“Er, how are you feeling?”

“I, my lord?”

“Unless you have a footman hiding behind you, then yes, you.”

“I have nothing wrong that a lovely young wife won’t cure, my lord.”

Douglas stared at the small secret smile that showed a mouth loaded with teeth, and that was a good thing. Before Douglas could ask what the devil he meant by that, Hollis had removed himself from sight.

A lovely young wife?

To the best of Douglas’s knowledge, Hollis had never looked at a woman with marital intent since the tragic death of his beloved young Miss Plimpton in the last century.

A lovely young wife?

KILDRUMMY CASTLE, SCOTTISH HOME

OF REVEREND TYSEN SHERBROOKE, BARON BARTHWICK

The Honorable Jason Edward Charles Sherbrooke didn’t like this at all. He didn’t want to accept it, but he didn’t see how he could ignore it.

It was a dream, nothing more than the result of losing too many games of chess to his Aunt Mary Rose or too much grouse hunting in the interminable rain with his Uncle Tysen and his cousin Rory. Or the natural consequence of drinking too much brandy and having too much sex with Elanora Dillingham in too short a time.

No, even those altogether splendid, excessively gratifying hours didn’t explain it. It had been real. He’d finally had his first visit from the Virgin Bride, a phantom his father laughed about, saying, “Yes, imagine this piece of white nothing wafting around our house for three centuries. Only to the ladies, mind you, so you’re safe.”

Well, Jason was a man, and she’d visited him.

He remembered clearly that he’d awakened when Elanora had gotten up to use the chamber pot in the dressing room just before dawn. He’d lain there, half-asleep, and suddenly there was this very beautiful young lady with long loose hair, dressed in a long white gown, and she’d just stood there at the foot of the bed looking at him, and he heard her say as clearly as bells ringing, “There’s trouble at home, Jason. Go home. Go home.”

And he’d seen his father’s face, clear as if he’d been standing right next to him.

Elanora had come back into the bedchamber, yawning, naked to her white feet, her beautiful black hair falling all over the place, and the young lady had simply vanished, not a sound, not even a ripple in the air. She was just gone.

Jason had lain there, dumbfounded, not wanting to believe it, but he’d been raised with tales of the Virgin Bride. Why had she come to him? Because there was trouble at home.

He whispered to the empty air where she’d stood, “I didn’t have time to ask you whom I would marry.”

Elanora was feeling amorous; Jason was a young man, but still, he gave her a perfunctory kiss and got himself out of bed. He’d met Elanora only a month before when his leg had cramped while he’d been swimming in the North Sea, and he’d managed to drag himself up onto her beach. She’d been standing there, twirling a parasol, a stiff breeze flattening her gown to her lovely legs when he’d emerged from the water stark naked. She’d looked her fill at what the sea had spit up for her, and was evidently pleased. She was a widow, the stepmother of three sons all older than Jason, who lavished gifts on their dear step-mama. Jason quite liked her, for she was clever, and even better, she loved horses, just as he did. He always left Elanora’s house, a lovely Georgian set on the coast between Kildrummy Castle and Stonehaven, before dawn so he’d be back at Kildrummy Castle in time for breakfast with his Aunt Mary Rose and his Uncle Tysen. If either of them realized he wasn’t sleeping in his own bed, they’d said nothing.

He’d heard his cousin Rory say several days before, “Jason must really like to hunt grouse. He not only hunts during the day with you, Papa, then he’s out most nights as well, until nearly dawn.” Thank the heavens that no one had asked him if this was indeed true.

This morning, over kippers and clooties, he told them he’d had a visit from the Virgin Bride. His reverend uncle didn’t say anything, just chewed thoughtfully on a slice of toast. Aunt Mary Rose, her glorious red hair rioting around her head, frowned. “Tysen, do you think God knows the Virgin Bride?”

Her husband didn’t laugh. He continued to look thoughtful. “I would never say this to Douglas or to Ryder, but I’ve sometimes thought there’s a sort of window that isn’t completely shut and sometimes spirits slip back into our world. Does God know her? Perhaps if she ever visits me, I’ll ask her.”

Mary Rose said, “I’ve never had a visit from her either, and that’s not fair. You’re not even a lady, Jason, yet she came to you. Did she say anything?”

Jason said, “She said there was trouble at home. Nothing else, just that, but the funny thing was that I saw my father’s face clear as day. I must leave, of course.”

Jason was on his way south by eight o’clock that morning, thankful that he’d managed to talk his aunt and uncle out of coming with him. He thought endlessly about what the trouble at home could be, and how his father was involved, and he thought about his uncle’s words-a window not quite shut between our world and the next. It gave a man pause.

Life, he thought as he nudged Dodger’s sleek sides with his boot heels, could be going along nicely when suddenly the road closed, and you suddenly had to travel another direction. He wondered if the Virgin Bride had visited his mother. Very probably. Had she visited James? Well, he’d know soon enough.

He worried and rode and wished he could use the spirit window. It had to be faster.

On the sixth day, he rode a tired Dodger past the massive front steps of Northcliffe Hall toward the stables.

Lovejoy, a youth of sixteen summers, and Dodger’s favorite stable lad, came running out, yelping, “My glorious big boy! Yer home, yer home, at last. Ah, would ye look at yer coat, all dirty and filled with stinging ickles.”

Jason said, grinning down at Lovejoy, “Are you talking to me or my horse, Lovejoy?”

“Dodger’s me boy, Master Jason. ’Tis yer mither who’ll welcome ye awright ’n’ proper.”

Dodger, sixteen hands high, black as a moonless night except for the lightning streak of white down his nose, whinnied, and stuck his face in Lovejoy’s shoulder and lipped his musty shirt.

When Jason walked into Northcliffe Hall, he stopped and looked around. No one seemed to be about. Where was Hollis? Hollis was always near the front door. Oh no, he was ill, or he’d died. No, Jason couldn’t bear that. He knew Hollis was older than the oak tree he’d carved his initials on in the east lawn, but he belonged here, in Northcliffe Hall, alive and scolding and calming everyone.

“My sweet boy! You’re home! Oh goodness, how dirty you are. I didn’t expect you for another sennight. What’s the matter?”

“Where’s Hollis? Is he all right?”

His mother said, “Why yes, Jason. I believe he’s in the village. Ah, I’m so glad you’re home. Now, what’s wrong?”

Hollis was alive and kicking, thank God. And Lovejoy was right. His mother had welcomed him all right and proper. Jason went forward to hug his laughing mother. He said against her ear, “The Virgin Bride told me to come home, said there’s trouble. And I saw father’s face, so he’s got to be the one.”

His mother stepped back and looked up at him. “Oh dear, it’s lovely to have one’s own visit confirmed, but still, this isn’t good at all. Your father, you know how he scoffs.” She tapped her fingertips to her chin. “Well, she came to you as well. We’ll have to see what your father has to say now.”

His father had hardly a thing to say, other than, “You ate turnips for dinner, didn’t you, Jason?”

He assured his sire that he hadn’t. He knew his father wanted to ask him if he’d been carousing, but he couldn’t, not in front of his mother.