paper and quickly read it. "You haven't mentioned the subjects to be taught." "The curriculum hasn't been decided, because I'm ignorant about female education. My sisters studied at home-deportment and drawing and music and dancing, and whatever else our grandparents deemed suitable to their station in life. You must advise me, otherwise my spinning girls will learn naught but philosophy and classical history." Glancing at his graceful handwriting, she said, "They should be instructed in proper penmanship. Also grammar, ciphering, and geography." "A glass of wine?" She looked up to find him brandishing a decanter. Before she could refuse, he rose and took a pair of glasses down from the window ledge. As he shifted his body sideways, his hand darted into his coat pocket and brought out a vial matching the ones that lined Calybrid Teare's cupboard. And though he tried to shield his movements, Ellin saw him sprinkle the contents into each of the empty glasses before pouring the wine. When he presented hers, she found flakes of the mysterious substance floating on the surface. "Dusty in here," he said apologetically. Not dust, she thought. It was a charm-the very one she'd drunk out of her mother's silver goblet. Her startled mind struggled to accept the obvious. Practical, logical, unsuperstitious Kerr had gone to Calybrid for a pishag. She stared back at him, uncertain whether she should comment on her observation. Although she

was flattered that he would use sorcery to win her, she was also alarmed. "I find this a pleasing vintage. Go ahead, try it." His silvery eyes were merciless. She couldn't save herself. The magical powder didn't affect the rich flavor of fermented grapes, but it did impair her ability to concentrate on what he subsequently said to her. While he spoke of book purchases, slates and chalk, celestial and terrestrial globes, she made assenting murmurs and bobbed her head, and continued to fret over the telltale act that she'd witnessed, and its significance. Under her clothes she wore a long chain, and threaded through it was her gold marriage ring. It lay in the cleft between her breasts, and she felt it burning like a brand. "There's a great deal of money left over from the fund you collected. I've already arranged for a dozen spinning wheels to be made. Benedicta Brady naturally brings her own. The next item of business is selecting prospective students and encouraging their parents to let them attend. If it's not too great an imposition, you should take on that task." "I can't," she declared. "Why ever not?" Ellin gazed at him miserably. "My invitation to the spinning school won't gain you any pupils. I'm no longer regarded as a virtuous woman." "Has anyone treated you rudely?" "I know what they're thinking." "Why would Maughold folk disparage the very person they protected with their silence? Besides, they aren't exactly blameless." Moved to defend her people, she replied, "They didn't understand all the intricacies of the law." "You were awfully quick to learn its power, weren't you? And to take advantage of it." His bitter accusation perplexed her. She knew her father and his attorney frequently consulted the Deemster or the Vicar General, about what she did not know. "You might remind Standish that my father still holds a deed to the castle, and the barony lands. Any attempt to wrest them from him will fail." After a frowning pause, he said, "As for the school, I'm sure my mother will agree to call on the families of our best prospects. Can you furnish a list of names?" "I know a dozen candidates in this parish alone," she replied. "Daughters of weavers, girls from the poorer households. Orphans." Their excessively businesslike conversation was restoring her former sense of involvement and partnership. But complete detachment was impossible; her regard for him could never be merely platonic. She couldn't gaze upon that manly, muscled figure without thinking about how splendid it looked when unclothed. Whenever his voice, whether in-

tentionally or not, dropped to an intimate murmur, it revived memories of private moments lying before the fire or cuddling beneath the bedcovers. She needed to clarify her position, lest he take too much for granted. Gravely she told him, "I've got money, and I mean to support your school because I know how much it will benefit my family and the people of this glen. But you mustn't read anything more into my willingness to be its patroness." "I'll try not to." His tone was sober, but a smile hovered about his mouth. "You'll be at the fair?" "To see Aunt Marriot and Uncle Henry." "I trust you'll cheer my Maughold Bowmen to victory in the archery competition. We've been practicing every day, on the ridge. Which reminds me-I've got your bow and quiver. If you should ever care to resume those lessons you began in London, I'm at your service." An overture, no doubt of that. "I'm very busy," she answered lamely, hoping he wouldn't inquire into her activities. At that moment, basking in his brilliant smile, she couldn't remember a one of them. "I promise not to ravish you." Her flesh tingled. If he hadn't fed her that charm, would the word "ravish" have affected her so powerfully? Unable to quell her riotous emotions, she left her chair. "Scadoo, come," she said, more sharply than she intended. Her pet scrambled up from the floor and Ellin made a hasty escape from the chamber of temptation. Later, as her mare Bainney ambled past the weaving house, Ellin saw Kerr's face pressed to the window, watching her. Through those solid stone walls, the thick pane of glass, she felt his longing, his desire-and his determination to reclaim her. * * * Maughold Fair was more sparsely attended, and in Ellin's view far nicer, than the crowded Tynwald Day gathering. Her aunt was seated on the village green, several baskets beside her stool. "You and Grandmother have surely spun more hanks than these," Ellin remarked. "So we did. Lord Garvain bought up the fine yarn for his cambric weavers. This, made by the servants, is fitter for plain sheeting. The factor might take it." "Did Uncle Henry not come with you?" "He walked over to the glebe farm to look at that heifer the vicar is offering for sale." Ellin's drawstring purse was weighted down by heavy cartwheel pennies. To lighten the load, she stopped at the booth by the church stile and purchased enough of its wares to satisfy herself, her relatives, and even Scadoo. Kerr came up behind her just as the gingerbread seller commented, with a wink, "Ta shiu goaill soy-

elley jeh reddyn millish." "You can't deny it," he challenged. "You've got a fondness for sweet things. I shudder when I recall the sums I spent feeding you at Kelsey's, in St. James's Street! Now you can pay me back-in gingerbread." His shooting attire consisted of the fine burgundy coat made for him by a Bond Street haberdasher, and close-fitting nankeen breeches. Pinned to his breast was the insignia of the Maughold Bowmen, designed and embroidered by Lady Kitty. No law of the island or the church could stop her from gazing upon his splendor with wifely pride. She offered him her paper-wrapped parcel. "Have some." "After my match-if there's any left." His teasing was irresistible, and she smiled. "I'll save a piece." The church bell pealed the hour. "Time to join my fellows. A kiss for luck?" Why not? His was a worthy cause. She tilted her face, presenting her cheek. But when he ducked his head beneath the flat brim of her straw hat, it was her lips he sought. Her eyelashes fluttered downward. A desperate yearning stirred, clawing at her from deep inside, and she swayed toward him, fingers closing over his forearm. He still smelled of expensive shaving soap and saddle leather. "If I win, do I get another?" Breathless, she was unable to answer him. And when he departed for the meadow, she felt as though he carried her heart away with him. The sweet thrill of that kiss had stolen her appetite. After a few nibbles of gingerbread she gave the rest of her piece to Scadoo, who gulped it down. While delivering her purchase to Aunt Marriot, she saw Norris Martin and waved to him. He always attended this fair, to purchase coarse linens from the cottage weavers. He joined her. "It's a warm day," he commented, "you won't want to stand too long in this sun." "I'm staying for the archery contest." "You'll need to tether that beast," advised her aunt. "She'll think it's a game, and chase after the arrows." The linen factor drew a cord from his pocket. "Use this." Ellin bent down to knot it around her pet's neck, and the warm, wet tongue lovingly washed her face. Clutching the lead, she proceeded toward the adjacent field. Mr. Martin accompanied her. As they watched a visiting competitor, he murmured in her ear, "I've heard that these Kirk German archers are the most skillful on the island." Shamelessly partisan, she declared that they would be no match for the Maughold men. "When we were in London, Lord Garvain and I attended a fete given by the Tottenham Archers, who were

