“If you're finished, I'd like to get on the road again.”

The colonel's voice broke hard and abrupt into the silence, and Tamsyn jumped, wondering if he'd been aware of her scrutiny. “I'll order the horses put to.” He pushed back his chair and stood up. “Come down as soon as you're ready.”

The door banged on his departure, and they heard his booted feet pounding the stairs with the surging energy that characterized all his movements. Gabriel and Josefa followed him while Tamsyn went in search of the privy. As she descended the stairs to the hall five minutes later, Julian's voice rose from below.

Tamsyn stopped on the stairs, listening. There was a quality to his voice that she hadn't heard before. An icy politeness that made her think of the frozen tundra. She took another step down, realizing that for some reason she was walking on tiptoe, almost holding her breath, although she had no idea why. She stopped again at the turn of the stair, where she had a clear view into the hall below. It was dark, heavily panelled, the gloom relieved only by an oil lamp hanging from the low-beamed ceiling.

Julian was talking to the man she'd seen from the window. Without his cloak he seemed even more massive. His belly pushed against his waistcoat, his thighs strained the buckskin britches, the shoulders in his ridding coat bulged. And yet, she thought, he didn't strike one as a fat man, merely a massive bulk exuding power. Even St. Simon seemed diminished by him, and Julian

I was no lightweight. But he was lean and muscular, not an ounce of spare flesh…

She squashed the images thrown up by such a reflection and leaned forward to catch what they were saying. As she did so, the gray-haired man looked up and saw her.

His black eyes seemed to shrink to pinpricks, and Tamsyn felt that same prickle on the back of her neck. She stood immobile, a fly in the spider's web as the spider stared at her.

Cedric Penhallan saw Celia on the stairs in the shadows. Silvery hair, huge dark eyes, the full, sensuous mouth, lips slightly parted, the graceful slenderness. But

Celia was dead. Celia had been dead these past twenty years.

Julian turned to the stairs, his eyes involuntarily following his companion's rapt gaze. Tamsyn stood in the shadows at the turn, one hand on the banister, the other holding her skirt clear of the step, foot poised as if to continue her descent. The air crackled, and he had the absurd fantasy that a lightning bolt had flown between Tamsyn and the man he was talking to.

It was, of course, absurd. Tamsyn, with her short hair and strangely exotic air was an unusual sight in such a country backwater, which must explain Lord Penhallan’s interest. Julian decided that an introduction was not necessary.

“Your servant, Penhallan,” he said curtly with a cold bow before turning to the door standing open to the inn yard.

“St. Simon.” Cedric tore his gaze from the apparition on the stairs. His face had lost some of its ruddiness. “I daresay we'll run across each other again if you're making an extended stay at Tregarthan.”

“I daresay,” Julian said with the same ice. He paused and said softly over his shoulder, “Keep your nephews off my land, Penhallan. One straying toe and I'll not answer for the consequences.” And he was gone, without waiting for a response.

Indeed, Cedric hardly heard him. His gaze returned to the figure on the stairs. Then she moved. springing lightly to the hall, jumping the last two steps. She brushed past him, following St. Simon into the yard.

Cedric went to the door. He watched as St. Simon tossed her onto the back of a magnificent cream-white Arabian steed. Then he turned and went back into the inn.

Celia had returned to Cornwall. Or Celia's ghost. Tamsyn turned her head to look back at the inn as they rode out of the yard. There was no sign of her uncle, but her blood surged. Cedric Penhallan was still alive, and the battle lines were drawn.

TAMSYN AWOKE EARLY THE NEXT MORNING AND LAY UNDER her mound of quilts, for a moment bewildered. Her eyes were still closed, her body still half in sleep, but every sense told her that the world had changed. There was a buttery warmth against her eyelids, and almost afraid to believe what her senses were telling her, she opened her eyes.

The sun was shining. And not just a reluctant ray or two-the bedchamber was filled with a golden light. Dust motes danced in the beams pouring through the mullioned windows, and the cut-glass jars on the dressing table sparked blue and red diamonds.

Tamsyn kicked off the covers and jumped to the floor. She threw off her nightgown and stretched, revelling in the warmth of her naked body. Her skin was opening up to the fingering rays, and she felt as if she'd been hibernating in some dank, cold cave for months.

She ran to the window and flung it wide, gazing in breathless wonder at the panorama spread below her. They'd arrived in the dark the previous night, and she'd seen nothing of the outside of the house. They'd hurried in out of the rain, and she'd been aware of candlelight throwing shadows On dark panelling and beamed and plastered ceilings; of fires in massive fireplaces; of a graceful double staircase rising out of the vast Great Hall.

St. Simon had excused himself immediately after presenting his guest and her attendants to the housekeeper, and Tamsyn had found herself ensconced in a large corner apartment with a big canopied bed, tapestry-hung walls, embroidered carpets on the shining oak floor. She'd been brought hot water and a supper tray by clearly curious but uncommunicative servants while Josefa had bustled around unpacking the clothes they'd acquired in London. And she'd sought her bed early and with relief, enjoying, after nights in ill-kempt hostelries, the clean, crisp sheets smelling of dried lavender, the flicker of the fire on the molded ceiling, the deep comfort of the feather mattress.

Now she looked upon another world. Ahead of her stretched rolling green lawns, separated by parterres studded with flower beds, and beyond was the sea, sparkling blue under the early sun. The deeply indented coastline stretched to either side, the chalky headlands shining white against the brilliance of the sea and the sky.

She ran to the east window, flinging that wide too, and leaned out with her elbows resting on the deep stone sill. The view was as spectacular from this angle, the rising sun setting the waters of the River Fowey alight, glittering on the fleet of boats swinging gently at anchor in the estuary, glowing on the roofs of the little fishing village of Polruan on the far bank.

“How beautiful,” Tamsyn murmured in delight, breathing deeply as the scent of roses wafted up to her, mingling with the rich fragrance of golden wallflowers planted in a wide bed below the window. This was her mother's land, the soft, verdant countryside she'd described so lovingly to her daughter under the harsh glare of the Spanish sun.

She pulled on her britches and a shirt and ran barefoot from the room. The house was very quiet, although, from the light pouring in through the many mullioned, transomed windows, she guessed it was about five o'clock. But, then, it was Sunday, so perhaps the household slept late.

The bolts were heavy on the massive front door, and she hauled them back with an effort. The door swung open, and she stood blinking in the brilliant morning, her spirit unfurling to the warmth and the light. The forecourt faced east, toward Fowey, and Tamsyn made her way through a small arched gateway in the stone wall surrounding the court and into the main garden that swept down to the sea. She glanced up at her own window, realizing for the first time that it was set into a square ivy-covered tower.

Colonel, Lord St. Simon's house was magnificent, she thought appreciatively. It must represent a fair degree of wealth and power. Wealth and power in the wandering life of a mountain brigand had not been evinced by the ownership of bricks, mortar, and land, but Cecile had told her about how Englishmen viewed the importance of such acquisitions.