Cedric Penhallan was a kingmaker, a power broker, and Cecile had explained that his vast, landed wealth made it possible for him to wield his far-reaching political influence. Without that, not even a man of Lord Penhallan's merciless ambition could have achieved his covert pinnacle of power. And pride of lineage informed the personal power he wielded over every individual who could claim Penhallan blood, however diluted. A power that had rolled over his rebellious sister like a juggernaut.

But it wouldn't roll over this Penhallan, Tamsyn thought with a grim little smile as she set off across the lawn toward the beckoning sea, disdaining the neat gravel path, choosing instead to curl her toes in the still rain-wet grass. This Penhallan was going to bring down the kingmaker, hoist him with his own petard. Yet even as she thought this, the image of her uncle rose in her mind's eye. The extraordinary force she'd felt emanating from him, a menacing avalanching energy that would cut down all in its path. He'd seen her on the stairs. And what he'd seen had brought him up short. Astounded, disbelieving recognition had flashed across his eyes… recognition and for the briefest instant something she would have sworn was fear.

But he didn't know who she was. And he wouldn't know the truth until she chose to announce herself public announcement-Cecile's ghost come for restitution and vengeance, her advent swift and sure as a dagger thrust. And until then he'd be tormented with a half-formed familiarity whenever he saw her, apparently no more than an innocent young visitor to a strange land.

But how much contact would she have with the Penhallans while she was under St. Simon's roof? Tamsyn paused in her dancing progress across the rolling lawns. She'd sensed animosity between St. Simon and Cedric Penhallan. A deep animosity, if the ice in Julian’s voice had been any indication. And what had he meant with that warning about Cedric's nephews? Keep your nephews off my land, Penhallan, or I'll not answer for the consequences. And who were these nephews? Her cousins, presumably.

There were puzzles here, but they could be solved.

Gabriel could do some investigating in the local taverns. He was always at home in such places and was a skilled spy, as skilled at planting information as he was at gleaning it. The important thing was: the game had begun.

With a little nod of satisfaction Tamsyn pranced lightly over the grass toward a low stone wall at the edge of the lawn. Then she stopped, her mouth opening on an O of delight. The ground fell away, a long, curving sweep cut into the cliffs rising on either side, dropping to a small sandy cove; but what stunned Tamsyn was the brilliant mass of color filling her eyes as she gazed down. She paused for a second, then with a little cry of pleasure plunged into the glorious swaying field.

From the sweeping windows of his own apartments Julian watched her dancing progress across the wet grass. He'd been in the process of dressing when he'd been drawn· to the window by some unarticulated urge and now stood shirtless, thumbs hitched into the waistband of his britches, regarding the sprite below with a frown of annoyance. She'd broken the rules, going abroad in those clothes. It was one thing to discard female attire on the deck of a man-of-war in the midst of battle, but in the peaceful and conventional Cornish countryside it was quite different.

There was going to be enough gossip about her presence as it was, without giving the servants fuel for the bonfires. She certainly wouldn't achieve acceptance in local society, let alone in the upper echelons of the ton, if she made herself notorious in such a shameless costume.

But, then, if she didn't choose to cooperate, he was well within his rights to call a halt to the exercise.

He strode from the room, passing a sleepy-eyed maidservant hurrying from her attic bed to rake the kitchen fires before cook and the upper servants appeared. She bobbed a curtsy, blushing at his lordship's bare chest. Julian accorded her a brief nod. She was unknown to him, and he made a mental note to discuss with the housekeeper the servants who'd been taken on in his absence.

He let himself out of a side door and made his way across the lawns, following in Tamsyn's footprints, still visible in the wet grass. His irritation lifted somewhat in the soft air of the new morning, the carpet of raindrops glittering in the sun, the fresh-washed fragrances rising from the parterres as he stepped down toward the stone wall.

Reaching it, he stopped, gazing down toward the cove. For the moment he couldn't see Tamsyn anywhere, and yet she had to be there, unless she'd climbed one of the steep cliffs on either side of the narrow valley. Then he caught a glimpse of silvery hair halfway down the slope, the rest of her lost in a rioting mass of purple-red foxgloves and lilac rhododendron.

He jumped lightly over the wall and made his way down toward the bobbing head. “Tamsyn!”

She turned and waved, her face alight with pleasure, her violet eyes blending with the armful of blooms she held.

“Aren't they so beautiful? I've never seen such an incredible sight,” she called, beginning to wade through the waist-high field of color toward him.

“Judging by your clothes, I assume you're no longer interested in this contract you insisted upon,” he declared, his mouth close-gripped, as she reached him.

If Tamsyn heard, she chose to ignore it. She buried her nose in the flowers she held. “What are they called?

I've never seen anything like them, just growing wild like this.”

“Foxgloves,” Julian said.

“And the sun's shining, and the sea's sparkling. It's all so lovely, I would never have believed England could look like this,” Tamsyn continued, her head thrown back to catch the sunlight, her neck curving gracefully from the open collar of her shirt, her eyelashes thick half-moons on her sun-tipped cheekbones. “Cecile used to describe Cornish summers, but after the last few days, I'd decided absence must have distorted her memory.” She laughed, a happy, chiming chuckle.

She was radiating a deep, sensual delight and Julian was moved despite every effort he made to resist-a buttercup lifting its golden head to the sun. Vigorously, he dismissed such whimsy and said sharply, “Have you any idea the talk you're going to cause in those clothes? Give me one good reason why I should persist with my side of this ridiculous scheme of yours when you won't even follow the most elementary rules.”

“Oh.” Her eyelashes swept up, and her almond shaped eyes gazed at him with their habitually quizzical air. “I don't mind not wearing them in the least, milord colonel.”

Before he could react, she flung her arms wide, tossing the red and purple armful over him so he dripped foxgloves, and with a deft movement stripped away her shirt, kicked off her britches, and stood naked in the purple sea, grinning wickedly at him. “This better, sir?”

“Sweet heaven,” he murmured, his disordered senses tumbling in a maelstrom, all reason and resistance slipping from him like a boat loosed from its mooring at high tide.

She was a creature of the sun and the sea breeze and the rich wildflower fragrances, and her hands were on his waist, nimble with the buttons, her tongue peeping from between her lips, her eyes intent as she bared his belly, traced the thin dark line of hair running from his navel, down over the muscled concavity to disappear into the shadows of his body. Slowly she pushed his britches down over his hips, releasing the erect shaft of flesh. She stepped closer, pressing her belly against the hard, pulsing warmth, sliding a hand between his thighs; then she raised her eyes and laughed up at him, reaching up to brush a broken velvety purple glove from his chest.

“Better, milord colonel?”