so impressed by his proficiency that they gave him a medal." Which he had offered to her, a keepsake of a joyous day. Any allusion to her life with Kerr made Mr. Martin uncomfortable. "You must strive to forget your unfortunate past." She didn't say it, but the weeks of separation had healed her hurts. A hope of reconciliation was blossoming. The men competed at short marks first. After each round, the distance of the butts was increased by one hundred yards. The scores between Maughold and Kirk German stayed even for a long time, adding to the suspense. In the final and deciding round, Kerr took his place in front of the targets-now four hundred yards away. Ellin stood still and breathless as he pulled back the string. His arrow cut across the meadow and slammed into the center mark. She gave a gleeful hop-exactly as she'd done when she was younger and he'd let her watch his practice in Margher Freaoie, the heather field. "He's done it! I knew he could!" Mr. Martin's smile was stiff, neither admiring nor especially warm. "Yes, quite the champion. For today, that is." The Maughold Bowmen emerged from the field as victors, to Ellin's delight. She would have congratulated Kerr on the achievement, but his partners led him away to the ale tent for an exuberant and exclusively masculine celebration. No victory kiss, she mourned. Slipping the cord over Scadoo's sleek black head, she returned it to Norris Martin and accepted his repeated offer to take her back to Castle Cashin. Chapter 26 A daughter is a possession to her father which is not his own. EPICTETUS, FRAGMENTS

"Norris Martin persuaded Standish to go to the Deemster." Calybrid plucked a tubular blossom from a spire of white foxglove. "Sleggan-sleeu. Poisonous. But its leaves make a fine poultice for scabby sheep." "How do you know?" asked Lord Garvain. "My father taught me the good and the bad qualities of all medicinal plants." "No, about the Deemster." "I put a few sly questions to Martin one night at the tavern. Ellin knows that Standish presented a case before Deemster Crellin. But he didn't explain his purpose-or tell her the outcome." The young man stooped down and bussed her cheek. "This is promising news, indeed! I hated to think that warrant was drawn up at her request." He hugged her again. "But there's still the problem of gaining Standish's consent to our marriage."

With a crafty smile, she intoned, "Those who rise by the law shall be brought down by it. I've seen Isbel's will, and it names her neighbor Henry Fayle as Ellin's guardian. Standish's paternity can't alter a document that was probated nearly eighteen years ago." She swiftly stepped behind the foxgloves to save herself from another squeezing. "I wish you'd told Ellin." "I've not had a chance. She hasn't confided in me, or visited me, since she began living with her father." A great grief it was to her, but she intended to repair the rift-as soon as she dealt with Finlo Standish. One by one, she ripped the delicate gloveshaped flowers from the towering plant. For a long time the young baron said nothing. Suddenly he waded through the flowers to ask, "Who's the most powerful and respected person on this isle?" "After myself, you mean?" His apologetic shrug made him look just like that wayward youth she'd taken to task, years ago, for shooting at rabbits with his crossbow. "After you," he agreed. "Not the Duke of Athol, our careless governor across the water, or his lieutenant Shaw. Nor the Deemsters, or the Vicars General. It's old Crigan, Bishop of Sodor and Man, who issued the original marriage license. If I convince him that Ellin and I should be lawfully wed, I doubt Standish could prevent us." With renewed confidence, Kerr mounted Yernagh and hastened to fogged-in Ramsey, where he picked up the Sulby River road. The last time he'd followed this route to Bishopscourt, he'd been resentful at being compelled to marry. Then Standish had insisted on a wedding; now he sought to prevent one. When he passed the turning that led to Orrisdale House, Deemster Crellin's mansion, he thumbed his nose defiantly. The Bishopscourt estate was widely regarded as the finest on the island, with an orchard and extensive gardens laid out by one of its previous occupants. Bishop Crigan's duties, far from arduous, permitted his contributions to the Manx translation of the Bible. Solemnly he led Kerr to a chamber in King Orry's Tower, the oldest portion of the Episcopal residence, recently refurbished. Kerr wasted little time with civilities. "My lord Bishop, the law has taken away my wife. I'm asking the chuch to give her back to me." "I doubt I can remedy your misfortune," the cleric replied. Born in Ireland, he retained a hint of his native brogue. "The Vicar General has forwarded the evidence submitted by Mr. Standish's attorney. In my view, the Ecclesiastical Court will surely reject the legality of your marriage." After a thoughtful silence, he asked, "Are you a prayerful man, Lord Garvain?" "On occasion," said Kerr impatiently, "but I

didn't come here to answer a catechism, my lord." "I've an obligation, as Bishop of this island, to make the inquiry about your faith. I take it you are not a religious man." "Too much turmoil over doctrine during my boyhood. My Protestant grandfather and my Catholic grandmother battled for my soul from the day I was born. He won, and she took revenge by leaving her fortune to her church. I rarely attend services, nor am I careful about keeping the Sabbath." "Do you regard the rupture of your marriage as God's judgment upon you?" "For my sins?" He considered it. With a tight smile, he answered, "I've not yet done anything terrible enough to deserve so harsh a punishment." "Have you learned some useful lesson from the experience, which might guide your future actions?" "When I have a wife again, I shall be a better husband." "I certainly hope so." The bishop consulted a sheaf of papers. "You are accused of barbarity, brutality, cruelty, and dishonesty toward the lady now known as Ellinor Standish." Kerr's spine stiffened. "By whom?" "Mr. Norris Martin. He writes in support of Mr. Standish's complaint about your conduct." "A most unreliable witness. Ellin and I sailed for England the day after our wedding, and for nigh on three months he never saw either of us. If you require candid testimony about my character, seek it from she who married me, not a covetous slanderer." "Were you in the habit of upbraiding your wife?" "She quickly cured me of it." He bounded up from his chair and approached his inquisitor, saying roughly, "On my honor, Ellin suffered less while wed to me than she does now. She's tormented by shame, yet she did nothing shameful. And those who would keep us apart are blinded by their own petty grievances." Suddenly conscious of the power and volume of his own voice, he apologized. "You've got a temper." "I'm a Cashin. It comes with the name." Said Bishop Crigan mildly, "My neighbor Crellin should have cited the old Manx law when Standish demanded justice. Traditionally, the Deemster permits a maiden robbed of her chastity to choose her own fate by giving her a length of rope, a sword, and a ring. She decides whether her seducer should be hanged, lose his head, or become her husband. Which fate do you suppose Miss Standish would choose for you, Lord Garvain?" "She's got the ring. She'll use it," he predicted, "if your lordship gives us dispensation to marry. Quickly, quietly. No banns." "A special license will suit you better than the ordinary sort, this time." Going to a cabinet, the

bishop searched for one. Kerr hadn't realized how tense he was until he felt himself relax. "I'm more grateful than you can ever know. What's the cost?" "Forty shillings." Handing over the required sum, he said, "Her full name is Ellinor Mary Standish. And I beg you, my lord Bishop, take care to dot both of those i's and cross that t, to protect us from future disputes over accuracy." [break] Ellin's very first letter from a duchess, which had been franked by a duke, left her feeling dispirited. Lavinia had poured out her feelings on three pages of notepaper topped with the Halford crest, expressing dismay and concern about the abrupt conclusion of her brother's marriage. In line after line, she described Kerr's reaction when Ellin fled London, his remorse, his avowals of love. How was she supposed to reply to such an emotional, heartfelt letter? Until she and Kerr met again, she dared not speculate about a positive outcome. She took a sheet of writing paper to the library table and settled down to compose a response before she rode to Boayl Fea for the harvest home. The documents her father had reviewed the previous night were spread about before her. Sweeping them aside, she noticed various forms of her own name on each one. Here was the accumulated evidence that had nullified her marriage. A copy in Vicar Cubbon's hand, of what he'd written in his baptismal record on the day of her christening: Ellinor Mary, dau. of Finlo Standish of Ballanard and his wife Isbel. He recorded the precise wording of the marriage license signed by the Bishop, giving her name as Ellin Fayle, and that of the marriage lines: Kerron John Cashin and Ellin Fayle, both of this parish, were married at this church by license this 12th day of April in the year one thousand seventeen hundred and ninety-eight. What glorious hopes and dreams had buoyed her on that sunny day when she'd linked her false signature with Kerr's. She had read affection in his smile when he'd presented the pen, fondness in the depths of his cloud-gray eyes as he'd led her out of the church to his waiting horse. As they had ridden away, with Scadoo chasing after them, she had been so sure that her feelings for him were reciprocated. That love, already tested by time and distance, had survived the trials and tribulations of their brief marriage. Separation had intensified it. With uncharacteristic patience, he'd granted her the time she'd needed. Now she wanted to begin anew. As he'd said on Tynwald Day, a fresh start. Nothing, not parental prejudice, or the wellintentioned deceptions of family and friends, or the complexities of her island's laws, could alter her desire to abide with Kerron John Cashin for the re-

mainder of her life. Father will be disappointed, she thought ruefully. Her parent, and her former husband both had failed in their attempts to transform her. When the proud baron had tried to turn her into a proper and fashionable London baroness, thrusting her into an alien culture, she'd clung tighter to her Manx habits and beliefs. Finlo Standish required her to be his devoted daughter, and mix with the social elite at assemblies and card parties. Despite her willingness to conform, she had disappointed each of them. And in the process she'd gained valuable insights into her own character. For love, she would venture anything, but there would be limits to what she could achieve. What, she asked herself, is my own ambition? To halt the feuding and rivalry between her father and the Cashins. To establish the spinning school in Glion Cornaa. To kiss Kerr again, she thought, and lie in his arms at night. And to dwell wherever he dwells. Her dreamy eyes lighted upon a document more official in appearance than the rest, and she ran her finger over the wax seal beside the signature as she read. [break] Whereas Ellinor Standish, spinster, did cohabit with Kerron Cashin, bachelor, in bed and at board under the notion of his married wife in this island and abroad, we hereby decree that he did compromise her honor and shall be held accountable for damages. Said bachelor and said spinster shall each be required to present themselves at Deemster's court and give their bond that they shall not in future frequent the company of one another. Should the delinquent party attempt to cohabit with Ellinor Standish or know her carnally, he shall be immediately arrested and delivered unto the prison at Castletown. Appeal from this judgment lies to his Grace the Duke of Athol, Governor of the Isle of Man. [break] By order of John Frissel Crellin, Northern Deemster [break] This was her father's doing, she was sure of it. He was punishing the man she loved, out of vindictiveness. Kys oddys eh ve cha dewil, she cried silently, as she crushed the paper to her breast, how can he be so cruel? She could feel her heart jumping beneath her printed bodice, and the solid shape of her wedding ring on its golden chain. She stuffed the document into her pocket and rushed from the library, Scadoo dancing beside her, ever eager for an outing. Her riding gloves, where had she left them? No matter, she'd ridden without any for nineteen years, she could do so again. And she didn't need the groom to saddle her mount; before coming to the castle, she'd always done it herself. At Boayl Fea she would find allies-relations,

friends-who would vouch for Kerr's good character if she asked it of them. In front of every justice and cleric who would listen, she'd swear on the Bible, Manx or English or both versions, that he'd done her no wrong. The thought of Baron Garvain confined to a prison was so absurd that she could laugh if she weren't so angry. That father and church and state should conspire to separate her from him permanently was unfair and extremely undesirable. Her uncle was cutting and stacking the last of his barley crop today. To get the best fibers for making thread, he'd begun his flax harvest as soon as the blue flowers had dropped but before the seeds could form. Ellin found a few women stripping the last field, the same one she'd helped sow on the day Kerr had come marching up to her and asked her to be his wife. Unable to stand idle and useless while they labored, she joined them. Moving along the row of slender stalks, she tugged them out of the ground intact and shook the soil from the roots. The seeds, fully ripened, would be combed from the stalks and used as cattle fodder. She gathered enough to make a bundle and tied it loosely, so the drying air could pass through it. A dozen sheaves, stacked upright, made a stook. If only Kerr would come now, she thought, with many a hopeful glance at the edge of the field. But Norris Martin, who always attended the Fayles' Mheillea, was the only gentleman who turned up. Her fellow workers stopped before she did, granting her the honor of harvesting the last sheaf. When she added it to the stook, a great cheer went up. The barley mowers, carrying their sickles, came down the hill, laughing and chattering. Most were female, for at this time of year the men of the island suffered greatly from herring fever and spent more time on the water than the land. The harvest dinner prepared by Aunt Marriot and her servants was served outdoors, and Uncle Henry's ale flowed freely. Those landowners whose crops he'd helped bring in had in turn come to Boayl Pea to lend their assistance, so he presided over a sizable gathering. Before and after the meal, the farming men raised their foaming tankards in rousing toasts. "Bios da dooinney as baase da eeast!" Life to man, death to fish-a popular cry in the herring season. "Dy choilley ghooinney er e hon hene, as Yee don ain ooilley!" "Every man for himself," Ellin murmured, "and God for us all. Yet we can oftentimes accomplish greater things by helping one another." Calybrid's dark eyes met hers. "True." Uncle Henry stood up, lifting his mug. "Myr smoo yn cheshaght state yn gammon. The larger the company, the better the cheer." Ellin sipped her ale, seeking courage from the

heady brew. Women and girls were expected to be passive partcipants until the dancing began. She stared down at her left hand, curved upon the handle of her tancard, while her right fingers felt for the wedding band hidden beneath her gown. If she wanted to wear it again, she must overcome her shyness and speak out. She bobbed up from her bench. "I've got a toast for you." A startled hush fell over the group. "But first," Ellin told them, "I wish to express my gratitude. I've lately learned how the good people of this glen united when I was but a bab. Out of sympathy for my mother, and respect for my aunt and my grandmother, you guarded their secrets well. As you have all heard, when the truth of my parentage came out, my marriage to Lord Garvain was declared unlawful." Her sorrowful statement prompted mutterings and head shakings along the women's bench. "Poor dearie-cast off by the Cashins!" "Too good for him, she is!" Ellin exhibited the warrant. "The Deemster, without consulting either of us, decrees that we must remain apart. He says the barran and I may never go near each other." The ensuing uproar silenced her. "He's done Standish's bidding, that's what!" "Why hasn't our earl bestirred himself?" Calybrid's hand grasped hers firmly. "Speak on, Ellin." Encouraged, she strove to be heard. "On his lordship's behalf, and mine, I shall act boldly. I need your help-we both do. I ask you to go with me to Orrisdale, tomorrow morning, and swear to Deemster Crellin that Lord Garvain is a fine, generous, honorable man who committed no crime against me, before or after I wed him. After we are made man and wife once more, we'll do everything we can for the benefit of Glion Cornaa, and Maughold parish." Forced to pause again by the hubbub, she waited for calm. When the ben-obbee rose to stand beside her, quiet was restored. "I give you the words of a wise man, a philosopher." Holding her drink aloft, Ellin said with calm conviction, "Be like the promontory against which the waves continually break, yet which stands firm and tames the fury of the water around it." When they drank, she reflected that none but islanders could appreciate Marcus Aurelius's sentiment so clearly. They crowded in upon her, the women embracing and wishing her every happiness, and their men expressing hope that the young lord's mill would prosper. Buoyed by their affection and many assurances that justice would prevail, Ellin felt her fears begin to ebb. Calybrid's thin lips brushed her cheek. "I must be gone, ennoil. There's a task I've left undone too

long." "Must you leave me? I've got so much to tell you!" "No need, I heard it all-in your plea to the people. We'll meet again on the morrow, for I mean to be there when you face Deemster Crellin." The sun began a leisurely descent behind the hills, and the revelers moved into the threshing barn to dance. As they hopped and twirled to the strains of fiddle and bass viol, Ellin relived her wedding day. Would her choice destroy her father's affection for her? She wouldn't know until she returned to the castle for what promised to be a painful confrontation. She was making her way to the stable to fetch Bainney when she realized she hadn't seen Scadoo for quite a long time, not since sitting down to eat. Remarkably, for a dog whose appetite was unfailing, she'd missed a meal. After making inquiries, she found that nobody else could recall when they'd last noticed her. "She were in the field with us," one of the reapers told her. "I saw her chasin' the bees the way she does, daft creature." Said her grandmother, "She wasn't near me at all-I thought it strange, for she so often stops to lay her head in my lap." "I need to find her before the dark comes," Ellin fretted. "Perhaps she wandered over to the mill," Norris Martin suggested helpfully. "There'll be plenty of people down at the flax dubs. If you like, I'll look." "I doubt she'd come if you called her." She noticed a handkerchief wrapped around his hand, spotted with blood. "How did you hurt yourself?" "Carelessness with a carving knife." "You must ask Calybrid for a shelliu, a healing salve. You won't want a scar. I'm away to the mill." "Is it wise to go against your father's stated wishes?" he asked, frowning. "Lord Garvain will be there." Irked by his attempt to keep her away from Kerr, she ignored his comment. A cart track led her along the river to the succession of water-filled pools and ditches where harvested flax was steeped to soften and loosen the fibers. Afterward they would be processed at the new scutching mill, where the woody stem would be pulled away to release the fine strands used for spinning thread. She wrinkled her nose at the foul odor of decaying plant material. Kerr, in his shirtsleeves, was tossing bundles to his workers, who tied them to stones and submerged them in the water. When he saw her, he instantly gave up his place and came to meet her. "A smelly operation," he acknowledged. "You're supposed to be over at Boayl Fea-your uncle's having his harvest dinner. What brings you here?" "Scadoo went missing, and I wondered if per-

haps you've seen her." He shook his head. "She's been gone so long now. I'm afraid she might be running loose in the hills-or worse, the mountains." "She rarely strays from your side, does she? Except when chasing after a hare, which is how I first made her acquaintance. I'll help you search for her-let me fetch my coat." When he rejoined her, she showed him the Deemster's warrant, filled with prohibitions that she was unwilling to observe. "Perhaps you shouldn't come. I found this with some of Father's papers-proof of my baptism, our marriage lines." After reading it through, he returned it. "Portions were printed in the Manx Mercury. Father predicted that Standish would seek damages. But whose idea was the bond-swearing, and staying apart from each other?" "Not mine," she insisted. "I knew nothing about any of this. Oh, Kerr-imprisonment! Have they all gone mad?" "Undoubtedly." In her frustration, she ripped the thick paper and flung the two halves away. One landed at her feet, and she took malicious delight in grinding it into the dust with her shoe. "They won't come between us." "As I've been telling you, Ellin, they can't. We belong together-and if you don't know why, I'll show you." She flung herself into his open arms, and their mouths joined in a desperate kiss that shattered the shell of loneliness confining her heart, and sent her spirits soaring higher than the treetops. Chapter 27 Dy yannoo peccah noi leigh, te daanys, agh Ay yannoo eh noi graih, te dwoaigh. To sin against the law is boldness, but to sin against love is hateful. MANX PROVERB

Their hands linked, Ellin and Kerr strolled past the weaving house. The breeze sweeping through the glen toyed with her hair, already mussed by his roving fingers. From the tavern across the road came muted sounds of celebration, fiddle music and song. He halted in the middle of the bridge to say, "Scadoo wouldn't go as far as the mountains on her own. We might find her up on the hill road, playing with that moddey dhoo you're so terrified of meeting." Ellin laughed. "I live with the moddey dhoo-it's Meanoie, my father's dog. Calybrid made up that tale to keep me away from Ballanard." His grin was wicked. "The farm where we got into so much trouble on Easter Day." "The sheep!" she cried.

"I don't remember that any sheep were involved." "Father leased grazing and mowing rights to the crofter on the adjacent property. Next to flushing hares, there's nothing my scamp of a dog enjoys more than driving sheep, whether or not anyone wants her to." "Worrying them, you mean." "I'm afraid she might." They continued across the bridge and quickly crested the hill. The animals in the upper meadow looked unperturbed and even rather bored as they chewed the vegetation between the clumps of purple ling. Chaffinches chattered back and forth as they ate seeds from the wild grasses and volunteer rye. Relieved, yet still troubled, Ellin said, "She hasn't been here." She looked at Kerr, and caught him studying the ruined tholtan. Suddenly he reached down and broke off several bracts of heather, covered with tiny mauve blossoms. As he tucked them into her hair, he asked, "Have you visited your birthplace since learning its significance?" When she shook her head, he said gently, "Perhaps you should." She let him lead her to the farmhouse. "All day I've been stumbling into my past," she confided. "This afternoon I was pulling flax in that meadow where you proposed to me. During the mheillea I kept thinking of our wedding day. Now I'm at Ballanard, where my parents dwelled and my life began and my grandmother was struck blind." "And we made love-here, beneath this tramman tree. Standish found us together." "If not for him, you would never have wed me." Hand on her shoulders, he spun her around to face him. "He made the match, then he destroyed it-with Norris Martin's help. I suspect the factor came to London with the intention of making you leave me. In addition to telling you about your father, he accused me of things that weren't true. And you must have doubted me, to some extent, else you would not have been so easily convinced. Ever since, you've held yourself aloof-was it punishment for my not loving you enough all those months ago?" "It was my confusion, and uncertainty. If I caused you to doubt my feelings, I'm sorry for it." "I love you now, Ellin. In those dark days after Kitty died, you were determined to pull me up from my pit of despair, and you did. Your optimism brightened my life. And your faith-you never doubted that I could fulfill my ambitions for the mill, and you made it possible. I owe you so much more than I shall ever be able to repay. But I can start-by marrying you." "What is this?" she asked, for he'd shoved a piece of paper at her. "A new and better license, issued by Bishop Cri-

gan-I made sure he wrote our names correctly, with perfect precision. It permits us to marry whenever and wherever we wish. Carry it back to the castle and show it to Standish. And if he locks you up in the east tower, don't worry-I can get you out. There's a secret stair in the wall, and I know where my father keeps the key." She kissed his jutting chin. "You'd enjoy rescuing me from the fortress, brigand that you are." Slipping her arms under his coat, she held him. His hands pressed against the small of her back, pulling her closer. She laid her cheek over his heart, and peace settled over her. He was the storm and the shelter both, this man she'd loved so long. He lifted his head. "What's that noise?" "Kerr, I'm not falling for that trick again. Don't pretend you've heard the buggane." "No, a dog. Listen." She recognized Scadoo's bark. "Where is she?" "Someplace very close," he guessed. They traced the frantic, high-pitched yelps to the barn loft, and climbed the steep flight of stone steps. At the top, a heavy rock held the hingeless door in place, trapping the dog inside. Rolling it out of the way, Kerr grunted, "She didn't shut herself in there." "The crofter must have done it, to keep her away from his sheep. I saw him at my uncle's, and I'm sure he'd have told me if he hadn't been so drunk. Bee feagh, Scadoo, be quiet," Ellin called, for at the sound of her voice her pet began to whine. Kerr shifted the barrier to one side. The dog bounced at them excitedly and charged down the steps, making for the water trough. Ellin would have followed, had Kerr not seized her wrist. "Stay." He pulled her inside the darkened loft, perfumed by the fresh hay piled almost to the rafters. "Not quite as elegant as the guest bedchamber at Halford House," he observed, "but more comfortable than the dewy grass." His hand slipped beneath her shift to cup her breast, his hot palm searing her. She knew from his efficient and practiced method of undressing her that he was as starved for contact as she. The night air was mild and refreshing on her bare skin. He shed his clothes quickly, and spread her printed linen skirt across the hay before he laid her down on it. His mouth touched her brow, her nose, her cheek, before claiming her ready lips in a kiss that expressed an entire tempest of emotions. "You're not my wife-yet." "No," she sighed. He had fastened on her nipple, and his lapping tongue made her every nerve quiver. "This is my final opportunity to live up to my reputation as a ruthless, amoral libertine," he murmured against her breast, "before becoming a respectable husband again. I feel compelled to ravish an innocent maiden once more."

She gasped as his hand slid slowly along her ribcage to her belly, and below. "I'm not so innocent." She proved it, touching him exactly where he most liked to be touched. He responded with a low, ecstatic moan. "No, you're not," he agreed. "You're a wanton creature, exquisitely corrupted by naughty books and pictures. Night after night, you shared the bed of London's most insatiable seducer." "He was very demanding." "He demands that you do that again." "Do what?" she asked coyly. He took her hand and held it against him. "No more teasing," he said roughly. "It's been too long, I can't take it." Neither could she. Opening her thighs, she let him come inside, accepting and welcoming his invasion with a joyous sigh of surrender. Her arms wrapped around his solid back, its tensed muscles flexing beneath her palms. His weight pressed her deeper into the hay, and she felt his hardness driving into her with glorious abandon. He arched away from her, and the soft breeze from outside blew across her fiery, hungry body. "Be mine." It was his command and his plea, and she answered it, pulling him back down to her. "I am, I will be. Always." Deep within her body, his flesh stroked her flesh. She knew from the increasing tempo of his motions how he would finish-wild, fast, setting off a tremendous explosion of fire and light. She met his every thrust, for this was a mutual act of possession. This harmony of emotion and passion, she exulted, would forever be her refuge. So close, so very close-and all at once she was shattered by a burst of sensation. His voice faintly cried her name, and his head came down to rest beside hers. Opening her eyes halfway, she gave him a smile of repletion. Her blood flowed thick and slow, like honey. "Keep awake one moment more, so I can tell you something. And ask a question." "I'm too happy to sleep." "I went to your friend the ben-obbee." "I know. I saw you putting Calybrid's pishag in my wine when I visited your mill office." "She hinted that I've been a victim of her sorcery myself. Did you really use her concoctions to win my love?" "Before we married," she confessed, "and after. I don't know how her magic works, I only know that it does." "I certainly hope so." She rolled over to face Kerr, her long brown hair drifting over them both. A dark fringe, damp with his sweat, hung over his brow. Brushing it back, she said, "You had no need of the charm to restore my love. You never lost it."

"Calybrid said something very similar." As he held her tightly, she listened to the rapid beat of feathered wings as the pigeons returned to their roosts in the outside wall. One by one they came, and after settling in for the night they cooed to each other. Scadoo returned to the loft after a session of digging, judging from the earth that crusted her white paws. Her wet cold nose probed them both, and her whiskers tickled. Sitting up, Kerr said, "I'm taking you back to Dreeym Freoaie, where you belong. We'll send for Vicar Cubbon in the morning." "I can't marry without Father's permission," Ellin reminded him. "As I understand it, your mother designated Henry Fayle as your guardian. Standish has been so busy vilifying me, he's made no effort to dispute the terms of her will." When they were dressed, Ellin said in dismay, "Hay everywhere-all over my skirt, stuck to my hair. What will your parents think?" "The wind will blow it away." Moving very slowly and cautiously in the darkness, Ellin followed him down the steps. They were nearly at the bottom when a man carrying a lantern came around the side of the barn. "He's here," he crowed in triumph. "They're together!" Norris Martin. Several more men came after him, and in the flickering light of his lantern and their torches Ellin saw leering faces. Her dread knew no bounds. "Seize him," he instructed, pointing at Kerr. "No, you won't!" she shrieked, putting herself in front of him. The factor pulled her away. "He's off to Castle Rushen prison, by order of the Deemster. I realized I made a mistake, sending you to the mill, and I was afraid of what might happen if you and Garvain were alone together. I was delayed, I should've been here sooner. Did he force himself on you?" Kerr called out, "Say nothing, Ellin. I broke no law," he insisted through gritted teeth. The men were binding his wrists with a rope and doing it none too gently. Mr. Martin held his light up to her face, and Ellin saw the blood-flecked handkerchief wrapped around his hand. When he moved closer, Scadoo lowered her head and gave a menacing growl. "You shut her away in the loft," she accused, "to bait your trap. She bit you, didn't she?" Furious, she turned her back on Mr. Martin and returned to Kerr. "Only Father can bring this foolishness to an end," she told him. "I'm going to Castle Cashin." He slipped his bound arms over her head and pulled her forward for a kiss. "No more of that," Martin objected harshly.

"Don't despair," she whispered in Kerr's ear. "Not while I've got you fighting on my behalf," he answered, with a cocky grin. "Now go-I'll not have you watch them lead me away like a prize bullock." Picking up her skirts, she raced out of the farmyard. Mr. Martin called for her to wait, but she ignored him. Scadoo thought it a game, for she bounced through over the patches of heather, terrifying the sheep in the meadow and scattering them in all directions. They returned to Boayl Fea, quieter than when Ellin had left. A few women lingered at the tables, chatting sociably, but the dancing had ended. Muted giggles from afar indicated that courting couples had vanished into the fields or hidden themselves in the hedges. The hardiest of the male revelers, mellowed by Uncle Henry's potent ale and rum, had gone inside the tavern. Her grandmother and Aunt Marriot had surely retired to bed, for now they had servants to clear the food. She went to the stable. Her dog sat on her haunches, tail thumping expectantly while she lifted the heavy sidesaddle onto Bainney's back. She pulled the bridle over the mare's milky head and led her outside to the mounting block. Just as she rode past the mill buildings, Norris Martin's gig overtook her. "Miss Standish, I acted for your protection. You must let me explain everything to your father." Resolutely fixing her gaze on the mare's upright ears, she retorted, "You had better explain to me. It was my dog you closed up in a dark, deserted place. Because of you, the man I meant to wed tomorrow is being dragged to a prison. I believed you were a friend, Mr. Martin." "A devoted friend-and an admirer. I waited too long. I should've declared to Standish that you were his daughter the instant I found out. But then he found you with Lord Garvain. If I'd revealed his paternity then, he would've been even more adamant that the baron should marry you. Your relations were unaware that the union was unlawful, but not I." "There's fine proof of your devotion," she spat, infuriated at his admission. "By telling me beforehand, you could have saved me all the disappointment I've suffered, and the disgrace. And to think I held Kerr responsible for it!" "Knowing I alone could set you free, I travelled to London." "To make trouble." "You were so unhappy. And Garvain had deceived you!" "Out of affection. He did an honorable thing in making me his wife, and was too honorable to admit why, for he knew it would cause pain." In describing his motives, she came to fully understand them. "You've told outright lies, made up false tales about his being a fortune-hunter."

"Don't think he isn't. You are an heiress." Ellin could listen no longer. Urging her mount into a canter, she turned down a drover's lane too narrow and rocky for the driver of a wheeled vehicle to attempt by day or at night. [break] For four years, Calybrid had avoided the tenant of Castle Cashin. If he attended her church, she was careful to keep her head covered and her body cloaked. Whenever she encountered his carriage on the road, she ducked behind a tree or a hedge. And she'd never uttered a word to him. Until now. She drew back her dark woollen shawl, revealing her face. "A long time since we've met, Finlo Standish." If he was alarmed by her intrusion, he didn't show it. "Your dubious arts have some usefulnessyou managed to keep your looks. But the witches in the Maughold legends are invariably described as attractive." Resting a hand on his dog's head, he said, "You and Isbel and her sister were the finest girls in the parish, twenty years ago. Have you come to see my daughter-the child you hid from me? You'll not find her-if you were as omniscient as people suppose, you'd know that." "It's you I wanted." "Flattering. Why, I wonder?" "For the pleasure of telling you that you're a bad father-and a fool besides. Ellin is your child, not one of your factory workers. She always loved the young lord, and still does. And he has fallen in love with her. They care not a speck for your great fortune, or the bitterness between you and the Cashins. Or the obstacles you and the Deemster have put in their way." "She's young. Vulnerable to a designing rogue's soft speeches." "She's older than Isbel was on your wedding day." "Lord Garvain is wilder than I ever was, more unpredictable." "He's no drunkard," she countered. His face reddened. "I've done what's best. For her." "You did exactly what Norris Martin wanted you to. He told you the barran was a cruel and unfeeling husband, but I doubt Ellin ever did. He persuaded you to seek recourse from the Deemster. He means to wed the girl himself." "Martin? Never. He's not the man for my daughter." He left his chair, moving quickly for such a large man. "You seem very sure that she wants Garvain." "I heard her say it an hour ago. So did two dozen others gathered at Boayl Fea for her uncle's Mheillea. What's more, she begged us all to go with her to Deemster Crellin and give assurances of his lordship's good character." He made a thoughtful circuit around the library

but stopped when Scadoo, head hanging in weariness, came in. She padded over to the black Newfoundland and collapsed on the floor beside him, panting heavily. Ellin followed, looking as though she'd crawled through a hayrick. "What have you been doing?" Standish asked her. "Ask Mr. Martin," she said, as the linen factor came into the room after her. "We were at Boayl Fea for the harvest home," Martin said quickly. "When she wandered off, I grew concerned-I gathered a party of men to search for her. We found her at Ballanard. With Lord Garvain." "Mr. Martin locked Scadoo in the hay loft, and lay in wait. The men tied Kerr's hands and carried him to the prison in Castletown." Ellin faced her parent. "He was treated like a common criminal. He didn't deserve that." "Calybrid says you care for him." "I'm going to marry him-and this time, you won't have to force him to the altar. But please, sir, persuade Deemster Crellin to revoke that warrant." Watching the pair of them, the daughter dainty and earnest, the father large and full of bluster, Calybrid felt Isbel's restless soul calling out to her to make peace. Standish rounded on the linen factor. "I'll go to Crellin, you may be sure, to lay another charge of wrongful action. Norris Martin, you've been making mischief. You'll suffer for it." "Leave that to me." Calybrid stepped forward. "For many a day I've practiced curses to use against you, Finlo Standish. But you've brought so much ill luck on yourself that I needn't give you more. Although to me you have been an enemy, you're Ellin's father and for her sake must be spared." She confronted Norris Martin. "You, sir, have done her great harm." "I meant to protect her," he insisted. She paid him no mind. "Ennoil, I ask you and your father to step out of the room-there can be no witnesses. Take the beasts with you. And secure the door from the outside." "You're not leaving me alone with her," cried Martin, as Standish roused the dogs and ushered them out of the room. "Now you know how Scadoo felt," said Ellin, before she banged the door shut. A key scraped in the lock. "I'm not afraid of you," Martin declared, unconvincingly. Calybrid responded with a witchy cackle of a laugh. "You should be. Eshyn ghuirrys skielley hayrys skielley, he who hatches harm catches harm." Dropping to her knees, she hunched her shoulder and recited the shiaght mynney mollaght in Manx. She started her seven curses in a slow whisper, increasing in volume to finish with a fearsome keen.

Pulling her shawl up over her head, she damned him to a future of misfortune and anguish while he stood helplessly before her, not understanding a word she said but clearly awed by her evil eloquence. She concluded in English, so he'd know he was damned. "May my curses live with you in daylight and lie with you at night, and go along with your bones to the grave." He broke the silence by saying tremulously, "I don't believe in your nonsensical theatrics." "You will. Norris Martin, you've been exposed as a liar and schemer, and our laws will not be kind to you. You'll hasten the end of your miserable life unless you depart from the island. Be gone!" "How? I'm locked in." She raised her arm and pointed to the door. Shrugging derisively, he crossed the room and fumbled with the handle. The door swung open. With a terrified glance over his shoulder, he darted down the corridor. Calybrid plopped down upon a satin-covered chair, and laughed until her face ran with tears and the seams of her gown were near to splitting. * * * He'd made many mistakes and committed any number of offences. But Kerr had never imagined himself in Castle Rushen prison. Once again he was separated from Ellin. Not by misunderstandings or deceptions, but by a harsh law and solid, cold stones. Damp, too, for this ancient fortress loomed over the river, and moisture clung to its thick walls. After his release he'd be able to trade stories with his father, who had spent several months in London's King Bench Prison. Trouble was, he didn't know when or how he would be liberated. Must he endure days, possibly weeks, of loneliness, deprivation, and discomfort? His wrists burned where the rope had chafed, and his bruised cheek throbbed. The men hadn't deliberately handled him roughly, but they hadn't been especially careful with his person. At least he hadn't been carried to the common cells down below, and thrust among all the criminals. The startled turnkey, amazed to hear that Lord Ballacraine's heir would be his guest, had given him an upper-level lodging-with a window. Kerr was thankful, even though he was rather too close to the castle bell for comfort. One clang made his head ring, two nearly deafened him, and eight in succession had been excruciating. He paced the hard floor, his mind aflame. Drean, he called to his departed twin, you used to say that no cage could hold your Shirragh. Yet here am I, the fierce falcon, trapped behind bars, with wings clipped. For his mate, he'd chosen the sweetest, dearest robbin beg. Gentle and clever, bright and merry, that was his Ellin. Far away, at the other end of the

island, she was pleading his case to her vengeful turkey cock of a father. Footsteps drew him to the casement, set low in the wall. He crouched down and saw a shaft of light from a raised lantern. "Visitors, y hiarn." Kerr could make out a pair of shapes in the dim glow. An elderly man wearing a hat pulled down over his brow, and a female wrapped from head to toe in a voluminous dark shawl. Calybrid Teare? "Can't let you out, or them in," called his keeper. "You'll have to talk through the window." Easier said than done. The latch stuck; so did the hinges. Pounding and pushing, he bellowed curses until he managed to open the casement. As he leaned out, the cool, salty air washed over his face. "Kerr, your language!" "Ellin! I thought you were Calybrid." She pressed a leatherbound volume into his outstretched hand. "My veen," he said in delight, "have you brought me a naughty book?" "Look inside," she urged him. A Manx prayer book. Tucked between the pages of the marriage service was a folded paper. "The special license. It allows us to marry anywhere, anytime. Bishop Crigan has agreed to perform the ceremony-here. Tonight. And afterward he'll go straight to the Deemster and tell him." Kerr peered at the old man. "My lord Bishop!" He was glad the darkness hid his flush-those curses, that incriminating assumption about the book! He hardly knew what to say. "After the pair of you are wed," the bishop said, "the warrant will have no force. If we are to proceed, we require two witnesses." The turnkey scurried away. He returned with an Englishman arrested for debt, whose expensive raiment was more appropriate to the occasion than anyone else's. "When do I kiss the bride?" he asked eagerly. "Never," Kerr said. "Stay close, Ellin. What about a ring?" "It's here." When she removed her necklace, he saw that her wedding band was looped around the golden chain. "Though I took it off my finger, I didn't stop wearing it." "Let the prisoner out," the bishop commanded. During the ceremony, Kerr and Ellin stood on the ramparts, handfasted. A mist swept in from the sea, and the wind buffeted them as they pledged to be faithful. For the second time, a cleric declared them man and wife. After Bishop Crigan gave a final blessing, he made all the participants sign their names. To Kerr, he said, "I shall make sure that your marriage is properly recorded as taking place in this parish." Smiling benevolently at Ellin, he added, "I wish you joy of your husband, my dear, for after tonight there will be no undoing this matrimonial knot. You are eternally his." The turnkey took Kerr's arm. "Back to your quar-

ters now, y hiarn." "I'm staying with him," Ellin said. Kerr shook his head. "I can't let you." "But I must." The bishop inclined his head. Then he understood: to be completely lawful, for church and state, their union must be consummated. The turnkey muttered, "This ain't exactly the George Inn on t'other side of the wall. But I'll see about getting a pallet, and some blankets. Candles. Maybe some cheese and wine from the guardroom." Within a short time, all of these luxuries were delivered. When the door closed, Kerr said to Ellin, "I never imagined I'd spend my wedding night in a prison cell." Softly laughing, his bride removed a fragment of hay from his mussed hair and showed it to him. "I hadn't noticed that you're so very particular." Then she gave him a kiss. Conscious of those enticing curves beneath her shawl, he suddenly decided that he really didn't care about their surroundings. Not at all. Epilogue E llin moved between the neat rows of wooden spinning wheels. Tomorrow, she thought, flax will hang from these upright spindles, and a dozen feet will press down upon the wooden treadles. A line of brown linen pinafores hung along the wall on pegs. After much planning and labor, her school was ready to receive its pupils. She went from the spinning room to the lesson room, where Benedicta Brady was laying out slates and grammar books on the long table. The Irish schoolmistress was older and taller than her cousins, the weavers, but she had their dark hair and brilliantly blue eyes. Our girls will like her, Ellin reflected, and she's so imposing she'll have no trouble keeping order here. Moving to the door, she gazed out upon a lively, cheerful scene. Crofters and weavers and linen bleachers, with their children large and small, had come to Port Cornaa for the celebratory fete. Its purpose was to mark the opening of the school, but Maughold parish had many reasons to rejoice. A bountiful flax harvest had ensured an ample supply of raw material for the linen mill. Even now, Kerr was proudly demonstrating his new waterpowered machinery, purchased with the substantial sum his father-in-law had invested. He and his fellow directors of the Manx Linen Company had provided food and drink, and music makers. Ellin recalled the wake at Dreeym Freaoie last March, the night he'd returned home to find these same people mourning his sister's death. Nearly all had been present for the great feast at Boayl Fea, honoring a marriage that later was declared inva-

lid. Calybrid, herb basket on her arm, beckoned to her. Ellin's visits with her friend were rare, for her husband and their extended family claimed so much of her time and attention. And the ben-obbee, her relatives said, had been very busy training her nephew John in the healing arts. "You've achieved a great thing, ennoil." "For Kerr. And Lady Kitty-this school is her legacy. And the others who contributed. Mr. Whaley paid Miss Brady's passage money. Father bought the schoolbooks and writing materials. Lady Ballacraine provided linen so the students can wear matching pinnies. The Duke of Armitage sent a set of globes all the way from London. Lavinia and the Queen of England and a whole host of aristocratic ladies donated money for the wheels." Said her friend, "Without you, the barran could not have fulfilled his and his sister's dreams so swiftly or so well. Tell me what else you have been doing." Ellin concluded her lengthy report of recent activities by saying, "Father and the earl have persuaded Kerr to hire an overseer for his new scutching mill. They agree he must concentrate on the weaving side of the business, with Mr. Ovey in London demanding more Manx linen." "I trust the young lord devotes some of his time to his lady wife." "Each morning we take breakfast together, with Father. We ride from the castle to the mill. While Kerr is working, I'm at Boayl Fea with Grandmother and Aunt Marriot and Uncle Henry. In the afternoon he joins me, and we go over to Dreeym Freoaie, sometimes staying to dine with his parents. Then it's back home again." "Your Scadoo has been chasing you both all over this parish, yet she is plumper than she ever was." Hearing her name, the dog trotted over. Stroking the black head, Ellin said, "There's a reason. I forgot to tell you-she's to be a mother, and Meoanie is the father. I'll give you a pup, if you'd like, but Uncle Henry has already laid claim to the pick of her litter." The charmer narrowed her eyes. "In June, I'm thinking. Before Oie Voaldyn." The flash of her smile was like sunshine sparkling on the waves. "Here's that man of yours, looking very proud of himself. As well he should." Ellin ran to meet her husband. Heedless of the many onlookers, she flung herself into his embrace. "Happy?" he asked. "Endlessly." "Did you share your secret with Calybrid?" "She knew without being told. Come and speak to her." Ellin, trusting her friend's powers of perception, was relieved to have confirmation of what she suspected might be true. Kerr told Calybrid, "Our parents decided that Ellin and I will have Castle Cashin when Standish's

lease expires. Mother much prefers living at Dreeym Freoaie and wants to stay there. Father, also, because he's eager to try out some innovations in farming flax." "Lady of Castle Cashin now-and I the one who brought you into this world. Tell Finlo I'll be there to help you when it's your time. I'll make him regret it, if he tries to keep me away." She shifted her basket to the other arm, saying, "This is no holiday for me. I've much work to finish before sundown." "Ny immee," said Ellin, "don't go-yet. There's something I've been meaning to ask you." The ben-obbee slowly turned. "On the night you cursed Norris Martin and sent him away, how was he able to get out of the library? You told me to lock the door, and I did. I never unlocked it, yet I saw him come out." Said Kerr, "That keyhole doesn't work properly. Never has done." "But it did," Ellin persisted. "I know I felt the lock catch. I heard it." "You thought you did." "Kerr, I'm quite sure of it." They both looked to Calybrid, but she'd slipped silently out of sight. "She isn't likely to admit what actually happened," he said, shrugging. She sighed. "I never dared question her magic, and I never shall again." Kerr slipped his arm through hers. "If you walk with me down to the shore, you may ask whatever questions you wish." Scadoo's expanding belly swung back and forth as she ambled along in front of them. Kerr couldn't repress a grin as he imagined his wife growing rounder by the month. "Boy or girl, which will it be?" she wondered. "There must be some way to tell beforehand. Calybrid must know how." "I don't doubt it," he replied, pausing to bestow a kiss. For he had learned to respect their friend's knowledge and skills, which had helped his loving wife win his love. By relying on those mysterious methods himself, he'd convinced Ellin that his heart was forever hers, restoring her to her rightful place-here within his arms. Glossary aile niurin-hellfire atreih-alas baatey-ymmyrt-rowboat bab-baby, babe barnee-limpet, a small shellfish barran-baron ben-obbee-woman charmer buggane-ghost buitch-witch carrane-cowhide shoe

carrey-friend chiollagh-stone hearth clein-clan ere-what? cuirn-rowan tree drean-wren drogh spirrid-evil spirit dy-firrinagh-certainly dy-jarroo-yes, indeed en noil-beloved farrar-wake glion-glen gur a mie ayd-thank you immee-go iurinagh-inhabitant of hell jean siyr-make haste, hurry jouyl-devil laplinyn-a female's working clothes Ihondhoo-blackbird loghtan-native Manx sheep mac mollaght-devil, hellhound moddey dhoo-black dog mooidjean-blackguard mwaagh, mwoie-hare, hares my sailliu-my thanks my veen-my dear oikan-infant pishag-charm s'treih Ihiam-I'm sorry shirragh-falcon straid-street of farm buildings sumark-primrose to-yes tancard-tankard thie mooar-kitchen thie-oast-tavern tholtan-farmhouse ruin tramman-elder tree traval-trowel ushtey-bio-whiskey y hiarn-your lordship y ven chiarn-your ladyship yn Ihus-the herb vervain Author's Note M y personal connection to the Isle of Man is both long and short. In centuries past, my ancestors conquered the island. Six years ago, curiosity prompted my first visit, and the island conquered me. Since that time I've returned many

times, in many seasons. Although the events in this novel were suggested by my imagination, it is partly based upon factand an intriguing statistic. In 1798, exports of linen cloth from the Isle of Man to England nearly doubled over the previous year, from 24,681 yards to 47,353 yards. The Manx Linen Company is my fictional explanation for this astonishing increase. Exports rose by another 10,000-plus yards the following year, leading me to speculate that Kerr's mill was enormously successful, and Ellin's spinners were extremely productive! Bannister Hall printing works did exist, and after 1798, linen-draper Richard Ovey of London sent his designs to Mr. Jackson and Mr. Stephenson to be printed. I provide a fictitious, yet I hope plausible, beginning to their lengthy association, which resulted in so many exquisite floral prints. Ovey's pattern-books and a selection of his fabrics survived, and are kept at the Victoria and Albert Museum. I passed several happy hours in the storage vaults of the Textile and Dress Department, examining block-printed and copperplate linens created in the eighteenth century. For countless generations, members of the Teare family were famous as Manx charmers, dispensing their folk medicines and magic until well into the twentieth century. John Teare of Ballawhane, the most famous of these "fairy doctors," would have been a youth at the time of my story. In accordance with family tradition, he surely learned his trade from a female of the family. Whoever she was, her name never made it into published accounts. It will come as no surprise that my favorite spot on the Isle of Man is the Cornaa valley. In Manx, cornaa means "millstone glen," and in earlier times water-driven mills operated along the river, grinding grain and scutching flax. On a hillside near the house that served as my model for Boayl Fea stands a crumbling, deserted tholtan, the sort of place that makes a novelist ask herself, "I wonder what happened there?" Despite the Isle of Man's geographic proximity to Britain, following the Revestment of 1765, it was mostly neglected. It retained its singular form of government and unique legal system, and enjoyed tax-free status, making it an attractive destination for English debtors seeking to escape their creditors. Islanders subsisted by farming, fishing, and manufacturing. The earliest tourists had arrived by the 1790s; a few even published their impressions of the majestic mountains and romantic vistas. During the Victorian era holiday-makers came in droves, for there was regular steamship service from the larger ports along England's western coast. Nowadays, the island's primary revenue sources are banking and tourism. Amazingly, this former refuge for debtors is a popular haven for millionaire tax exiles!

Writing The Seducer was also an opportunity to revisit the adventurous Garrick and Lavinia, whose romance was featured in Kissing a Stranger. I hope that everyone who hoped to meet them again in the sequel will be satisfied. I welcome letters from readers (SASE appreciated for a response) at P.O. Box 437, Epsom, NH 032340437. [email protected] is my e-mail address. My website, , provides a visual tour to some of the specific locations and buildings mentioned in The Seducer, along with information about my novels, myself, my dogs, and my travels, as I continue my search for stories waiting to be written. Hoping all your dreams come true, (signature)Margaret Evans Porter